#like they won’t acknowledge that I’m here and ask me more than two cursory questions that they either already know the answer to or are just

[happytroopers]

Sick days // Hunter x reader

My google history search after this: what do they call toilets in Star Wars? Star Wars rabies?

Summary: I would do anything for Hunter, even take care of him when he has food poisoning. I saw a sick day prompt list and didn't end up using anything but it inspired this cluster fuck

TW: throwing up, alcohol mention but no use, bad writing I just love him ok

"Hey, have you seen Hunter? I need him to sign off on some damage reports." You announced as you entered the cockpit of the ship as it barreled through hyperspace, throwing a pointed look at Wrecker who was the main reason for most of aforementioned damage reports.The other members of Clone Force 99 made some sort of acknowledgment of your existence. Wrecker grinned obliviously at you as continued doing bicep curls with a GONK droid while Tech made brief eye contact with you before going back to some sort of machinery he’d dissected. Crosshair was the only one to actually somewhat answer your question, giving you a sassily quirked eyebrow and motioning down with his toothpick. "I’m assuming that super vague motion would mean he’s in the cargo hold?" You pressed but you had already turned around to go find the sergeant. "Should we tell ‘er?" You heard Wrecker ask but when no one answered him, you assumed things would be fine. Besides after almost a year with the Bad Batch, you’d walked in on them in all sorts of compromising moments. Nothing would surprise you anymore.

After popping down the ladder into the cargo bay, you did a cursory sweep. Crosshairs rifle was disassembled on a crate for cleaning, more of Tech’s mechanical experiments in a heap by the bay doors, your own trunk of belonging… but no sign of Hunter. "Hunter? Are you down here?" You poked a little further into the sleeping quarters, like any room that housed four soldiers who didn’t know how to mop, the smell chased you right back out. Shaking your head you thought to yourself, That should be considered a hazard zone. You paused by the fresher to listen for water running but heard nothing, which officially meant Hunter hadn’t been anywhere you checked, Hell, did he jump out of an airlock? Just as you were about to give up, you heard an awful noise come from the fresher. Like a bantha dying in a fire. Did some animal stow away? Absentmindedly you considered getting Wrecker to handle it- the last thing you needed was contracting some planet-specific strain of rabies. But then you considered that in the process, Wrecker would probably destroy the entire bathroom. And then everyone would be without a bathroom for the next two days… and that could get ugly. Then the noise came again, bringing you out of your mental debate. With a heavy sigh, you decided you’d have to check it out yourself. So, after pulling a random tool off your belt, you let the door slide open. To your surprise, Hunter was the first thing you saw, bent at the waist over the vac tube, bracing himself with one shaking arm against the durasteel wall. His helmet was discarded carelessly two feet closer to the entrance, and the enhanced trooper was heaving breaths, looking rather haggard. Almost stupidly the first thing that came out of your mouth was, "Oh my God, did the animal do this to you?" Hunter actually startled, which had never happened before. He was impossible to sneak up on, it was his whole thing. When he did look up at you, he looked confused, among other things. His skin pallor was four shades lighter than it was supposed to be, slightly greenish gray, and dew dropped with sweat. "Animal? What animal?" "The animal that made that-" You cut yourself off suddenly feeling dumb, now lamely dropping your defense tool. Then the disbelief, "Oh my- that noise was you?" He didn’t get the chance to answer again, instead turning his head back towards the vac tube to wretch again. Now with that information, the haggard appearance made more sense. "Hunter… you look like shit." You scolded, hesitantly moving closer, “Like, legitimately corpse like.” The sergeant coughed a bit before throwing you glare, “Thank you, (Y/L/N), that’s very helpful. Did you need something?” Damage reports long forgotten, you ignored the question instead more concerned with the trooper in front of you, “Why the hell are you standing like that? What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”

Hunter was confused with this sudden line of questioning, turning his head to gag a little bit but this time he kept it under control to answer you, “Clones don’t get sick.”

“So this is normal for you?” You snarked right back, “Here, try kneeling, it won’t take as much of a toll on your body like that.”

At first he didn’t listen to you, just when the ship hit a patch of turbulence it triggered another wave which forced him to a knee. Then it hit you, clones don’t get sick, they’re engineered with near perfect immune systems.

“You’ve never been sick before have you?” You whispered sympathetically, he legitimately didn’t know how to handle being sick. Frowning, worried welled up in your stomach. It was almost painful to watch the man be so sick, after all how many times had he saved you or helped you out of a tight spot, so you looked away until he quieted again. This time he took a minute to catch his breath so you took some liberties.

“First, let’s get your hair off your neck and face. You’ll feel less gross.” You promised, going behind him to gently scrape his long hair into a makeshift bun and tie it off with a spare hair tie.

“What are you doing?”  He croaked, but didn’t pull away from your hands.

“Taking care of you, now shut up and let me.” While your voice was still kind, you were just stern enough not to argue with you, “Now, lean up.”

You didn’t wait for him to follow the orders, instead you started unfastening pieces of armor on his arms before moving on to the chest and torso pieces. Moments later he was able to move a little freer and his armor from the waist up was neatly stacked to you right.

“There, that should help with the overheating.” You announced, not mentioned how he couldn’t bend over properly with a piece of plastoid against his abdomen. You gave him another once over, he was taking deep breaths with his eyes closed, little baby hairs already escaping your rather pitiful man bun situation. You’d never seen him so vulnerable.

“So clones don’t get sick, why are you throwing up like my roommate after her twenty first birthday?” You asked quietly, gently moving the stray bits of his forehead.

“Would you believe that I ate an expired meal ration?” He asked with enough doubt in your voice that you immediately shook your head.

“You’re not that stupid Hunter.”

“I lost a bet with Crosshair and had to eat part of the Yalbec stinger. Tech did say it was a delicacy on some planets.” He sighed, dry heaving again.

“I also remember him saying it was mildly poisonous to humans.” You reminded him, going past him to the shelves that held shower things. Reaching into your own caddy, you produced a rag before wetting it in the sink.

“Yeah, I lost the bet before he enlightened us.” Hunter admitted, visibly relaxing when you put the cold rag on his neck before sliding into a sitting position next to him, “How do you know all this stuff?”

“Well, us normies get sick a lot.” You teased, laughing when you caught the disgusted look on his face, “But, I learned most of this stuff taking care of my hungover friends.”

“Oh, just your friends?” It was Hunter’s turn to sass you, but you just rolled your eyes. The two of you fell into a halfway comfortable silence, so you took your data pad to do a little research on Yalbec poisoning.

“You don’t have to stay for this?” Hunter reminded you, using the back of his hand to wipe sweat off his forehead. When you looked back over to him, he was staring at you. Even when puking, his eyes could stare straight through you. Hurriedly, you dropped your gaze back to your data pad.

“Well, you spend all your time taking care of them,” you motioned up towards the cockpit, “And me. So someone has to look out for you when you need it, you don’t have to suffer alone.”

His eyes softened as he relaxed slightly, you were glad to see his coloring was already getting better. But after a few moments, even the softness of his stare brought a flush to your cheeks so you just cleared your throat, “Well, the good news is that the holonet says someone of your size and weight will be fine. Symptoms should pass within twelve hours at the most, and it’s already been five.”

“Thank you, (Y/N).”

Your head snapped back up, he rarely ever called you by your first name. Somehow it almost felt intimate.

“Of course, Hunter.”

You scooted a little closer so that your knees would touch. Closer than you had ever been to him, but he didn’t scoot away. You smiled at the small contact, shaking your head.

“Can I impart on you a bit of civilian wisdom?” You asked teasingly, not even waiting him to nod. You took the rag off his neck and used it to dab sweat off his forehead, “Don’t eat random things on a dare, especially things you cut off foreign animals.”

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

[geraskierficrecs]

Could I possibly prompt some feral buffskier? Or inhuman Jaskier? :D Congrats on 3K!!!

Thanks for sending in a prompt!  I decided to explore some nonhuman Jaskier that’s fully feral.  I haven’t seen a whole lot of nonhuman Jaskier stories using Celtic mythology so I’m going to be a little self indulgent for this, but I hope you like it!  (Bonus points if you can guess what Jaskier is before it’s revealed!)

_____________________________

The sound of a fight stirs him from his slumber.

Even trickling through the still waters of his lake, the sound of flesh meeting flesh is unmistakable.  As is the soft, gritted noise of pain.

He shifts, body fluid and inky black as the waters around him.  The water parts like a lover before him and he revels in the familiar sensation of power and control.  These are his waters.  His home.  

So why was someone hunting in his territory?

Another sound--a scuffle and another grunt of effort--and Jaskier scents blood in the air, beginning to seep into the shallow waters on the shore.  He drifts closer, the predator inside of him writhed beneath his skin.  Eager.  His mouth opened to run the tastes over his tongue as the water passed through the gills at his neck.

At the surface, he was careful not to create any ripples that might give away his presence, but he needn’t have bothered.  

Two muscular forms were rolling across the ground at the shore sending mud flying and breaking the rushes that grew there.  His ears pricked, equine head rising up out of the waterline when he saw the flash of steel dart through the air to land among the bushes farther back.  Humanoid features twisted in a grimace of pain that matched the scream of triumph from the creature atop the warrior.

He didn’t need to scent the fire and ash in the air to know what beast was hunting so close to his home.  Caorthannach, his lips shaped on a subvocal growl.  A creature of heat and anguish that reveled in the agonies of others, relishing violence for violence’s sake.  It never tired.  All it knew was hunger and the desire to spread its own fury and pain into others.

Even worse, it had attracted a Witcher.

This, at least, was an exciting enough development to justify being disturbed from his sleep.  Jaskier had heard the legends of the humans who’d been experimented on by their own kind to become monsters of their own.  Faster, stronger than their kin and capable of standing against the darkest shadows that lurked in the night.  His mother--before she’d chased him away from her nest--had warned him often not to ever attract the attention of humans and their terrifying guardians.

Now there was one only a few yards away, struggling to avoid the claws and flames of the demon above him.  He should be afraid, angry even.  The Caorthannach’s presence has ensured his relative peace in this remote lake was in danger.  He should sink back into the depths and stay quiet until the Witcher left.  Instead, he found himself moving closer, breathing in air filled with the scent of blood and more enticing notes of leather and sweat.

Something primitive within him stirs at the strength lingering in each block and shift beneath pale skin.  It spoke of power, of promise.

Mate, his beast purred.  Mine.

The thought was enough to make him go still.  His kind weren’t known for their pairs except in rare occurrences.  They were too wild, too territorial to risk allowing their kind to get close.  Tales of true mates, of soul bonds and love, were just that--stories to cling to when the water’s cold seeped too far into your bones and your thoughts felt brittle enough to break under the strain.  

The Caorthannach shrieks and lunges forward, teeth jagged and eager.  The Witcher hisses out a breath full of pain, blood pooling in the dark mud.  That quickly, any hesitance Jaskier feels disappears beneath the roar that rips free from his throat.

He rushes forward, shedding water like he sheds his skin in favor of legs designed for running over the earth.  The demon has enough time to look up in surprise before Jaskier is on top of him.  He lashes out with sharp hooves, connecting bodily and throwing the other beast away.  He barely takes the time to glance back at his Witcher to ensure he was still breathing before he focuses on his prey.

It screams in rage at him, spitting a blast of fire like a wipe that burns the hide along his flank and adds to Jaskier’s fury.  He bugles like a stallion and rears up to lash out with his front hooves, herding the beast towards the water where the mud slows its movements.  The Caorthannach flounders, instinctively wanting to avoid the element that was so contrary to its own magic, but pinned by its furious attacker.

Jaskier is fierce with the knowledge that his mate is injured and still in danger only a few feet away.  He wants to draw out the battle to repay the blood debt, but he is eager to see for himself that his Witcher is alright.

So he uses his size to his advantage.  He kicks out, again and again, ignoring cuts and burns from when the demon strikes back.  He herds it back into the water until stumbling in the knee-high waters.  It flounders, trying to get back to shore, but it’s already too late.

Nothing can escape a Kelpie in its own waters.

The sounds of splashing slowly drown out the rush of fire and roar of the Caorthannach.  Then there was only silence.

Slowly, Jaskier pulls himself up out of the water and stand at his full height.  Water drips over dark hide and makes his muscles gleam in the moonlight.  He watches the Witcher’s eyes widen and preens.

Like all Kelpies, he shifts between forms at will based on his needs.   To his victims, he appears as a dark horse with a dripping mane with wild eyes.  He prefers to target the bandits that prey on unwitting travelers on the main road, only occasionally going into town to find men and women whose homes were filled with muffled screams and cries of pain from small voices.  He likes the stories that warn others to avoid the main roads at night.

When he’s bored, he appears as a lean man with dark hair and the same pale blue eyes that follow him between forms and visits the taverns.  He likes the humans and their quick laughter and cheerful songs.  It’s so different from his own lonely life, even if he feels like an outsider lurking among them.

Jaskier lets his human form step forward out of the water, uncaring that he steps out naked aside from the cuts left behind by his battle.  They’ll disappear within a few days and he relishes the proof that he’d protected his mate.

The Witcher sits up, his fingers pressed against his side where blood is darkening his armor and his golden eyes wary.  “Kelpie,” he murmurs quietly.

Jaskier tilts his head in acknowledgement.  “Witcher.”

His voice is hoarse from lack of use, but the Witcher seems to enjoy it judging by the way his pupils dilate.  He smiles and risks taking another step toward the man.  

“Are you going to kill me too?” his mate asks and Jaskier feels pride war with instinctive horror at the bravery displayed.

“I would never hurt you.”

The Witcher frowns at the obvious honesty and runs his eyes over Jaskier in a cursory sweep for weapons.  They both know he doesn’t need them, but Jaskier recognizes the habit for what it is.  “Why did you help me?”

“The Caorthannach was in my territory,” he says, dodging the truth easily, “I would have killed it even if you did not.”

“No one told me there was a Kelpie in this region.”

“I avoid humans whenever I can.”

“But you chose to help me,” the warrior frowns at him and Jaskier buries a smile, “Do you know what I am?”

Mate, his beast growls.

Mine.

“A Witcher,” he says instead.

His mate looks more confused by the answer.  His eyes flick to the silver sword Jaskier can smell in the bushes nearby. “I could kill you.”

Jaskier’s grin is quick with promise.  “You won’t.”  The Witcher shifts, wincing when the movement tugs at the wound he’s favoring along his side.  Jaskier takes another step toward him, hand outstretched in a placating gesture.  “I’m not going to hurt you either,” he promises.

“Why not?”

The derision is obvious in the man’s tone, but it’s the lingering weariness that makes something inside Jaskier want to reach out and wrap himself around the Witcher like a protective shield.  He knows the Witcher has no reason to trust him at this point.  

“The world has been unkind to you, Witcher,” Jaskier finally says, “but I have no quarrel with you.  You smell of death and heroics--not cruelty.”

“Hmm.”

He smiles at the disgruntled sound, daring to close the distance between them and take a closer look at the wound in the other man’s side.  “I’m Jaskier.”

For a moment, he thinks the Witcher will ignore the silent question in his eyes, but then:

“Geralt.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeats, enjoying the way the syllables taste.  “Will you stay here?  At least until you’re healed?”

Geralt watches him for a long, lingering moment.  “I’ll stay.”

“Good.” The grin he gives him is near feral with excitement.  “When you’re feeling better, I’ll give you a ride you’ll never forget.”

[ennuijpg]

word count: 5.4k

summary: Three times Tim should’ve realized Martin’s feelings for Jon, and one time Martin told him.

i let myself write five thousand words of s1 archival crew fluff instead of doing work i should be doing, as a treat

“So,” Tim starts just as the lights in the pub flicker for a half second, making this all seem much more dramatic than it actually is, “Who is it?”

Martin already knows what Tim is on about but feigns ignorance all the same, for his own sake, “Who’s what?”

“You clearly have a crush on someone.” 

“Crush? We’re not in high school, Tim.” Martin continues to object but Tim cuts him off. 

“Ah no, don’t say you don’t, nothing gets past me. Sometimes, you’re just extra smiley at work, and I know you don’t actually find researching statements of horrible encounters to be that entertaining, so it’s clearly something else. Or rather, someone else,” he waggles his eyebrows for effect, “Sash knows what I’m talking about, yeah?”

Sasha rolls her eyes amusedly but, ever the mediator, doesn’t push Martin for more information, “I do, but Martin, it’s okay, you know you don’t have to humor him.”

“Oh c’mon,” Tim puts on a pout so over-exaggerated, it has both Martin and Sasha stifling giggles, “You guys are no fun. I promise I won’t tell anyone. What happens at Morpeth Arms, stays at Morpeth Arms,” his face screws up a little, “Eh, we’ll workshop that one.” 

“Hm,” Martin starts, then hesitates, and Tim is intimately familiar with this dilemma. The age-old question of to tell or not to tell because the former makes it all mortifyingly real, but the latter is only tenable for so long. He settles on what he would like to think is a compromise, “Okay fine, tell you what, I won’t tell you outright, but if you guess, I’ll tell you if you’re right or wrong.” He hastily adds a limit of “Five guesses,” probably to maintain some facade of not wanting to tell Tim at all.

“Alright, that’s fair, uh, Richard in research?” If he’s being honest, there is absolutely no rhyme or reason to Tim’s guesses beyond all of them being people he’s seen Martin interact with. He likes to say nothing gets past him, but this clearly has, to an extent.

“Mmh mh,” Martin shakes his head lightly.

“Rosie?”

“Nah.”

“Edmund in artefact storage?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “Two more guesses left.”

Sasha pipes up, “Ooh, Oliver? The new bloke in accounting?”

“Uh uh, only ever talked to him once so far. One left.”

Sasha and Tim think for a moment while Martin twiddles his thumbs nervously, then, “Wait,” Tim looks as if a lightbulb has struck and shattered across his head, “Wait, Martin, it’s not—it’s not Jon, is it?”

And Martin’s silence accompanied by the blush slowly creeping its way up his neck is answer enough.

“No way! Wait, really?” Tim wears an expression of amused disbelief at the fact that his Hail Mary guess turned out to be correct. Sasha at least has the good sense to school her face into some semblance of neutrality.

The blush deepens, and Martin resolves that if anyone brings it up, now or in the future, he’ll just blame it on the alcohol, no matter how shoddy an excuse that is. He answers affirmatively, but voice tentative, “Yeah?”

“Whew, never would’ve guessed that one in a thousand years.” Tim sits back in the cheap vinyl covered booth, then adds, “Though, I guess I just did,” he’s still a bit shocked, but as memories come welling up to the surface, he realizes that, in hindsight, it was really quite obvious.

***

The first clue must’ve not been more than a few months after Jon was promoted to Head Archivist. Martin had always been of the caretaker type, and Tim had picked up on this rather quickly. He frequently made them all tea, and definitely did whenever they had to stay past five to catch up on research. When statements piled high, and they were all close to tearing their hair out from stress, he always made sure they took a proper lunch break. And most endearingly, he insisted on going out for a small celebration whenever it was any of their birthdays. But with Jon, it was different, more than just Martin’s regular caretaking instinct manifesting itself.

Once, Tim was in the break room fetching his lunch from the fridge when Martin walked in, mug in hand, and purpose on his face. He put the kettle on, leaned against the counter, and turned towards Tim, “Do you know how Jon takes his tea?”

“Can’t say I do, why?”

“Oh, nothing, it’s not that important,” Martin sighed, a wee bit of frustration creeping into his voice.

“Does he not like what you usually bring him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he does? He never finishes it.”

“Why don’t you just ask him? Maybe he doesn’t like tea at all.”

“No,” Another sigh. “That’s not it. He definitely drinks tea, and I know he definitely likes tea because he always takes a sip almost right after I put it on his desk. If he didn’t like tea, I doubt he’d bother doing that, much less every time.”

And after that, Tim made a mental note that Martin was much more observant than anyone, Martin himself included, gave him credit for. Tim hummed in response while putting his lunch in the microwave as Martin waited for the kettle to boil. 

After it boiled and the tea was steeped, Martin poured a splash of milk in and began spooning in sugar. “I just added one sugar last time, maybe I’ll try two this time,” he said in that tone that meant he didn’t really expect or need a response, he just wanted to keep Tim updated. 

This happened a few more times over the next couple of weeks, Martin walking into the break room while Tim, and sometimes Sasha also, were in there doing something or other, mildly frustrated and intent on tweaking the ratio of tea to milk to sugar until he found one that Jon liked. 

From what Tim could tell, both through quiet observation as well as Martin telling him, he had the method down to a science, changing each variable one at a time, so he could nail down exactly how Jon reacted to each ingredient. First, as he had mentioned, was the sugar, which he began to increase until it was quite clear from the slight grimace on Jon’s face after the third experiment cup that it was far too sweet. Martin then tried lowering the amount of sugar until he settled on just shy of no sugar, about half a teaspoon. Then, he had to work on the tea to milk ratio; he decided to reduce the amount of milk first, figuring out loud that more people took their tea with little or no milk than the other way around. This didn’t seem to yield the results he was looking for.

At two in the afternoon on the Friday of this second week of experimenting, Tim found Martin in the break room before the two of them and Sasha were due in Jon’s office for a quick meeting, adding milk to a mug with determination.

He turned when he heard Tim, “Do you want one? There’s still some water in the kettle.”

“No thanks, just had a coffee with lunch. You think that one’s the one?”

“Yeah, I think so. If I’m right, then Jon apparently takes his tea with barely any sugar and a lot of milk, like a third of the mug is milk.”

Tim exhaled a laugh, “What a weirdo, of course that’s how he takes his tea, in a way that no one could possibly guess right on the first try.”

Tim grabbed a cold pastry from the fridge and stopped on his way out the door, “Ready? Need any help with those?” He tilted his chin towards the two mugs of tea Martin was carrying.

“Nah, I got it,” he answered, and the two of them headed to Jon’s office.

Jon glanced up from a statement when they entered and muttered a cursory “Hello.” Sasha was already there, sat on one of the chairs in front of Jon’s desk, trying to make some polite small talk with him with semi-success. Martin took the other chair while Tim leaned against a bookshelf next to Jon’s desk as he preferred to do in these meetings. 

Martin set one of the mugs on Jon’s desk with a barely audible, “Here Jon, tea.”

Jon nodded in acknowledgment and perhaps in thanks? Tim could never quite tell. “Right, so,” he began once it was clear everyone was settled, “the Hill Top Road statements are all a bit of a mess, and I think we should probably go through and organize them all again.” Jon continued on, explaining how he expected them to reorganize and refile them, with no dearth of complaints about how Gertrude left the archives, and these statements especially, in such a mess that it was, “a miracle she wasn’t fired in her first week.”

Throughout it all, Tim saw Martin’s eyes every so often flicking back to the mug of tea that Jon now had in his hand and was taking periodic sips from. Fifteen minutes into the meeting and Jon had finished the entire mug of tea, and Tim certainly did not miss how Martin’s eyes practically glowed with contentment, though he made an impressive and mostly successful attempt at keeping a ridiculously wide smile from his face, such that anyone not paying at least a little attention wouldn’t twig that anything had happened at all.

***

The second occasion coming to mind was last fall, the one and only time that Jon had shown up late to work. It was a particularly cold November morning, it couldn’t have been over two degrees, and it was raining. The cold was the kind that clung to the skin, then sunk into the bones. The kind that, when you’re in it, you feel you’ll never recover from it, no matter how much time you spend in front of the fireplace. And all of that didn’t even include the wind. But Tim, chipper as always, waltzed into the office two minutes past nine, with a latte in hand, and a “Morning boss! Sorry I’m late,” called towards the general direction of Jon’s office. 

“Hi Tim,” Sasha looked up from her computer, smiled at Tim, then looked towards Jon’s office, “Jon’s not in yet, actually.”

“Oh? Jon? Late to work?” He glanced around the archives, searching as he shucked off his coat, “Huh, Martin’s not here either,” a thought began to form in his head, “Wait, Sash, you don’t think—” he was cut off by the sound of Martin entering the archives from the break room, and the thought evaporated as soon as it had condensed. 

“He’s still not—oh hi Tim—he’s still not here yet?” he asked Sasha on his way back to his desk, mug of tea in hand.

“Nope, but I’m sure he’s fine Martin, tube probably just ran late.”

“Yeah maybe,” he clearly wasn’t convinced, “but he’s usually like fifteen minutes early. Rare that the tube is that late.”

“Maybe the wind blew him over into a puddle,” Tim joked. Sasha laughed lightly, but Martin looked positively distraught at the possibility.

Sasha decided to join in on the ribbing, “Maybe he couldn’t decide which white, off white, or grey dress shirt to wear today.” This one drew something like a hesitant laugh from Martin, but the worry was still visible on his face.

Tim and Sasha continued this for a few minutes, with Martin reacting in mixed amounts of horror, amusement, and concern while tapping away at something on his computer. “Maybe,” Tim started, interrupting himself with laughter, “May—” More laughter. “Maybe he thought today was the day to—”

It was at this moment that the door to the archives swung upon just a bit too hard, hitting the wall it was hinged on, stopping Tim mid-sentence. In the doorframe stood Jon, absolutely sodden, hair sticking up in all directions, glasses askew, looking far too weary for fifteen past nine in the morning. He looked less like he had been caught unexpectedly in a bit of rain and more like he had lost a fight to the River Thames. 

“Jon!” Martin squeaked, taken truly aback by the state he was in.

Tim reacted at the same time, overlapping with Martin’s worry, “Woah, boss! You alright? Did the rain get that bad?”

“Pimlico was closed, so I had to get off the tube at Victoria,” he answered tersely.

“Yeah, but was Victoria flooded or something?” Tim decided to pursue this line of questioning, half to tease Jon, half out of genuine curiosity.

“No.” Jon replied irritably, evidently eager to end the conversation and headed towards his office.

That’s when Tim noticed what he was holding in his hands. Or rather, what he was distinctly not holding, “Did you forget your umbrella?”

Jon stopped before disappearing past the door to his office, “If you must know, I couldn’t find it this morning.”

“Huh.” Tim turned back to the rest of the assistants, “See Martin, Sash was right! He’s fine, mostly.”

“Fine?” Martin started, loud enough that Tim was sure the entire basement level of the institute could hear. Maybe even Elias on the top floor too, if he was paying close enough attention. Startled by the volume of his own voice, Martin lowered it by at least three hundred percent, “Fine? He looked like he was about to keel over!”

“He’ll be fine once he dries off,” Tim tried to calm Martin’s, undue, in his own opinion, stress, but he was already on his way to the break room, no doubt, to make a cup of tea for Jon, “though maybe a bit crankier than usual. We better not muck up these statements then, I guess.”

Martin returned from the break room a few minutes later with, as Tim expected, a mug of tea in hand and knocked on the door to Jon’s office. A muffled “Come in,” and Martin opened the door and stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. 

The walls were thin enough and the door open enough that Tim could hear all of Martin’s words and most of Jon’s. 

“Here,” Sound of ceramic on wood. “You okay? Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you, Martin, I’m alright.”

“Are you sure? Are you cold? I can ask Rosie to turn up the heating down here if you are.”

“No, it’s okay, I’ll be fine—” The sound of wheels on wood as Sasha rolled her chair to the other side of her desk obscured the second half of that sentence, “—and just make sure you get the follow up to the Vittery statement to me this afternoon.”

“Yep, will do. Let me know if you need anything.” Martin returned to his desk and resumed work on what Tim guessed was probably the Vittery statement, but not without shooting concerned glances in the direction of Jon’s office for the next hour. Martin continued his fretting throughout the day, checking up on him at least every other hour, and bringing him far more tea than a man could want to drink in an eight hour workday. 

It was ten past five in the afternoon when Martin packed up his things and walked to Jon’s door. Sasha had already left, and Tim was only still there because he was expecting a call from Sergeant Northam from the precinct about a missing persons report for case 0112905, and he really didn’t care to deal with the hassle of rescheduling. So, he waited for the phone on his desk to ring while tapping away at the mobile in his hands, and listened to whatever was unfolding at the threshold to Jon’s office. Not that he was trying to eavesdrop, it’s just it was quiet in the archives, naturally, as it was past five, and there was nothing else to draw his attention.

Martin knocked and stepped barely inside, “Jon? Are you headed home right now? It’s just it’s, ah-it’s still raining, and I know you forgot—oh, or, er, lost your umbrella and I’m heading home right now and Pimlico station is still closed—I checked—and Victoria is on my way so, uh, if you wanted to, or well, if you were planning on leaving around now we could walk to the station and you could share my umbrella? I-if you wanted.”

There was a beat of silence before Jon answered, voice lacking most of the sharpness it usually had, “Oh, thank you Martin, but I’ll probably be here another hour, there’s a few statements I have to sort out first.”

“Oh, uh yeah, no problem. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“See you tomorrow, Martin.”

Martin stepped back out and closed the door to Jon’s office. He took two steps towards the staircase that led up to the ground floor of the institute before turning back, taking his umbrella from his bag, and leaning it against Jon’s door so he’d see it next he left the office. Then he headed back to the staircase, calling a goodbye to Tim over his shoulder. 

The call from the precinct came not a minute later, and as soon as it was over, Tim left, so he didn’t see Jon’s reaction to the umbrella. But the next morning, he arrived (slightly early, actually) to see the umbrella on Martin’s empty desk, and Jon definitely did not complain about Martin’s handwriting or follow up notes for at least a week after.

***

The final, and perhaps most obvious, was the institute holiday party last December. The holiday parties were always confusing and mildly uncomfortable events, organized and hosted by the operations department. They always tried to make these as fun and relaxed as possible, but the general tone of The Magnus Institute wasn’t exactly conducive to that. 

Still, Tim was looking forward to it. The festive season was one of his favorite times of the year, second only to Halloween. Not that he had any sentimental or religious reason to like Christmas, but something about the fact that his family never really celebrated it that much drew him to it. Sasha had already agreed to go, though she was probably already planning on it before Tim had asked. She usually went to these for at least a couple hours each year, something about networking. Martin was out following up on a statement in Waterloo, so Tim would ask him when he got back. Now, though, he could try his hand at convincing Jon, but if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t too optimistic about it, no matter how persuasive he could be.

He knocked twice on the door to Jon’s office, hand already on the handle when he heard the “Come in.”

“Hiya boss, you coming to the party later?”

At this, Jon looked up from the statement on his desk in mild confusion, “The what?”

“You know, the institute holiday party? Don’t tell me you forgot it was today, Rosie’s been reminding everyone all week!”

“I didn’t forget.” (He clearly had.) “But, no, there are, uh, too many things I need to work on here, I won’t be going.”

“Aw come on Jon, you’re always working. You’re here before everyone in the archives and leave after everyone. According to Martin, sometimes you don’t even leave at all. You can take a few hours and join in on the festivities, yeah?”

“I’ll,” he let out a put upon exhale, “I’ll think about it.”

“Alright! That’s the spirit.” Tim turned to go but not before leaving Jon with, “But don’t think too long, it’s already half past three,” and a wink before he closed the door. 

“Any luck?” asked Sasha, who was crouched next to a file cabinet and rifling through the folders in the bottom drawer.

“Sort of? He said he’d ‘think about it,’” Tim answered, punctuating it with air quotes. “Whatcha looking for?” He took one glance and let out a low whistle at the state of disarray the cabinet was in. 

“Precinct called about sending reports for the Hodge statement? But I could have sworn they already sent them.”

“Hodge? Which one was that one?”

“One-night stand gone wrong.”

“Oh, that one! Yeah, they already sent us the preliminary report, but I got Sergeant Northam to agree to sending us the full investigation file.”

“How’d you swing that one?” she asked, equal parts impressed and amused.

“Let’s just say,” he took a seat in his desk chair and let it roll closer to where Sasha was by the filing cabinet, “Northam has a particular affinity for cronuts. Especially the strawberry iced ones. And Jon lets me claim these outings on the institute expense receipts, so…”

She laughed, “You’re ridiculous, but I’m not complaining. They said they could have someone send the files over next week, or one of us could go down to the precinct and pick them up ourselves if we want them sooner.” 

“I can go grab them tomorrow morning.” 

“Great, thanks, I’ll let Jon know. Any word on when Martin’s going to be back?”

As if he was summoned, the two of them heard quick footsteps on the staircase outside the archives, and Martin appeared in the doorway shortly after, “Hi guys,” he took a seat at his desk, setting the canvas messenger bag with a statement file poking out of the top on the floor.

“Martin!” Tim greeted him, but not hearing, Martin continued.

 “I swear, that trip was worth less than not going at all. Spent three hours waiting around at the hospital only to be told they wouldn’t be speaking to anyone from ‘the public’ about it.”

“Rough,” Tim sympathized. But he had more pressing matters to ask Martin about than case 0121102, “You going to the party later?”

“Uh, maybe. Is Jon going?” 

“Dunno, I asked him earlier, and he said he’d think about it. Sasha and I will be there, though. Come on, it’ll be fun!”

“Fun might be a little generous for these institute parties, but yeah, I’ll go.”

“Yay! Sash, d’you hear that? Martin said he’ll go too.”

“Mmh hmm,” she hummed cheerfully in response. 

The three of them spent the rest of the afternoon following up on statements, with Tim fielding yet another call from the precinct, this time about some records they needed returned apparently. The end of the workday at five came and went, and soon enough, it was 5:53 p.m. and time to head up to the third floor where the party was starting at six in the lounge area in front of the research library. It was usually Tim’s M.O. to show up fashionably late, but there wasn’t anything else to do anyways, plus Sasha had a thing about being late to events, even casual office parties. 

Tim ducked his head into Jon’s office as Sasha and Martin headed towards the stairs, “You coming boss?”

“Oh, hello Tim. Probably not, or at least not now. These statements, you know,” he trailed off.

“Yeah, yeah, lot’s to catch up on and whatnot. Well, hopefully we’ll see you there later? You deserve a break, you know.”

“Thank you, and yes, maybe later. You and the others go ahead first.”

“Alright then,” with that, Tim turned and half jogged up the stairs to catch up to the other two, nearly running into Martin who was lingering behind the corner at the top of the stairs, while Sasha was a few dozen paces ahead of him. “Woah, Martin! Didn’t see you there.”

“Is he coming?” he asked, voice hopeful.

“Not now, he says maybe later, something about catching up on statements. Typical workaholic stuff, you know how he is.”

“Yeah,” the disappointment in his voice made Tim very keen on cheering him up.

“Don’t worry about him though, it can be an archival assistants night! We’ll have fun, I promise.”

It was nearly five past six by the time they made it to the lounge, on account of the institute having what Tim believed must be the slowest damn lifts in London. According to Rosie, the whole building was renovated as recently as the 90s, but clearly whoever was in charge of that thought the money would be better spent on faux-marble tiling than fixing the ancient lifts. There were already fifteen or so people there, but surely at least five of them were the ones from the operations department that planned it in the first place. 

“What do you guys want?” asked Tim as he made a beeline for the drinks.

“I’ll have a vodka cranberry, thanks Tim!” Sasha replied, eyes flitting around the room to see which one of the collapsible circular pub tables was empty.

“White—” Martin nudged Sasha with his elbow and pointed to an empty table in the corner of the room, “White wine if they have it. You can pick for me if they don’t, thanks.” He and Sasha made their way to the table, arranging themselves around it such that the empty spot faced towards the drinks table where Tim was.

The makeshift bar didn’t have an actual bartender, just Jasper from operations pouring drinks for people. He nodded in greeting at Tim as he approached.

“Hi,” Tim hit him with a dazzling smile simply because he was Tim, “A vodka cranberry, white wine, and a beer, please.”

Tim didn’t miss the way Jasper fumbled with the bottle of Smirnoff for a second before replying, “Coming right up.” He started with the vodka cranberry with no measuring device but his eyes. Tim spent the minute waiting observing the room and finding absolutely nothing of note. By now, there were probably twenty-five people in the room excluding himself, Martin, and Sasha, but this was neither enough people nor was it late enough for anything interesting to be happening. “Here you go,” Jasper the bootleg bartender said as he set the drinks in front of him.

“Thanks,” he grabbed his own and Martin’s drink in one hand and Sasha’s in the other, and left with a wink and another smile, for good measure. He returned to find Martin mid-rant with Sasha listening intently.

“—know how we had called in ahead? To say we were from the Magnus Institute and would be coming in to ask some questions and the receptionist was—thanks,” he picked up the cup from where Tim had set it on the table and took a sip before continuing, “—so the receptionist was like ‘I can’t promise the Head of Communications will be able to give you any information, but she or one of her assistants will be able to meet with you as soon as you’re here,’ right? So I got there and went to the head desk and told them I was from the institute and had called in, but the receptionist wasn’t the same one who answered my call, so they didn’t know what I was talking about and it was a whole thing. I kept getting directed to different floors and departments who kept directing me to other ones with a lot of waiting in between. And like I can’t blame them because they were clearly busy and understaffed, but God, you’d think—,” He interrupted himself and took another sip, “Like I’ve dealt with being in and out of hospitals enough that you’d think I’d be used to it, but every time I just can’t help but think that like a hospital would be the last place you want to be understaffed, right? So, anyways, I finally got a hold of someone from the communications department, but he wasn’t the head, so during the whole thing, he kept calling his boss to check on what information he could give me, and by the end of it, I got nothing pretty much, so, ultimately useless.”

Tim and Sasha offered up their sympathies before they moved on to distinctly less work related conversation. Most importantly, Tim had just adopted a golden retriever puppy from a shelter in a nearby suburb and spent a good ten minutes showing them photos. “His name’s Ollie. He’s six months old, and one of my friends from Trinity adopted his sibling from the same litter, so hopefully we can arrange some playdates for them on the weekends,” he told them, all while scrolling through nearly a hundred photos of Ollie. Throughout it all, and now that he thought back to it, throughout the whole night thus far, Martin paid attention and oohed and aahed at right moments, but part of his mind was elsewhere, and he kept looking at the door. It wasn’t until after the fourth time Tim noticed that he decided to call him on it, “Waiting for something, Martin?”

“Oh!” He flustered, directed his gaze back to his drink in front of him, “No sorry, it’s nothing.”

“You sure?” Tim asked, half teasing and fully not convinced.

“Yeah! It’s nothing.”

“Okay, if you say so,” he dropped it, but that didn’t mean he stopped wondering. Though an hour later, he no longer had to wonder as Jon appeared at the entrance of the lounge and Martin reacted instantly.

“Jon!” he exclaimed, a bit louder than Tim reckoned he meant to, wine-tipsy. He waved Jon over to table with enthusiasm. Jon gave him a tight smile and nodded, pointing to the drinks table first. Tim watched as Martin’s eyes followed Jon there. He said something to Jasper, who began mixing things in a clear plastic cup while Jon stood awkwardly and looked around the room but desperately tried to avoid eye contact with anyone at the same time. Jasper tapped him on the shoulder, and he startled, whirling around. He took the drink with an apologetic smile and raised it in a gesture of thanks before turning back around and heading to the table. 

“Glad you could make it Jon, what are you drinking?” Sasha greeted him.

“Oh just a rum and coke.”

“Finally decided to take a break from those statements, huh?” Tim clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, I suppose I did.” The four of them continued chatting, first just some small talk, but Jon finally seemed to get more comfortable twenty minutes in, and they could move on to things more entertaining than the weather and the lateness of the tube. Again, most importantly, Tim told him about Ollie and showed him the requisite photos. 

Somehow, they got to a point where Jon was giving what could only be accurately described as a lecture on how the liver processes alcohol. This included a case study on a patient at St. Thomas’ Hospital in the early 2000s who had auto-brewery syndrome, which Jon said was “a condition where gut bacteria or fungi ferments the carbohydrates from the food you eat, producing ethanol alcohol in the process,” which Tim found interesting enough, but he wasn’t ashamed to admit that after the first four minutes of this, he mostly lost focus and was just nodding whenever Jon paused for a bit. Martin, however, looked thoroughly enraptured through the whole of it, asking what seemed to be all the right questions about the biochemical pathways of alcohol metabolism and giggling at the absurdity of auto-brewery. By seven minutes in, he had his elbows on the table and chin resting in his hands, gazing at Jon with single-minded focus as he hung on each sentence as if “alcohol dehydrogenase” and “acetyl-CoA” were the most fascinating words in the English language. In the moment, brain slightly fuzzy with alcohol (ironically), Tim had mostly chalked it up to Martin being a bit of a nerd. 

***

But now, he knows better and knows that there was perhaps a bit more to it. 

“Tim? You done being shocked?” Martin snaps him out of his reverie.

“Yeah, sorry, just thinking.”

“About how dumb all of this is? You can be honest, Jon doesn’t just not like me, he actively dislikes me. This is ridiculous, I know.”

“Martin,” Sasha puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, “I don’t think he actually dislikes you. He just gets prickly sometimes. And plus, if he can’t learn to appreciate you, that’s honestly his problem.”

Tim chimes back in with, “Yeah! His loss, Martin.”

“Mm, I don’t know, but thanks guys.”

They fall back into easy conversation and laughter within a few minutes, as the nervous flush on Martin’s face subsides. And if that night, Tim makes it a personal goal to somehow get Jon to appreciate Martin as he deserves, well, then that’s nobody’s business but his own.

[kiitsume]

a few thoughts on six the musical because nobody asked for them

(also excuse any historical inaccuracies, i've done only cursory reading thank you)

let's start light. the costumes are pretty but they completely take away any sense of historical context, unintentionally minimizing the degree of awareness the audience has of the culture surrounding the women at the time, which is actually pretty important to the message the writers are trying to construct.

the music is good. like, it's catchy and generally well written, and of course well performed. but the writers giveth and the writers taketh away. mostly they take away. all of the songs are reductive and collapse six people-- who they claim to attempt to honor the memory of-- down into platitudes and general notions of people, caricaturizing them into something that's barely recognizable.

the set up the musical to be a "competition between these six women to get the respect the deserve for the amount they suffered" and then they turn around at the end and shame the audience for doing that-- for picking favorites along the way and actually considering which ones they empathize most with.

the opening song, "ex-wives" uses modern lingo and whatnot, but it's not any more jarring that the costumes, so it's not until "don't lose your head" that the text speak really throws you off. it was honestly uncomfortable to watch in context of the musical, at least upon my viewing.

do i know they went chronologically? yes. will i ever forgive them for putting the most jarring joke of a song, "haus of holbein" right after arguably the most heartfelt song of the musical, jane seymour's "heart of stone"? absolutely fucking not.

haus of holbein has it's merits. i won't lie. it addresses the beauty standards of the time and the way that women were expected to destroy their bodies and give up their lives in order to appeal to men, which contributes to the larger narrative the writers were trying to build in saying that all these women would've led remarkable lives if they hadn't been forced to give themselves up to a life that made them miserable. but all of that is erased by the fact that it has air horns in it, i'm sorry, that can't be overlooked. literally die.

katherine (we're going with the musical's spelling okay) howard's song? a fucking bop. "all you wanna do" is iconic. but it has been brought to my attention by my girlfriend, who is much more knowledgeable on the six's actual history and writings, that pretty much the entire song is a complete disregard for who she was in life and her actual feelings, and that's especially irritating because they did it specifically for the purpose of constructing a much more simple narrative and, in the process, did the exact thing they claim to condemn: writing over her, and all the others, with what they think they know and bending them and their lives to fit their ideal message. how so? my girl k howard actually did have feelings for thomas. you know, the one person in the song she's like, "just mates, no chemistry/ i get him and he gets me/ and there's nothing more to it." they just throw that out to make thomas look like a nice guy and like people were just constantly taking advantage of her, which to some extent was true. but it also strips all the agency out of her life, and ignores the fact that "serious, stern and slow/ gets what he wants and he won't take no," francis dereham was the one who got jealous of her and thomas' relationship and snitched to the king and got her executed. there's literally no acknowledgement that he was anything other than just another fling or something. and, by omission, it implies that her music teacher, henry mannox, was the one and only one who groomed her (and molested her at 13). in reality, dereham's relationship with her started when she was 15 and he was 32. oh, and she was 17 when she married the 49 year old king. if the musical is supposed to form a cohesive narrative around how these girls were taken advantage of and thrown out by history as a joke, her story is literally ideal for that purpose. but instead we got naive girl uses sex to get ahead and then it backfires and she's killed for it.

not that thomas is innocent in all of this-- when the affair was brought to public light he blamed everything on howard and continued to deny ever sleeping with her, though he eventually admitted to intending to. there's some debate over whether their private meetings were actually an affair, but howard's writings on it make it seem as if she did have feelings for him, so. we may never know. but again, this is just to show the disservice the musical did to her.

i don't know as much about the other queens i'll admit, but here's just a few things that would be useful for the narrative the musical tries and fails to build: catherine parr was 15 when she was married to henry's brother arthur, who she couldn't speak to because they'd corresponded in latin but had different pronunciations-- this marriage was to give arthur greater legitimacy, because she was considered more strongly royal by blood; anne boleyn resisted henry's attempts to make her a mistress-- she was extremely smart, which was desirable in a mistress but not a wife!-- as her sister mary had been, and her daughter, unlike parr's is never acknowledged by the musical, the subjects called her "the king's whore" and blamed her for his tyranny, and-- oh, did i mention? historians debate whether there were any actual grounds for the charges brought against her that led to her execution, and most scholars regard it just something the king did so he could move on to seymour; jane seymour was married to henry the day after anne boleyn's execution, and she was never publically coronated in part because of a plague (woo!) but some also theorize that henry didn't want her to be coronated until she'd done her "duty as queen" and bore him a male heir; anne of cleves was described as extremely beautiful, so when the king met her and described her as "plain" he was incredibly let down, and immediately decided that he wanted to avoid the marriage altogether-- she was not considered ugly, as the musical makes it sound, just not good enough for the kings "selective" tastes (you know, the same henry who had a festering, ulcerated wound on his leg from a jousting accident); catherine parr is done the most justice, actually acknowledging the work she did in education and writing, the role she played in the establishment of the Third Succession Act which allowed her daughters access to the throne, and her two previous marriages (one of which was to someone twice her age) but it fails to acknowledge that her protestant sympathies got her targeted by arrest warrants before she reconciled with the king, and she was able to marry her lost love thomas seymour (different thomas, different seymour) in secret four months after the king's death, only to die a year and four months later.

also this: catherine of aragon was the only wife older than henry when they married, with her being 24 when and henry being 18; boleyn was 32 while henry was 42; seymour was 28, married to a 45 year old henry; anne of cleves was 25 and henry was 49; i repeat, howard was 17 when she was married to the 49 year old king; and parr was 31 and henry was 52.

and they were all flawed individuals, too, don't take my defenses of them to mean otherwise. in fact, as historical figures, i don't necessarily like all of them. but despite their flaws, they didn't deserve what happened to them, which is something the musical fails to portray in every way. it glosses over everything so quickly, which i understand is to be expected to a degree when you give each queen a six minute song to tell the story of their entire life, but the writing distorts them so badly they're hardly recognizable, and their stories are changed willy-nilly to fit the lazy empowerment theme rather than addressing them as they were.

the final song, "six." boy do i have thoughts. it's meant to seem empowering, and to an extent it is, because the characters they've given us get to talk about having a happy ending and making something of their lives that made them happy to have a legacy. but none of it's true, and it feels incredibly forced, especially because they take the concept of these women and pay no attention to them historically or what the figures they're based on would've actually wanted, and instead just says, "they all sing and dance and have a great time! question nothing!" and it just feels so hollow. it honestly made me feel even worse about the historical figures themselves and the suffering they endured, because it felt minimizing and shallow, like a platitude to make you stop thinking about how horribly they were treated. it was genuinely upsetting from that point of view, and despite how uplifting it's meant to be in the context of the show, it acknowledges that it's only a dream by giving a time limit to their happiness-- five minutes. and after that point you're supposed to go on continuing to be happy, having connected with these people and been empowered by their stories, when you are given very little of their actual stories and are shamed for analyzing things through the lens they gave you at the opening of the show. not to mention how horribly they trample over their message of how restrictive and repressive their lives were by nature of their station and says that, "well, if they could've just made different choices they would've been happy!" ignoring how the culture gave them no other choice and there's a pretty good chance that, even if they had made the choices they wanted to, they would've still been held back by virtue of their gender and station. the story behind six is not empowering, and it feels horrible to have it twisted around that was to make it seem empowering. i understand not wanting to beat down your audience and make them miserable, but rather than reducing these women down to such simplified caricatures and then having them all bond and have a girl power moment, it would've been much more impactful to have their actual concerns be what they bonded over-- being forgotten, talked over, held back, so on-- and talking about the people they actually were. having them write their own stories is fun and all, but having them actually tell their stories and feel heard, even if it's in a time they'll never see, is a much less reductive sentiment.

tl;dr: so basically i thought the musical was badly written for the message they were trying to send, and no amount of good music or talented performance can save a boring or badly written musical, and the six queens still deserve better.

[copias-thrall]

Why Not?

Mary and Suey need to use their words

(Start at the beginning)

*angst; face fucking*

Sometimes you wonder if Mary’s attraction to you stems from the fact that you had no idea who he was when the two of you met at Mickey’s. Sure, there’s some Venn Diagram-like overlap between your crowd and his—but your exploits and his had never touched. You have a few mutual friends-of-friends that everyone always seems to know—but no substantial connections.

Mary’s never made his past sexploits a secret—even if he’s demurred on the gritty details—so you know his other forays into relationships have mostly been from people already in his orbit from the neighborhood or from his “fan” pool.

Basically: all people who already knew his music.

It doesn’t keep you up at night, but occasionally—when there’s a prolonged, awkward silence, or the two of you get into a heated debate that proceeds slammed doors—you can’t help but wonder. It doesn’t help that Mary seems reticent to bring you to shows—big or small. 

And, ok—maybe at first you didn’t really care: everyone and their sister knows a guy who’s “in a band” that never actualizes, and you two are oil and water on your best days, so why invest energy into a band you’re going to be compelled to dislike after the breakup? Once you guys had passed the 3mo mark, however, you knew you had to get serious about it if you wanted to be serious about Mary.

You would have thought it would’ve made Mary happy—you taking a marked interest in his first love—but he’d honestly seemed ambivalent about it. You talking about his songs and asking him questions only seemed to irritate him to no end … so you’d dropped it.

When he’d told you about another Saturday gig—that wasn’t closing Mickey’s—you’d once again offered to come … and he’d been a dick about it, prompting one of your worst fights to date.

“Why do you even wanna be there?” he’d huffed.

“I’m your fucking girlfriend,” you’d retorted.

“So you just want to piss on me and mark your territory, is that it?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I thought I’d support your fucking passion is all.”

“You never cared before.”

“Oh—I’m sorry! Was I supposed to know everything that mattered to you two fucking seconds in?”

“I just think it’s fucking suspect that all of sudden you wanna be around.”

“So the other girlfriends are fine. It’s just me who’s a fame whore?”

“They’re all into the scene.”

“And what the fuck does that mean? I’m not a bandophile so I couldn’t possibly be interested?”

“It means I’m fucking done with that shit. The switching? The bed hopping? If that’s what you want, fucking tell me right now.”

“Where are you even getting this shit from?”

He’d looked you dead in the eyes.

“You have a reputation, Suey.

At first, you hadn’t even understood enough to be insulted.

“For fucking what? I barely follow the local music scene.”

“You think I didn’t ask around about you? The ‘Ice Queen’? Likes to fuck, but will eat you up and spit you out?”

You’d felt hot and cold all at once—your face flushing then draining of color.

“Are you fucking … are you fucking slut shaming me?!” you’d hissed as you’d jabbed a finger at him.

He hadn’t backed down. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to wonder if a girl who’ll fuck anything that moves wouldn’t be looking to take her act elsewhere. The guys might dislike you, but you know they’d never pass up free pussy.”

You’d been trembling with anger at that point and scrubbing tears from your eyes.

“I’ve never … I’ve never hidden the fact that I like to fuck. I can’t believe you with your … your orgies and partner swapping have any fucking thing to say to me about my one-night stands.”

“How do I know you’re not using me for easy access, huh? I can barely even tell if you like me instead of my dick sometimes, and now all of sudden you’re interested in my band?”

You’d screamed and knocked a bowl off your counter, not even caring when the ceramic had shattered into shards.

“I’M SHOWING YOU I LIKE YOU BY BEING INTERESTED IN YOUR FUCKING BAND, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.”

Then you’d grabbed a mug and thrown it in the ground for good measure. It hadn’t shattered, but the handle had broken off. Dissatisfied, you’d turned to your dish rack, but before you could start breaking dishes, Mary had had his arms wound around you.

“Hey, hey … it’s ok. Shh, c’mere.”

You’d screamed again and struggled against him.

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Suey, calm down.”

Mary had managed to pick you up slightly, transferring you from the mess in the kitchen area to the living space, where he’d pulled you both down to the floor against the couch. You’d struggled some more, but only in an obligatory sense.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. Fuck,” Mary had breathed.

You’d only wailed in response, tears now flowing freely.

“I didn’t mean … fuck. I don’t think …” he’d babbled.

“You didn’t think,” you’d blubbered. “All those dudes, and you’re the one with a fucking drawer. How fucking dare you.”

Mary’s hold had tightened, but it wasn't to restrain you.

“Fuck, I know. I’m sorry. I just … it wouldn’t be the first time I thought some girl liked me, when all they wanted was to fuck the band. It’s a fucking sore spot, ok?”

“I’m supposed to be ok with you thinking I’ve been playing you?”

“I just fucking panicked, ok? I—I really fucking like you.”

“Don’t be gross.”

“Fuck off.”

You’d both chuckled.

“I just really fucking like you, and sometimes I just get too far into my own fucking head.”

You’d leaned back into his chest.

“You’re a fucking asshole and what you said was trashy. You said it to hurt me, and that’s not ok, Mary.”

He’d sighed and rested his forehead onto your shoulder.

“I just needed to hear you say it wasn’t true.”

“That’s still fucking insulting, but—” you’d tilted your head toward his, “Mary, I’m not dating you to fuck your bandmates. Now, fucking apologize.”

“I’m sorry I … that I was … my—”

“—that you were fucking cruel.”

“I’m sorry I was fucking cruel.”

“Thank you.”

The two of you had sat like that for a while until Mary had broken the silence.

“You scare me when you react like that.”

“I know,” you’d sighed. “I just … got overwhelmed. I’m … I am working on it, you know?”

“How?”

You’d curled a little into yourself.

“I do go to therapy, you know. It’s been—it is—a process.”

“K.”

“K?”

“Um, ‘ok, I acknowledge your effort and support it and won’t push as long as you’re getting help’?”

“Thanks.” You’d waited for a beat then had said, “Now you have to give me one. One personal thing.”

You’d waited patiently as Mary had considered.

“I was on my own at 19, so the guys are like my brothers—I love them, but they’re fucking annoying, and I hate them sometimes too. I’d give any one of them a kidney, but not my girl.”

You’d sighed. “I’m not going to fuck your brothers, Mare.”

“Yeah, I know. But thanks for saying.”

After that he’d helped you clean up the broken bowl. A week later you’d found your mug back in the cabinet—the handle was out of line with the break, but somehow still firmly secured back into place. You’d also stopped asking about attending his shows.

Thanksgiving came—he’d spent the day with his extended band family; you’d traveled out of state to spend it with your best friend—as you’d been doing since college. She knows a little about you and Mary, and you were happy to stay up drinking contraband wine with her on the trundle bed in her room as you’d scrolled through the handful of personal g-rated pictures you had.

It’s Saturday (your bus back home is at 6am the next day), and your bff and you are downtown just hanging out. You fucking love the energy of South Street, especially Crash Bang Boom, formally Zipperhead. One of the stops on your itinerary is a record store, and on a lark you go to see if Mary’s record is here. You know from one of Mary’s rants that they’ve been struggling to get wider distribution without a formal label, but that there’s a pretty good trade network amongst some of the indie places, and Philly isn’t so far away. You have to do more than a cursory search but!

It’s here!

You pull it out, intent on calling your friend over, when two guys who’d been browsing near you accost you.

“I hear they’re hot right now!” Boy 1 says.

“They used to be so hard to find,” says Boy 2.

You beam. “I know, right? They’re great.”

“You a big fan?” asks Boy 2.

What you mean to say is, I think their sound is very unique, but what you say when you open your mouth is, “I’m dating the lead guitarist.”

The two guys look at each other and snigger slightly.

“Yeah, ok,” says Boy 2.

You scrunch your face at them.

“I am.”

“Ok, maybe online you can peddle that crap, but c’mon,” says Boy 1.

You know not to feed the trolls … but these guys are kind of pissing you off. You tuck the DIY CD under your arm as you fish out your phone; it takes you a few seconds of poking, but you bring up the g-rated pics of you and Mary—most of which are slightly-blurry selfies. You think they’re endearing. Boy 1 and Boy 2 aren’t impressed.

“Are you serious?” sneers Boy 1. “These are clearly post-show selfies.”

“Fucking sad,” says Boy 2, shaking his head.

You’re at a loss because the majority of these are from your couch, so you toss your hair at them.

“Whatever. I don’t need a bunch of fake music boys to validate me. Krissy! Let’s bounce.”

You do end up buying the CD for her—which she promises to listen to in full and then report back.

When you get back to your place Sunday night—cranky and bleary-eyed—you’re surprised to find Mary asleep on your couch, cocooned in your afghan, even though it’s barely early evening. You divest yourself of your outside clothes and backpack before crawling over him.

“Mmph,” he grumbles.

“Hey,” you say, draped over him. “Why’re you on the couch?”

He manages to turn his head toward you slightly.

“You weren’t here.”

“Mare. You can sleep in my bed.”

He wiggles around so you’re both face to face.

“Yeah, I know. Wanted to know when you got back.”

“I still don’t see—”

He kisses you and manages to get his arms free to wrap around you.

“You’d’ve let me sleep if I was in your bed,” he says as he breaks the kiss.

“Yeah, maybe. Only because you’d need it.”

There’s some making out that begins to border on foreplay before your stomach rumbles unhappily. Mary laughs.

“You’re fucking great.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you grumble. “I think I last ate over 12hrs ago.”

Mary shifts to a sitting position. “I’m about to become your best friend.” He wiggles free and makes his way into your kitchen. You wrap the afghan around you as you shuffle after him. He beams at you before opening your fridge and doing his best impression of Vanna White. You peer in to see that there are multiple Tupperware containers jigsawed into your fridge.

“Oh!” you exclaim. “Is this …?”

Mary’s grin is almost a rictus.

“You don’t think I look out for my baby doll? Friendsgiving leftovers, just for you!”

You crowd into his space.

“I don’t know what I should eat first: this bounty or your dick!”

Mary wraps his arms around you, but says, “Lady’s choice.”

Despite how hungry you are, you drop to your knees—afghan pooling around you—and mouth at his zipper. He caresses your head and shoulders, but when he doesn’t insist, you take matters into your own hands; you pet at his semi before unzipping his jeans and taking out his cock and balls.

“You don’t—” he gasps even as his hands are cupped around the back of your head.

“Shut the fuck up,” you say right before you take the tip of him into your mouth to suckle.

Mary likes it fast and sloppy, but tonight you suck him at your own pace—one hand rolling his balls and giving sporadic presses to his perineum. He’s trembling and whimpering, his hands clenching and unclenching in your hair. After one particularly hard suck he cries out, “Oh fuck, please.”

You shuffle around so that your back is against a bottom cabinet, and you make a soft grunt so that he looks down at you. His lips are wet and his eyes are glazed as you widen your mouth and moan encouragingly at him. His hands grip into your hair as he begins to fuck your face.

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” he breathes. “So sweet. Your fucking mouth.”

Usually you do your best to deep throat Mary, but today he seems to sense not to choke you. He’s still fucking your mouth, though—thrusting as deep as he dares, undeterred by the saliva dripping down your chin.

“I fucking missed you—missed this.”

You make sure to lock your gaze with his.

“Fuck.”

You bring your hand back up to his balls.

“OhpleaseOhshitOhfuckOhplease,” he chants, eyes now closed.

You slap your cunt a few times before you slip a hand into your tights to work at your clit in time to Mary fucking your mouth.

“Oh fuck, yeah—that’s right. My cock makes you so hot.”

You let the hand fondling him fall away so you can brace yourself against the counter, and Mary starts fucking your mouth faster. He’s still staring down at you, but now he’s only chanting Fuck over and over again as he pummels your mouth. You think he’ll probably cum first, but it’s actually you—your own adept fingers pushing you over the edge—and it’s only after you moan in time that he shoves you down on his cock as it kicks and shoots its load down your throat.

He lets go of your hair well before you’d even consider tapping out, so you make sure you suck up and down the length of him before he grunts and pulls away from oversensitivity. He looks down at you with hooded eyes as you continue to gently massage your own climax out.

“You’re too fucking good to me,” he says as he recombobulates himself.

You’re just easing the waves of your orgasm at this point.

“So fucking make me a plate,” you purr, knees splayed as you continue to finger yourself.

Mary grunts at you as if he’d like nothing better than to squash you into the floor and fuck the shit out of you—but by the time you’re done massaging the throbs out of your clit and and standing up, he’s got the food containers out and is constructing your plate.

Mary feeds you from the full plate in his lap—quite a departure from the norm (you love feeding him at your feet)—and the two of your talk about your holiday. He tells you about their mashed potato food fight. You tell him all about Krissy’s drama—which mostly entails her parents thinking that her living at home means she’ll be a nun—but you offhandedly mention Boy 1 & Boy 2 in context of your day out. 

Mary tenses.

“What?” you ask as you catch his eye. You’re not going to bring up seeing his band if you can help it.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

Mary sighs.

“You just. I hate that they didn’t believe you. You are my girl.”

You wriggle up and shrug.

“They’re not wrong. A few close up selfies don’t prove anything.”

“It still fucking sucks, and I hate it. Can we go to bed when you’re done?”

You snort. “You just want to snuggle.”

“So what if I fucking do? I brought you candied sweet potatoes at great cost to my life and limb. You owe me.”

You huff in laughter. “All right, dude. Fine. Let me brush my teeth and then we can … snuggle.”

“Damn straight.”

It’s maybe two weeks later when Mary’s on your couch watching the WWE, your feet in his lap as you play a game on your phone (no way was him being here is going to make you miss your chance at getting a high placing on this week’s special challenge). During the commercial break he plucks at your alumni sleep pants.

“Hey. Have you noticed you haven't worn anything nice in a while?” he says to your leg.

You look up at him over your phone, incredulous.

“Um, ok. First of all: rude. Second: Dude. Half your shirts are from high school and half of those are covered in blood. What the fuck.”

His hand sneaks under your pant leg to stroke at your calf. When you shy away—shaving a long-forgotten routine now that the weather has chilled—he firmly pulls you back to continue his exploration.

“Yeah. I don’t own anything nice—you have all these cute as fuck clothes just chilling on your curtain rod collecting dust.” 

You heave a sigh.

“Well. You work most nights, Mary. You know I try to be here if you’re going to be around, and what?—I’m gonna dress up in my own home?”

He squeezes your calf muscle.

“Christ, you’re defensive. Let me fucking finish my lead in, woman. I just mean we should get out.”

You creep the foot of your free leg under his t-shirt to press into his boney ribs.

“Ok, but when? Your schedule’s not very conducive to that, you know.”

He looks at you, searching your face, before insinuating himself between your legs and rubbing his hands up your thighs. 

“We’re playing at Regency in a few weeks,” he says as he leans down to kiss your belly. He looks up at you. “You could put on one those ‘fuck me’ numbers you got.” 

Kiss. 

“Come see me play.” 

Kiss. 

“I could fuck you in the bathroom.” 

Kiss.

He takes the hem of your pants between his teeth and begins to tug it down.

“Mary! My ranking!”

“Fuck your ranking,” he says as he yoinks your phone out of your hand and shoves it down the front of his pants. You gasp as he yanks your bottoms the rest of the way free, and then proceeds to run his tongue through your folds. Your hands grip his hair tight as he worms his tongue around and over your clit, sparking your arousal. You let your head fall back, moaning, as he tongues you.

He breaks away suddenly. “So will you think about it?”

You look down at him through hazy vision. “Wha—what?”

“The show. Will you think about coming to it?”

The only thing you’re thinking about right now is his tongue back on you.

“Fuck. C’mon, Mary.”

“The. Gig,” he continues, before giving you one, long lap. “Wanna show you off,” he says, growling into your labia.

Christ he should make up his mind. As if it was your reticence from attending. 

“Yeah!” you gasp, encouraging him, as you grind yourself into his waiting mouth. “Wanna be shown off!”

He yanks you down prone, hoisting your legs over his shoulders so he has better access to suck your clit between his plump lips. The sensation is heavenly, and you make pleased noises.

“Gonna show off my hot girlfriend,” he pants as he comes up for air. “Make everyone know you’re mine, rub it in their faces.”

You grab the back of his head and rub his face into your pussy.

“Shut the fuck up and get on with it for chrissake’s!”

He eats you out in earnest then—his tongue and lips adeptly coaxing you toward climax—the sound of the snarling wrestlers and cheering crowd the soundtrack to your orgasm; he licks you steadily as you squirm and thrash through it. Once you're thoroughly spent, he divests you of your top and crawls up your torso while unbuckling his jeans—your phone plopping onto your stomach and sliding down into the cushions. 

“Hold your tits together,” he rumbles before thrusting between them a handful of times, head thrown back. Then he leans over you—guiding his cock to your mouth with his hips, before he’s fucking your face into the couch—unashamedly moaning when he hears you gag. He pulls out in time to cum all over your face and neck, hand flying between his legs—too intent with his art to even grunt out his pleasure.

Looking down at you, he bites his lip and says, “Fuck you’re beautiful. Can I take a picture?”

(This was something you’d gotten used to—Mary always wanting to take pictures of the oddest things with his ancient, digital HP camera.)

When you hesitate, he says, “No, you’re right. It’s …” He begins to climb off you, but you put a hand on his thigh.

“You … you can,” you stutter “but … I’ll keep it for you. Just … transfer it to me and delete it immediately.”

He rolls his eyes. “Big help you having it when I’m lonely and want to jerk off,” he says—but he's already off the couch, tucking himself back in, and rummaging through his worn backpack.

The two of you had done a little photoshoot then, trying to get the best angles, the best shine, your sexiest pout—and a few with his fingers in your mouth. When he’s satisfied, he hands you your shirt so you can wipe off—which you promptly rejected in favor of cleaning off in the bathroom sink (“Gross.” “What? I don’t understand.” “I wear this shirt!” “My jizz is literally on you right now!”).

When you come back out, Mary already has his memory card in the USB convertor and is attached to your laptop.

“Don’t I get to help choose?” you ask as you sit down next to him.

“My pictures.”

“My face!” you retort.

“My pictures for my use.”

You lean in to see which he’s chosen.

“Oh, not that one! I look like Jaba the Hutt with that chin!”

Mary squints at it, shrugs, then turns to grin at you.

“I won’t be looking at your chin.”

“Fine,” you grumble flopping back. “But I want my complaint filed on the record.”

“Ok,” he says and kisses the tip of your nose.

You push him away and wipe at your face. “Gross, Mary. Don’t be all mushy and shit.”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, Suey,” he says into the computer.

When he finishes—4 photos now living in a folder on your desktop entitled “MarysSecretJackoffMaterial”—he lets you drive. You promptly drag all the smutty images of you into your trash and delete them immediately.

He has to leave for work not long after that, and you’ve gotten sucked into the WWE storyline. It isn’t until you’re ready to go to bed that you realize your phone is still in the depths of the couch. Once retrieved, you text him.

Me [12:37am]: Goddamnit, Mary! My RANKING.

Mary [2:28am]: XD

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

[thehangeddemon]

Dreamwalker, Part II || RoJ, Xavier, & Abel

Rohan: Beside MJ, Rohan was already awake and sitting up. An odd wave of energy had pulled him from his own dreams some moments ago, and after a cursory assessment of their surroundings, he'd determined that his sleeping vampire was the source. Somehow.

"Puiule?" he murmured as MJ finally opened his eyes. "Are you okay?"

MJ: "That's such a name t'wake up to," slurred from the vampire's lips. Certainly the sun was not to blame for the sting in his eyes, having settled beyond the trees. A full moon of light pouring into the bedroom - had Pete just fallen asleep like an old man?

"What time is it?"

Rohan: "It's not yet midnight. Did you have a nightmare?"

MJ: "Why'd ya let me sleep in like that?" With considerable effort he forced himself into a sitting position.

Rohan: "You were sleeping so profoundly, I couldn't bring myself to wake you. Even vampires need sleep."

MJ: "We sleep twelve hours!" He scoffed. A question had been asked, had it not?

"I don't think it was a nightmare. Maybe it was."

Rohan: "Sometimes twelve hours aren't enough." He ran a hand through MJ's hair. "Feel like talking about it?"

MJ: "Can't ya magic n'see what it was?"

Rohan: "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, puiule." He lifted his arm in silent invitation for MJ to cuddle against him. "All things of the mind look like gold light to me."

MJ: The invitation was accepted without response.

"Seriously? Why? How? Ya can't even see auras?"

Rohan: Rohan held him close, kissing his hair. "I do not have the same gifts of telepathy that a being like Xavier has. I can, however, see and read auras. That's what woke me." He kissed MJ's forehead. "A strange energy radiating from yours."

MJ: "I think I was dream walking. If that ain't what it's called, s'what I'm gonna call it. It was just a dream and then it wasn't. It didn't feel like it. I think I was with Pete."

Rohan: His brow furrowed. "You mean you somehow found yourself in his dream? Or he did in yours?"

MJ: "I dunno. I dunno how it works. Never done it before."

Rohan: He was silent for a few moments, considering. "....Did you happen to brush up against that moon figurine on the work table in the library?"

MJ: His brow wrinkled. "I - Why? What's it do?"

Rohan: "I'm not entirely sure. It was in a glass case, but it broke the day Devlin found that squirrel and brought it inside. A casualty of the chase scene. Xavier hadn't gotten around to examining it properly but now that I think about it, it does radiate....something."

MJ: "Wanna go check it out now?"

Rohan: "If you wish. With any luck he'll be in there to offer some helpful information."

MJ: "Tisk. I wanted a Scooby Doo adventure with you, Fred."

Rohan: Rohan chuckled softly. "We may have one yet. He could have already retired to his room."

MJ: Before they could move, Rohan's hand was taken between his. Don't go just yet, the gesture said. Purposeful breathing. He kissed his hand and allowed his not-so-warm breath to rest there.

Rohan: He simply smiled and pulled MJ closer. I'm not going anywhere, he thought, bundling them in together. I'm staying right here with you.

MJ: "I think...I think he was aware, too. I think it wasn't just me in that dream," he whispered at last.

Rohan: Rohan hummed thoughtfully. The question on his mind had little to do with the subject of the dream and more to do with how the dream itself had been possible. It was very unlikely that they'd both been doing dream magic simultaneously, though not impossible.

"Is that the first dream you remember?" he whispered back. "Or did you have another before that?"

MJ: "A dream where I felt...like...awake?"

Rohan: “Just from today I mean.”

MJ: "But I mean, is that normal?" How much to tell he did not yet know. Tap his toes in the water, perhaps. Why hadn't Rohan shown any shred of concern to the name Peter?

Rohan: "To have walking dreams?" Yes," he said with a nod. "Uncommon, and sometimes unintentional, but for those who have magic or are surrounded by magic they're normal. Like a lot of other uncommon things."

Another kiss to MJ's hair. "I asked if there were other dreams to try to ascertain if you found yourself in Peter's dream or if he found himself in yours. Could tell us which of you tapped into that particular well of magic and potentially how."

MJ: "I don't think it's happened before. It might have? But this - this has to be the first time I recognized it like I did. Am I supposed to every time?"

Rohan: “I’m afraid I don’t know. I don’t have much experience with walking dreams, as you call them, but I would imagine that the person who is doing the...let’s call it visiting, would be aware of it.”

MJ: "So I - Should I talk t'him? I won't if ya don't want it, Ro."

Rohan: Rohan sighed. However the magic had come about, there was no avoiding who had been on the receiving end. Or perhaps the giving end.

“I know what he meant to you, puiule,” he said softly. “What he still means. I wouldn’t keep you from speaking to him, especially not in a situation like this.”

MJ: Rohan's hands were taken tightly.

"Don't talk like that, like - like ya think I'll -" He breathed in deep. "M'not gonna cheat on ya. I wouldn't hurt ya like that."

Rohan: MJ’s hands were squeezed and kissed. “I know you wouldn’t. That isn’t what worries me.” He kissed his vampire’s hands again. “It’s only that Edenton isn’t like Paradise. There’s no Xavier to build a bubble of protection around you.”

MJ: "I can't always rely on Xavier t'have my back. I won't be a fledgling forever, Ro."

Rohan: “I know. But I still worry. Although I suppose Mr. Graham has his own bubble of protection.”

MJ: "I shouldn't. Should I? How come it don't bother ya?"

Rohan: “That you’re potentially going to speak to Pete Graham?” He sighed. “It doesn’t not bother me. I know he means a lot to you, and I’d like to believe that you mean enough to him that he’d go out of his way to make sure your brief visit to Edenton is as painless as possible.”

MJ: "M'startin' t'forget what the dream was about. What we said. But look, Ro. Can ya please put all that shit aside for a moment? Can ya just tell me what you want with us?"

Rohan: “Your happiness. Above everything and everyone else. I want you to be happy and at peace and I’d like to be a part of that peace and happiness.”

MJ: "Ya are. Ya have been for years now, Ro. But I -" he looked down at their hands.

Rohan: “But you love Mr. Graham as well,” Rohan finished for him, pressing their foreheads together. “I know, puiule. I do not hold it against either of you.”

MJ: "No! That's not what I was gonna say." But he didn't bother to pull away. "I was gonna say you're selfless to a fault. Ya are. Listen t'ya."

Rohan: “It’s not selfless to acknowledge love where it exists. It certainly doesn’t make me love you any less.”

MJ: "Shouldn't it? How can ya love me when my heart is split in two?" He closed his eyes. "That sounds so stupid."

Rohan: “It doesn’t sound stupid, puiule. I love you for you. For who you are and for what’s in your heart. There are not different versions of love, there is just love. If anything, my concern is whether Pete deserves your love, if he’s a good man.”

MJ: "Don't ya want someone faithful n'that only wants ya? Aren't ya jealous even a little bit that I still think about him? Or that he's in my goddamn dreams?"

Rohan: “You have been faithful, MJ, and you do want me. Just as much as I want you. The fact that he’s found his way into your dreams unsettles me, but only because we don’t know how he got there.”

MJ: "That don't answer my question though, Ro," he said gently.

Rohan: “I want you, MJ. Pete has always been a factor, one I’ve come to accept, and despite him I want you. Do you want me?”

MJ: "I do want ya. I've wanted ya but always felt you're too... perfect. I'm not good enough."

Rohan: “Puiule,” Rohan said softly, gently taking his vampire’s face in his hands. “I’m not perfect. I’m just a man. Fallible and imperfect. And you are such a good man. I know you may not believe that but it’s true. You’re a good man and I love you with everything I have and everything I am.”

MJ: Words that he couldn't believe of himself. He flinched from his confession and hands.

"I love that ya think that. I love that ya think so highly of me, but I don't deserve it. I've never deserved anything from ya."

Rohan: “You have and you do. You do, MJ. I wish to all the gods that I could make you believe it. Don’t ever think I’m somehow above you or that you aren’t enough. You are, my puiule.”

MJ: "I - I don't - I don't deserve it." He felt himself sinking into his usual abyss. Negativity had been a foreign element in his life until a few years ago. Now he could not relate to a life without.

"Sorry, I just..." Two fingers tapped to his temple. "S'probably Victoria."

Rohan: “Probably,” he said with a nod. Just now he wanted nothing more than to lay back with his precious vampire in his arms but he wasn’t entirely certain the gesture would be well received just yet.

“Would you like some relief?”

MJ: "I want it t'stop," he swallowed.

Rohan: “I know, love. We’ll find a way.”

Within moments his hands were offering soothing green light. Should MJ not wish magical relief, Rohan was ready to hold him and kiss him until all negative thoughts were driven from MJ’s mind.

MJ: He wouldn't resist the offer tonight. The temptation was too great. He leaned forward and embraced.

"I'll never be like ya. Ya have so much goodness in ya. No offense t'our demon, but I don't understand why y'all are friends."

Rohan: Rohan held MJ close, blanketing him in green light and the whole of his affection.

“He’s more like us than you might think. More like us and less like other demons. There’s much in him that isn’t demonic, and there’s much in you that’s good. If I’m the only one to see it then that’s all right.”

MJ: "I usually don't feel like shit 'bout stealin', but sometimes I feel guilty that one day a paintin' people admire is just gonna crumble t'dust."

Rohan: “That won’t happen for a hundred years or more, love. And by then we’ll have forced Xavier to make actual copies of everything he’s stolen that aren’t made out of iron pyrite.”

MJ: "You're gonna make him do that?"

Rohan: “I have been, gradually. He went on a stealing spree after he found that talisman and made Fool’s Gold copies with reckless abandon for several years.”

MJ: "Yeah. I don't think anything I've ever taken is somethin' people would really miss. Maybe some hearts," he smiled tiredly.

Rohan: Rohan smiled back. “A trait I’m glad you have, as opposed to Xavier’s love of extravagance. Theo is continually talking him out of stealing the statue of David.”

MJ: "Where the fuck would he even put it?" he muttered into Rohan's chest.

Rohan: “In the foyer,” he laughed. “Right in the center.”

MJ: "That's just fuckin' gross."

Rohan: Another laugh. “Well there’s no danger of that in this lifetime. David is quite safe from his lordship.”

MJ: "Is that you or that other guy?"

Rohan: “The victory must go to Theo in that particular battle. I’ve tried and failed to talk him out of stealing invaluable things.”

MJ: "I thought he listened t'everything ya said."

Rohan: “You try coming between Xavier Atlas and a Botticelli.”

MJ: "But Theo can?"

Rohan: “Theo can. The magic of love.”

MJ: "Who can not love you?"

Rohan: “I have no need for love from anyone but you, puiule.”

MJ: "N'how can ya love me?" he smiled sadly.

Rohan: “Leave that to me,” he whispered.

MJ: "Ya don't feel real."

Rohan: “Pinch me if you’d like.”

MJ: "I don't think I mean that kind of real."

Rohan: “What kind of real do you mean? That I could exist and love you?”

MJ: "... Yeah," he whispered.

Rohan: “You’ve only to reach out and touch me to feel what I feel for you.”

MJ: "No. You don't - You don't get it."

Rohan: “Perhaps I don’t. But what I’ve said is true. I’m here, I exist. You can see me and touch me and feel me. And I love you so very much.”

MJ: "I...love ya too. I do. I mean it. I just don't understand."

Rohan: “You don’t understand how I could love you and accept that I’m not the only one you love?”

MJ: "Get mad at me! Throw somethin' n'tell me I'm trash!"

Rohan: “MJ, that’s asking me to lie to you, to feel an emotion I simply don’t feel. You asked me if I was jealous, if I wished I was the only man you loved. Of course I wish that. Selfishly, I wish it, there might have even been times when I wished there was no Peter Graham, that you’d never met. But you did. None of us can change that, and I wouldn’t wish away something that made you so happy. I wouldn’t wish away someone who loves you, who understands like I do that you deserve to be loved and cherished and treated kindly.”

Rohan sighed. “You aren’t trash, puiule. And I’d wager everything that Pete doesn’t think you’re trash either. He loves you and that’s okay. It’s okay for you to love him back.”

MJ: The most he spoke the more fire MJ felt in his chest, stomach and lungs. Words too good to be true. Words like lashings on his back. Sharp intrusive reminders of a life he did not deserve. There was no right left to him to judge Peter Graham. He resented the truth as much as he resented Rohan's affection.

I love you.

"I need t'take a shower, Ro. I need...a moment alone. I can't - I just need t'think. M'sorry."

Rohan: Rohan gave MJ a sad smile and nodded. “There’s no need to be sorry. You’ve had an...emotionally overwhelming rest. A shower will help clear your head.”

MJ: "Thanks." He cupped Rohan's face with both hands and gently kissed him. An apologetic kiss wishing away his life as it were. A kiss which lingered even after he excused himself to the bathroom, locking the door with a gentle click.

Rohan: The kiss was a surprise given their conversation, but a welcome one. He loved those lips. So soft and beautiful and intoxicating.

“I love you, MJ,” he said to his retreating boyfriend’s back. “Always, remember that.”

MJ: The shower was left running for the sake of authenticity. How often was he going to do this? How many more times before he died? He deserved neither Rohan nor Pete. He didn't deserve Xavier, Simon, Brett...not anyone.

Quietly, he climbed down from the window, sticking his landing with a clumsy tumble. No one should question him getting into his RV, nor his driving of it. No one except Rohan. He needed to make this quick.

Rohan: And no one did. A couple of the maids saw him walking toward the RV from the window but thought nothing of it.

Nor did Rohan think anything of the shower running. At first.

When it went on a little longer than normal he simply thought that MJ was indulging. When it went on even longer than that, he got up to check on him.

"MJ?" he called, knocking on the door. "Are you all right in there?"

MJ: "Fuck." The goddamn gate. How in two miles he'd forgotten about the stupid fucking iron gate? He could appear on the other side, but to move his RV with the same magick would be impossible. He had to use get out and punch in the numbers.

Rohan: Nothing. No answer. Just the continuous stream of the shower.

....Continuous. Like it wasn't hitting anything--or anyone--before splashing against the tile.

Rohan knocked again and tried the doorknob. Locked. "MJ, are you in there? Open the door."

MJ: His hands were shaking. The numbers weren't working. Last attempt. Deep, unrequired breath. Still thinking like a human. He tried again: 6-7-2-5-1

There. Holy Caine. He sprinted for the driver's seat.

Rohan: Still nothing. He could break down the door or ask one of the maids to bring the key but that would take too long, and possibly be useless.

His gut wasn't telling him to get into the bathroom, it was urging him to find the nearest window that looked out on the driveway. So that was exactly was he was going to do.

He rushed across the hall to the library and looked down at the drive. "Damn it all to hell, MJ."

The RV was gone.

MJ: The RV was now another mile down the road and picking up speed. Though the volume to Dwight Yoakam had bells in his ears, the world felt much too quiet. A silence like guilt he needed to put distance between.

Rohan: Rohan practically flew down the stairs. "Mira!" he called. "Have you seen MJ?"

The startled maid poked her head out of the dining room. "Yeah, he just left. Why?"

"I need the keys to the car."

"Lydia and Hamilton took it to the mov--"

"Then give me the keys to the Ferrari! We're wasting time!" MJ couldn't have gotten very far. Surely not.

Mira's eyes went wide. "I can't do that, that's the lord's--!"

She never got a chance to finish before Rohan was brushing past her and into the kitchen. He could ask Xavier for forgiveness later. He needed to get to MJ and make him see reason.

A few minutes later, Xavier's precious car was all but roaring down the road.

MJ: What he hated most in his attempt to flee was having to leave Little Woman behind. Goddamn, it should have been Rohan. It should have even been Xavier, but he'd abandoned people before. Abandoning his children was a different degree of torture, but he couldn't risk her aging past the protective barrier long ago placed around the mansion.

Goddammit, what was he getting teary for? The fucking rat, or his stupid fucking actions?

Rohan: Like MJ, Rohan had nearly forgotten about the security gate. Nearly. He remembered just in time to tap into one of his rarely used spells and blast it open without having to stop.

Another thing to ask forgiveness for later.

Why was MJ doing this? Again? Why was it so difficult for his vampire to believe he was loved and worth loving? That he deserved to be cherished and cared for? It would be easy to believe that it was something about Rohan that made it hard for MJ to believe, or something about Xavier, or even something about Peter Graham.

But Rohan knew that wasn't the case. It wasn't them. It wasn't MJ. It was her.

He didn't know how long it would take him to catch up to the RV but with this car he would catch up to it.

MJ: He would catch up, but the RV wouldn't stop. Not a single less mile per hour. He stuck his hand out the window and waved. Go the fuck back. Please just go away, Ro.

Rohan: There, finally. He had MJ in his sights.

Rohan wouldn't stop or slow down, on the contrary. He would speed up and try to cut MJ off.

Dangerous? Probably. But it couldn't be helped. He wouldn't allow that vile creature to do any more damage than she already had.

MJ: For self-preservation or romantic notions, the RV lurched to the side as MJ slammed the break pedal to the floor. That car Xavier loved so dearly was going to have several disheartening gashes if Rohan didn't throw it in reverse in time.

Rohan: Rohan swore loudly in Romanian, trying to slow down enough to maneuver out of the way and not quite succeeding. The car would end up with only a couple of gashes, but they were nasty and disheartening nonetheless. Xavier was going to have his head.

Even so, the car was the least of his concerns. He was here for a greater purpose and as long as he was in one piece and MJ was in one piece, his mission would carry on.

The moment MJ had safely come to a stop, Rohan was getting out of the car and making his way toward him.

MJ: With each step, Rohan would catch the growing pungent stench of rotten eggs and flesh. A purposeful stench so foul as to keep him away as the vampire made his way to the back of the RV.

Rohan: The stench was enough to make Rohan’s eyes water but he didn’t slow down. After everything that had just happened, an unpleasant odor wasn’t going to stop him.

“MJ,” he called, trying the door of the RV. “Do not make me chase you down the highway because I will! It’s time to stop running and let me help you.”

MJ: "Don't make me do somethin' I'll regret," answered back.

Rohan: “MJ, you don’t have to do this alone. You have people that give a damn about you. You have people that sincerely want to help you.”

MJ: "I'd rather y'all all go away." The worst he could ever imagine, one he remembered from his human years, enough to make him sick, was forced into the dweomer spell.

Rohan: Having worked with Xavier for the past two decades or so, Rohan liked to think he'd developed a certain tolerance for the foul and unsettling, and he had. Possibly more than any witch he knew.

But MJ had his own formidable brand of magical ability, and without a chance to brace himself, Rohan was helpless against it. He could deal with the eggs and the flesh but not the wave of what came next.

MJ would soon hear the sound of Rohan retching and a barrage of Romanian curses.

MJ: "Ro, go the fuck on! You're doin' this t'yourself!" He was practically screaming. Between the dream, Rohan's unyielding love, and Victoria, his mind was fried and exhausted. The only mitigation laid in submission.

Rohan/Xavier/Abel: Mitigation was about to come in the form of something else altogether.

Sulfur would join the litany of smells Rohan was being assaulted with, but unlike the others, this one brought some relief.

"Does someone want to tell me what the bleeding hell is going on?" Xavier shouted, cutting an imposing figure dressed head to toe in black as he stalked toward the RV.

Abel followed close on his heels, far less intimidating and far more affected by MJ's magic.

"Oh god," he said as his face scrunched up. "MJ, that's friggin' evil, man."

MJ: "I can leave if I wanna leave!" Came from the locked RV. As though that would somehow stop the demon and witch on the other side. Drawers and cabinets were being opened in search of salt. Would he have time to line the door?

Xavier: Even if MJ managed to move quickly enough, in a moment there wasn't going to be a door to line. Xavier used his telekinesis to rip the door from its hinges, flinging it somewhere in the trees.

He stepped inside. "MJ." His voice was unsettlingly calm and soft. "You know that's not the way. Enough is enough."

MJ: A fist full of table salt was held between them, chest rising and falling as though necessary. A sign they would have long ago understood as vampiric panic.

His eyes were no longer his color.

"I'm a friend, not a prisoner here."

Xavier/Abel: Xavier didn't move closer. He stood perfectly still, his own eyes completely overtaken by black.

Outside, Abel was helping Rohan move away from the RV and get into the car.

"No," Xavier said softly. "You're not my prisoner. How strong is she now, dearest?"

MJ: "Not everything is about that bitch!"

Xavier: "Would you be running if she weren't whispering in your mind?"

MJ: "...Yes."

Xavier: "What are you running from, MJ? What are you afraid of?"

MJ: "I just wanna be left alone. I don't love Rohan. Tell him to get over it."

Xavier: "I can take you somewhere you'll be alone and safe. You don't have to see Rohan if you do not wish to. You don't have to see anyone if you don't wish to."

Xavier's eyes returned to their normal hazel. "Do you trust me?"

MJ/Victoria: He shook his head once. The RV was drivable. So then Xavier's intention was elsewhere.

"No, I don't," said two contracting voices.

Xavier/Abel: "You won't be hurt. You won't be uncomfortable. You'll have plenty to eat. You're my friend, Aquaman. I'm not going to throw you in a cold, dark dungeon. I'm going to make sure you're safe, Aquaman. When all this is settled, we're going to go to Spain. We'll see Moorish architecture and watch flamenco. We'll go to Hungary."

While Xavier spoke, Abel approached the door with a small box in his hands.

MJ: "The fuck am I, a child? Get out of my RV. M'not gonna ask ya again." The hesitation was purely MJ's doing. If Victoria had better control, there would have already been salt in the demon's face.

The stench amplified, accompanied now by a deep freeze. Not adept enough to cause visible breath between them, but a substantial feat for a ruptured fledgling.

Xavier/Abel: Holy god, Abel thought to himself, struggling now to uncork a small vial one-handed as stink and cold slammed into him.

Just an illusion. None of it is real.  Succeeding, he downed the dark green contents of the vial and swallowed with a grimace.

Something Xavier was telling himself and he took a step back. His coat was adequate against the illusory cold but there was nothing protecting him from the stench. And fuck, what a stench, illusion or not.

"You're not a child." What the hell was taking Abel so long?

Before he could move further, an eerie sound floated into the RV, making even the demon flinch. It was haunting in melody, almost torturous in its high pitch. Any animal that heard it would instantly recoil in pain.

And yet...there was something soothing about it the longer one listened. Something seductive that tempted toward unconsciousness.

MJ/Victoria: Why couldn't people just leave him alone? He wanted to leave. He had every right to fucking leave. This was his body, his problem, his soul, his freedom. If he wanted to keep Victoria, then that was his decision. If he wanted to leave Rohan and Peter at his back, then that was also his choice.

The fistful of salt was thrown with excessive force at the demon's face. Xavier couldn't have him. He would charge through with willed vitae, intending for the driver's seat. The stench and freeze were replaced by a clamor of discordant drums and a feminine scream. Anything to break whatever spell Xavier was trying to pull.

Xavier/Abel: Xavier cried out and hissed in pain, having received the bulk and the searing sting of the salt directly in his eyes. "Fuckin' slag, I'm gonna fuckin' kill you!" he shouted, his native accent coming out unbidden as he doubled over with his hands over his face.

Meanwhile, Abel's own curses were being drowned out by the noise coming from inside the RV and the noise outside of it. "Fuuuuuck me!" He tried to cover one ear with his shoulder and the other with his free hand. Xavier would never be able to hear him over the screaming and the spell so he thought to him, 'What do I do!? Should I crank the box louder?'

Inside, Xavier had just managed to right himself, shouting, "Yes!" aloud before holding out an arm to telekinetically stop MJ in his tracks.

MJ/Victoria: A masculine and feminine voice joined the chorus of chaos. Despite his fortitude, despite his tapped vitae, despite his adrenaline, MJ was no match for the demonic telekinesis. Xavier was no elder, but age, training, and experience favored his will.

The vampire spat venomous words, bared fangs and hollered with his spell. He covered his ears and doubled over himself in an effort to block whatever it was they were trying to do.

"Get out of my life! Get out of my head! Get out! Get out!"

Rohan/Xavier/Abel: The only one immune from the effects of the spell in the box was Abel. Thus, the more he cranked the box and the louder the noise from it became, the more it affected not only MJ, but Xavier and Rohan as well.

And in Rohan's current state, that meant passing out in the backseat of Xavier's maimed Ferrari.

For Xavier, it meant having to battle the lingering sting and pain of the salt in addition to the spell in order to maintain his telekinetic hold on MJ.

The hand that wasn't holding the vampire came up to cover one of his ears. "I'm sorry, MJ, but I'm sendin' that bleedin' bitch back to the fuckin' pit she crawled out of whether she bloody fuckin' wants to or not!"

Abel was starting to panic. 'HOW IS SHE STILL AWAKE?'

MJ/Victoria: "I don't want it!"

"I don't want it," said a woman. Words from MJ's mouth and yet floated around the RV as though a part of his dweomer.

"Get out of my head!"

"Let me in! Let me in! Let me in!" The cries became desperate and childlike in their frenzy. "You have to keep me! I need you!"

MJ's arms fell lifeless to his sides; his expression lost, defeated, and within moments, one eye moss and one pecan, fluidly switching back and forth, the vampire collapsed unconscious.

The drums and screaming ceased. No more stench. No more cold.

Xavier/Abel: A chill ran down Abel's arms that had nothing to do with the cold MJ had produced. He'd never heard the other vampire inside his friend talk before.

Her voice was shrill and desperate and there was an inhumanity to it that made Abel feel like scrambling away. Something animalistic and haunting in the words that made him feel like something was grabbing at him with cold, sharp claws. The sound of it would stick with him long after today.

Xavier heaved an enormous sigh of relief as the world fell silent. Or at least it felt that way with most of the cacophony dissipated.

"Abel, for the love of sweet Lucifer in Hell, shut that bloody damn box." The Yorkshire accent had yet to fade.

"On it, sorry." The Arabic incantation was carefully recited and the lid closed, letting glorious, merciful silence reign once more.

"How's Rohan?" Xavier asked tiredly, gathering MJ in his arms.

"Passed out. Are you okay? Is MJ okay?"

"I'll live." He looked down at the vampire in his arms. I'm sorry, my dear. I'll make it up to you, I promise. "We need to get him home and get him safe."

[haruki-ya]

Icy

Summary: Ok so, here's another self indulgent non-canon complacent aged up AU thing where Kaneda and the Capsules, who are more a gang of friends as opposed to a real gang, work with Joker at his automotive shop. Joker runs a black market parts ring under the table which brings all kinds of customers into the shop: Kei is one of them, still a prominent member of the Resistance that continues to fight against the government's unethical and unlawful treatment of it's citizens. Going into the shop, Kei naturally means business so of course, in comparison, Kaneda does not.

What follows is a tense test of wills. One icy, iron clad, seemingly impenetrable. The other aloof, arrogant, endlessly aggravating. Despite the mutual pain they cause one another, both get something out if it in the end. Even if it's not exactly what either of them really wants.

A/N: tbh it’s p much just an excuse for me to write out how I see the foundation of kaneda and kei’s relationship, who are 18 and 20 here respectively...and for me to keep everyone alive lmao. also full disclosure I know nothing about tanks and just picked some parts at random to throw in the story and this is really long i’m sorry haha ok bye

The bell ringing on the shop door as it opens catches Kaneda’s attention, makes him look up past his Shonen Jump and crossed feet on the counter.

There are a few customers wandering around the store, but they’ve been here for at least ten minutes, discouraged by his inattentive, uncaring demeanor- good. He doesn’t wanna explain to them which motor oil would be best for their shitty Honda Accords or where exactly you’re supposed to put the damn transmission fluid. It may be his job, but god damn if it isn’t annoying answering the same stupid questions day in day out. Kaneda hopes whoever entered won’t bother him with twenty useless questions, but with his luck they’ll be askin thirty-five.

The door closes softly with a tinkle and Kaneda takes a cursory glance at the woman who entered before turning his attention back to his magazine- hoping to keep up the air of “leave me the fuck alone" -but that’s before his brain really processes who exactly walked in the store. Or more like what. An angel? He does an unashamed double take.

Kaneda is drawn immediately in by her tight clothes, her straight posture, her well coiffed appearance. The coldness of her features are striking against the warmth of her yellow toned coat, the tan of her flawless skin. Her very presence is captivating, even from across the small store: his eyes are positively glued to the tall, trim figure that sticks out like a sore thumb in the dirty lobby of Joker’s Automotive Inc.

If Kaneda were any less observant, he would immediately write her off as just another flirt lookin’ for a fly to catch- for a free tune up from the eager boys in back. But her hands, while well manicured, look worn, scarred. The sweep of her head left to right is observant, but not of the products lining their isles of shelves: of the people moving between them. Calculating risks, weighing options.

Those are not qualities you find in your run of the mill city girl.

She treads softly towards Kaneda, but her gait speaks purpose. Her heels click click click steadily on the checkered linoleum floor, not asking for attention, demanding. Her eyes are covered by darkly tinted shades, but Kaneda can still see that she is looking at him…and he can’t fight a dopey smile from spreading on his face. She doesn’t smile back.

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

“What can I do for ya’ miss?” She’s only about two feet away now and her approach slows as Kaneda uncrosses his feet and tosses his magazine off to the side. She stops right as Kaneda’s feet stomp on the ground and he pushes himself up to his full height, only slightly bothered by the fact that she lords over him a solid three inches. Must be the heels.

“I’m here to speak with Joker.” Her voice oh shit is sweet like honey, burns in his veins like aged whiskey. She sounds just like she looks: bold, purposeful, husky in that sensual feminine way. Ready to cut to the chase and get down to business. Kaneda idly thinks he hasn’t taken to a girl so quickly in his whole life- and that may actually be true this time.

Kaneda keeps up his wide smile and air of politeness as he spreads his hands in an apologetic manner. Her face remains coldly detached- unimpressed. Time to up the ante.  

“Sorry miss, but Joker’s not in right now. What is it you’re lookin’ for? I’m sure I could be much more helpful in satisfying your needs.” Now that garners a reaction. A slight twitch of the lips, one slowly raised eyebrow. She takes a step forward, now standing more around four inches taller than Kaneda. He cocks his head to the side as her eyes narrow behind her shades.

“You misunderstood. I’m here to talk to Joker, in private.” And that garners a reaction from him.

Sure, people come in asking for Joker all the time. It is his shop after all. Kaneda and the boys just work here. But people only ask twice and in private for jobs that don’t get written into the books- not the federally taxed ones anyway.

Joker runs a black market parts ring under the table, steals and deals high demand items for a specific type of clientele: a specific high paying type of clientele. Joker meets with the customer, estimates the plausibility of their demand, Joker gets paid to complete it, the boys help make arrangements for it, Joker gets it, the boys deliver it. Simple as that.

It’s become as easy as breathing for Kaneda and co., who have no problem with the risks and dangers of such a, well, risky and dangerous job. It’s only cause the pay is borderline lucrative and Kaneda and the boys never really have been good at being good.

What is a pretty girl like her doing asking for a service like that? Kaneda is only growing more intrigued- more eager to make her lose her temper. Something in Kaneda wants so desperately to see that cool facade crack, to see her calm, poised air fall under his “charismatic” ways. He’s always been good at pushing buttons. It really is a wonder he usually gets stuck with counter duty.

“Well, I understand alright, but there’s not much I can do for you since he’s not in right now.” Her face falls back into it’s stony mask and Kaneda shoves his foot in his mouth trying to remedy the situation, wanting to keep up the progression of facial expressions, not shut them down before the real fun starts.

“I can take a name and message though no sweat...and if you’re feeling generous maybe you could throw in your number, just for me.” She crosses her arms swiftly at Kaneda’s broad smile, at his wink- worth a shot.

“When will he be back in?” She chooses not to acknowledge Kaneda’s advance, bold choice he will admit, but only because that means he has to try harder now.

Kaneda shrugs, starts picking at his nails as if he doesn’t really care- but he does, of course. Anyone coming through looking for Joker is just as important to Kaneda as to the big lard-ass himself. They’re both paying his bills after all.

“Not sure miss, I’m not his damn secretary...I’m sure he’d consider you for the job though. One look at you and you’re hired. It'd be nice to have a pretty face hangin' around for once.” Yet another twitch of the lips, a shift in her solid stance.

“Is there a manager in store aside from Joker?” There’s a hint of thinly veiled impatience in her voice and Kaneda grins to himself on the inside. Jackpot.

“Yup! You’re looking at ‘em! All special requests go through me, the right hand man.” Kaneda too crosses his arms, puffs out his chest and widens his stance a little bit to mirror her power pose. “But that’s beside the point, your number on the other hand…”

Something like a smile- more a smirk than anything holy shit -melts away her frown as she slowly, deliberately lowers her shades down the bridge of her nose to glance at Kaneda’s chest. Impressed by his buff arms, no doubt.

“You’re no manager. That much is clear.” Kaneda’s smile twitches, but holds strong. That obvious challenge of his authority, the combative look that glitters in her bright eyes, is not what he expected, but certainly isn’t enough to throw him off balance. Right?

“And what makes you say that?”

“Your name tag is upside down...Mr. Shotaro.” Kaneda flushes at her mocking tone, her confident smirk, resists the urge to fix his name tag which upon a quick glance downwards- yup, is indeed upside down. He plays it cool instead. Or tries to.

“That’s-that’s just the new style. Someone like you wouldn’t know how the working class operates anyhow!”

“Oh, and what exactly makes you say that?” There’s a real edge to her voice now as she parrots Kaneda’s words and he doesn’t miss the way her hands clench slowly into fists. As is she wants to smack him right where he stands, but is holding herself back. A real spitfire he sees. Kaneda uncrosses his arms to throw a hand on his hip and a cocky smile on his face and goes in for the kill.

“Haha really? You look like you haven’t worked a day in your whole life. Probably live off of daddy’s hard earned money. You even know what a tax refund is doll face?”

The woman’s whole demeanor seems to shift at that. There’s nothing subtle about it, like watching fast approaching thunderclouds roll quickly, all encompassing, over skyscrapers and cityscapes. Throwing the people caught underneath into a panic. Powerless against the force of Mother Nature.

Kaneda swallows hard and strains his smile in the hopes that she can’t sense his sudden discomfort. Maybe he shouldn’t have called her doll face...

“I’ll leave a message for Joker. I’d hate to run into you again were I to come back. Get a pen and paper ready, I won’t repeat myself.” Her voice has dropped an octave, entered a dangerous, very obvious territory of “try me again ”.

And so naturally, of course, Kaneda does.

“Hah, pen and paper, how hard can your order be babe? Need an oil change? A custom made paint job for your bug? Want me to show you how to properly lubricate your bearings while we’re at it?” Still, despite his nasty jest, he lazily reaches for a pad of paper and a pen. Just to humor her. 

And well, to write down her order with. 

He’s a jackass and a dumbass, but rarely both at the same time. Is leaning more towards the former at this particular moment.

A fierce scowl mars her pretty face and god damn how does that make her more attractive? She takes another step closer, body flush with the counter, and Kaneda gets a good whiff of her perfume: green tea leaves, bright citrus, and just a hint of earthy sandalwood. Definitely angelic then.

“You’re absolutely disgustingly insufferable.” Her eyes, like her words, are sharp, a biting amber that cut straight through Kaneda, make his knees almost feel weak. Her lashes are long, bat furiously against the rim of her shades.

“And you’re just too damn sweet.” And honestly, he does mean that. Kaneda’s certainly been called much worse.

Sighing sharply out her nose, she uncrosses her arms and leans away. Shakes her head almost imperceptibly in - disgust? disapproval? Probably both if Kaneda’s involved, but he’s confident she’ll come around. That he’ll be able to coax a smile out of her after he makes her scowl a whole bunch more first. He wants to see the calm beyond her stormy demeanor, to know what else can be found beyond her icy expressions.

Right as he’s about to try again, she jerks her head towards him and speaks lowly. Drops her crossed arms to cock her hip and place her hand on her waist, a mirror image of Kaneda's own posture. He notices the fingers of her other hand tap steadily at her thigh.

“I need one GE T700 gas turbine engine, two M1 fume extractors, four drive sprockets, two sixteen toothed the other twenty, approximately seven and a half gallons of liquid EN 1063, and maybe if you’re feeling generous you could throw in a little respect ...just for me and my high paying associates. Does that sound doable?”

Kaneda’s jaw flaps like a fish out of water, both at her deadpan tone and the order itself. Does that sound doable?

“Are you trying to build a fucking tank?!” Is what he blurts out and it’s obviously the wrong thing to say, even Kaneda knows that before seeing her face close off again and something downright unpleasant twist her features. Long gone is that pretty girl scowl, replaced in turn by pure scorn.

Man, cute but intimidating. Who knew that was his type?

“...Right, tell Joker Ryu won’t be happy. Especially not with you, Shotaro Kaneda.” The threat in her voice is just that, a threat. Very real, very pressing, and Kaneda actually does know why he’s put on counter duty so often- he’s good at weeding out potential, at differentiating between empty threats and real ones. And this bitch of a beauty is dishing out some serious, “you’re gonna regret this” vibes.

His words stumble over themselves as she turns sharply on her heel, as if to leave, because Kaneda just can’t have that, pride and joy be damned.

“Wait, wait, wait, look, I’m sorry! I, uh, I’m sorry I haven’t been taking you seriously. I just, well...don’t see a lot of pretty faces like yours 'round here. I couldn’t help myself…and that order request? Totally not what I was expecting either.” She halts suddenly, spins around once again and glowers at him before re-crossing her arms. They’re just feeding off one another’s tension at this point. 

“And what were you expecting? That I’d come straight in asking for the Shotaro Special and have you take me to the break room for a good time?” God damn, she fired that one back quick as a whip, a fire in her voice that ignites so suddenly even Kaneda is weary of continuing his little game with her.

“Uh, well...if that’s what you want, I only aim to please the high paying customer.” But he’s truly sincerely never been good with self control.

“You’re arrogance has no end, does it…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll grow on ya’.” He always does.

“Who says I’ll be back?” And at this Kaneda raises a brow, smirks at her ruffled expression and leans towards it with both palms flush on the counter. There’s a newfound confidence in his words with the ball safely back in his court.

“If you’re serious about this order, no one but Joker can get what you need...I can call him up right now and toss it his way, see what he has to say about it. Or you can go try your luck elsewhere. Be my guest, miss. You won’t find service quite like ours anywhere else though.”

She stares at him intensely with those bright amber eyes of hers, unblinking, unmoving. Pensive. Kaneda thinks he broke her up until the point where she sighs out her nose and uncrosses her arms. It’s as good an invitation to continue as any. Kaneda smiles and pushes off the counter, picks up the pen by his hand and starts to twirl it.

“You mentioned the name Rua?”

“...Ryu. He’s made orders with Joker before. Shouldn’t be a problem but if he asks tell him Kei personally came in to meet with him.” The woman- no, Kei -speaks through a frown, obviously not wanting to accept his apology, but willing to work with it anyway. Smart, sassy, sexy. She just keeps getting better and better.

“Kei, huh.” Three different meanings come to mind: respect, blessing, wise. “…It suits you.”

Kei must sense the shift in his tone, the sincerity in his voice because her brows furrow in thought before she accepts the comment. “...Thank you.” Although begrudgingly, if her hesitation is anything to go by.

Kaneda sends her a smile, not sarcastic, not teasing. About as genuine as Kaneda can manage in this situation. It quickly warps into one of sheepishness though, as he begins to rub nervously at the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Uh, hey though, listen...I know you said you wouldn’t repeat yourself…” Kei sighs and holds out her hand, acting put upon by his attitude and really...it’s probably not an act at this point. Maybe he should tone it down.

“Give me that, I’ll write the order down.” With a laugh he hands over the pad of paper, stained with an aged brown coffee ring, and the pen he’s been fiddling with. Their skin brushes against one another during the exchange and Kaneda’s attention is once more drawn to the elegant shape of her hands, the scars both old and new that mar them. Her skin is soft despite the raised tissue, the callouses, and he swallows around an urge to feel her hands held fully within his own.

“I gotta know, since me and my boys will be the ones getting all this shit…are you trying to build a tank?” He diverts both their attention with that one, tries to keep his mind strictly business from here on out. Kei hums to acknowledge she heard him, but has bent low over the counter to focus on what she’s writing.

“Ultimately...yes. With some minor adjustments here and there.”

“What the ever loving hell do you need a tank for? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think that’s incredibly se-super badass of you but also uh...a bit big to be riding down the street to the grocery store with.” Nice save, Shotaro. Pet names and compliments, not compatible with Kei. Time to keep it strictly business.

Kei glances at him above the rim of her sunglasses, before turning her attention back to the paper. “...I don’t think you’re a trustworthy person to confide in with such information, Shotaro.” The finality of her tone almost makes Kaneda pout, almost, but he has appearances to uphold here.

“Awe come on! S’not like anyone would believe me if I told them some chick named Kei walked in with her heels and shades asking for parts to build a tank with.” Where Kaneda laughs, Kei scowls. Sends him another shaded glare. She’s just bursting at the seams with those isn’t she?

“So that means you would tell someone.” Not a question so much a statement and Kaneda backtracks again as her eyes stare accusingly at him. She straightens to her full height and damn, is she five inches taller than him now?

“Wha-wait, no, that was just a what if scenario-” Kei cuts him off with a clipped tone. Strictly business.

“The people I work with don’t have time for loose lipped gossip let alone what if scenarios, do you understand? There is more at stake here than you could ever understand.” 

Kaneda, believe it or not, is growing tired of her cold seriousness, of her combative nature- despite himself probably being the driving cause behind it. He thinks at the very least there’s more to her than a pretty face and bitchy attitude and he's just about past the point of wanting to get a rise out of her, bored with his own tactics. He knows now that joking and flirting with her only tightens the reins on her formal cordiality, so he’s at least trying to make an effort and level with her here.

He just hopes not too late.

“Then help me understand. I got things at stake here too, this job, running parts, I like to know what I’m getting myself into beforehand. I’d be putting my ass on the line for you in this situation after all…I’ll personally accept a date as safety insurance though.” Kaneda, acting on instinct as always, is unable to keep that last bit to himself. Is sure she’ll roll her eyes at that one, maybe shoot him a scorching look, but all he gets is an exasperated sigh. A considerate head tilt.

Is that a hint of amusement he sees on her face?

“...When Joker gets in, ask him about the Resistance. I trust him to tell you more about it, about us. Ryu is a strong figurehead in the fight against government tyranny...he’s truly an inspiring man. These parts are detrimental to the success of our next plan to keep the fight in our favor. The last engine we had failed on us before we even left the compound.”

Kaneda, ever curious, can’t help but ask, “And that was?”

“Honeywell AGT1500. A little too old to keep up with our movements, I think.” Kaneda whistles lowly and crosses his arms at her response, a polar shift in their dynamics from the beginning of their fast paced back and forth banter. The tension between them is all but gone now and Kei’s words seem to flow freely and easily. That chip on her shoulder gone with Kaneda’s flirtiness- almost -in check.

“Now where the hell did you get an engine like that?”

“Probably the same place Joker will be getting this newer model.” She pauses to hold up the piece of paper with the order details written neatly on it before sliding it face down towards him.

“This city is full of surprises if you know where to look.”

“Huh…” Kaneda makes a thoughtful noise as he presses his palm flat over the paper. “I gotta say Kei, you’re not what I expected.”

And that comment, the one that usually always rubs people the wrong way, makes her lips curve into the closest thing to a true smile Kaneda has seen throughout the past ten minutes of conversation. If her scowl is hot, makes his knees weak, Kaneda can’t even begin to describe what her small little grin does to him.

Kei tucks a piece of hair behind her ear before replying and Kaneda has to hold himself back from chasing the action, from feeling the softness of her short hair between his own fingers. Damn, he’s got it bad for this girl.

“Let me guess, you thought you had me pegged the moment I walked in. You seem the type to care solely about appearances. Or should I say shallowly .” Kaneda laughs at her comment, lost on cloud nine, and opts to take it lightly despite the slight insult to her words.

Puts a spin on his response, just for her.

“I’m a simple man, can’t deny that, but you...you hold yourself in a different way. Your hands aren’t those of a good for nothin' free loader, I was lying when I said you probably haven’t worked a day in your life. You work plenty, and you work hard at that. Can see it in your eyes, the set of your shoulders too…there’s definitely more to you than just a pretty face.”

Kei is silent at that, her small smile gone. On her face is a new expression, one that almost looks frightened. For a moment Kaneda thinks he said something wrong, should have held his tongue like he’s never been good at doing. Strictly business and all that.

Kei's eyes bore into Kaneda’s own, gleaming in the fluorescent light like two firm copper coins. Her lips part slowly as if she is about to speak, but she quickly purses her lips instead and pushes her shades up to settle more firmly on the bridge of her nose. She takes a step back and...is that a flush Kaneda sees on her cheeks?

Check and mate.

“...I guess looks can be deceiving, no?” Her voice has gone low, almost soft, just shy of sweet and Kaneda very suddenly thinks he might be in love.

“You’re not wrong there.” Is what he says quietly in response and they stand, facing each other, for a long moment. It’s almost tender, their silence. Almost pleasant.

Until Kei clears her throat suddenly and clasps her hands behind her back. The moment is broken, but will be long from forgotten.

“Well...I’ve got to head out, handle a few more matters. Thank you for your help Kaneda, I hope to hear from Joker soon. Although, before I go, I must admit...I’m glad you recognize that I’m not one to mess around.”

Before Kaneda can say anything else, throw back some smart ass rebuttal or maybe just gawk at this amazingly unexpectedly enigmatic woman, Kei turns on her heel and click click clicks her way out the door just like she came in. Kaneda stares after her for a minute, caught up in the faint trace of her perfume that still lingers in the air. He’s not so sure she’s an angel anymore...maybe a devil in disguise.

But that works even better in his favor.

A loud klang from the door behind him makes Kaneda jump to attention and jerk around. Tetsuo is standing there, scowl on his face, oil smeared on his forehead, wiping a lug wrench clean(ish) with a dirty rag.

“I thought Joker said no more girls on the job.” Kaneda rolls his eyes and snags the list of items Kei wrote out from the counter. Very deliberately doesn’t correct Tetsuo and let’s him think she is his girl. No harm no foul.

“You’re just jealous that I’m not stuck doin’ oil changes.”

That seems to bowl away whatever comment Tetsuo had, because he scowls and mutters something- not kindly -under his breath. Kaneda can’t even be bothered. A goofy grin that’s been itching to surface manages to overtake his face now that Kei is gone- not for good. She’ll be frequenting his thoughts for probably the rest of the week.

“Whatever asshole, I’m off on lunch right now. Want Kai to take over and grab a bite with me since it’s slow?” Kaneda is touched by Tetsuo’s offer and expresses as much by clasping his hands over his heart, batting his eyes dramatically. He’s feeling all kinds of giddy after his talk with mysterious miss Kei.

“Oh Tetsuo! I thought you’d never ask! I’m so flattered that you feel this way for me, so strongly that you’d ask me out to lunch!” Tetsuo rolls his eyes at Kaneda’s antics and chucks the dirty rag in his hand at Kaneda, who throws his arm up to block the nasty thing from touching his face.

It’s then, when he’s face to face with her elegant scrawl, that Kaneda realizes he’s still holding the list of items that Kei wrote down. And that there’s also a phone number hastily scrawled below a separate note near the bottom. Kaneda shakes the rag off his forearm and eagerly reads Kei's elegant script.

Don’t even think of contacting me outside of business matters. This number isn’t for personal use, I have a separate phone for that. Maybe if you weren’t

Be less of an ass next time.

- Kei

Kaneda stops moving, stops thinking, stops breathing. There’s no way...He’s always been good at recognizing an opportunity when he sees one. And that  hesitantly written note right there, with it’s crossed out words and clumsy scrawl in stark contrast to the rest of Kei’s neatly written list, means he has a chance.

He has a goddamn chance!

“A chance for what?” Tetsuo, once again, ruins the moment with his sour tone but Kaneda is through the roof with excitement, can’t hold back the whoop of happiness he lets out as he throws himself suddenly at Tetsuo, locks him into a bear hug. He ignores Tetsuo’s indignation, “Hey dumbass, let me go! What the hell is your problem?!”, and instead places a fat kiss on his friends grimy cheek. Laughs at the flush that colors Tetsuo’s face when he pulls away.

“Sorry Tets, rain check on lunch! I’ve got “after hours” business to discuss with Joker. Oh, but grab me a bento while you’re out!” Tetsuo scowls at him and rolls his eyes while violently wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

“Yeah right asshole. Don’t fuck around for too long or Yama will rip you a new one!” Tetsuo ducks quickly back through the doorway leading to the garage, probably hoping to evade another Kaneda brand affection attack, but it’s a useless gesture.

He’s only got one person in mind he wants to really share those with.

After hurling back a customary, “No promises!”, Kaneda resumes his stationary position in the chair behind the counter, kicks his feet up and reaches for the phone. Impatient to start his homework. After dialing the familiar number, it takes only a short moment for the person on the other end to pick up. Kaneda can’t hide the smile in his voice.

“Hey Joker, it’s Kaneda...had someone come in looking for you a minute ago, she went by the name Kei...yeah, she did...tell me first though, how much do you know about her?”

This is going to be fun.

[lonelypond]

Jingle Bell Jazz, Ch. 15

Love Live, NicoMaki, 3.5K, 15/?

Summary: A small army invades the Nishikino mansion and an unexpected gauntlet is thrown down.

Chapter 15

Maki had said Nico was planning to conquer Europe. As Mrs. Nishikino opened the front door of her home, she wondered if this was a preview of the diminutive singer’s army. Nico, tiny, a tall blonde behind her, arm in arm with a smiling dark haired woman, and then two others, one with fawn hair and an exquisite coat, probably couture, light with a tiny pattern of green picked out along its curves, as if Spring were sweeping in. Behind them all, was a solid, dark haired woman, with features classic enough to be seen in an Imperial samurai portrait and golden eyes that were busy sweeping everything in view to assess the situation.

“Good morning, Mrs. Nishikino. Is Maki up yet?” Nico chirped brightly.

“Yes, she’s just getting dressed. She’ll be right down.”

“Where’s her room? Kotori will need to go up anyway.”

Mrs. Nishikino met Nico’s glance, debated an interrogation, but if Maki couldn’t manage to get dressed in time to greet her guests, she probably deserved a room invasion. So Mrs. Nishikino shrugged and pointed to the staircase, “Second floor, turn right to the family wing, third door.”

“Thank you.” Nico grunted over her shoulder, “Come on, Kotori.”

The fawn haired girl bowed as she swept by, followed by the warrior of the court who stopped and spoke in a smooth, cultured tone that matched her elegance, “Thank you, Mrs Nishikino, for welcoming us into your home. My name is Umi Sonoda. I am a classmate of your daughter's. I apologize for Nico not introducing us properly.”

“Welcome to our home, Miss Sonoda.”

Umi nodded and pointed to the other two women left in the entry, “This is Eli Ayase, who is also a member of Bibi along with Maki, and Nozomi Tojo.”

“Miss Ayase, Miss Tojo. If you want to head into the kitchen, there’s coffee and pastries. Or I can show you where the music room is.”

Nozomi bumped past Umi with a wink, pulling Eli along, “We’ll take you up on your coffee. It’s cold out here and who knows how long Nico and Kotori will be in Maki’s closet.”

Mrs. Nishikino figured she might as well ask, as her own daughter was the least communicative person on the premises, as far as she could tell. “Are they packing for something?”

The blonde spoke, amused. “Sorry. Nico should have explained, I suppose. Kotori’s our stylist. She’s deciding on outfits for the New Year’s Eve gig. Nico’s not sure what Maki has.”

So the invasion would be properly uniformed. Mrs. Nishikino shook her head and led the remnants of the battalion toward the kitchen.

###

“Maki?” Nico’s voice and then a quick rap on the door. Maki panicked, pulling her pajama shirt back on and missing a button or two. Nico, hair in a ponytail, walked in, sharp as ever, in an outfit close to the first one she’d been wearing when Maki met her, pink cardigan over gray oxford shirt, tucked into black capri pants. Kotori was behind her, in a floral dress with a skirt that floated like froth where it fell from the belt at her waist. Maki had managed to get into a skirt, but her misbuttoned black with white polka dot pajama shirt made the look ludicrous.

“Nico? What are you doing here.”

Nico spared a cursory glance around Maki’s bedroom, the bed unmade, shelves full of books fairly neat, Nico took a minute to take in the framed black and white photos on the wall opposite Maki’s bed...Maki was proud of them, she’d taken them in Chicago, New Orleans, London, Buenos Aries, Tokyo...getting a chance to capture the mood of each city on film was one of her favorite things about the trips her parents would take her on. She loved wandering parks and lesser known architecture with her camera.

“Nozomi would love these.” Nico pointed to one of Maki’s favorites, a shot of a tuba player taken on the St. Charles streetcar.

Maki shrugged, not planning to invite Nozomi into her bedroom, not that she’d planned to invite Nico.

Nico continued, “Kotori needs to see what you have in your closet. We need a tighter look for New Year’s Eve. If we can find things for you, me, and Eli, Kotori only needs to alter that’ll make everything easier.” Nico took a good look at Maki finally, “Pajamas might give the sleepover vibe, but Nico bets we can do better.”

Kotori...tittered, it was the only word for the silly, high pitched reaction, Maki thought. Then she realized Nico was waiting for a response. “You said an hour. I was almost ready.”

Nico decided to just guess the door closest to her was the closet. Nope, large bathroom, huge tub, fluffier bathrobe than she’d seen on Maki yet...Nico sighed, couldn’t anything just be simple and professional, should have rehearsed at Otonokizaka, but Nico didn’t feel like dealing with staff or random wandering students. And now she had a quick flash of Maki, bathrobe, bathtub...Nico shook herself. That sort of distraction would get all of them nowhere and Nico had very specific destinations in mind today.

“That’s not the closet.” Maki was in the doorway.

“Nico figured that out.” Nico grumbled, pushing past Maki.

“Nico, if you want to go rehearse, I can just go through what Maki has and bring pieces that might work downstairs.” Kotori’s voice drifted out of Maki’s closet, “Send Umi up to help me carry things.”

“Will do. I just have to get Maki into something that doesn’t scream tuck me into bed.” Once again, Nico stopped as words hung in the air. But Maki was just staring grumpily at her opened closet door and oblivious to any unintended nuance.

“Maki.” Nico snapped, grateful for the redhead’s naivete.

“What?”

“Put on a shirt and come downstairs.”

Maki crossed her arms, “I was doing that when…”

Nico was already halfway to the hallway. “I’ll send Umi up, Kotori.”

“Thanks, Nico.”

Maki took her blouse into the bathroom, locked the door, changed into it, and fled downstairs without saying anything to Kotori.

###

Maki walked into the music room, to be faced with Nico and Umi sorting through sheets of music scattered over HER piano, while Eli tried a few bars of something Maki couldn’t recognize. Nozomi, in the corner wingback chair Maki never used, had the morning paper open but her attention was on Eli.

“What are you doing?” The door slipped out of Maki’s hand and slammed.

Nico smiled. “Umi has a few ideas about how we can make ‘Sugar Rum Cherry’ work with you and Eli.”

Maki grabbed the sheets Nico was holding, “Step away from my piano. I can do this myself.” She frowned, “And isn’t Umi supposed to be upstairs helping Kotori?”

Nico chuckled, “Kotori won’t be done with your closet for at least another forty minutes.”

Umi nodded, amber eyes fond, “She’s very thorough.”

Nozomi snorted and crackled the paper, Eli played a chord that slid into a warning, Umi continued to sort through music.

“Nico picked up the album too so we can listen to it.” Nico slid the record out, putting it on the turntable. “Nico remembered you seem to figure things out by ear pretty well…”

“Stop.” Maki shouted, throwing her hands out, and repeated her initial question, staring at Nico, wild eyed, “What are you doing?’

Nico spoke slowly, “Nico stopped on the way here and picked up some sheet music and a few records so we can decide on a set list.”

“Okay. That’s fine. But what is Umi doing?” On my piano, Maki’s inner voice snarled.

Nico’s voice was bracingly practical, as if this were an obvious solution to thing nobody but Maki considered a problem. “Working on an arrangement of Ellington’s 'Sugar Rum Cherry'.”

Maki crossed her arms, lip in a sneer, “I can do that myself.”

Nico sounded like she was trying not to sound uneasy, “Maki, you have zero jazz experience and have to learn at more than a dozen songs in two and a half days if you don’t want to sight read.”

Umi went for apologetic. “I was just planning to do a quick skeleton that you can embellish as you get more familiar with the music.”

Nico put the album cover down, but didn’t lift the tone arm, instead returning to the conversation, her expression earnest. “After hearing you play yesterday, Nico wants everyone else to know how good you are. And Ellington’s a great choice for your skills. Nico picked up a book.” Nico pointed to the music stand where The Songs Of Duke Ellington now rested. “We’ll do some seasonal things, but we can mix it up. Nico was thinking maybe ‘In A Sentimental Mood’ and ‘I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good’.”

Maki sat at the piano and started flipping through the pages. “This doesn’t have the...sugar rum sherry?”

“Cherry.” Umi corrected, “No, that’s a recent release. Brilliant mix of jazz and the classical. I believe you’ll love it, Maki, if you give it a listen. And the piano and sax combo will retain some of the intended flavor.” Umi went back to the music with her pencil, “I’m going to suggest it to Honoka as well.”

Nico dropped the tone arm, “This is the track we’re talking about.”

Forcing back exasperation, Maki closed her eyes to listen.

###

After what seemed like hours but before Maki could really get into any kind of a flow, Kotori and Umi were back with an armful of clothing. Nico slashed the air with a ‘cut’ gesture and Eli put her sax down next to her on the padded bench, Nozomi stopped working on the crossword puzzle, and Maki let her fingers rest on the keys for a moment.

“The textures and fabric are AMAZING. And the designers....” Kotori sounded even more breathless than usual as she gushed at Nico, “but the styles aren’t a great fit for your silver dress and the frost blue one Eli picked out.”

“Nico was afraid of that…”

“You could switch to that dress you wore in the Life photoshoot.” Kotori winked at Maki, “That’s memorable.”

Maki ducked her head, turning pages in the Ellington, refusing to acknowledge anyone else in the room.

Nico pulled her cardigan around her, “That’s not a winter style, freezing is not a sexy look for Nico.”

“I might be able to make this dress work with some alterations, maybe add a silver feature...I can match the fabric pretty well.” Kotori held up a dress Maki had buried in the back of her closet as it seemed more nightgown than ballgown, black with a large white bow, two fabric ribbons flapping down the front.

“The drape on that over Maki’s…” Nico whistled instead of finishing that sentence, but she flipped the ends of the ribbons that fell two thirds down the dress, “this’ll be more distracting than not.”

“And no one will see it behind the piano.” Nozomi chewed on her eraser.

“Exactly.” Nico tapped her nose and flashed her index finger at Nozomi.

Kotori hummed. “I was thinking of replacing it with a silver band around the top.”

“Ooohh, nice touch." A cheerful note from Nico.

“What about my…” Kotori and Nico spun instantly and Maki had a coughing fit at the scrutiny, “Cold...I’ll be cold too.”

Nozomi started laughing, Nico slammed her forehead into her hand as she leaned against the piano, and Kotori tilted her head, “We could add a shawl.”

“Maki might prefer the touch of discretion of a good shawl provides, as well as the additional warmth.” Umi began collecting the discarded options.

“I’m not sure I’ll be comfortable…” Maki muttered.

“You had bare shoulders yesterday…” Nico had her eyes closed and her other hand stretched out across the piano, fingers tapping.

“There was more to that dress.”

“Do you want to wear that one?” Nico raised her head.

Maki shrugged, playing scales to soothe her nervousness.

“Let me work on this one, Maki. And if you don’t like it, we’ll find something else.” Kotori’s voice was gently persuasive.

Nico was watching Maki intently, and Maki had no idea what thoughts were roiling behind those eyes. “Nico?”

Nico stood, her shrug an echo of Maki, “You’d look good in a sheet. Sounding good is what matters.”

Did Nico picture her in a sheet? When they were in her bedroom, had Nico imagined Maki there...Maki could feel the flames on her cheek...focus on the book in front of her, what song was it, “Day Dream…Funny the way I feel now/Can't keep my feet on the ground/Ev'rything seems unreal now...” Unreal, exactly that, Maki thought as her fingers drifted through the gentle beginning.

“What’s that?” Nico was suddenly behind her, hand soft on Maki’s shoulder and once again, the air around Maki was full of sweet musk, but she kept playing this time, no stumble.

“That’s amazing, but a little sleepy for a New Year’s Eve party.” Nico reached out, flipping through pages, her sweater arm rubbing Maki’s ear as the pianist tried not to shiver, “This’d be better. You can start off with a solo and then...”

Nico started to sing, “"It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing (doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah) It don't mean a thing all you got to do is sing (doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah) It makes no difference If it's sweet or hot Just give that rhythm Everything you've got”

Now both of Nico’s hands were on Maki’s shoulders and Eli had swung in, “Take it, genius.” Nico whispered in Maki’s ear and Maki’s fingers started to fly over the keys at a speed to match her heart rate.

“YES!” Nico wrapped her arms around the pianist’s shoulders as Maki and Eli finished their improvised duet. “The audience’ll love it, Ellington would love it, Nico loves it…”

Eli gleamed, taking a handkerchief from Nozomi to wipe the sweat from her face, “You’re a really fast study, Maki. I’m impressed.” She hugged her sax, “We’re going to sound so hot, Nico.”

Kotori was clapping around the dresses in her arms. “The audience’ll be kicked sideways.”

Nico had let go of Maki, but sat down next to her. Maki could feel the singer’s warmth and resisted the urge to scoot either closer or away. Why were those both choices, Maki wondered as Nico answered Eli. “Yeah, we’re going to be legends.”

“Too bad the next thing that happens is you break up the band.” Nozomi had put her pencil and the puzzle aside to search for something in her purse, making her comment seem more offhand than Nico might have suspected. The sense of camaraderie was shattered before it even had a chance to root. Maki shifted down the bench, Nico bent over, shaking her head, feeling the sweat dripping down her face. Umi sighed.

Eli, with a solemn expression, put her sax down. “Jeez, Nozomi, can’t you even let Nico have a minute.”

“Decisions have consequences.” Nozomi intoned. Kotori and Umi exchanged a look, uncomfortable on the edge of the room.

Nico sat up, Maki could see how tightly clenched the singer’s jaw was as she rubbed her hands over her cheeks, “What Nico decides is actually none of your business, Nozomi.”

“If it affects Eli, it affects me, Nico-chi.”

“Nico is not having this conversation now.” Maki was surprised to feel Nico squeeze her hand quickly but then the singer was on her feet, black ponytail bobbing as she threw herself in front of Nozomi, “Don’t cause trouble for Nico just because you get off on some fantasy you have of how things should happ...”

Nozomi leaned back, eyebrow arched, “Since you mentioned fantasies, ask Maki about them...Kotori says before she met you she couldn’t call you anything but ‘the pinup girl'.”

Kotori squeaked. Maki shoved the bench back, on her feet, open mouthed, not sure of what to say.

“Just leave it alone, Maki.” Nico hissed, “Nozomi’s just looking for ways to rile us. It amuses her.”

"This isn't for my amusement." Nozomi snapped her purse shut, chin up as Nico confronted her. “Eli just stopped crying herself to sleep; I don’t want her to get attached to the idea of the being a band with you again.”

‘Nozomi…” Eli murmured, cheeks flushed.

There was silence. Nico’s shoulders kept flexing as her hands clenched and unclenched. Eli was pulling through her hair. Maki had no idea how to divert the conversation, and then Umi spoke, “Kotori and I should start on the alterations. We’ll see you tomorrow, Nico.”

Nozomi stood before Nico could respond to Umi, “I’ll be having coffee in the kitchen until you’re done playing with their hearts, Nico~chi. Eli, find me when you’re ready to leave.”

Alone, the three members of Bibi stared at each other. Then Nico glanced down at her watch.

“Damn. It’s later than I thought.” Nico pushed up the cuff of her cardigan, giving off a nervous air Maki couldn’t quite match with the picture of Nico she was building. “Nico knows we have to talk about this, but I really have to get to work. You two should keep rehearsing.”

A suddenly shy Eli also wasn’t part of the mental picture Maki had been building of her bandmates. “You really can’t just walk out now, Nico. I know Nozomi went too far, but she’s not wrong. We need to talk about things, deal with this.” Eli’s voice caught and Maki would have bet on tears, “Don’t be Coco.”

Nico's fingertips stroked Eli’s cheek briefly, and the blonde’s head drooped as Maki stared, her own hands getting sweaty. “Eli, I know this has been rough, but have some faith in Nico. It’s going to be fine.”

“How?” Definitely tears. Maki couldn’t move.

“Nico can’t explain right now...but we just have to get through this concert without letting things throw us and then I swear, it’ll be okay.”

Eli shook her head, “I don’t know if I…”

“You can Eli. You and me and Maki, we work together and nothing’s going to stop that.” Nico was bouncing, “But I really have to run. I’ll see you tonight, at home.”

Eli moved away, to the window, and Nico was in front of Maki, speaking softly, “Nico is sorry about that. Nozomi likes emotional shrapnel. She believes it breaks up problems so they can be fixed.” Nico’s hands flung off that idea, and then she had Maki’s in hers again, “You’re doing amazing. Nico could listen to you all night.”

Maki decided emotional neutrality was a good shield against the confusing clash of emotions that had invaded her music room so she waited for Nico’s next statement.

“But not tonight. Can Nico have a raincheck?” The mildness, the hope in Nico’s ask floored Maki.

“Okay.” Christmas lights twinkled with cheer in Nico’s eyes and Maki listened to herself agree before she’d fully heard the question. Nico grinned, “All right, ladies. Don’t have too much fun without Nico.” And she was out the door.

Eli groaned and collapsed in the wingback chair, rubbing her eyes.

“Sorry, I don’t have a handkerchief.” Maki crossed to the other side of the window, wondering if Nico was going to grab a bus or call a cab. Surely her mother would offer Nico the car. Maybe she should go check...Eli took a rackety breath and Maki realized she couldn’t leave the saxophonist alone. “Do you need me to go get Nozomi?”

Eli shook her head, surprising Maki again by seeming more exasperated than upset. “No. I need a few minutes of not being caught between those two. They don’t war often but when they do…” Eli had her legs pulled up in front of her.

“Nozomi seems to be acting out of concern, though.” Maki wondered what spending so much time together did to people. And that apartment was so small for the three of them. She shuddered.

Eli’s eyes were shrewd. She’d caught Maki’s reaction, “It’s a lot sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade either of them...Nico’s…” Eli rubbed the back of her neck, “Nico’s never dull...and Nozomi’s...well, Nozomi’s…everything.”

Certain she had no response to that, Maki returned to the piano, sat and searched through pages again. “Do you know Satin Doll?”

Eli leaned forward, intrigued, “Oh, Nico will like that one.”

A/N: Howdy.

[carmenlire]

White Blank Page Ch. 1

Lovely moodboard courtesy of @kindaresilient!!!!!

read on ao3

Okay, maybe he’s a little lost.

Magnus looks at the app on his phone, screen mockingly cheerful as it declares that he’s reached his destination. He ignores the constant stream of notifications from incoming emails and calendar alerts, focusing instead on the miniature map where his location is marked with a star.

He looks up but only sees a bookstore where the restaurant supposedly sits. Ragnor is going to kill him. They have a standing lunch date every Thursday afternoon and Ragnor was nothing if not punctual. Magnus can hear the sarcasm from here.

Did the weight of your ego slow you down?

If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had higher priorities than me.

Rolling his eyes, Magnus does a quick scan of the block but doesn’t see anything that looks like a trendy Mediterranean restaurant. He debates on what to do before sighing and reaching for the door to the bookstore. Maybe an employee will be able to help him.

He takes a minute to look at the exterior of the shop and likes what he sees. It’s October and the window display has autumn-themed cookbooks out intermingled with Halloween decorations, including painted pumpkins and a witch's hat. It’s cute, cheerful yet practical, with a touch of casual elegance.

The door is black with a frosted glass window. Etched into glass is the name of the store.

Lightwood Books. Est. 2016.

The font is reminiscent of some bygone era, all curlicues and cursive. When Magnus swings the door open, a little bell chimes and he sees the same streak of whimsy and understated elegance as he takes in the rest of the bookstore.

It’s two stories and the first floor is done in the same dark tones as the outside. The walls are bookshelves from floor to ceiling, done in dark teak wood. The room is cluttered-- not cramped but there are several display tables ranging from books on special topics to book related gifts to more Halloween decor.

It’s lively yet muted, the perfect balance that invites the customer to browse or settle in with a book and a hot chocolate.

Magnus smiles as he sees another painted pumpkin in a rainbow of colors. It’s homey and comfortable but with a modern twist. Magnus already wishes he had the time to browse more thoroughly.

He doesn’t see another person. Taking a few steps inside, the door shuts behind him.

“Hello,” he calls out into the warm silence of the store.

There’s no answer and Magnus is intrigued. It’s obviously a well-kept store. The stock is in perfect condition and it’s furnished with care. Curious, he ventures further into the store. Unable to help himself, he strolls through the first floor. It looks like a mix of adult fiction and nonfiction. He falls in love with the color scheme even more as it provides a perfect contrast to the bright spines and colorful covers of the books themselves.

He sees the latest thriller from an author he adores and can’t help but pick it up. He might be a few minutes late, but hopefully Ragnor will calm down when he sees the book in his hand.

Distantly, he quiets the voice that insists he keep a strict schedule. Surely, a few minutes won’t hurt.

He sees a staircase that was hidden from the front door and with an inward shrug, starts climbing. He’s a little surprised that the stairs don’t creak and can’t decide if that’s disappointing or not.

The second floor is a burst of color. There’s a little café with a delightfully handwritten menu done in chalk. The pastries look divine and Magnus is sorely tempted to order a latte.

He doesn’t though; instead, he turns his back on the coffee and sees the children’s section. It’s bright and fun with bookshelves in every color, height appropriate for the kids. There’s a huge rug in the center of the area and it’s lined with baskets of toys on one edge.

Magnus barely notices the rest of the area as his gaze lands on a broad back. The man looks to be doing inventory, if the boxes and clipboard are any indication, and he looks great from the rear. Magnus can see a tall frame and dark hair and jeans hugging a truly lovely ass.

Clearing his throat, Magnus smiles as the man turns around and-- Christ. The man is an Adonis. His hair is messy, black locks framing a face that looks sculpted from granite. He’s wearing a black sweater with the sleeves shoves up to the elbows and he looks at Magnus with a little smile, warm and inviting with a hint of tempered curiosity.

“Can I help you?”

Magnus can’t help but give him another once over as he starts, “I hope so, darling. I was supposed to meet a friend at Adega but the GPS dumped me out here-- though, obviously, this is a charming bookstore and not a Mediterranean restaurant.”

That smile grows into a grin as the man chuckles. “That happens more than you’d think. Our street addresses are only one number apart and a lot of people turn up here looking for tapas.” He points in a general direction. “You actually want the street next over.”

Magnus laughs a little. “Well, it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who’s made that mistake.”

“I don’t mind,” the man says, eyes dropping to the book in Magnus’s hand. “Especially when it gets me more business.”

Holding the book up, Magnus waves it a little. “I saw this when I was looking for someone and couldn’t resist. She’s one of my favorite authors and I haven’t had the chance to read this one yet.”

He follows the man as he heads towards the stairs, appreciating the view as they start back down the the first floor. He’s only broken out of his reverie by the man throwing a sheepish question over his shoulder.

“You weren’t waiting long, were you? I’m sorry no one was down here when you came in. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience to come upstairs-- there’s usually a lull around this time and my staff are on lunch.”

Waving the apologetic tone away, Magnus follows him as they make their way to the register. He stops in front of the antique desk that’s been retrofitted as the man moves to the other side. Laying the book down between them, Magnus looks up, tilts his head, considering.

“Not at all,” he says easily. “I’m fond of independent bookstores and it’s always a treat to find something new. I’m a big fan of unexpected surprises.”

He’s treated to that warm, slightly breathless laugh again as he hands over his credit card. “In that case, thank you for your patronage.”

Raising a brow-- both at the quip and at his ratcheting interest-- Magnus replies, “You’re more than welcome. . .” he trails off, inviting the stranger to share his name after seeing no nametag.

“Alec,” the man says, arching his own brow at Magnus’s forwardness.

“Alec,” Magnus repeats, savoring the syllables. “Short for Alexander?”

With a droll look, Alec says, “Yeah but no one calls me that.”

“What a shame,” Magnus murmurs, accepting the bag Alec slides to his side of the counter. It looks sturdy in a rich navy blue, the name of the store and date of establishment in the same swirling script in a bright yet understated silver.

He’s signing his name with a bit more flair than usual when Alec asks, “So, I take it you’re a big reader?”

“Oh, I love to read,” Magnus replies airily. “My mother used to take me to our local bookstore on the weekends when I was a child and I try to read a book a week for pleasure. Doesn’t always work out, but that’s the goal,” he ends with a resigned shrug.

Leaning a hip against the counter, Alec smiles at him. It’s easy, a current of warmth through it, though it’s the least bit shy. The combination has Magnus enthralled.

“Well, I hope to see you again sometime.”

Magnus picks up the bag, taking a step backwards to the door. His eyes run over Alec one more time before their eyes meet and he winks.

“Oh, I think I might turn out to be a regular customer, Alexander.”

He turns on his heel but not before he sees the start of an absolutely adorable blush on Alec’s face. He walks out without a backwards glance. Once he’s on the sidewalk, he throws a cursory look to both sides of the street before crossing.

He walks a block over and as soon as he turns the corner, he sees the restaurant. Checking his watch, he’s relieved to see that he’s less than ten minutes late. Hopefully, Ragnor won’t be too insufferable about it.

He walks in, bypassing the hostess. It’s late for lunch and the place is mostly empty. Ragnor is easily visible at a table, reading over the menu. As Magnus approaches him, Ragnor doesn’t look up.

“Had I known how cavalierly you were going to treat our lunches, I never would have agreed to meet,” Ragnor says, still refusing to acknowledge Magnus.

Rolling his eyes, Magnus slides the chair across from him out, relaxing against it as he sets his purchase neatly on the floor.

“I should have known,” Ragnor says, turning his menu over. “I’m no competition for a shopping spree.”

Magnus picks up his own menu, looking over the drinks as he absently replies, “Oh, shut it. Google Maps failed me and I ended up at this charming little bookstore. I had to ask an employee for help and bought a book. You’re lucky I showed up at all after being helped by Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome incarnate.”

“Thirsting after bookworms, are we?”

Magnus sighs, a little dreamily, as he reads the day’s specials. “You know I love an intelligent man. I bet Alexander could hold his own.”

At that, Ragnor looks up. “Alexander? Alec?”

Magnus looks up to, sees Ragnor looking a mix of surprised and confused. “Yes? I take it you know him?”

“Of course I know him. We went to law school together. He graduated at the top of the class and, from what I hear, was a shark in the courtroom for a few years. He was on the fast track to make partner at his parents’ firm, surpassing everyone’s expectations. Then all of a sudden, he left his cozy corner office and opened a little bookstore in Brooklyn. I can’t believe you coincidentally ended up in his shop.”

Magnus holds up a hand, processing the fount of information he’s just been given. “You’re telling me that the man who just blushed at my almost appallingly obvious flirting was a Lightwood? Of the New York Lightwoods? The heir to one of the oldest families in the state?”

“What else would you think when you saw Lightwood Books emblazoned on the storefront?” Ragnor’s voice is dry as seven hells and twice as incredulous.

“How was I to know that golden boy had abandoned his family’s wealth and influence to open a cozy little neighborhood bookstore?”

“It’s just one of those things you know, Bane,” Ragnor says, voice scathing. “You run in similarly elevated circles. It was hot gossip when it happened.”

Magnus shrugs at that. “You know I barely slept a few years ago. That was when my company started taking off and every waking thought was centered on not filing bankruptcy.”

“You have assistants for these kinds of things,” Ragnor says.

Magnus doesn’t deign to reply and the waitress comes over in the next second to take their orders. They pass a lovely hour in the fall afternoon. More than once, Magnus catches himself staring out the window, watching colorful leaves rustle in the breeze.

It’s not often that he has these pockets of time to just be himself. He has a multi-million dollar business that requires constant love and attention. He’s pulled in a dozen directions at any given moment and sometimes he thinks that all he does is eat, sleep, and drink his company. He’s always Bane, CEO, instead of simply Magnus.

He has family dinners on Sundays, though. He has these weekly lunches with Ragnor or Raphael. Today, he had a handful of minutes with an intriguing stranger. He wasn’t thinking about stocks or advertising or his never-ending email queue with Alec. No, Lightwood Books had let his mind calm. There’d been nothing to think about except the quiet, cozy charm of the store and the laid-back mystery of its apparent owner.

Magnus settles back in his chair as the waitress sets down dessert. Distantly, he knows that he’ll be visiting Lightwood Books again very soon.

[haledamage]

Pairing: Female Cousland/Nathaniel Howe

Story Summary: Cathain Cousland had been in love with Nathaniel Howe for as long as she can remember. It doesn’t take long after they reunite in Amaranthine to realize she still is.

Chapter Summary: Once, Cait could have walked the road between Vigil's Keep and Amaranthine with her eyes closed. She knew every endless, rainy mile of it as well as she knew the halls of the Vigil. It was nearly as familiar as the walls and flowers and hidden passages of Highever itself - which, regardless of her fondness for Amaranthine, had still been her home.

Once, Cait could have walked the road between Vigil's Keep and Amaranthine with her eyes closed. She knew every endless, rainy mile of it as well as she knew the halls of the Vigil. It was nearly as familiar as the walls and flowers and hidden passages of Highever itself - which, regardless of her fondness for Amaranthine, had still been her home.

But time was more cruel than any darkspawn, and the road to Amaranthine was not as she remembered. It had grown wild, packed dirt and cobblestone now broken by tree roots, overgrown by the encroaching forest, beset by bandits and worse.

They were traveling with a couple of Varel's soldiers - Garevel’s soldiers, technically, but Cait tended to think of everyone in the Vigil as either ‘my people’ or ‘Varel's people.’ Even though Varel himself was one of her people, as loyal as any of the Wardens and he had to deal with a lot more shit than they did.

These soldiers, Jasper and Avina, were… certainly enthusiastic. Young and excited to be on a mission with the Hero of Ferelden, which they insisted on calling Cait instead of any of her actual ranks or, perhaps, her blighted name. She stopped trying to strike up conversation with them before they’d even left sight of the keep.

“Cait,” Anders asked slowly, “why are there children following us?”

“Because we are going on a rescue mission and we need someone with us to bring the girl home. I doubt she’ll want to continue on to the city with us.” Very quietly, she added, “I never thought I’d regret wanting to save someone from kidnappers, but here we are.”

“Look on the bright side!” He slung an arm around her, conveniently blocking them from view by his height alone. “Free cannon fodder!”

“Shhhhh!” She put a hand over his mouth but was laughing as she did.

It was a beautiful day, by Amaranthine standards. The sky was overcast and heavy, but it didn’t smell like rain was due yet and the air was warm with the promise of summer around the corner. Good day to embarrass some kidnappers and maybe visit the market in the city.

Cait was trying very hard not to think about Delilah. Delilah, who had been her sister in all but blood since the moment they were born, less than a week apart. Delilah, who Cait hadn’t seen in three years, who had gotten married and she hadn’t known about it.

“You weren’t at breakfast this morning,” Anders said, quiet and dangerously casual.

“I slept in.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to do that,” he said, which she elbowed him for. “You know, Nathaniel wasn’t at breakfast either. What an interesting coincidence.”

She knew her face must be red. She refused to acknowledge it. “Don't ask if you don't want the answer, Anders."

“That is an answer.” He looked everywhere but at her, but his arm tightened around her shoulder in a quick, one-sided hug. “Good for you. If he breaks your heart, I'll set him on fire."

She hugged him, wrapping her arms around his still too skinny waist. It was awkward, and they tripped over each other a little on the uneven road, but it was good. “Noted. And appreciated.”

He pointed behind them before she could say anything else. “Not to interrupt, but I think Oghren is giving your baby soldiers some of that swill he ferments in his backpack.”

“Of course he is.” She sighed, weary to the depths of her soul, then turned around to see if he was telling the truth. “Oghren, if they pass out, you’re the one carrying them. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

-------

“Leader up front, two flanking” Cait muttered.

“Three archers in the back,” Nathaniel added, barely loud enough for her to hear.

“That bridge is a bottleneck,” Oghren grunted, “Either get across it real sodding quick or wait for them to come to us.”

“One on the left is a mage,” Anders said, nodding briefly toward the woman in question.

“There are four in the tent,” Justice said sternly, much louder than the rest of them. “One of them is afraid.”

That meant ten bandits total just to shake down a nobleman that was supposed to come alone? There was no way Ser Bensley would have left this cove under his own power. Wouldn’t be enough against five Wardens, though.

Nathaniel put a hand on Cait’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Please tell me you aren't honestly considering giving these bastards money.”

“Of course not. Trust me, remember?” She touched his hand, then shrugged it off. “Be ready.”

Then she strode ahead, staying three paces in front of the others. She tried to affect the cocky swagger Zevran always wore into these situations; he had a way of convincing people he was supposed to be there, no matter where it was. Cait was pretty sure she just looked angry.

The man she’d identified as the leader confirmed her suspicions when he called out to her. “We told Bensley to come himself. Alone.”

Cathain leaned against a small rock outcropping, relaxed and casual and blocking herself off from anything that might try to sneak up on her. “Yes, well, I was in the neighborhood so I thought I'd come on his behalf.”

“And who the fuck are you, princess?” He looked her over. She didn’t miss the way he paused at the griffon on her chest, again at her knives.

“I'm the Warden-Commander, who the fuck are you?” The two bandits behind him took an involuntary step back. Cait bared her teeth. She was already bored with this. “Where's the girl?”

“Where's the money?”

She held up a small pouch, letting the coins jingle within. “Give me the girl or you won’t see a single blighted copper of it.”

They dragged a young girl out of a nearby tent. The girl, Eileen Bensley, couldn’t have been any older than sixteen and was terrified past the point of being able to speak. Her dress was ripped and filthy, her hair so dirty Cait couldn’t even tell what color it was, and she flinched at the slightest movement. Rage hardened in her chest at the tear streaks on Eileen’s face; she fought hard to keep her hands off her weapons.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” she said, as gently as she could manage. She waited until she nodded before addressing the apparent leader again, voice full of steel, “Hand her over.”

“Give me the money first.” He dropped several points in her estimation of his intelligence.

“Hand. Her. Over.” She stared him down, impatient, unintimidated, furious. He blinked first.

He nodded brusquely at one of the men holding the girl and they shoved her forward. Cait caught her before she fell and she clung to her, sobbing into her armor. “I've got you, sweetheart,” she said, not taking her eyes off of the bandit leader. She brushed a bit of the girl’s hair back from her face. “Eileen, right? You're safe now, Eileen. We're going to get you home to your father. Nathaniel.” Nate gently pried the girl from Cait and led her to Jasper and Avina, speaking gently to her the whole way.

“My money,” demanded the dead man.

“You know what I think?” Now that Eileen was safe, Cait no longer bothered to sound the slightest bit friendly. “I think I don't want kidnappers on my lands. I think that girl was the only thing keeping you alive.” She drew and threw a dagger in one fluid motion. The leader surged into action, but too late; It caught him in the throat, and she watched with a cold gratification as his body slumped to the ground.

There had been twelve of them, in the end. Two were hiding behind a large rock outcropping, behind the mage where her magic had obscured them from Justice’s senses. It didn’t make a difference.

“Search the area,” Cait ordered. “Make sure there aren’t any others hidden in the shadows. And check the bodies. If they weren’t working alone, I want to know about it.” Trusting that her orders would be followed, Cait turned her full attention back to Eileen.

The girl stared up at her with wide eyes. She hugged Byron, fingers clutched in his fur, and he tried to make himself look as harmless as possible for a war dog. She was so small. Cait couldn’t remember ever being that small. But Eileen met her eyes and held them, and no longer looked afraid. “Are you really the Hero of Ferelden?”

Cait fought not to cringe. “Some people have called me that. I prefer to be called by my name. I’m Cait.”

“I’m Eileen. But you knew that already. Did my father send you?”

“He did. This is Jasper and Avina.” She pointed at Jasper, hovering awkwardly nearby; he was barely older than Eileen. “They work for me and they're going to get you home safe to your family, okay?” She threw the pouch of gold that she’d shown the kidnappers at Avina, who fumbled it a little before catching it. “Anything she needs, get it for her. If that isn’t enough, let me know how much I owe you when you get back to the Vigil.”

“Yes, ser!” They said together as they actually, honest-to-Maker, saluted her.

She watched them leave until the forest swallowed them, then turned back to the bandit camp. It didn't contain much: a few crates of half-spoiled food, a pile of firewood, the single tent they'd been keeping Eileen in.

Oghren and Justice found no other bandits; the cove ended at a steep cliff down to the Amaranthine Ocean and no other places someone might hide. Nathaniel returned her dagger from the body of the leader, as well as a blade he'd drawn but never had a chance to use.

She gave it a cursory spin, checking the balance. It was front-heavy, the blade of much denser metal than the hilt, but it hummed ever-so-slightly from some kind of enchantment. She stuck it in her belt to inspect more thoroughly when she had time.

Anders was the last to return, bearing a small stack of papers for her. Most were drafts of threatening letters to Ser Bensley. One was a half-written and clearly heavily forced note written by Eileen; most of it was written in a shaky hand, but it suddenly ended in a large, angry DON'T GIVE THEM ANYTHING PAPA and then a blot of spilled ink. Cait swelled with pride for the girl. She'd fought back where she could.

The last note made Cait's stomach drop to her knees. It was orders to the lead kidnapper from his apparent patron, signed ‘burn this letter once received’ with a very familiar signature and the symbol of a bear on a yellow and white shield.

She'd known Esmerelle was behind a lot of the issues still plaguing Amaranthine. She knew in her gut that the bann was also behind the plot against her, though she still didn't have any proof. But that bear… that made things much more complicated.

She held it out to Nathaniel without a word and he stared for a moment uncomprehending. “That's my family crest. Why is it here?”

“Any chance your sister could be behind the assassination plot?” Anders asked hesitantly.

“No.” Cait and Nathaniel said simultaneously. She added, “Delilah never had much taste for subterfuge. If she wanted me dead, she'd do it herself. She’s like her brother, in that way.”

“Then they're trying to make the old Arl into a martyr.”

Cait pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache building behind her eyes. “Of course they are. Oust the Cousland usurper and put the arling back in the hands of it's rightful owners.”

“Such a shame that the remaining Howes have been brainwashed by the usurper,” Anders said sourly, voicing exactly what Cait was thinking. “They have no choice but to remove them as well.”

Cait sighed. She hated politics. “We should get moving if we want to get to the city by nightfall.” She folded up the papers and stuck them in her bag, then led the way back to the road.

-------

They did not, in fact, arrive in the city before nightfall. They walked through the main gate just after full dark, when the market was closed but the streets weren't empty yet. The open doorways of taverns beckoned to them, beacons of light and laughter in the night.

As they walked past the first one, a seedy bar with light peeking out through the uneven boards of the walls, Cait became aware of an additional presence at her side.

“You are getting complacent, my dear Warden,” Zevran said with a sly smile. “If I were an assassin, you would already be dead.”

“You are an assassin,” Cait said, feeling an answering smile spread across her own face.

“Then it is a good thing for you that I am retired.” He chuckled. “Is it strange to say that I missed you?”

“It’s barely been two weeks,” she said fondly, “but I missed you too.”

“Ah, but there is someone else who has missed you as well. She's waiting for you.”

Cait froze, suddenly nervous. She fidgeted with a buckle on her armor. “She is? It’s not too late? Maybe we should wait until morning. I don’t want to impose.”

“I have seen you face down demons without blinking, but you’re scared of a merchant’s wife?” Anders laughed, appearing behind Zevran. Cait had kind of forgotten he was there. She’d remember to feel guilty about that later, when she was in a calmer state of mind.

“I don’t care about the opinions of my enemies.”

Nathaniel put his hand on her back, warm and reassuring. “If we don’t go see her tonight, she’ll just hunt us down.”

Cait laughed and it settled her nerves. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.” She turned to Anders and gave him a handful of sovereigns from her coin purse. “Whichever tavern you pick, get Nate and I rooms.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, but he took her money anyway. “You must not know the kind of places I drink at.”

“Whatever it is, I guarantee I’ve slept in worse.”

Then they left, following Zevran down the winding, cobblestone streets of Amaranthine. Cait hadn't often been here at night; 'the city wasn't safe for children', Adria, the Howes’ governess, had always said, 'especially not for pretty young ladies'.

It was beautiful. The windows shone like fireflies, warm light reflecting on the stone of the streets and buildings until the whole city seemed to glow. Jewel of the North, indeed.

Delilah's house was small but tidy, in a quiet corner just off the market district. The lights were on, and Cait could see shadows moving around inside. Zevran knocked before she could try to back out again.

The door burst open and a tiny woman with the same dark hair and pale eyes as Nathaniel sprang out and threw herself into her brother's startled arms. He wrapped himself around her, nearly dwarfing her entirely, and they stayed like that for a long, quiet moment.

From somewhere within the tangle of Howes, a delicate arm snaked out toward Cait. “Come on then,” said Delilah's stern, sweet voice. “This is a family reunion, Caitie Cousland. That means you too.”

They enveloped her as soon as she stepped close. She couldn’t tell which arms belonged to which person; she pressed her face into the nearest shoulder and willed the tears building in her eyes not to fall.

She didn’t know how much time had passed before Delilah cleared her throat and stepped back, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. “Well, come on inside. Dinner’s getting cold. You too, Zevran, don’t think I don’t see you hiding back there, you aren’t as good at it as you think.” She turned and walked inside, assuming that the rest of them would follow.

The inside of the house was as cozy and tidy as the outside, filled with the smell of baked goods. A man with light brown hair and a nervous smile stepped out of the kitchen, wearing an apron covered in flour. He shook Nate’s hand and said, “Albert Reese. You must be Nathaniel.”

“I am. Pleasure to meet you.”

Albert offered Cait his hand next. “I know who you are. Everyone in town’s got something to say about you,” he said, sounding so genuinely friendly that she couldn’t help but smile.

“They’re probably untrue. Definitely exaggerated,” she said and Albert laughed.

“My Lilah tells some wild stories about you too.” He started walking back toward the kitchen and they all followed.

“Those are likely true, I’m afraid.”

Dinner was delicious, the best meal Cait had had since Nan died, and by the time they’d finished dessert she was already trying to figure out how to convince them to come live at the Vigil. Albert was charming, with a warm smile and easy laugh, and was clearly, hopelessly in love with his wife. Delilah shuffled around the house, never seeming to stop moving; Cait wondered if she actually thought she was hiding the roundness of her belly under the loose housecoat she wore over her dress, or if she just didn’t want to talk about it yet.

“So how long have you been back?” Delilah asked her brother as they all settled in the little sitting room.

“Two months back in Ferelden. One in Amaranthine.” Nathaniel laced his fingers with Cait’s as he relaxed on the sofa next to her. “I didn’t know where to find you or if you were alive, otherwise I’d have been here sooner.”

Delilah looked skeptical, but turned her attention to Cait. “And you’ve been here a month. And clearly possess the resources to have got in touch sooner.”

“I didn’t think I’d be welcome,” Cait said honestly. “Nate tried to kill me as soon as I got here.”

“Nathaniel Howe!” Delilah scolded, looking like she was considering throwing her teacup at him.

Cait laughed. “Relax, Lilah. It was a misunderstanding. We’ve worked it out.”

“I see that,” she muttered, but set her tea down at least. “I heard about what happened to your family, Caitie. I am so sorry.”

“It’s…” she started to say okay, but that was a lie. She amended, “It’s not your fault.”

“I hear you’re the one that killed Father,” Delilah said, voice hard. All Cait could do was nod. “Good. It should have been you if it couldn’t be me. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“Delilah! The man may have done some terrible things, but he was still our father!” Nathaniel said, but he just sounded resigned, sad, instead of angry. Cait squeezed his hand.

“You weren't here, Nate. You didn’t see what he became. Violent, paranoid, lashing out at everyone over the smallest slight. I ran away as soon as I could. That’s how I met Albert.” The anger faded from her face as she smiled at her husband. “He saw me in the market and offered me a loaf of bread and a job at his bakery. We’ve been together ever since.”

“And when are you due?” Cait was happy to move to friendlier subjects.

“Due? Delilah, are you pregnant?” Nathaniel sat forward on the couch, studying his sister.

Cait laughed. “How could you miss it? That baby’s almost as big as she is!”

Delilah put a hand on the swell of her belly, leaning back against Albert to really bring attention to it. “Soon. Before summer, likely. Do you want to feel her kick?”

Watching Nathaniel greet his niece or nephew for the first time was a revelation Cait had not been prepared for. His smile was boyish and joyful and exceedingly attractive, and when he turned it toward her it felt like a punch in the gut. She’d never given much thought to having children before, but for just a moment it overwhelmed her. She pushed it down, bottled it up as well as the wave of panic that followed in its wake, and by the time Delilah approached her, her smile was easy and uncomplicated again.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she said to Delilah’s belly, feeling the strange shift and twitch of the life growing within, “I’m your Auntie Cait. I can’t wait to meet you.”

Delilah’s smile was warm, but her eyes were shrewd as she stared at the spot on the sofa where Cait and Nathaniel’s hands were still linked between them. “So how long has this been going on?” she asked, as if she didn't know. As if Cait hadn’t confessed everything to her in the dark of their shared bedroom, as if she wasn’t the only person alive who had ever heard Cait say ‘love’ and ‘Nathaniel’ in the same terrified sentence.

“Four days,” said Cait and it wasn’t quite a lie. At the same time, Nathaniel said “thirteen years,” but it wasn’t quite the truth.

“Uh-huh,” said Delilah, somehow seeing through both of them to the truth in between. But she relented, and returned to her seat next to her husband, and the conversation turned to lighter things.

It was very late when they left with many hugs and promises to visit soon and often. Zevran stayed behind, had apparently been staying with them for days. Cait was too tired to question it.

They found Anders at the Crown and Lion Inn, still drinking merrily and losing a lot of money at cards. The patrons were apparently too drunk to notice he was a mage, or simply didn’t care, even as he used a bit of frost magic to chill his drink. How refreshing. Anders gave Cait her room key with an exaggerated wink that she didn’t understand until she went upstairs to find Nate was already in her room, their room, having gone up before her while she chatted with the drunken mage. At least he’d gotten them a decent-sized bed.

It had been a good day. Long, emotionally draining, mildly panic-inducing on several different levels she didn’t have the time or energy to examine, but good. She undressed quickly, leaving her armor, weapons, and clothes in an untidy pile in a chair, and crawled into the thankfully clean and surprisingly soft bed. She watched Nathaniel disrobe more slowly, leaving his belongings neatly folded and sorted. It was cute. The novelty of this stage in their relationship was still fresh enough that she couldn’t help lay there and stare at him, gorgeous and graceful and hers.

He climbed into bed and pulled her close and she was asleep within minutes.

-------

Cait woke him the next morning with her lips on his skin and finally took the opportunity to explore him like he'd done to her a few nights ago. Their bed creaked alarmingly under his grip as Nathaniel clenched his fists around the posts of the headboard in an effort to keep them out of her hair. She felt a heady rush at the idea that this was something she was allowed to do now, first thing in the morning or whenever they wanted to. It was almost the same rush she felt watching him shake and gasp as he came undone. He was quick and eager to return the favor, and she didn't last much longer than he had, had no means or desire to defend herself against his clever tongue, and covered her mouth with her hand so she didn't wake the whole inn as she shouted her release.

He grinned against her lips as they curled back up together on the bed. “Good morning.”

“Mmm, it is now.” She chuckled and pulled him down for another kiss. “We should have done this ages ago.”

“I know it's been a while, but we have definitely done this before.” He caressed her back, tracing the scar from the archdemon.

“You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.”

Neither of them made any attempt to get out of bed for a long time.

Byron eventually took issue with it and came over to stand next to Cait. When she turned to look his way, he let out a deep, warning boof. If they didn't get moving, he would bring every patron in the building running their way.

They still managed to beat Anders and Oghren downstairs, but Justice sat at a corner table in the bar with a mug of ale in front of him. Cait was pretty sure he'd been in the same place when she'd gone to bed last night.

“Did Anders not get you a room?” she asked as she sat down across from him.

“He did. I preferred to stay here.” His eyes traveled the room, more emotional than she’d ever seen from him before. “There is an energy to this space, of all the souls that have passed through it. It is… enlightening. Invigorating. Are all human cities like this?”

“I… don’t know,” Cait said. “You can see the energy people leave behind? Or feel it?”

“I can feel it. Like the sun on my skin.” Justice held his hand over the table between them. “A man once sat in this chair with a ring in a box, practicing a speech to ask his beloved to marry him. Another was drinking to numb his pain, a persistent headache that had lasted several days. He could not afford to visit a physician, but he could afford another drink.” He dropped his hand to the smooth wood of the tabletop. “Layers upon layers on every surface.”

“That’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“The Vigil must be very noisy for you,” said Nathaniel. “They say it’s been around for thousands of years. I can’t even imagine how many lives have been lived there.”

Justice studied Nate with those too-knowing eyes of his. “You want to know about the lives of your ancestors.” He nodded to himself as if Nathaniel had answered, even though he didn’t say anything. “In the Fade, nothing outlives the spirit that made it. Here, everything is built upon the bones of what came before. Yes, many souls have passed over the stones of Vigil’s Keep. Some of them bore the name Howe. When we return, I will tell you of them.”

The conversation shifted as Anders and Oghren stumbled downstairs and slumped into empty chairs. They looked like they were regretting several of their life choices.

“So!” Cait said, loudly and with more cheer than necessary. She clapped her hands once and grinned as her hungover friends groaned at the noise. “Does anyone have business in the city while we’re here? I know Justice, you wanted to visit Aura. I also need to find a man named Colbert. Apparently he found a gorge in the hills to the west that may lead to the Deep Roads.”

As she spoke, she reached into her bag and pulled out a couple vials, placing one each in front of Anders and Oghren. “Maybe try to limit yourselves next time when you’re on the job, please,” she said sweetly, but she knew they could hear the order in the words; they were hungover, not stupid. “Drink all you want on your own time, but I will not hesitate to drop you into a nest of darkspawn while you’re wasted.”

They both muttered something that sounded like “yes, Commander” as they drank their potions. She gave them a few minutes for the worst of their headaches to fade, and then they all got to work.

Their second meeting with Aura went… better. She didn’t panic at the sight of her husband’s possessed body, which was a start. Justice told her, fumbling but sincere, that he mourned Kristoff’s loss with her, that he would avenge him. Cait didn’t know Aura well enough to read the look on her face, but she hoped she found comfort in his words. He stood as little taller as they left.

Talking with Colbert and his partner Micah was enlightening, but frustrating. Colbert said a lot of things that didn’t matter and Micah said barely anything at all. They spoke in circles for what felt like hours until Cait gave in and threw money at them to get an answer that made sense. A couple sovereigns magically got her exactly the information she needed.

Cait wished a couple sovereigns could solve the problem Colbert’s story brought to light. An open path between the surface and the Deep Roads, in a land beset by new types of darkspawn. There was no way this could be coincidence, and no way Cait could ignore it either.

“I won’t order any of you to come with me,” she said, once they’d moved away from the city crowds. “The Deep Roads are miserable. It’s either a slog through empty, lightless tunnels a hundred miles underground, or it’s a constant battle versus endless hordes of darkspawn, and there’s not much in between. Volunteers only.”

“I go where you go,” said Nathaniel firmly.

“That’s really sweet,” Cait said, and it was. It was hopelessly, stupidly romantic, but she was apparently into that. “but I don’t think you understand what you’re committing to.”

“Then I guess I’ll find out when we get there.”

“Well, I can’t let you have all the fun,” added Anders.

“We’ve been to the Deep Roads together before,” said Oghren. “How much worse can it be?”

“If it is as dangerous as you say, I will not leave you to face it alone,” Justice said.

Cait was torn between indignation that they were all so stubborn to not take the opportunity to stay behind, and humbled that she had such loyal friends. “Thank you. We’ll take the rest of the day to resupply and head out at first light tomorrow. Anything you need to do in the city, do it now. And try to stay sober please.”

[fourteen--steps]

On big goldfish, and listening to each other

I apologize if the tone of this post is maybe a little more snippy than my usual ones. I’m usually very thoughtful with my words but I’ve had an incredibly rough physical and emotional week and I’m running low on spoons to devote to thinking things through properly. My frustration’s gonna bleed through here but I don’t want anyone to take it personal cause it’s really more me than you.

That said. 

Remember that whole trend a while ago of “don’t give advice on animals you haven’t kept or deeply researched?” What ever happened to that? What ever happened to respecting the expertise and hearing out the opinions of people who actually have it in that field vs demanding you’re right because you’ve read some care sheets and seen some photos of worst case scenarios?

My whole life and world has been immersed in goldfish for the last several years. Keeping multiple breeds of both single tail and fancy, reading, researching, joining everything from casual hobbyist groups to those of serious breeders and highly respected names. I’ve moderated, built, and eventually owned my own care forum. I’ve spent hours reading vet manuals and scientific articles, as well as conducting necropsies on every animal I lose to better understand their inner workings and what’s gone wrong. I had the wonderful experience last summer of raising a small batch of someone else’s fry. I’ve experimented with all different kinds of food and filtration and maintenance and decor and enrichment.

I don’t know everything, nobody can. I’m not perfect, nobody is. But I can say with confidence I know a lot about the care and keeping of goldfish overall, and that my information is overall very solid and thought out. 

So when someone comes in my inbox and asks my opinion on something goldfish related, my answer comes with all that experience and thought behind it. I often include caveats in my answers when I’m not 100% sure, or if I believe there’s no one-size-fits-all solution. I’m not so bigheaded as to believe that my way is absolutely always right and will work for every situation and every fish. But I answer in earnest and with confidence and reasoning. 

But then my posts get immediately doused with comments from people who to the best of my knowledge have little to no experience with the species. The ones who do have experience tend to be polite in their responses, if not a bit misguided, although even then their knowledge tends to bottom out at keeping some orandas in a 40B or having tended a garden pond. Often the other comments are far more cursory and involve varying amounts of dismissal of my opinion entirely, insults, condescension, and most frustratingly, wild misinformation (much of which I’ve only heard echoed back and forth within the microcosm of tumblr, and never from a reputable outside source)

Like I’ve read a fair amount about bettas now both on here and elsewhere just cause they’re such popular fish and I’m a nerd and I’m curious. But I’ve never kept one, and I’m not an expert, and I’d never go be snappy on the advice post of someone who I know has a lot more practical and academic knowledge with them than I do? At the very least I could politely ask a question or voice a dissenting opinion with some of my reasoning, possibly acknowledging the deficits in my experience, but diving straight in with the vitriol just baffles me. 

It’s come to my attention people are vagueing about me now and that’s just? So fucking childish and unnecessary. I’m also being accused of having stunted fish based on, among other things, the old eye proportion criteria, but btw that image of the ranchu that circulates as an example? Is heavily photoshopped and not a reliable catchall method to determine stunting.

For those who didn’t believe Zoom is as big as I said, I took this picture today. He’s not the most personable of my fish so he wouldn’t let me get him against a measuring tape but I measured my hand like that at about 4 inches, then pasted those identical bars on him (swear the blue bar is the same I just recolored so it’d stand out, not sure why it looks a little longer than the red). He’s just under 8 inches, nose to peduncle. Maybe even a tad longer cause he always curls a little when I flip him on his side (also why his side looks a little sunken here, he was getting ready to snap back and splash me in the face :P). When measuring goldfish you don’t include fins, by standard. If you wanna tack on the extra inch or so of tail go ahead and call him 9″

I also weighed him, he’s 109 grams which is a tad less than I’d like but I’ve been having issues with one fish in the tank needing a specialized diet so they’ve all been getting a little less protein than usual lately. The fish with the diet issue is probably going to be going back to @finefeatheredfish​ soon and I can pick up with weekly Worm Nights as usual again. His body condition is still good though rounded from above without being bloated, muscular rather than fatty, with a nice smooth taper head to tail and a bit of a belly. He’s not a very tall fish, but that’s more cause he’s a badly bred feeder fish who doesn’t fit the perfect common genetic standard than anything. Height isn’t about health, that’s a genetic characteristic that some fish just won’t achieve. In fact many tall “humpy” commons are not actually properly tall, but have large fat deposits along the tops of their bodies particularly built up behind the head which are an indicator of poor diet and overfeeding. 

In fact if you want, here’s the US hibuna show standard! Take a look!

What about the eye thing? It’s huge compared to his head right? Well here’s a shubunkin posted by Gary Hater, currently one of the most well respected breeders in the US hobby, both for his fish quality and welfare standards. Who incidentally keeps most of his in aquariums and states that they normally reach 6-8″ indoors. This fish was from his “giants” tank, one of which he said was roughly 10 inches. This one in the video looked a little smaller than aforementioned Big Boy so I figure it’s around 8″ or so, like Zoom. and hey, look at that big googly eye! Almost like eye size can vary naturally in healthy goldfish and isn’t necessarily a sign of stunting without other important factors that are often much more subtle and far less textbook!

The last think I want to bring up, is that this whole “goldfish are ALL large” and by extension “NEED to be large” to be “right” worries me for another reason. I’m concerned there’s a mounting pressure that goldfish should be reaching these enormous sizes that they aren’t meant to, in far too short of a time. Many of the fish that do reach these sizes in captivity, yes even the ones in ponds, reach them due to powerfeeding. Intentional or not, these fish are put on high protein, high filler, sometimes high fat diets, and often fed a lot of it. Outdoor fish also gorge themselves on algae, insects, worms, snails, aquatic plants, sometimes other small fish, anything they can get their greedy little mitts on. Then their owner will dump in a large cup of cheap high protein pond conditioning food and they scarf that down too. 

For aquarium fish, a nervous newbie keeper may see their young fish isn’t growing to the size they believe it’s supposed to and get a bigger tank, start feeding extra bloodworms, more meaty pellets, maybe turn the heater up a degree or two to boost their metabolism. They balance it out with lots of veggies so they think it’s okay, they just want their fish to be healthy and catch up to where it’s “supposed” to be! This leads to rapid and impressive growth, yes, but it comes with dangerous and potentially deadly consequences. 

Some of you may remember Queenie. She was the largest goldfish I’ve ever personally encountered, 10-11 inches and fat fat with it. Her original owner surrendered her to our LFS and @finefeatheredfish​ immediately bought her with the plan that she’d move into my 150 when it was set up. She was healthy at the time, some kind of long bodied fancy mix and drop dead gorgeous, though she needed to drop some weight for sure. Too young to be that massive and visibly overweight. She was unquestionably a powerfed pond fish.

Cw for euthanasia mention, pet death, graphic descriptions, next 3 paragraphs

But about a month into her QT she began getting sick, infection-like symptoms but antibiotics didn’t do anything. We worked on her another month, did our best to save her. We probably should have euthanized her earlier in hindsight but we wanted so bad to get her through and give her a happy home. She was just so amazing you know? I took her for the last week of her life to try some last ditch treatment, she died about 3 days after this photo was taken. 

I did a necropsy on her afterwards. Her vital organs were layered in fat. There was so much of it around her swim bladder that I thought it was another organ at first and got confused. I’m shocked it was still functional. Her liver was unidentifiable mush, suggesting chronic disease, and her gallbladder had simply exploded and spilled bile all over the surrounding tissue. Her body cavity was full of blood and fluid. The cause of death appeared to be the rupture of her gallbladder or liver and the tearing of some important vessel in that area, she bled out internally. 

The chronic liver and gallbladder disease were entirely untreatable for home aquarists. What we thought was infectious dropsy was full on liver failure, she couldn’t balance the fluid and electrolytes in her body anymore which caused the swelling. Likely even if we had taken her to the vet there would have been little they could do. You can’t really remove a fish’s inflamed gallbladder, or transplant in a new liver to replace a failing one. Those conditions are linked to obesity in many species, and I have no doubt that Queen’s diet and obesity were the cause of the chronic conditions that lead to her slow death.

She was powerfed because someone wanted a large, impressive fish, and it killed her. She deserved so much better than that. 

CW over

Powerfeeding and its results are not always that extreme, and I can go into more on the other risks and issues if anyone is interested, but this is long enough already. I wanted to include Queenie as a cautionary tale, and because I’m still so sad she never got to meet the rest of my little school. She was such a sweetheart.

I have a genuine concern with this normalization of 12-14″+ fish as average, that people are going to start pushing their pets to meet that. Most goldfish are not genetically capable of that growth. I’d go so far as to say most goldfish should not reach that size, at least not in any appreciably quick period of time. 

Feed your fish well. Keep their water clean. Give them room to swim. They will grow on their own time, to their own size. 

And lastly. I’m open to talking about this stuff, really. I love to learn new things and hear new sides. Just please, be friendly and mature and let’s have a real conversation? We can disagree politely. It doesn’t have to be black and white, mortal enemies, I know fishblr’s environment these days isn’t very conducive to that, and that’s part of why I’d left a few weeks ago. But I’m trying to give it another chance cause this community used to be really welcoming and wonderful. I’d really love for us to be able to step away from all this polarizing distrust and be open and considerate again.

My responses may be spotty because of the terrible week I mentioned at the beginning of this post but I’ll try and check back.

[terato-kiss-blog]

Scenario with Jirou (Earphone jack) and Kendo (Big fist) comforting a s/o having an anxiety attack please?

Hoo boy. These kind of turned into monsters? I dealt with anxiety attacks pretty regularly in high school, and though they’re rarer now I still have them, as do a good number of my friends. So as you might be able to guess, this was an ask that hit close to home. I’m putting them both under the cut so as not to take up the entire dash, but before I let y’all get to business I want to make it clear that my inbox is always open for anyone who needs comfort or a space to vent. Mental illness is a hell of a thing, and you all deserve love and support like these two lovely kids provide. On that note, I hope you like it, anon. 

Jirou

It was supposed to be a nice day, and now you were ruining it.

You had been so excited when you found out about the concert in the park - it wasn’t a very well-known band, but bonding over your mutual enjoyment was one of the things that brought you and your girlfriend together, and (most importantly) it was free. You’d met at her place bright and early, her parents cooing over your ensembles of ripped jeans and shredded band tees until she dragged you out the door, ears red and a not-entirely-convincing scowl.

You hadn’t noticed at first, too busy screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs and rocking to the wild beat, but the crowd has grown since you’ve arrived, a mass of moving bodies surrounding you and you know, somehow, that there are eyes on you. Only you, the one person in the crowd not dancing, the one whose heart pounds louder than the drums, the one whose eyes are starting to fill with tears. You know that they’re watching you, wondering why you’re here if you can’t even handle a crowd -

You don’t realize that you’re moving until you burst out of the wall of people, the cool air a shock to your system. It takes you another second to realize that Jiro is the one moving you, fingers locked tight around your limp wrist, and now you’re crying for real because this was supposed to be good and you couldn’t handle it.

She leads you to a bench, sitting you down and guiding your head down to rest on her narrow shoulder. She gently shushes your choked-out apologies, murmuring reassurances that you’ve done nothing wrong, that she doesn’t blame you in the least, that it will be over soon and you’ll be okay. You’re dimly aware of her earlobes extending before her Quirk activates, the not-so-distant sounds of blaring guitar and screaming crowd fading to nothing until all that’s left is the sound of your breaths - hers deliberately slow and steady, yours rapid and uneven.

It still seems to take hours before you can match your pace to hers, exhausted and shaking in the aftermath. “Fuck,” you squeak, tongue dry and heavy in your mouth. Then you say it again, firmer this time, and she laughs a little.

“Yeah. You feeling better?”

“Getting there,” you say, gently prodding at your face. You groan when your fingertips come away streaked black, flopping back onto her shoulder. “Shit. Do I look ridiculous?”

“Nah, messy makeup is a super punk look.”

You smile, weak but genuine. “I think that’s more of a goth thing. Or maybe emo?”

“You can pull off anything, so it’s not like it matters,” she says with a deceivingly casual shrug and rising to her feet. “Listen, Momo told me about this really cute smoothie place nearby. I was gonna take you after the concert, but I’m ready to go now if you are?”

It doesn’t take long for your relief to override any lingering guilt, a weight lifting from your shoulders at the prospect of getting somewhere nice and quiet. You grab her offered hand, rising on steady legs and using your grip to tug her closer and press a chaste kiss to her lips. “Thank you for taking care of me, Kyoka. I’m lucky to have a girlfriend like you.”

If anyone else made her blush like that, you know she’d scoff and brush them off, maybe even inflict a light punch if particularly embarrassed (you’ve seen this happen to Kaminari more times than you can count.) Instead Jirou kisses you again, lingering for a moment before pulling away and leading you towards the smoothie shop, chattering softly about Momo’s recommendations for the menu. She doesn’t let go of your hand.

Your heart’s still beating fast, but you know it’s for a much more pleasant reason now.

Kendou

The worst thing about anxiety attacks, really, was when you felt them coming on - felt the world start to shift, the words of your classmates melting into static, your heart rising into your throat - and yet there was nothing you could do to stop it.

They’re hard to pinpoint as attacks to most people, which is why it took so long for you to get a diagnosis (even though you’d been having them since you were barely walking.) You’ve never (as far as you can remember, at least) fallen into the kind of hysterics media tended to display panic attacks as, the sobbing or shaking or tearing of hair. Instead, you just… retreat, unwillingly stepping sideways out of a body that no longer wants to respond to your brain, remaining outwardly silent and still even as you beat yourself bloody on the walls of your own skull. You know that your tells aren’t particularly obvious.  

Well, except to one person.

Your phone buzzes gently against your desk, screen flashing. Dragging your eyes up from your lap seems to take herculean effort, but there’s a palpable sense of relief when you focus enough to read the message on your screen.

Itsuka 💕: Can you talk?

You’re pretty sure that’s a no, and in all honesty you’re afraid of what you’d sound like if you tried, so instead you muster up enough strength to shake your head, feeling more like a malfunctioning robot than a human. 

Another buzz, and a second message fills your screen.

Itsuka 💕: Do you need to get out? Can I touch you?

You think your nod looks a little more natural this time, but you could also just be fooling yourself. Kendou’s thoughtful enough not to lay a hand on you until she’s in your field of vision, gentle smile not quite masking the concern in her eyes. She has to practically carry you out, an arm wrapped tight around your shoulders; as much as you will yourself to walk with her, your legs won’t cooperate. As it is, you only just make it to a bathroom before your knees buckle and you slide inelegantly to the floor, leaning your forehead against the cool tile wall. It helps. Barely.

She doesn’t touch you, though you know she wants to; she’s a physical comforter by nature, but you know from years of experience that when you’re like this, the last thing you want is to be touched. Instead she joins you on the floor, position innocuously prim in your mundane surroundings - not quite close enough to touch you, but close enough that you’re intensely aware that she’s here. That she won’t leave you. 

That helps. A lot. 

It’s quiet for a long time, only broken by her hums and the sharp twangs once you come back to yourself enough to snap the rubber band looped around your wrist. It’s always a slow return, but you get there eventually, and she waits with the patience of a saint as your breathing evens out and the jitters running through you slow to a stop.

“Monoma’s going to ask what happened, you know that, right.” Your voice comes out flat and inflectionless, too weary to bother making it a question. Kendou nods knowingly.

“Well, he can be a dick -” and that startles a snort from you, hearing the ever-composed big sister of 1-B use such language, “- but even he has limits. He won’t push if I tell him not to.”

You grunt in acknowledgement, rising to your feet and immediately regretting your life choices as your knees cry out in protest after kneeling for - how long? Almost fifteen minutes, a cursory check of your phone reveals. For you, that’s actually not terrible. 

“You still have a few minutes before class starts,” Kendou says, offering your bag. You brush your fingers lightly against hers as you take it, slinging it over your shoulder as you consider your options. 

“Can you let Yamada-sensei know I’ll be a little late? I want to…” You trail off, realizing that they’re probably isn’t any physical evidence to clean up. Still, a splash of cold water would do you good. Kendou understands. 

She extends her hands but stops just short of actually touching you, letting you return the gesture and link your hands with hers. Another shadow of concern darkens her blue eyes at the red welt forming on your skin, and she slowly raises your hand to her face, eyes on yours to search for any sign of disapproval. She finds none, and you sigh contentedly at the press of her lips to the stinging skin, turning your hand so you can cup her face. 

You step into her embrace for only a heartbeat, bumping your forehead against hers before playfully shoving her towards the door (at least one of you should get to class on time.) She blows you a kiss as she leaves, even though you’ll only be apart for minutes at most. You’re dating a dork. 

Still, you think to yourself as you meet your own gaze in the mirror, cheeks pink and eyes tired. Anxiety attacks may be one of the banes of your existence, but with her by your side, they always seem a little more tolerable. 

[writesandramblings]

The Captain’s Secret - p.73

“Where Once Was Light”

A/N: Covers the remainder of episode 9, "Into the Forest I Go." Sorry for the delay, I wrote the chapter one way, then decided to scrap it and do it over. And then went for a third go to restore some of the content I regretting losing from the first revision! Also, it took a long time to figure out the exact code Lorca keyed into the console, but I think I got it right in the end.

Cornwell fans: I know this is probably a rocky road for you since "The Stars, Broken," but I promise you, you're going to get what you need by the time this journey is over.

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << 72 - All the Fears You Hold So Dear 74 - Now Darkness Falls >>

On the surface it seemed like there was no way out, but command politics, like space battles, were largely a question of advantageous positioning. Lorca was too good a strategist to accept a no-win scenario on any front. Not when he had so many other victories to fall back on.

In the past day alone, he had destroyed the Sarcophagus, protected Pahvo, and inadvertently rescued Cornwell. There were doubtless captains out there who would rather see Lorca leading the fleet then Terral. Coupled with his unparalleled ability to utilize the spore drive, removing him from Discovery at this critical junction could only be seen as tactical folly. The remaining admiralty had to recognize that.

Problem was, as the number of admirals shrank, Cornwell's voice became louder and louder. Never mind that she and Terral were demonstrably buffoons when it came to military strategy. She might get her way if she poured honey in enough ears.

He had to neutralize Cornwell. She had been tortured by Klingons for weeks. He could make the case she was not in her right mind and had conflated or misremembered events as a result. There was O'Malley's report to consider, but it was entirely nonspecific. What if he convinced Lalana or Mischkelovitz to claim the report was about one of them? He could doubly frame Cornwell as a jealous ex-lover with an axe to grind. O'Malley might be a hard sell, but supposing Mischkelovitz were game, the colonel could be pressured into compliance. He would do anything for his sister.

Cornwell had tried to come after his command. It would be interesting to see if her career could survive the accusations Lorca was prepared to level at her.

The comm sounded. "Culber to Lorca. You asked to be informed when Lieutenant Stamets was clear to return to duty."

There was a cold formality to Culber's words. "Thank you, doctor."

"Captain, I'm going to say something, and I need you to listen to me and hear what I'm telling you." Culber waited for acknowledgment, half expecting Lorca to close the channel.

"I'm listening."

"Paul could have died." As formal as the initial contact had been, it was now clearly entirely personal. "I warned you it was too dangerous."

"He didn't," said Lorca. Stamets had been exhausted by the ordeal, but the exhaustion passed, and he was now back to normal, or whatever passed for normal nowadays. "Dr. Mischkelovitz said he'd be fine and he is."

Culber exploded, but quickly pulled himself back to a more measured tone, aware he had to curtail his emotions the given the current audience. "He isn't fine, captain! We are talking about cumulative neurological damage."

Damage so unremarkable, Culber had not noticed it for weeks despite living with Stamets. That implied something a little different to Lorca. "Changes," said Lorca. "We're talking about neurological changes, the extent of which, by your own—"

That Lorca would downplay the significance of this made Culber want to throw out the Hippocratic Oath and sock Lorca in the jaw. It was probably a good thing they were speaking over the comms. "Captain! When we reach Starbase 46, I intend to lodge a formal complaint."

Lorca was still holding the cookie in his hand from the end of his conversational with Terral. His fingers tightened, cracking it unintentionally. He dropped the broken pieces onto the desk. "If you want to do so, that's your right, but let me make something clear, doctor. I didn't order Lieutenant Stamets into that spore drive. I merely asked. He got in there to save the aliens down on that planet because your husband is the sort of man who would do anything to stop an injustice against an innocent species." Stamets had proven as much when he subjected himself to a lateral genetic transfer rather than let Ripper suffer one more jump as the spore drive's biocomputer. "For what it's worth, I'm proud of him. There aren't many people would make that choice and risk themselves to save a planet of strangers. All I did was provide the opportunity for him to show exactly what kind of man he is. That's all I've ever asked from my crew: for them to be exactly who they are."

The sentiment left Culber stunned. That Lorca had said or thought any part of it did not remove the fact Stamets' brain was fundamentally changed in ways none of them fully understand, but it certainly gave Culber pause on his stated course of action.

Lorca continued, "Now I understand you're upset because you love him, so if you want to blame me, fine, but I won't stand in the way of Stamets being who he is. I have to believe that's part of why you married him."

Lorca listened to the dead air on the other end of the line with some degree of satisfaction. To underscore the assertion being made about who was in the right and who was wrong here, he added, "I appreciate the heads up on your complaint. If there's nothing else?"

"I want to go on record and state it is my medical recommendation that Lieutenant Stamets not conduct any further jumps with the spore drive," said Culber firmly, back to full professionalism. "To do so would be an undue risk to his health. We need to make do without the drive until after Paul has been cleared by Starfleet Medical."

"Duly noted. Lorca out." Lorca looked down at the crumble of cookie pieces on his desk and extracted the fortune from the mess. Your future is as boundless as the lofty heaven.

So long as he had the spore drive, the universe, like this little slip of paper, sat in the palm of his hand. All he had to do was make sure the spore drive, despite Culber's medical advice, still remained in play. Besides, if anyone was a hero in what they had just done, it was Paul Stamets.

He drafted up a communique and directed it to Admiral Terral.

Decline Legion of Honor. Give Lt. Paul Stamets, instrumental in Discovery success. The message was practically in pidgin. Lorca was going to take back all that power over Terral, Cornwell or no, and an intentionally terse, bordering on grammatically unsound missive was a step in the right direction.

Aware the clock was running, Lorca went to Lab 26. O'Malley was on the door. He offered Lorca only a cursory grimace and "captain" in greeting; they were both too overly conscious of and disappointed in O'Malley's recent ineffectuality to be in any mood to speak to one another.

Mischkelovitz, on the other hand, was excited to see Lorca, immediately dimming the lights and conjuring up the map. "It's done! What do you think?"

"It's incredible," said Lorca, reaching up to touch the holographic display as if to make sure it was real.

"Shakespearean," said a voice, and Lorca jerked his hand back in surprise. Lalana was standing in the doorway to her room. He could see the map reflected in her eyes as she stepped forward.

Lorca closed the map. "Sorry. Classified."

"Really? I believe my clearance is as high as yours." A kind lie; in actuality, because of the intelligence work she had done over the past decade, hers was technically higher.

"Eyes only," he clarified.

Lalana came right up to the workbench, grabbing the edge of the table to steady herself in a standing position. "Will you not make an exception for these eyes? I have already seen it, after all, and who would I tell? The two people I know best are in this room."

Stamets had seen the map, too, though not in its completed form. "All right." Lorca brought the display back up. "It's a map might take us to other universes."

"Definitely," said Mischkelovitz.

Lalana could not interact with holographic displays correctly so she relied upon Mischkelovitz to manipulate the map for her. Mischkelovitz deftly displayed the map's features: the locations of previous jumps, the color-coded navigable routes, the lines that curved away into another universe, or perhaps infinite universes.

"Truly it is amazing," said Lalana, "though are there not enough stars in this universe for you to explore? Must you also have another?"

"Who knows," said Lorca. "Maybe there's a universe out there where I'm an emperor, and Mischkelovitz is Einstein, Hawking, and Curie combined."

"Or at least a universe where everybody doesn't think I'm a monster," said Mischkelovitz bitterly.

Lorca's expression softened and he looked at Mischkelovitz with something approaching pity. "Maybe. Assuming you can find a way to implement these coordinates."

"There's nothing to implement. I don't know if our spore drive can get us there, but technically it's the same coordinate set," said Mischkelovitz.

"Oh? Then, there's nothing stopping us?"

"I wouldn't say that exactly... It isn't as easy as just jumping within the reference frame of a single universe."

"Is it dependent on particle resonance?" asked Lalana.

Mischkelovitz looked at Lalana with a confused expression, not because the question made no sense, but because it made too much sense. "The coordinates are farther away in a nonlinear dimension so it would take a lot more processing power than we have to reach them," she explained, then started to think aloud, "though, particle resonance could be used as a targeting component, and explain how multiple realities can exist in layered instances of spacetime connecting to the mycelial plane as a singular, unified frame of reference."

"Can the box do it?" asked Lorca. The lului box, ostensibly the focus of Mischkelovitz's current non-map research.

Again, Mischkelovitz looked at Lalana, this time with a faint expression of panic.

"We have good and bad news about that!" Lalana announced. "The good news is, the box is operational. The bad news is, the internal battery is still charging. We cannot confirm it will be effective until it is charged."

"Then let's get it charged."

"It is charging itself already! It uses an exotic and rare particle, so it will take some time."

"How long?"

"Twelve years."

Lorca stared. "What?"

"That is not very long to a lului," pointed out Lalana.

It was not, but it was entirely too long for them. "Then can we find some more particles?"

"Alas, the particles only exist in subspace, and we have no way of extracting them."

"The technology to do so is only theoretical at present," offered Mischkelovitz, sounding as uncertain as anyone could be. "Maybe in a few years I can have a prototype extractor designed."

Lorca leaned against the worktable. "One step at a time," he sighed. "Speaking of, I have a favor to ask. Two, if you'd be so kind."

"Is one of them sex?" asked Mischkelovitz.

Lorca realized he had inadvertently created a new kind of monster. Was this going to happen every time he encountered Mischkelovitz from now on? Part of him wished he had stuck to cookies. Her social ineptitude was only fun when it was at the expense of someone else's time and sanity. "No, but hear me out, and nothing's off the table."

"Nothing?" asked Lalana, perking up.

"Enough!" said Lorca sharply, and made his first request.

Mischkelovitz turned out to be entirely amenable to playing a role in Lorca's ploy, sympathetic as she was to the plight of requiring special sleeping accommodations. Her acceptance was compounded by Lorca's seemingly offhand but entirely calculated use of the words, "Consider it pulling one over on the adults back at Starfleet Command." O'Malley would be furious when he found out, but Lorca could handle him easily enough. The colonel had essentially served up his loyalties on a platter with that QORYA story.

The second request turned out to be the harder sell. "Now, I don't mean to alarm you, but we have Klingons headed our way from almost every direction. Normally, it'd be a three-hour trip by warp to Starbase 46, but we can't take a route that direct, not with the Klingons between us and there, which means we gotta take a route a little more scenic. This increases the likelihood we run into more Klingons, or that they try and head us off."

"Then let's jump," said Mischkelovitz.

"Unfortunately, Dr. Culber has advised no more jumps."

Mischkelovitz stared. "But why?"

"That jump sequence took a lot outta Stamets and Culber doesn't trust the changes in his brain. You might say he's been spooked. Unfortunately, without a safe jump to un-spook him, it looks like we're taking the long way. Unless..." Lorca's eyebrows raised and he looked at Mischkelovitz with an expectant smile. "Perhaps you could convince Dr. Culber?"

The confusion on Mischkelovitz's face deepened. "Me?"

"You're friends now, right? All I need you to do is go and cry some of those beautiful tears at him, let him see how upset you'll be if we don't make it to our destination in one piece. We are beset on all sides, Mischka. It'd be a damn shame if that cloaking algorithm you and Saru worked so hard on never saw the light of day. An even bigger shame if we all got blown to smithereens."

Lalana watched them both with rapt attention. Her hands were still gripping the edge of the table, or else they would have been spinning with delight. She had missed watching Lorca at work firsthand. It was her favorite thing to watch in all the universe.

"You won't let us get blown up," said Mischkelovitz, with the fervent loyalty of the child she so frequently expressed herself to be.

"We've been lucky so far," said Lorca, reaching his hand up and cupping Mischkelovitz's cheek. "Luck can run out. Do you want to risk it when we have a safe way to travel right here, if only Dr. Culber can be convinced to let us use it?"

"I don't think I can cry on command," said Mischkelovitz.

The one thing she could be counted on to do and she doubted it. "Want to know a secret? All you have to do is find the thing that's true in what you're saying."

"It is true," said Lalana, "that it would be a terrible shame if we all ended up like Milosz did back at the Battle of the Binary Stars. Myself, Gabriel, John, and Macarius. Can you picture it? All of us, dead or dying, right in front of you."

Tears began to well in Mischkelovitz's eyes. Lorca smiled. "That's my girl," he said, patting her cheek. "Now run along and don't let your brother see those tears."

Mischkelovitz nodded, wiped at her eyes, took a deep breath to steady herself, and fled.

"Don’t forget about the algorithm," Lorca called after her as the inner doors closed. He leaned against the worktable and fixed Lalana with a wry frown. "Really, Lalana? Milosz? I don't know if you needed to go that far."

"It helped you attain the desired result, did it not?"

"Still. That was overkill." Probably invoking O'Malley would have been enough.

"Better overkill than half-measures," said Lalana cheerily.

Lorca smirked at her. He loved it when she expressed herself in pithy platitudes. "We should put that in a fortune cookie."

"The important thing is we get you in front of someone who better understands this," said Culber, giving Stamets' shoulder a squeeze. They were in sickbay still, going over Stamets' scans.

"I didn't realize it was this bad," said Stamets. "I feel..." He shrugged. Fine wasn't the right word, but he also didn't feel bad. Different worked, but even he was not sure what it meant in this context.

"I know how important your work is to you," said Culber, the beginning of a consolation he felt Stamets needed.

"Forget that," said Stamets. "You're more important. I'm sorry I kept it from you, I just..."

Culber slid his arm across Stamets' back, pulling Stamets in and leaning his head against Stamets' shoulder. "The important thing is we're going to get through this together."

The doors slid open and Mischkelovitz came skidding in and rushed over to them, oblivious to the fact she was interrupting a private conversation. "Hugh!" she exclaimed at Culber with wide-eyed fear. Then her eyes shifted to Stamets and her expression became a disturbing scowl. "And... person."

"Paul," Stamets scowled back at her. He had not forgotten their altercation over the spores. "But to you, it's Lieutenant Stamets."

Culber was well aware of that altercation. As much as he had tried to explain to Stamets that Mischkelovitz required a little more patience than most, it seemed she and Stamets were intent on picking back up right where they had left off.

But then Mischkelovitz stopped herself, stared down at the floor, and her jaw began to tremble. She squeezed her eyes shut and started silently crying.

"Dr. Mischkelovitz?"

"I don't want everyone I love to die!" she wept, balling her hands into fists and pressing them to her face.

Culber and Stamets exchanged a look. All of Stamets' ire had vanished, replaced by a concern matching Culber's. "Why would you say that?" asked Stamets.

"That's not going to happen," promised Culber.

Mischkelovitz let out a plaintive wail. "But there's Klingons everywhere! We'll never make it! And I don't—I don't want to watch him die, too!"

Another look passed between Stamets and Culber. The question, unvoiced, was plain to both of them: was she crying about Lorca? (She was not, of course, but neither of them had any cause to know any better.)

"They know we killed the Ship of the Dead! They're coming for us! And they'll get us, they'll get us!" She directed this last bit at Stamets.

Culber gently put a hand on Stamets shoulder. "I'll take care of this," he said.

"Hold on," said Stamets. He hunched down slightly, craning his neck so he was level with Mischkelovitz's downturned face. "We won't let that happen. Will we, Hugh?"

For a moment, Culber thought it was an empty consolation, but then he realized what Stamets meant. The color drained from Culber's face but he plastered on a smile. "That's right, we won't. Everything's gonna be fine... Mischka. One jump." His eyes were unsteady as he locked his gaze with Stamets.

"One jump," said Stamets.

Lorca found Stamets in the shuttle bay staring out at the view of the planet Pahvo and its lovely reddish-hued star through the bay's forcefield. "They wanted to give me a medal," Lorca said as he took up a position next to Stamets. "For... leading the mission, saving Pahvo. If you can believe the irony." He looked at Stamets, unable to contain the smile on his face. Lorca still preferred stars to planets, but Pahvo was not just any planet, it was a planet that continued to exist because they had saved it.

In a sense, saving Pahvo had also saved Starfleet because saving Pahvo meant upholding the virtues upon which Starfleet and the Federation were founded. Virtues Admiral Terral had been willing to throw away. Virtues which were also something Stamets and Lorca now realized they had in common: that spirit of exploration, that desire to display the sort of upstanding character that compelled you to rush to the defense of the weak. Uniting disparate skills and species into a whole that was universes better than the sum of its parts.

The smile on Lorca's face held a genuine paternal affection. "I told them to give it to you."

"That's, um..." Stamets blinked. "Not necessary, sir."

"You made the jumps, you risked everything. None of it would have been possible without you. You did so well, the Klingons are on their way, hell-bent on revenge. I wish we could stay and fight, but Starfleet wants us back at Starbase 46."

"Do you need me to jump?"

"No," said Lorca, shaking his head, "I would never ask that of you. You've done enough. We'll warp to Starbase 46. We'll be fine."

"But—the Klingons—" Stamets seemed almost to stammer a moment. "I'll do one more jump to get the crew back to safety. They've risked enough already."

"If you're sure," said Lorca, and Stamets nodded. "Thank you." He looked back out at Pahvo then. "We're gonna win this war on account of you, Mr. Stamets. After this, it's a whole new chapter for Discovery. You've opened a door to a whole new era of exploration. The data provided by the micro-jumps will push us closer than we've ever been before to understanding the mysteries of the universe—"

"No, captain," said Stamets. "I mean only one more jump. After we get back, I'm done."

Lorca stared. This was not happening. He had thought Culber to be the sole barrier to their continued use of the spore drive, that Stamets' passion for his work outweighed everything else in his life, the way Lorca's thirst for the stars did. He realized mushrooms were not the thing Stamets loved most. He had misjudged the astromycologist.

Stamets mistook Lorca's look for a personal judgment and tried to explain himself. "Traveling the mycelial network is like comingling the most abstruse blips of our celestial existence. I've seen these stars through a lens no one else has access to, and that has to be enough for me. Because I need Starfleet's best doctors to examine my condition and figure out what's been happening to me."

There was tremendous fear in Stamets' expression. The idea that something was happening to him outside of his control was terrifying.

First Landry, then Ripper, now Stamets. Lorca's monsters were vanishing one by one.

Of course, Stamets was more than a monster. He had been a human first. He seemed to desire to return to this state now. Lorca turned to Stamets, smiled. "One last jump, then. You have served the Federation honorably, lieutenant."

"Well, I'll always have you to thank for the view."

"Hm!" went Lorca, surprised by the sentiment. "You ready?"

As they walked towards the shuttle bay doors, Lorca kept his face as level as possible. Stamets was a crucial part of what made Discovery so important and what made Lorca himself so effective. If Stamets was gone, he would be without the leverage he needed to stave off the forces seeking to strip him of his command.

One jump. He was only going to get one more jump. Everything depending on what was on the other end of that jump. If they docked at that starbase, Stamets would walk away potentially forever, Terral and Cornwell would take Discovery, and Lorca did not know where his place was in this universe without the ship.

No, he realized, without Discovery, he had no place here at all. He knew it as surely as he knew the stars were shining and space was largely empty and black.

They reached the junction where Stamets went right and Lorca left. Lorca extended his hand. "See you on the other side."

Stamets shook Lorca's hand and smiled. So many times in the past they had been momentarily on the same page and then slipped right off and ended up odds with one another. Stamets was gratified to think they were ending this journey on the same page at last. "Thank you again, captain."

"No, thank you," said Lorca, and Stamets could tell Lorca meant it.

As they headed their separate ways, Stamets suddenly paused, turned back, and said, "Captain? I know it's not really my place, but... Dr. Mischkelovitz came into sickbay crying? Maybe you should, I dunno, check on her?"

"I will," said Lorca.

He had to act fast. The timer was still running and it was fast approaching zero hour. Absent time, he needed more space. Mischkelovitz was still in sickbay, sharing a cup of hot tea with Culber, apparently calm enough for a regular conversation now. She and Culber were even laughing, though Lorca immediately noticed her laughter was an attempt at polite reinforcement and not at all genuine.

All he had do was say her name and beckon to her and she put down her tea and trotted after him obediently.

"I cried," she said when they were in the hall, as if the red, puffy state of her eyes were not proof enough.

"We have a problem," said Lorca, glancing to make sure the corridor was deserted. "I just received word from Terral. Now that the cloak is solved, they don’t need you on Discovery, so they're gonna send you back to some laboratory behind the lines and make you work on someone else's projects. Unless we can give them a reason to keep you here."

Mischkelovitz's eyes went wide. Leave Discovery? Discovery was her home. There was no captain that would have her but Lorca, and for reasons that went deeper than anything Lorca could ever know, she did not want to be anywhere but on a starship.

"We need to give them proof that your map is real." Lorca swallowed. Everything depended on how she took this next piece of information. "Particular resonance targeting," he said in a way that made it feel like he had spoken those exact words before. He removed something from his pocket. It was shiny and gold. "Can you get me the resonance coordinates for this?"

It was an insignia, but not one she recognized. At its center lay a circle of red and black patterned to resemble the continents of a planet. A sword stabbed through the planet, and two smooth, wing-like protrusions reminded her of the Starfleet insignia turned upside-down.

He let her take it, his fingers shaking faintly as she did, because he had not let anyone else touch it, much less see it, in two years. She turned it over and gasped at the inscription on the back.

"It's proof, Mischka," he said. "At least, I think it is. That's why I had to get Burnham. To make sure."

The letters on the back were as plain as day: BURNHAM. MICHAEL. A service number which was not Starfleet in origin.

"The thing is, they'll never believe me unless we can show them, without any doubt, that you're right, and I'm right. Even with this algorithm, we are still outnumbered and outgunned against the Klingons, but maybe we can fix that if we can find more guns and more people. So tell me, right now, can you provide me with the origin of wherever this came from?"

"I need a few days, but... yes."

Lorca's face fell. This was not a time problem that could be solved with one hundred and thirty-three jumps, not when he only had the one. He would have to take Discovery on the universe's most insane "evasive maneuvers" to buy her that much time. That was not likely to fool anyone for very long.

Finding Lorca absent any elation, Mischkelovitz asked, "You need it sooner?"

"I need it now," he admitted.

"Then let's go," she said, and started off the hallway, taking the lead for once.

"Put it in your pocket," Lorca told her, falling into step beside her.

O'Malley noticed her puffy eyes on her return, of course, and started to try and engage her, but Mischkelovitz held up a hand. "Wait here," she said to them both, and stepped into the lab.

The door closed. They waited.

Forty seconds later, Mischkelovitz emerged again, strangely very calm. "Okay," she said to Lorca. "You can come in now."

The insignia was on the worktable. The mycelial map floated above, but it looked different now. There were two maps overlaid on one another, half a centimeter apart. There was no sign of Lalana, thank goodness. Lorca picked up the mysterious insignia and slid it into his pocket as he stared at the map.

"You're a miracle worker," he told Mischkelovitz.

"No," she said, "I'm a hard worker and a smart worker. Miracles are for fools."

However she wanted to describe it, it was a miracle. He reached up and encrypted the second map under a personal command code, FKECG.

"This probably goes without saying, but not a word of this to anyone. Promise me. This stays between us and the higher-ups at Starfleet Command when we brief them, all right?"

"Yes, captain."

Honestly, she had her own reasons for not wanting anyone to know what she had just done.

"Captain, there was a strange data surge from Lab 26," said Saru when Lorca stepped onto the bridge. Lorca wondered exactly how much processing power Mischkelovitz had siphoned from the ship's data centers to get the results as fast as she had.

"We'll look into it after we arrive safe and sound," said Lorca, and went to the captain's chair.

In the engineering lab, Culber looked at the spore drive chamber, features clouded with worry. He heard footsteps and turned. Stamets strode straight up to Culber, cupped his hands against Culber's face and kissed him with a fervent passion. It was a kiss that lingered and broke only when Lorca's voice came over the comms.

"Mr. Stamets? Shall we dock this weary vessel?"

"Yes, Captain," said Stamets, gazing at Culber with adoration. He could see Culber's reluctance, the fear. "There is a moon near Starbase 46 and I understand they have the most esteemed Kasseelian opera house where they are currently performing La bohème. I could be your date."

Stamets had always hated opera, but he loved Culber so much more. His love for Culber was the single greatest force in his version of the universe. Culber's face broke into a smile. "Are you saying you'll actually sit through that with me?"

"Just this jump," said Stamets earnestly, "and then I'm going to have a lot of free time on my hands."

Culber reached up, drew his hand across Stamets' cheek, and then let Stamets go. Stamets entered the spore chamber, smiling. At the drive controls, Tilly initiated the spore release.

Up on the bridge, Lorca looked at the viewscreen at the stars. If he did this, there was no going back from it, but then, there was no going back now anyway. Lorca brought up the encrypted command override of the navigational controls on the console in the armrest of his chair. His fingers danced across the keypad. F-K-E-C-G.

"Let's go home," he said.

The spores swirled about the spore chamber, a cloud of pale blue dust, and still Stamets was smiling at Culber.

Then he screamed. Everything on the ship began to flash as the power systems fluctuated far beyond the capacity of the regulators to compensate. The ship shuddered. The force of it drove Culber back against Tilly's console on the opposite side of the room from Stamets. Crystals of ice formed on the surface of the spore chamber.

A moment later, all was still. The lights returned.

"Talk to me, cadet," said Lorca.

Tilly's voice was a panic. "The computer is reading it as an incomplete navigational sequence!"

Stamets staggered out of the spore drive and collapsed onto the floor. Culber and Tilly rushed to his side. Culber rolled Stamets over. Stamets convulsed, his eyes closed.

"He's crashing," said Culber, voice small and desperate. "I'm detecting white matter hyperintensity." Stamets' eyes popped open. They were suddenly pale, the blue obscured behind a cloud of milky white.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Tilly. As Culber's voice had shrunk, hers had risen in panicked alarm. "What's happening to his eyes?"

Stamets spoke. "So many... I can see them all! Infinite permutations. It's... magnificent!" His eyes twitched back and forth.

"Paul? Paul?" Culber called out, but Stamets did not respond.

Part 74

[stellamai]

Neil's Halloween debacle

It’s me, back with another ridiculous ficlet. You can blame Una for this one. She reached the point in The Raven King (can you believe she’s taken about a month to get here) where Nicky tells Neil not to trust him to pick a Halloween costume because he’ll “probably dress [him] as a French maid or something,” and immediately requested ((read: demanded)) a ficlet in which Nicky does just that. So, here it is. Rather than doing a canon-divergent situation, I wrote something that’s set a way into the future where everyone is happy. Also, Andreil’s cats feature, in Halloween costumes no less, because obviously I had to get them in somewhere. You’re ... welcome?

“So, Neil,” asks Nicky airily, his voice crackling slightly through the phone. “What are you planning on wearing for Halloween? Are you and Andrew coordinating outfits?” Neil glances at Andrew who, as usual, isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention, more preoccupied with trying to scoop rapidly-melting ice cream onto a wafer of insufficient structural integrity. An autumn breeze does nothing to disturb the sodden leaf piles outside, and a light drizzle patters against the large windows of the diner. Neil would wonder at Andrew’s food choice if he didn’t know him so well. “I don’t know,” replies Neil eventually, gaze still stuck on Andrew’s ice cream. Andrew freezes for a second, eyes flicking to Neil before he stuffs the wafer in his mouth. He pushes the bowl towards Neil slightly, eyebrow raised slightly in question, and Neil shakes his head in response, grinning slightly as he turns his attention back to Nicky. “We haven’t talked about it.” Andrew narrows his eyes momentarily before deciding the conversation isn’t worth his time and going back to his sundae. Beside him sit Kevin and Thea, who have been conversing in hushed tones since practice ended. The last Neil was able to pick up, they were discussing the US Court lineup for the Olympics qualifying matches; he highly doubts that Nicky’s Halloween plans will be of any consequence to them right now. Neil himself has half a mind to hang up the phone and join their conversation. He has a few ideas on which backliners should be working with Andrew if they want an airtight defence line. “How about you let me sort something out?” asks Nicky, and Neil doesn’t like his tone of voice. It may be the distortion, but he sounds suspiciously sly. “Andrew won’t go for that.” “Just for you, then.” Neil sighs. Nicky’s not going to back down in a hurry, and he’d rather not be on the phone for hours. “Okay, fine.” Nicky emits a delighted sound that Neil can’t describe as anything other than a squeal. “I can’t wait. Our first Halloween in Berlin together. It’s going to be so much fun. I’ve been getting Erik to help plan our route for the evening. He says there’s a bar that serves eyeballs in all their drinks on Halloween. I mean, I don’t think they’re real eyeballs -” “Can’t wait, Nicky,” interjects Neil, mindful of Andrew’s now-empty bowl and Kevin’s itch to spend as much time on the court as possible before he’s torn away from it for a long weekend. “We’ll see you in a few days.” “Bis dann! I’ll have an incredible costume waiting,” sings Nicky, and the line clicks dead. 

“Incredible costume,” deadpans a jet-lagged Neil, staring at the lump of fabric on the bed. “That’s what you said.” “And?” asks Nicky. “What do you think?” Neil redirects his stare, watching Nicky shrink slightly under its intensity. It only makes him feel mildly better. “In what universe is a maid’s outfit an incredible costume?” asks Neil. “It’s unoriginal, for one thing.” “I seem to remember,” says Andrew flatly, bored stare sliding between the two of them, “on your first Halloween with us, Nicky warned you that if you let him pick your costume, he’d dress you as a French maid.” Neil stares. “And you didn’t think to remind me of this sooner?” Andrew tilts his head slightly. “You didn’t ask.” “I wouldn’t think to,” groans Neil. “You’re the one with the eidetic memory.” “Come on, Neil,” whines Nicky, although his gaze is sharp. He always perks up whenever Neil and Andrew bicker or show affection or anything else he considers part of a ‘normal relationship’, Neil has noticed. “I even got you one with a high collar to cover up -” He gestures to his collar bones. “You know.” “Yeah,” says Neil with a sigh, feeling his scars itch with phantom pain. “Thanks.” “It’s not like you prepared a back-up,” chips in Andrew helpfully. Neil glares at him for the betrayal, but has to admit he has a point.

“Fine,” says Neil, snatching up the costume. It’s actually not too bad; the skirt is short but most of his torso will be covered, and he can still wear his armbands. 

He remembers his first Halloween with the Foxes - remembers thinking it was childish. Since then, he’s learnt the meaning of family, and can’t think of anyone he’d rather parade around Berlin in fancy dress with. Even if most of them are international Exy champions. He’s got used to having his face out there now, but hopefully the streets will be too full of people in costumes for anyone with a camera to get a good look at him. His personal life has been the focus of enough headlines to last a lifetime, and he’s not even out of his twenties. “Now, get some sleep,” says Nicky. “Or the jet lag will be killing you when we go out. Erik’s got plans to last us until at least four in the morning.” Neil glances at the midday sun dubiously as it breaks through the Autumn haze, but Nicky’s gone before he can protest. Kevin had fallen asleep the minute they arrived; Neil’s not surprised, considering how much he drank on the plane. Andrew had also picked up a bottle or two at Duty Free on Kevin's behalf, the contents of which had not-so-mysteriously vanished by the time they reached Nicky and Erik’s apartment. “Maybe the alcohol was a good decision after all,” says Neil with a sigh. “I’m envying Kevin right about now.” “What?” asks Andrew flatly. “Did you want him complaining about how much he misses his precious court for the entire journey?” Neil pretends to consider it, just to spite the short blond. In truth, although Andrew’s plane jitters don’t make him the most entertaining travel companion for a long-haul flight, Neil much prefers the silence to Kevin’s whinging. He’ll talk about Exy for hours under normal circumstances, but listening to Kevin complain about how they shouldn’t be leaving the court for so long - how will they keep up with their training? Their meal plans? Maybe they should have brought their practice racquets, just in case - would grate on anyone’s nerves. Besides, Neil can still find himself lost in admiring Andrew’s features after all this time, and Andrew doesn’t protest when Neil regales him with stories about anything and everything when they’re forty-thousand feet above the Atlantic. Sometimes, Andrew will clasp Neil’s hand instead of the arm rest, and Neil can feel the man’s heart rate become steadily calmer where it thrums against his wrist. “Junkie,” scoffs Andrew as he turns to leave the room, presumably to find his suitcase where they’d dumped them all by the front door on arrival. Neil only smiles. He can hear Nicky’s excited tones outside again as he greets Aaron and Katelyn, and Neil goes to watch as Andrew spares his twin a cursory glance before retreating back up the stairs again. Katelyn spots Neil at the banisters and waves, and he nods in response. She’s pregnant, he notes, and wonders if Andrew had known before now. Probably, seeing as he and Aaron talk on the phone almost every week these days, but he hasn’t mentioned it. It’s unlikely that he cares; the civility of his relationship with his twin has merely switched his opinion of Katelyn from distain to apathy. He keeps a photo from her and Aaron’s wedding day above the mantelpiece among countless postcards from Renee and various pictures of the cats along with a couple of Neil and Robin, but that’s the only acknowledgement of her existence that he makes. Neil thinks even that wouldn’t have happened without Renee’s gentle pushing; she was the one who got the photo framed. Neil shakes the thoughts from his head as the tiredness finally hits him; he’s not in the mood to play peacekeeper in Renee’s absence. He’ll worry about the twins when he’s had a nap and at least two cups of coffee. 

Neil’s startled awake by Nicky screeching at Andrew about cats. He groans and rolls over, stretching out a hand to turn his phone on, and is rewarded by the presence of fifty new messages in the Foxes’ group chat. Most of them are pictures sent by Robin, who’s cat-sitting for the weekend, of Sir and King dressed up for Halloween. She’s managed to fit Sir into an entire pumpkin outfit, and the orange sits strikingly against his grey fur. Amazingly, she’s even succeeded in affixing some fairy wings to King, apparently without getting mauled. Neil’s impressed. Even Renee’s sustained a scratch or two from King Fluffkins. It’s a surprise for Andrew too, apparently, as his response is simply: ‘if she murders you in your sleep, I will not be held responsible.’ Nicky’s reply to each new picture is just an incoherent string of capital letters. From what Neil can still hear from downstairs, his verbal response isn’t much better. Neil can tell the exact moment Andrew loses his patience, because Nicky’s shouts cut off with an abrupt squeak. “Did Nicky wake you?” asks Andrew when Neil appears downstairs a few minutes later. He’s already got a full coffee mug in hand, which he passes to Neil. Neil nods and tries unsuccessfully to smother a yawn as he accepts the mug gratefully. “Yeah, but it’s fine. I wasn’t planning on sleeping for long.”  Andrew disappears, and a second later there’s another distinct yelp from the direction of the kitchen. Neil rolls his eyes at Andrew when he returns, but he just stares blankly back in response. Neil thinks about insisting that he’s fine, but decides he’d like to keep his head today, despite it being Halloween. “Is Kevin up?” he asks instead, and Andrew turns away silently to go and check.  When they’re all gathered in the kitchen, Nicky shows up again, Erik, Aaron and Katelyn in tow. They’re all in costume, and Nicky orders the others to their rooms to get changed. Kevin’s sleeping on the sofa downstairs, so he claims the bathroom. Neil stares at his costume for a second then sighs, pulling it on determinedly. He supposes blending in was something he gave up on long ago anyway. He considers using the brown contacts that he still keeps tucked in his wallet - he doesn’t need them anymore, but having them there is a reminder of how much he has to lose - but Andrew sees him looking and tucks the wallet out of sight into his own pocket. “It’s not like you can carry it,” he says, eyeing Neil’s costume with a carefully blank stare. Neil shrugs and regards Andrew’s own costume with a raised brow. “How unoriginal.” Andrew looks pointedly at Neil’s maid outfit and turns to leave, his devil tail swinging behind him. Neil grins and follows him. He doesn't care how many pictures are posted online tonight, he decides, and if closed-minded people want to mock him for it, that’s none of his concern. He got used to that after he went public about his sexuality. Apparently, demisexual is a bit too far a reach for many people still opening up to the idea of there existing any sexuality other than hetero. Nevertheless, he’s stopped pretending their opinions matter to him, or have any impact on his self-worth. It’s Halloween, and he’s going to go out and have a great night. Ten years ago he wouldn’t have even dreamed he’d ever be going out like this with people he cared about - people he’d built a life with. People who are all currently outfitted in frankly ridiculous costumes. He’s surrounded by his family, and really, that’s all that matters.

[bromfieldhall]

What Makes You Beautiful - A Mentalist Fanfiction

TIMELINE: Set some in the future after series four finale. Minor spoilers.

SYNOPSIS: “Yesterday I made a New Year’s resolution. I’m going to give myself one whole year to woo and win the love of California Bureau of Investigation’s Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon.”

PAIRING: Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

CHAPTER 6

"I don't know why you're being shy, And turn away when I look into your eyes"

~ What Makes You Beautiful ~ 1D

June 12th – 5.55am

Something's wrong with Lisbon.

I can't quite work out what it is yet, but it obviously has something to do with me.

I look over to where she's speaking to the man who found the dead body at my feet and let out a sigh of frustration.

Ever since I arrived at this crime scene she's been avoiding me. Apart from a barely spoken acknowledgment of my presence, there's been nothing. No fleeting touches, no smiles…she won't even look at me.

I didn't take much notice at first. I put her offhanded manner down to the fact that it's ridiculously early, it takes over an hour to get here to the National Park and the victim has been murdered in a particularly barbaric way. It's never pleasant to see limbs missing.

But the longer I'm here, the more aware I am of the marked change in her behaviour towards me.

I must confess it concerns me a little. Actually, it concerns me a great deal. Especially as we had our second 'date' last night.

It wasn't something I'd planned, we've been far too busy, it was just good timing for once. A case had closed quicker than anticipated when the murderer confessed, surprisingly easily even if I do say so myself, and I'd quickly taken the opportunity to suggest we get something to eat. She had agreed with a smile and we'd gone to a local diner. It was the only thing open at that reasonably late hour but to me, however trite it sounds, just the two of us alone spending some quality time together, talking, laughing…it felt like we were dining at a five star restaurant.

I'd walked her back to her car in the CBI parking lot and she'd turned to face me with a smile.

"Thanks for dinner, Jane, I had a nice time. See you tomorrow," she'd said then turned to go but I wasn't about to let her leave just like that.

"Wait, Lisbon, technically this was a date," I'd told her with a grin. "And if memory serves, you showed me exactly how one should end not so long ago."

I'd thought for a moment that she would make some sardonic comment and leave but she'd slowly turned back to me and tilted her head to the side as if assessing my words.

"You're right, I did," she'd replied, the slightly higher tone of her voice the only giveaway that she wasn't as composed as she pretended to be.

My grin had widened at the almost challenging look in her eyes and I'd gladly accepted it. I'd purposely clasped my hands behind my back so as not to touch her anywhere but her lips. I wanted all her focus to be on our kiss and nothing else. Slowly, I'd leaned forward, watching the way her eyes closed and she tilted her head back so that I might reach my prize easier. I finally placed my lips on hers and had felt a jolt of pure desire race through my body.

I shouldn't feel like that from just a simple kiss…but with Lisbon I just do. I can't explain why, I don't even want to try. I just know that I want to feel that way for the rest of my sorry days on this earth. Especially when it's one of those amazing, leisurely kisses that holds the promise of so much more, as last night's was…

She's really good at those.

And that's why her coldness this morning is like a kick to the gut. I don't know what I've done; all I know is that I have to put it right.

I shake my head in amazement. A couple of kisses from the woman and I'm completely under her thumb. Thank God she doesn't realise it yet.

I think back over the past few weeks and try to recall any trouble I've caused. I honestly can't remember having done anything bad recently. Well…not too bad anyway. I mean, yes, that man did end up with nearly half of his head shaved last week but at least it proved he was innocent. Not that he was grateful about it. Really, you just can't help some people.

"Any thoughts?" asks Lisbon brusquely, suddenly appearing by my side.

Plenty. How about I take you in the forest and…well…take you. There's a thought. You'd have to look at me then. I smile a little as my gaze roams over her averted features and picture her hair all mussed up with leaves from the forest floor. It'd be a good look on her. My body starts to react to my errant musings but as I study her a moment longer, it's evident that she's still not going to look at me and my warm feelings are swiftly overtaken by irritation.

"She's dead," I reply being deliberately awkward. I'm going to get some reaction out of her one way or another this morning, even if I end up with a broken nose.

"Anything else?" she enquires with just the faintest hint of annoyance in her tone.

"Her left hand's missing."

"Apart from that?" she queries starting to sound exasperated.

"Her left leg's gone below the knee," I answer helpfully.

"I know that, Jane! Is there anything useful you can share?" she solicits with barely contained ire clear in her voice now.

Just where I want her…mentally speaking.

"Walmart has a two for one special on taco shells. That's useful to know…if you like tacos," I inform her flippantly. I then turn to her and query interestedly, "Do you like tacos, Lisbon?"

"What the hell is wrong with you this morning?" she demands to know finally turning to look at me back.

"I could ask you the same thing," I counter with a frown.

My comment obviously brings her up short and her anger is quickly replaced by worry…no, not worry exactly…more like…apprehension. I'm intrigued.

"What? I don't know what you mean," she denies defensively .

Oh, but she does. I can tell by the way she can't quite meet my eyes again.

"Liar," I say succinctly.

Her gaze snaps to mine and a soft blush coats her cheeks before she looks away.

"Let's just get on with the case, shall we?" she proposes, all business once more. "Her name's Maria Henshaw, age 21. Worked in a local pharmacy in town."

I decide to let it drop for the moment and do as she asks. Pushing her further will only cause her to close up and I don't want that. I'm confident I'll find out what's wrong…eventually.

I drop to my knees and proceed to look over the victim in closer detail. A cursory sniff reveals a chemical smell I can't identify then I turn my attention to the rest of her body. She's obviously been hit on the head so I check out the stumps where the limbs were removed. My stomach churns a little but as I haven't eaten yet this morning, I know I'll be fine.

"There's some kind of unusual aroma you might want to get them to check out. It looks as though her leg and hand have been cut off cleanly and precisely so I'd take a guess at it being done by someone with some sort of medical background," I comment as I stand and brush the dirt and leaves from my trousers. I look up and catch her staring at me but she quickly drops her gaze, somewhat guiltily, and takes great interest in the lifeless body on the ground.

"OK, so you think maybe the person who did this is a doctor or something?" she asks logically.

"Possibly," I concur with a shrug then add drolly, "Maybe even a mad scientist that needs body parts for his latest creation. There are a lot of odd people out there, Lisbon."

"Tell me about it," she mutters meaningfully under her breath, making me smile.

I watch her walk away and go over to Cho. They talk for a few moments then both glance over at me before she walks off into the forest. Cho heads my way, notebook and pen poised as ever in his hands ready to take down any pertinent information.

"What did you do this time?" he asks bluntly.

"I don't follow," I reply, surprised at his question.

"Lisbon just told me to ask if you had any other idea's about our vic. She's gone to have a look around. She'd never purposely leave you on your own at a crime scene unless she's pissed at you about something; so what did you do?"

I'm a little annoyed that he's so quick to conclude that I'm somehow at fault but I have to agree that he has a point. Lisbon doesn't leave me alone at crime scenes. It usually results in too much paperwork.

"If I knew, I'd do something about it but as it is, I can't help you," I tell him tetchily. I gesture to the body and add, "Either with her or Lisbon."

I stalk off in a huff towards where I last saw the infuriating woman and head into the forest. I can hear Cho calling me but I ignore him completely. I want to know what has Lisbon so rattled. Since there's nothing I can think of that I've done, I'm beginning to suspect that it's something she doesn't want me to find out…and that makes me a little afraid.

Could she be wanting to end this thing between us before we've even got started? I hope not but it wouldn't surprise me either. Lisbon is nothing if not cautious and I'm positive that from that first moment I kissed her poor bruised face, she's been arguing with herself back and forth as to whether or not I'm worth the trouble.

In truth, I'm not sure that I am. I know she deserves better than me. She can certainly get better than me. But we still both have our own baggage that we struggle with and maybe she's decided that mine's just a little too heavy to help carry on a more personal level. I'd be devastated but I wouldn't blame her for that. How could I? I buckle under the strain myself at times. It's hard.

I continue on through the undergrowth and keep an eye out for Lisbon. My unhappy thoughts urge me on quicker and in my haste I fail to notice a tree root sticking out of the ground at an awkward angle. I trip over it and fall flat on my face so hard it knocks the breath out of me for a moment. As I lay there, my heart sinks as I hear the sound of someone approaching and lift my head to see Lisbon come to a halt a couple of feet away. No man wants to be found like this by the woman he adores. So humiliating.

"You OK?" she asks in amusement.

"Wonderful," I reply dryly.

I'm pleased to note that at least she's looking and talking to me now. It's nice to know that my little mishap has one upside.

She moves forward a couple of steps then holds out her hand to help me up. I grasp it firmly and quickly get to my feet. I have every intention of keeping a tight grip of her hand now that I have some contact but when I glance down at myself I reluctantly have to relinquish my hold in order to brush myself down. I'm a complete and utter mess.

"I'm surprised you bothered to help me up," I say conversationally as I run my hands down my jacket and vest. I grimace in annoyance at the odd smear of dirt that is left behind. I shall have to get this suit to the dry cleaners.

"Why's that?" she asks.

"Well, I would have thought that this scenario is what your dreams are made of, Lisbon. The two of us alone in the middle of the woods, me prone at your feet," I explain as I bend to tend to my trousers. "Just think of all the things you could do to me with no-one to hear…"

I trail off as I straighten up and my teasing grin fades when I see the way she's looking at me. Flustered doesn't even begin to cover her expression.

"Trust me, Jane, I never dream about you in any scenario," she refutes a little too adamantly. "I have enough of you during the day without you bothering me at night too."

Her eyes skittering away from mine negates that statement however and suddenly everything miraculously clicks into place. I've been so concerned that her behaviour was about something I've done, that I failed to entertain the notion that it was actually about something she's done…albeit subconsciously.

The avoidance, the apprehension, the grouchiness…the denial.

It all makes sense to me now and to say I'm relieved is an understatement. It isn't what I'd feared after all and I can't contain my smile that Lisbon was apparently as affected by our kiss last night as I.

"Never, Lisbon?" I check, raising my eyebrows sceptically.

She pouts a little and I see a frown start to form at my obvious incredulity.

"…Never, Jane," she verifies unconvincingly then blushes just to confirm my suspicions.

I do so love her stubbornness…even when she is lying to me. I watch her in silence for a few seconds more; just enough time for her to grow uneasy and begin to fidget a little and then I let her off the hook.

"OK, if you say so, Lisbon. Best get back to the scene. I want to have a crack at the man who found the body," I tell her cheerfully.

I turn and leave her standing there, confident that she'll follow. I hear her footsteps behind me and grin to myself as I walk back through the foliage to the crime scene, mentally rubbing my hands in glee.

If I'm not very much mistaken, and I'm sure I'm not, Lisbon had quite a dream about me last night…of the naughty variety. Very naughty if her level of embarrassment is anything to go by. Oh, Lisbon, you bad girl, you.

I wonder what we did? Whatever is was, I hope that in the not so distant future I'll be able to make that dream a reality for her…especially if her cuffs are involved. I've had a few of my own wild dreams about what she does with them.

I reach the clearing where the body is lying and head over to Cho and Rigsby with Lisbon still trailing a little behind. They give me interested looks as I join them and I realise I probably look quite unkempt.

"You've got leaves in your hair," Cho advises me, impassive as always.

"Oh, it's not what you think," I say with a diffident smile, knowing full well that it will make them both jump to the wrong conclusion. I run my hand through my hair a couple of times to dislodge the plant life and clarify tritely, "There was a tree stump. I fell over…"

Lisbon joins us and Cho glances at her guarded face then looks back at me and nods.

"Yeah."

Unsure of why Rigsby and Cho look a little ill at ease, Lisbon frowns and does what makes her most comfortable. She takes charge. Barking out orders, she gets updates on the situation while I go and talk to the shaken man who found the body. A few well chosen questions later and I rule him out of being the murderer. I turn and look around for Lisbon and see her walking towards me with Rigsby and Cho.

"The local sheriff's office are going to continue the search for the missing body parts. We're going into town to speak to Maria's family and do some canvassing," she informs me. "Why don't you go back? You probably want to change your suit."

Oh, you're not getting rid of me that easily.

"No, I want to come along. You can ride with me if you like?" I suggest with a winning smile.

With the two male agents flanking her, she knows it'd look odd if she didn't accept my offer. We always go together, even before I started my personal campaign. She eyes my car warily but nods her head.

"OK, but just don't drive too fast," she warns grudgingly.

We get in my car and follow Rigsby and Cho to town where we split up. Lisbon and I talk to Maria's family and the people at her workplace while the guys head off to speak to her friends. Our investigation moves along nicely and it's soon apparent to me that the victim's boss at the pharmacy is to blame. He'd trained as doctor years ago then decided to go into pharmaceuticals instead.

The motive is all down to medication theft. Her boss was actually taking the drugs and selling them on and Maria found out. He killed her with a single blow to the head. There was no real reason for the missing limbs, he just decided to do it. Kept them as some kind of trophies. Like I said to Lisbon. A lot of odd people out there.

I lean against my car with my arms folded while I wait for her to finish up with the local Sheriff and smile at her when she finally emerges from the building. I've been on my best behaviour since I realised her little secret and as the day's worn on she's gradually relaxed around me once more. I'm pleased because it means she's unsuspecting of a little plan I've been concocting. Nothing bad, just some payback for the way she behaved this morning.

"You still here? I thought you'd be long gone," she states as she looks around. "Where's Rigsby and Cho? I need a lift back to CBI."

"I told them they could go," I reply casually. "Rigsby was chomping at the bit to leave. Hot date I believe. I'll take you back."

I push myself away from the car and open the door for her to get in. She gives me a glare that tells me she's not happy with the arrangement but I don't care. I get to have her to myself for a while, that's all that matters.

Her mood lightens considerably on the ride home as I do my best to make the journey an entertaining one. I love to hear her laugh, even though some of it is directed at me. She apparently found my falling over a lot funnier than I'd realised.

As we near the CBI, I suggest we get something to eat and we stop at a roadside diner for a quick bite. Hunger sated, we continue on and finally reach the parking lot of the Bureau a little after nine in the evening.

"Thanks for the ride," she says as we get out of my car. "I'm heading off home, it's been a long day. I'll finish up the paperwork in the morning."

"I'll walk you to your car," I offer as I fall into step alongside her.

We walk in comfortable silence, my hand accidentally brushing hers as we move. My heart skips at the unintentional touch and I give her a sideways glance. She looks at me too and we share a smile. Once we reach her vehicle she turns to face me. Her eyes fix on my lips and for a moment I think that she's going to kiss me but, instead, her gaze wanders slowly down my body then back up again. My heart begins to pound at the fact that I'm pretty certain that Teresa Lisbon has just blatantly checked me out.

"You should get that suit to the dry cleaners first thing in the morning otherwise it'll be ruined."

Or maybe not.

"I will," I reply agreeably as I take a step nearer to her.

I hear her breathing begin to pick up speed as she tenses slightly and I take another deliberate step right into her personal space. She looks up at me and we are so close now that even in the dimming light I can clearly see that her pupils are so dilated they are almost black. I know damn well that mine must look the same and as her lips part slightly, I have to fight everything within me not to give her the kiss she so obviously expects.

I begin to second guess my plan because, really, what kind of fool am I for denying myself her lips? But then I think back to how upset she made me and I renew my intent.

Her eyes flutter shut and just as she begins to lean forward I raise my hands and place them firmly onto her shoulders, holding her still.

"I'm sorry, Teresa, but I can't kiss you tonight. It wouldn't be fair on you," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'd hate to be the cause of two sleepless nights in a row…it makes you grouchy…and just a little bit mean."

Her eyes snap open and widen slightly as they lock with mine in horror. A red flush stains her cheeks so swiftly and hotly, I can almost physically feel the warmth radiating from them. Suddenly, her face contorts into a picture of magnificent rage but, before she finds her voice, I grin and lean forward to place a gentle peck on the tip of her nose. I turn and start walking towards my car wincing slightly at the diatribe that follows my retreating back.

"Why, of all the...you arrogant, narcissistic, son of a…I hate you!"

I love you, too.

"Goodnight, Teresa," I reply brightly as I keep walking and lift a hand in salute before delivering my parting shot. "Sweet dreams."

The sound of her car door slamming followed by the engine firing and a screech of tyres has me grinning even wider than normal. I get into my Citroen then set off for my motel at a more sedate pace than my lovely partner. Once in my room I make myself a cup of tea then get changed into my pyjama bottoms.

I sit up in bed and have my drink, allowing the soothing brew to help me relax as my mind wanders back over the last few months. I think the softly, softly, baby steps approach to Lisbon is paying dividends at last. She's finally seeing me as a man and not just 'Jane' her annoying consultant. I'm glad because ever since our first kiss, I've been more than aware of her as a woman. It's downright uncomfortable at times.

I finish my tea and place the cup on the nightstand then turn off the lights. I really must bring Lisbon some of those doughnuts she enjoys so much as a small peace offering tomorrow. I'm sure she'll forgive me by the end of the day. She's good like that.

I settle myself down in bed and as I lie in the dark my unruly body stirs when I think back to how wonderful Lisbon looked in all her angry glory and how much I want to feel her lips on mine again. I turn on my front and let out a groan of frustration as the floodgate in my head opens wide and pictures of the woman I so desperately want fill my mind close to bursting.

Despite my goading earlier, somehow I know I'm the one who's going to be in for a sleepless night tonight.

END CHAPTER 6

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #05: No Limit

A phone propped up on a stool. The screen displayed the last time NSFW had been on television. Broken and battered. Stacked on top of each other like cordwood. Through the wreckage of tables, twisted cables, and busted equipment. The shot pulled back. Two brown mahogany caskets. Each accompanied by flower arrangements. One light green. One orange. The caskets are in a spacious parlor. High ceiling. A wide arched entrance. An exquisite crystal chandelier hung overhead. The carpet looks soft and plush and like no one’s ever set foot upon its mint-colored surface. Sunlight from a row of tall windows naturally illuminated the room despite the somber display. A moment of silence was observed. From seemingly beyond, they speak. Narrowed back on the screen of the phone. More precisely, the phone. The room’s acoustics amplified the little speaker for all to hear. “I know what this looks like. More on that later. Look right here. Right where I’m talking out of. That’s us.” “Ugly, ain’t it? I’d say we wouldn’t wanna be those poor sods, but unfortunately, we were.” “Mike and I promised to bring it up North and we did. Until we didn’t. Alexander. Frank. The Limit. Once again, we had to find out about your intentions after the fact. We heard about the challenge. But before that. You don’t want competition. You don’t want to be a part of this resurrection. You want us out.” “You see, my dear lummoxes, we put out the challenge we did hoping someone who actually cared about this division would come and prove us wrong. That’s who we were talking to. Not a couple’a fuckin’ mercenaries.” “Here’s the problem. Maybe just mine to be completely honest. Why? That’s what I keep asking myself. Keep asking my partner, too. It’s not worth answering that question. You made it clear that you don’t believe in tag team wrestling. You’re a team, sure. Can’t say otherwise. But not like us. That doesn’t matter. Can’t use that line anymore because it may say that NSFW is one up on The Limit but at the end of the night we sure didn’t look like we won anything. Take another look at us. Then listen to what you’ve said. Doesn’t matter if The Limit wins or loses. Only matters if you two destroy us.” “Do you really care about anything but that, boys? What if the shoe was on the other goddamn foot? D.J., say I grabbed ahold of ol’ Ethan and gave him the same crash landing you treated me to. Would you want nothing more after that than to tear me to shreds? How about vice versa, Ethan? Because if you don’t fathom that, you have no idea what kind of team we are. I said it before. We are a team. We care about each other a hell of a lot.” “That doesn’t matter either. So what is all of this? Maybe we should be be speaking about ourselves in the past tense.” The audio from the phone cut off. That harrowing image still prominently displayed. “No.” And there was the distinct sound of hinges creaking in unison. The camera panned back out. John Bishop Church. Mike McGuire. Both in matching black three piece suits, him in an emerald silk tie, her tie-less but sporting a rather fetching coral shirt with the top button undone. In front of what could be construed as their respective final resting places. However, that was not the case. “This is a celebration of The Limit’s legacy.” Ethan Alexander. D.J. Frank. Both men were laid to rest in black suits of their own. Their hands were placed over their chests. They looked at peace. An eternal waxy rest. John turned to look onto the face of Ethan. “As of late there has been disdain for hyperbole and rhetoric. Personally I abhor it. But to put us out of this sport would be death.” Mike gave a cursory glance to the figures at rest. They were quite convincing. Imposing figures if not for the peaceable resting expressions. One dark skinned, one fair, both the very figures of Detroit tough guys. If they weren’t dead as doornails. She cracked her knuckles in a distinct lack of subtlety. “You caught us unawares. You came to war with hand grenades, which is great, but they ain’t gonna do you no good when we bring out the goddamn tanks. You two have made the biggest mistake of your entire sorry fucking lives. And no bloodshed or payday is gonna be worth it once we’re through with you.” John nodded in agreement. “The irony is not lost on me. To get past The Limit, NSFW has to do what theyare so easily capable of doing. Maybe easy for my partner. Not so much for me. I would be lying if I said the criticisms didn’t bother me. But I don’t want to lie anymore about this.” He looked over at Mike and nodded. He turned back to face the camera and after a deep sigh, he resumed. “I view what I can do as dangerous enough. But I know that it won’t be enough this time. Some would put me in the camp of those who abstain from this company’s trademark out of wanting to take a stand. That isn’t the case. I was afraid. I am afraid. Of this ideology that success is justified through any means necessary. The extreme violence. To cause it. To be a victim of it. But some good advice that I received put it all in perspective. I need to face that fear. And I need to use what I feel for The Limit against them.” He balled up his fists and almost seethed the next statement through his teeth. “Anger. And to use that anger to do what is necessary.” Mike made a slight move closer to her partner. Nothing huge, but a further display of solidarity. “And I ain’t gonna stop him. Because whatever he’s got a bead on doing to you? I probably got designs on doing even worse. Nobody crosses the line you two’ve crossed without paying through the ass for it. And come Night of Champions? Those asses are ours. You’re going to fly like Peter Pan’s uglier, stupider siblings and hit one sad landing. But before you eat table? You’re gonna wish we’d just chuck you through. Every little bit of hurt you put on us. Every single bruise you put on my partner’s body. You’re gonna pay for that fuckin’ tenfold. Nobody Strikes this Family and Walks.” Perhaps Mike was making this even more personal than need be: after all, having to physically throw someone through pressed wood was fairly personal on its own. But in her mind, The Limit had committed an unforgivable crime by laying hands on John outside of the bounds of combat, and she was out for blood. “And so this little macabre display. It symbolized who The Limit were. Their story is a cautionary tale.” “See, once upon a time there were a couple’a tough guys who may have been paid off by some jerkoff with a grudge. Or they may not have been. Who’s to say, and who even gives a flying ratfuck at this point? But either way, these two shitheads came to a place of battle, answered a challenge not meant for them in a way that it wasn’t meant to be answered. And for a while they were pretty pleased with themselves. But then the people they attacked? They came back. They came back pissed, and even the sweetest of them came back fucking mean. And they sent those so-called tough guys flying right into splintery oblivion.” “And here they lay. Their rhetoric. Their insistence that there is no goingbeyond The Limit. That’s just what we’ll have done.” “We won’t have just gone beyond it. We are going to break through The Limit. We’re going to fucking shatter The Limit. And when we’re through?” Mike looked at the pair of ‘corpses’ resting in their caskets, and snorted. “There will be NO LIMIT.” Cut. Except the audio. Once again in unison, NSFW closed the lids shut. The final noise being an emphatic thud. “An expensive way to make a point.” John turned his back to the coffins. He wondered for a brief second if push had come to shove that he would have even been in one of these. He flicked that thought away. “And an ultimatum so to speak.” “Hey, they seem pretty fuckin’ dense. You don’t make a point this extreme it’ll never get through their thick-ass skulls.” They swallowed over a lump in their throat, poking at the nearest dummy-stuffed mahogany box with a well-shined dress shoe sheathed toe. They knew quite well that the contents of both were fake as fake could be. Nothing but a pair of suits, a ton of flesh colored wax, metal frames. But nevertheless, their presence made Mike a little uneasy. Perhaps their train of thought was on the same track as their partner’s. Or perhaps it was on a different track at the same station- how close they’d come to filling that box at the hands of a violent hypocrite. They fought the urge to cling to his arm in a simultaneous gesture of protectiveness and seeking comfort. They couldn’t slip like they almost had at the hospital. Especially not here- that would be an even bigger slap in the face to Natalie, who was far too wonderful for someone like them. They cleared their throat instead. “How’re you feeling, bud? Ribs still hurtin’ you? Head doing okay?” John stepped further away out of the parlor. Just under the arch of the entrance. He braced his back against the wall and turned his gaze to them. “I think I’ll be okay when it’s time. You’re moving better.” “Yeah, it’s nice to not be moving like a little old granny. I mean, not MY granny, she’s fuckin’ eighty-something and still does farm work every day, but… yeah. I mean back still smarts like a motherfucker but I’ll be good too. A’course, I’d go into this beat to shit if I had to.” They stood beside, fingers flicking a bit. A cigarette would be nice, but they were being good. He acknowledged her dedication with a solemn nod. “I guess we should be grateful for this opportunity. Nothing at stake except retribution. Part of me feels frustrated with that. Makes me feel like we are fighting against more than just those two.” “You got that too, huh? I mean… bless Carlos and his adorable fuckin’ self, but fuck Mucho Grande. They never pinned Pirate and Puss, we did. Shit, I don’t think anybody has but us. And we’re fighting the goddamn Lummox. Not that they don’t deserve a serious ass kicking but yeah. That should be us fighting for those belts.” Their fingers stop flicking and tighten into fists, which they were trying their damndest not to punch into Natalie’s nice walls. John raised a finger as if it were an objection. “Personally, I agree with that sentiment. But that’s not what I mean. There will always be that argument that they got it done when it mattered. No, think back. The last two months have been a ghost town for the division. Now on the backs of our dedication, they’re crawling out of the woodwork. Makes me think we should take credit. Makes me also think others are reaping what we sowed.” Mike blinked, their jaw dropping a bit, as if they hadn’t thought of this. “Holy shitting fuck. You’re right, you know. I mean not that I wanna go out and make us our own Saviors Of The Motherfucking Tag Division belts, but shit. Some recognition would be nice? Hey NSFW, thanks for working your asses off to get this derelict fucking tag division going again? Geez.” “Doesn’t make me feel so great to make these assumptions. Plants seeds for bitterness and resentment. Something makes me feel that was the path I was going down...” He trailed off. “I think it’s good that we said this here. Between us. Because it can’t define us.” “Yeah. I mean, it’s okay to feel frustrated about stuff. Get mad about things. That’s all part of being, y’know, human and shit. But you start airing those kind of grievances on TV and the internet and stuff, yeah, some people might have your back but then rumors get started that you’re bitter ingrates bitching about not getting enough attention. Like, what are these assholes complaining about, they’ve only been here how many months?” Huffing a bit, they looked up, and grinned a little. “But that’s what we got each other for. You gotta get any of that shit off your chest, I’ll listen to you. And I know you’d do the same for me because you are a fantastic fucking listener.” Reaching their arms up, they give a long, almost cat-like stretch. Their back cracks a bit. “Ow. Shit. Anyway… we’ve got this entire huge-ass mansion to ourselves. Whaddya say we do some exploring? Maybe we’ll find a hidden vault where Natalie keeps her secret stash of exotic cookies.” Normally, John would have opted to lay up in a hammock near Natalie’s garden, flicking through the virtual pages of a book. But Mike was very good at getting into trouble. He figured he could be complicit this time. “Let’s go.”