#maybe i should brush up on my bagpipes

[fox-mulder-gets-pegged]

Looking at my list of skills and hobbies and thinking fuck I need to get weirder.

[johannstutt413]

(requested by calligomiles)

“Alright, Kit-Kat, you can do this.” Swire leaned over her sink, looking at herself in the mirror. “You met a cute girl at the bar yesterday, she and her friends thought you were cool, and now you get to take her out somewhere nice and show her that’s true. You’re cool, right? Yeah, you are. So there’s nothing to worry about. She’ll be here soon, and-”

*Knock knock* “Swire? Sorry if I’m a bit early, I just couldn’t wait to see you again!”

“Shit she’s here already.” The Feline ran a brush through her hair one last time and tried to rein her heartbeat in as she walked out of her bathroom and out to answer her front door.

“Hi!” There was the blonde Ursus girl, in all her cutesy glory. “Ready to go?”

She nodded. “Definitely! Have you had sushi before, by any chance?”

“No, but I know someone who makes it,” Gummy replied, practically a living beam of sunshine walking beside her.

“Oh! Well, I grabbed us a couple seats at a Lungmen steakhouse; the chef there is absolutely amazing, and I can show you the ropes while we’re there.” Thinking about that made her blush. “I mean, like, how to order and stuff.”

The chef giggled. “I figured that’s what you meant. You can relax, Swire.”

“Right, right.” All she heard was ‘try harder,’ and so she would.

It was a bit of a walk to the restaurant, so they made small talk: how work had gone that day, thoughts on the upcoming mission rotation (they were slated for fieldwork soon), that sort of thing. Along the way, Swire felt herself gaining ground, recovering a measure of self-respect in the way she responded, until they finally arrived at the restaurant, and she had enough faith in herself to carry on the night as a mature, put-together member of society.

“Good evening.” The Feline smiled at the front desk person. “Two seats around the grill, please.”

“Of course. Back left side; feel free to order whenever you like.” They passed along two menus as Gummy and Swire continued inside.

Immediately upon seeing the man at the grill, the Ursus gasped. “This is his place! I thought it was, but I wasn’t sure, but he’s working tonight! How convenient!”

“I did a little research.” Complete and utter lie; she’d just wanted sushi. “Those should be our seats there.”

“Great! Hey, when she said we order whenever we like, do we just need to get Jaye’s attention?”

Swire nodded. “It’d be rude to shout at him, so raise your hand when he’s looking in your direction once you know what you want. You know him pretty well, then?”

“Yeah! We work together at the cafeteria on lunch shift when we’re serving fish meals; he does the fillets, Bagpipe makes fries, and I prep the other sides. He looks a lot meaner than he is.” Gummy looked at the menu, but her head started to spin soon after. “Wow...So many options...”

“If I could make a suggestion?” The Feline pointed to the ‘Lungmen Street Specials’ section.

The chef cocked her head. “‘Street specials?’ This is what he serves at his cart, right? They let him serve that here?”

“There’d be riots if they didn’t,” she chuckled briefly before clearing her throat. “His balls are a great appetizer.”

“...” Rada held in her laughter for all of five seconds before bursting out laughing, clapping her hand on the counter and lifting it high between every other impact to avoid the third-slap power chop- 

-which summoned Jaye to their section. “Good evening, Miss Swire, Miss Gummy. Enjoying yourselves?”

“Oh, very much, Mister Jaye,” Gummy beamed back. “You can order first, dear, I’m still deciding.”

“I’d like my usual order, please.” The Feline grinned confidently.

The fishmonger nodded. “Order of fishballs and a small variety platter. Miss Gummy?”

“I’ll have what she’s having.” She was still giggling. “One question, though: are fishballs an appetizer or a meal?”

“They are whatever the customer needs them to be, Miss Gummy.” And with that, he drifted back to his workstation.

Swire was doing her best to stifle a laugh. “I can get us something to drink while he’s working on those.”

“Oh, thank you! I was going to get up in a little bit for that.” Rada thought for a moment. “Do they have alcohol here?”

“They have sake,” she replied casually.

The Ursus blinked. “That’s how you say it?”

“Indeed.” The Feline’s ojou side was running things while her softer side was rolling on the floor of her cranium. “Shall I get us a bottle?”

“Ooh, yes, please! It’s not a proper meal without a little bit to drink.”

The walk to the bar gave her enough time to release her pent-up excitement; right now, she wanted to skip and jump like a fool, but now wasn’t the time. She called her dear! On their first date! That’s the most progress she’s made in one night since college! Feeling good, she approached the bartender, wallet in hand, and gave him a bright smile. “Good evening! One bottle of sake and a pair of masu, please.”

“A pair? You have a date tonight, then, Miss Swire?” He returned the smile as he grabbed the bottle and box-shaped cups. “I hope she realizes how lucky she is.”

“Oh, stop that; I’m on top of the world already.” She handed him a large bill as he set a tray on the counter with everything she needed on it.

The bartender took the bill, ogled at the size, and set it aside. “Are you sure you don’t want change?”

“Nope! Keep it!” The Feline sauntered off. “Have a good one!”

“You, too...especially since you just tipped over a week’s wage for one bottle...”

Swire didn’t hear that, though, as she swaggered back to her seat with the tray; their food had already arrived, but Gummy had started eating yet. “Oh, you waited for me? You didn’t have to do that, Gummy.”

“I didn’t want you to miss anything, though!” The Ursus beamed at her. “You can call me Rada, by the way.”

“Rada, Rada...where have I heard that before? Anyway, we should start with a toast, I think. Tradition says I pour your first cup, and you pour mine.” The Feline opened the bottle and did just that before passing off the sake to the chef.

Rada gingerly held the bottle as she poured. “How often do you come here, Swire?”

“Oh, every now and again.” If you counted delivery orders, every day. She’d picked up her glass by this point. “Why do you ask?”

“When Jaye set our food down, he mentioned something about taking you to the convenience store for a snack afterwards? Do you know what that means?”

No...No, he DIDN’T. “I have an idea of what he meant. Son of a bitch.”

“Oh, is it bad?” Gummy frowned. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“No, no, it’s not like it’s bad, it’s just-” Her arm, deciding it was time for her to take a drink, moved despite the fact her mouth was still moving, which had the unfortunate result of causing her to gargle sake. Trying to get a grip on herself, she accidentally set her glass hand on the tip of the tray, causing it to tip-

And sending it, and her, crashing onto the floor as gravity and inertia worked themselves in knots to embarrass her. From the ground, the Feline sneezed. “Every time,” she muttered, not quite able to stop tears from coming to her eye.

“...Excuse me, waiter? Two to-go boxes, please?” Rada pulled out a decently-sized LMD stack from her wallet, set it on the counter, and hopped off her chair to kneel next to Swire. “We should get you home, dear.”

“Sorry I made a mess,” she managed, wiping at her face with her damp-but-not-soaked left sleeve.

Gummy just smiled at her. “You’re a lovely mess in my book. Ah, the to-go boxes. I’ll pack this up, and then we can go back to your place. Sound good, Kit-Kat?”

“He really did tell you, huh...” Swire sighed, standing up. “It’ll do.”

“Great! We can watch TV while we eat that way. Besides, it’ll- nope, it’s probably still too early for that.” The Ursus’ face burst into a tomato-red blush.

Unfortunately for, the money-cat was focusing entirely on her. “Besides?”

“Um...I’ll tell you later.” She glanced around the restaurant before leaning closer to whisper, “But since you have to wash your clothes, it’ll be, um...easier.”

“Oh!...Ohhhhh.” The Feline was blushing too, now.

Maybe she hadn’t needed to worry about being the mature one after all.

[mimosaeyes]

It’s the fear, not the miles, that wears them down.

Jon and Martin take a break from trekking through the apocalypse. Nebulously set post-164. Quick fluff, 1.5k

Beta-ed by @distortion-noodles (main blog: @nifeandaccurateprophefies) and @sequoiawintersnight. *Tim voice* Double beta?! Indeed. You both spoil me.

“Right,” Martin says, on what he thinks is their third day walking without a break. He’s probably underestimating, too. “I don’t care if the natural laws of the universe have been re-written. It can’t be good to keep going like this.”

It takes Jon a moment to surface out of his reverie. “Hm? Oh. We could stop for... I was going to say ‘the night,’ but, well.”

They come to a halt anyway, after struggling out of a field of tall grass that seems oddly reluctant to let them go. Which is a little sinister, even in a world where the sky looks back at you. For good measure, they climb a nearby hillock, all the while brushing bits of vegetation off their clothes.

Martin stands at the top and squints at what used to be the horizon. He doesn’t do that a lot. Now, when he tries to find the points where the sun used to rise and set, his eyes tend to be drawn to the Panopticon instead.

Also, one time he’d seen something in the distance that looked alarmingly like livestock falling out of a glowing cloud. He’s not eager to witness any other such phenomena.

Jon’s elbow brushes his arm as he comes to stand next to Martin. “Do you feel tired?” he asks, also staring out across the landscape.

I feel like I should be. Even as Martin thinks this, his mind snags on the tentative, almost brittle note in Jon’s voice, and the way he placed a faint emphasis on you. Jon always sounds cautious when he asks Martin a question, from the effort of trying not to compel him, but this is different. “Oh, don’t do that,” Martin says, turning to look at Jon disapprovingly.

Jon blinks. “I’d say I have good reason to enquire after your wellbeing in the middle of a dystopian hellscape.”

“You always use more polysyllabic words when you’re uncomfortable, I don’t know if you’ve noticed. Anyway, I wasn’t talking about you fussing.” Martin flicks Jon gently on the forehead. “I was talking about you spending the last hundred eldritch-kilometres moping about being a monster.”

“Actually, even though London is a little over four hundred miles from the Scottish Highlands, we’ve walked about five hundred miles so far,” Jon says helpfully. “You know, insofar as distance has any meaning anymore. We’re like that song by The Proclaimers.”

“Stop trying to distract me with pop culture references, you... post-apocalyptic pedometer.”

They stare at each other for a long second, then burst out laughing. It slightly eases the tension that’s been building up in Martin’s chest.

As Jon’s laughter peters out, he sighs and looks at Martin, still smiling. “Alright, yes. I admit, I may have spent the last while thinking about how, unlike you, I’m no longer human enough to get tired. Or apparently, take a shortcut through a Distortion corridor. I wouldn’t call it moping—”

“Yet he supposedly knows everything.”

“—but,” Jon pauses to give Martin a flat look, “I can’t imagine how you got all that from four words.”

“What can I say? I’m well-versed in Jonathan Sims-ese.”

Martin’s small smile falters before he even realises he’s going to continue. “And, well. Worrying about you gives me something else to do, besides feel terrified and angry all the time. That’s what I’m really sick of, I think; not the walking.”

“Angry?” Jon repeats quietly.

Martin just shrugs. “Magnus used you. Of course I’m angry.”

His hand has clenched into a fist unconsciously. He only notices when Jon reaches out to take it. “I think I can help with the other thing,” Jon muses. It’s not quite an offer.

“How?” Martin stares at where Jon is slowly unfurling his fingers.

“By showing you something. If you’ll let me. I — I know you didn’t have the best experience of this, with... Elias, as we knew him at the time.”

Your mother simply hates you. You want to know what she sees when she looks at you?  

Martin shudders despite himself.

Then he whispers, “Okay.”

Because it’s Jon, whose scarred skin is so familiar against his. Because some part of him knows that all the pain in the world couldn’t make Jon’s touch ungentle.

“This is what I see,” Jon tells him, “when I look at you.”

Distantly, he hears the static that accompanies Jon using his Beholding powers. It drowns out the noises of the apocalypse — the unnatural wind, the cries, the wet slip of flesh. The distant bagpipes and gunfire and buzzing of flies that Martin still hasn’t left behind, not really.

He’s no longer standing under an acid-trip sky. He does a double-take before he figures out what he’s looking at: himself, or at least the top of his head, pillowed on Jon’s belly. He recognises their bedroom in the cottage, even if he doesn’t remember this moment. They’re dozing, insouciant, even breathing in tandem. Light spills from the window and pools over them, golden and heavy.

“I promise, this is the only time I watched you sleep,” Jon says, but not the Jon whose eyes he is seeing through. “Before the world ended, at least. While slumber was still peaceful.”

Martin has the absurd, intuitive impression that his voice arrives directly in his mind, bypassing his ears. This doesn’t freak him out as much as he thinks it should.

“It’s not like you haven’t done creepier things around me,” he points out, instinctively speaking in hushed tones.

Dream-Martin huffs and snuggles even closer to Jon. Martin frowns. “Hang on — isn’t that where you’re missing a rib? Aren’t I hurting you?”

“I thought it was sort of poetic,” Jon says ruefully. “You, in the place of something vital that protected me.”

They both watch as Dream-Jon lifts a hand from the duvet and cards his fingers ever so lightly through Martin’s hair.

“Armour and anchor,” Jon muses, almost to himself.

It doesn’t escape Martin’s notice that he hasn’t actually said no to his question. The sentiment still makes his breath catch in his throat.

With a slight effort of will, and little idea beyond that of how exactly he does it, Martin separates his perspective from Dream-Jon’s. Instead of gazing down at himself, he finds himself standing off to one side, feeling even more of a voyeur to his own past happiness. He’s suddenly very conscious of the grime that has accumulated on his trousers and boots, from wading through various bogs filled with nasty surprises.

Martin turns to his right, knowing before he sees him that he’ll find Jon standing there. This Jon looks wary and travel-worn, his hair hanging raggedly around his sharp, angular face. He offers Martin a faint smile.

“Maybe you should try writing some sappy poetry,” Martin says at last, but too softly for it to come across as teasing.

Jon seems to hear what he means underneath the words. “I thought this might help,” he murmurs, pleased.

Martin steps closer, close enough to tuck the grey locks behind Jon’s ears. “You know,” he says slowly, “you said this is a world where we can’t trust comfort.” Jon’s face begins to harden with old guilt. Martin quickly continues, “But I trust you. So... so maybe think about that, the next time you need to stop being all mopey.”

Jon’s shoulders sag. “Oh,” he says. “Alright.”

A dreadful thought occurs to Martin. “This — this is real, though. Right? Where we are, this is a real memory.”

“Yes.”

“So we’re... in your mind, somehow?”

“You wouldn’t want to be in my mind right now,” Jon says, his tone matter-of-fact. His eyes flick briefly to the bedroom door. His expression darkens, perhaps at the thought of what lies beyond it. “This is where I come for some quiet from — from everything, when it feels like I know too much. You might say it’s the... eye of the storm.”

A beat. “Can I smack you metaphysically for that joke?”

“Rude.” Jon manages to make the word sound impossibly fond. He grips Martin’s arm, and eases them out of the memory with another wave of static. Or perhaps he lets it fade away from them. In any case, Martin blinks, and they are back in the end of the world.

It’s still pretty dire. But the tension, the feeling of being perpetually braced for worse — that’s mostly subsided. At least for now.

“Better?” Jon asks. He scuffs his shoe against the ground, almost shy.

Martin smiles fully for what feels like the first time in ages, cups Jon’s cheek, and kisses him. Thank you, he thinks, and I love you, and You could never be a monster in my eyes.

Jon hums as they pull apart, then presses their foreheads together for a moment. His breaths break warm and soft on Martin’s skin. Martin kisses his forehead, too, before holding out his hand for Jon’s.

Once more, they look out at the long way they have left to go. Then, holding tight to each other, they start walking again.

[also available here on AO3]

[my TMA fics on AO3]

[coffee-n-bagels-comic-universe]

January 3rd or One's Beginning is another's end (Daughters of Darkness)

This passage contains potentially: Explicit Language, Depictions of Violence (including mentions of blood), Smoking, Slang and maybe some bad translations.

Summary: An introduction to the world of the Daughters of Darkness, through the eyes of series protagonist Kirby 'Gluttony' Lucifarian. The first day and night, from her perspective, of them working for the WWF.

Kirby's POV:

Tuesday. The first day of being 'on the job', Tuesday the third of January 1984. Damien got us into the WWF. … Damien, managed to get us into the quickest rising wrestling promotion, popularity wise. To be honest with you, Damien's given us free reign to get to know people, for now. I don't know anyone here. I've heard of people here, such as the most famous giant in the world, and … Hogan.

I'm not here because I earned it, I'm here because I'm a necessity for the team. That's how I view it. That's how I've always viewed it. Vickie needed someone to make fun of and, well, I'm the easiest choice. Then, in the midst of a darker path of thought becoming clearer in my mind...

WHAM

Both me and the figure I waltzed into thudded to the floor, "Oh, my good lord. I'm so sorry are you o..."

I looked at the figure before me, taking in how much trouble I had created in the last three seconds.

Taller than myself.

Head covered by a wild afro.

Around double my weight.

André.

André the giant.

Flat on his arse … because of me.

Oh … Shit.

"Are you alright, Mademoiselle…"

I could tell he was searching for a name but didn't know it. Too frightened to even speak I glanced away. I noticed his shadow move.

"Mademoiselle?"

His footsteps came closer, he sounded … worried, as if he didn't want me to get fired for this.

"Mademoiselle?"

He picked me up, not off the ground, but so I could stand. I whispered out a small 'thank you', or rather 'merci'. His hands still on my shoulders, he smiled sweetly and nodded, as if to beckon forth more words from me.

"I'm Kirby, or rather, Gluttony. I'm new around here."

André grinned, putting his arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer before stopping upon seeing how much taller than every other woman in the company I am.

"Are you, uh …" he searched for the words

"A giant, yes, technically a giantess."

I feel I should summarise the next hour or so, but, André took me on a tour of the backstage area and we talked, about everything. Within an hour I had gained a new friend, a genuine friend, someone who didn't care about my height or looks. I know the only reason he didn't care is because he knows what it's like to be stared at just because you aren't 'normal'.

By the time André's tour had ended it was time for Vickie and Damien's interview with Mean Gene, which I was to attend. I said a goodbye to André and rushed off to perform my usual role.

The Enforcer, or rather, the intimidation device, that's my role in this group, to scare people, that's all I do. Before joining the group I was part of another group back in England, The Celtic Warriors, I was part of a championship winning tag team. Now what am I, a damned intimidation device, a human scare tactic.

The Interview:

Gene's first question for us, actually, Damien and Vickie (whilst I stood behind them and looked 'menacing'), was 'How are you doing so far?'

Damien began, "You know something, Gene, my girls have yet to have a match, but we are doing absolutely fine. In shape, ready to rock, ready to roll. Gene, every one of the Daughters of Darkness are doing fine."

Vickie followed suit, "Just look at us," She gestured to me and then herself, "Don't we look marvellous, Gene."

Gene smirked, "You could say that again, miss?"

"Pride, though you can call me Vickie."

Damien glared at the smaller man, almost as if he was daring him to try and flirt with her.

Gene readjusted and focused in on the prospect of new women in the WWF and the possibility of more matches. "Uh hum, yes, now how soon do you girls think you'll be seeing a match on the cards?"

"Soon, Gene, Soon." Vickie stated, ending the interview by walking off.

The first night after 'work' was surprisingly normal, Damien and Vickie went off in their rental car, taking Holly and Eli with them whilst the rest of us stood around backstage for a while.

Billie brought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her purse, lighting one up and walking over to me, sitting down on a box placed near by and blowing the smoke away from me she spoke up.

"What's up with you, Tall-ass."

"Thinking."

"Dangerous pastime hermana."

"I know, hermana"

"You collect phrases, don' cha?"

"They may come in handy, Billie, one day."

"You going to the gym tomorrow?"

"Of course. Gotta train. Gotta … gotta settle in somehow, right?"

"Right, mi hermana, I'll see you around, alright?"

"See ya, Billie."

She waved back at me as she walked away.

Billie was the only person who knew that I 'collected' those little phrases that seem like nothing until spoken. Language isn't my strongest aspect, more often than not I'm silent and I try to avoid other peo-

"Hey! watch where you're walking man!" I yelped out, shocked back into the present moment. Instantly regret flooded my mind as I realised who had barged past me to get out of the building.

Big John Studd.

One of the most disrespectful 'giants' in the world of wrestling. famous for being the one man who pisses André off more than anyone else, including the Iron Sheik.

He sneered back a quick, "Who gives a fuck." and continued to stroll away.

That … that fuckwit. Who does he think he is. I felt a gentle hand place itself on my shoulder. I turned, expecting to see Eli or P.G, I was face to, well, chin with André.

"Forget about him," He started, with that same sweet, friendly smile from earlier, "Damien said you may need a ride back to the hotel. I don't recommend you walk back now, too dark out for a young lady such as yourself."

The way his R sounds turned into faint W's and he missed off or faintly implied H's was calming. Almost in the same way that hearing a parents voice would calm a child after a nightmare.

"Oh, uh, it's okay André, I was going to get a taxi."

He nodded in response, somehow both downhearted and curious, as if he knew that I was either lying to him or if I did get a taxi, the immense pain my back would be in the following day. André sauntered off, leaving me, once again by myself.

I don't mind being alone, in fact most of my life I have been alone, always the outcast, it was only when I got into wrestling that it started to change.

I picked up my bag and started walking, buttoning up my shirt up to the top of my chest, my near-neon orange shirt covering down to my mid-forearm, hiding any noticeable tattoos, except the one on my wrist, when I turned eighteen, I got a small, runic 'R' on my right wrist, in remembrance of my uncle Rory, the tallest of my dad's brothers.

It took about an hour to get to the hotel, an hour of walking through a city I'm not familiar with, when I eventually got to the hotel I went straight to my room and locked myself in. All alone, I could practice or train if I wanted, so I did.

I took off my black shirt, shoes and belt and I stood in the middle of the hotel room and practiced punching, then I switched to doing my warmups and working out, push-ups, planks, squats. By the time I finished it must've been around midnight, maybe one or two am. I got some sleep, waking up at six, getting changed into some fresh workout gear and headed straight to the gym.

You meet all sorts of characters at a gym, or so I've been told. Back in England I would go to my parents house and use our home-made gym to work out. Not an option that I have anymore, however, the moment I got into the gym, I felt like I was in a whole new world, as if I was just getting into the business all over again. I scanned for any faces that I knew, Mr Fuji, Tonga Kid, Sgt Slaughter, Don Muraco, Lou Albano, Iron Sheik, Freddie Blassie, Tito Santana, Jimmy Snuka, Bob Backlund, Gene and Pat, David Schultz, and … who is that?

I walked over to David and this mystery guy, nodding at David and heading to the heavy bag next to them.

"Mornin' Gluttony, André's been talkin' about ya."

"Oh really, Mr Schultz?" I tried to keep my breath noises to a minimum as I continued to hit the bag.

The mystery guy snickered, quickly shutting up after Schultz glared at him.

"C'mon girl, you know you can call me David. An' yeah," He stopped punching and instead leaned on the heavy bag in front of him, forcing the other guy to hold it still "Giant's been talking about him havin' a new friend and how much he likes ya."

"He's a good man, it's good to have friends in new places. Who's your pal, David?"

He smiled and slung his arm around the shorter man, "This here, this is Roddy Piper. He's like you."

I tilted my head slightly to try and make him explain further.

"You are Scottish, right?"

"I'm a quarter Scottish. Anyway, Piper, Do you speak Gaelic?"

"Uh, no, I can play the bagpipes however." his eyes lit up slightly, a sort of mad fire behind a haze of brown or maybe dark blue.

"Well, I'll see you around I guess, I've gotta warm up for later though."

I tried to block the two men out and focus on my own workout but Piper seemed to stick around a lot longer than David. He was still there when my workout ended.

"What do you want?"

"You're a quarter Scottish, you're also a giant. How do you fight? Show me." He seemed to get more energetic the more he talked.

"Right now?"

He nodded, "Right now, c'mon."

He led me to a ring that some other wrestlers were using to brush up their skills.

From the looks of the ring, it was actually used for boxing.

Roddy entered the ring the same way as most six-foot-two guys did, through the top and middle ropes. I tested the ropes, and seeing that they had just enough slack, used them to jump over the top rope.

"I've never seen a girl do that before."

"Mistake number one, I'm a woman, not a girl. Mistake number two, you expected a giant to be normal."

He scoffed out a laugh and got ready to lock up.

We locked up and Piper hit me with a knee to the stomach.

I got him back with an Irish whip into the corner, accidentally winding him by being too stiff.

"You're gonna pay for that, lass." He snarled out, already getting pissed off.

I sized him up, trying to see how high I would have to get myself in order to dropkick him to the mat.

Piper tried to hit me with a running high knee strike but I countered with a dropkick, taking us both down to the mat and slamming my face into the mat.

The mat was a lot harder than I was used to, it felt like I had rammed my head straight into a cinderblock, I started breathing heavier than before.

I rolled over and put my arms up, making an 'X' with my forearms. Piper stopped and walked over.

"You alright?"

I shook my head.

He knelt down and pulled me up into a sitting position.

I hesitated, knowing I had to take my mask off to see what was wrong but truly not wanting to. Piper managed to unbuckle the straps of my mask and winced as he saw what was underneath. My mind went slightly mad not knowing if he was wincing at the injury I had caused myself or the fact that, compared to the rest of the D.O.D, I'm truly the worst looking, beauty-wise, that is.

Hitting my mouth so hard on the canvas of the mat below us, I had managed to hit my mask in a way that the bottom edge, which curved under my chin, cut into my flesh and made me bleed.

I put my hand up to the cut and Piper quickly held my arm by the wrist and shook his head, "Don't you dare."

By the time I received medical aid, which consisted of cleaning the cut and putting a band-aid on it, Piper had given me back my mask and asked if he could work out with me sometime. Knowing that he was currently on a different show, I said sure and we had split ways.

END OF ONE'S BEGINNING IS ANOTHER'S END / JANUARY 3RD

[pollylynn]

Title: Percuss WC: 1100

“Would you call that appropriate for a police precinct?” — Victoria Gates, Swan Song 5 x 07

He cannot keep his hands off her. It is a physical impossibility, even though he knows the stakes, even though he’s greedy and long past his one-time maybe people find out and maybe we won’t get to work together theater. He has no intention of going gently into that good maybe, and yet here he is facing it down, all because he just can’t keep his hands off her. 

It’s a global issue. It’s constant and all-encompassing the way he wants to touch her all the time. He wants to sneak tiny kisses and seek out shadowy corners for more sustained making out. He wants to help her on with her coats and shake the cascade of her hair free of her collar. He wants to cop a feel and dodge out of the way of her retaliatory ear twists, and he wants to hold her hand on the down-low. These are twenty-four/seven issues. 

It’s a little more intense right now, though. This is agonizing for her. The constant surveillance amplifies and preserves for the ages all the road bumps and missteps that every investigation hits. And that’s all on top of the loss of professional control in the first place. He finds himself running into more than one glare from her that quite specifically says that she’s thinking of the way he wormed his way into her life in much the same way as the jackals currently following her around. 

It’s not entirely fair, but he’s much less concerned, for once, with what’s fair—to him, anyway—and what’s not. His attention is on her. His hands are on her, because he wants to offer her comfort and reassurance that she’s doing better than fine her on a difficult case that’s rife with complications. His hands are on her because he wants to remind her that she likes his worming—except . . . ew. This is why his hands are on her, because in the blinding light of her presence, words fail him sometimes. 

His hands are on her, an innocent sweep of her hair behind her ear. A compliment paid, soft and low, because he knows she agonized over everything today—the sharply tailored slacks and jacket, the crisp, traditional blouse, the understated makeup and the the more deliberately styled hair. He touches her cheek and wins a smile for it. He touches her cheek and may very well have lost them everything. 

Not everything, he tries to remind himself as they plead with Joel Midas, as they threaten Joel Midas, as he, at least, considers dangling Joel Midas out the window by his scrawny, second-rate-film-school ankles. The man will not budge, and he tries to fight down the clawing panic as he reminds himself the even if they are forced into the terrible maybe  of not working together any more, he’ll still have touching privileges during the hi honey, I’m home hours.

He tries, but the clawing panic just . . . sort of shuts him down. Other than his ankle-based strategy, he is not contributing to what should be a fierce battle with Midas. He doesn’t even think to shut the blinds. She’s the one who ends up having to do that, and he almost reaches out to give her shoulder a grateful squeeze. He remembers—belatedly—the no-touching-in-the-workplace policy that should have been guiding him all along. 

He’s half out of himself, half collapsed inward as he gets a jump on lamenting his fate. He’s watching from a  few steps off; he’s in the thick of it—the churning media engine that disrupts and co-opts and jeopardizes his entire private life. It’s a phenomenon familiar enough that he wants to throw a beer bottle at it, but he also wants to lie flat on his back on a desk and bemoan this inevitable turn of events. 

He’s wrapped up in himself. He’s disconnected from her, literally and figuratively, as the part of him that is driving the bus seems to accept that his days of being able to touch her at will are numbered. And then suddenly she’s breaking off the meeting. She’s walking out on Midas, and he has the wrenching sensation that she’s accepted it, too. 

And then things are happening. Work or whatever. He supposes that they all showed up today  to catch James Swan’s murderer, so he guesses they’ll do that, then. He has his sparks of life—his sparks of resistance. The solve is cool, and so is the way they get to it, but there’s a  funeral dirge playing in the back of his mind the whole while. 

The internal bagpipes kick in when Gates summons them. But it’s just that he’s been caught being a smart ass. He’s in trouble with the Captain, but he’s always in trouble with the Captain, and he’s stunned—he’s stunned—by this apparent miracle. 

He wants to grab her around the waist. He wants to swing her around in circles until she’s dizzy and he’s dizzy, but he does no such thing. He is done taking risks. He is all about self-denial and preserving the union now. He maintains his distance and he spies her mouthing thank you right into the camera. It’s a while before he can ask her about it—a while before he has any idea how she pulled it off. 

“I begged,” she says simply as she brushes up against him in the kitchen. 

It’s not simple at all. He grabs her wrist. He spins her toward him. “You begged . . . who?” 

“The camera man.” She swats his hand away from the pan she’s stirring chicken in. “He felt sorry for me anyway.” 

“Sorry,” he repeats dumbly. “For you?” 

“Because I’m so hopeless with all that”—the spatula makes figure eights in the air—“camera stuff.” She shrugs. “And I told him it was important. That people not know. That we get to keep working together.” 

“You told him that.” He’s very much about the dumb repetition at the moment. “And he just—“ He blinks. “Wow. Where have you been all my media-saturated life?” 

She laughs. She turns and throws her arms around his neck, spatula and all. “Don’t be too impressed. I locked the other guy in the janitor’s closet when he said no.” 

“Still impressed, Beckett..” He runs his hands all the way down her sides, calling up a shiver. He presses the heel of his hand into the tense lower-back muscles on either side of her spine. He touches her all over. “Still impressed.” 

A/N: Why is this long? Long is not a thing. 

images via homeofthenutty

[weshallc]

BERNS NIGHT (Revisited) 

Call the Midwife AU Crown Jewels fic (this one actually has Bernie in! She must have been in panto or something in January missed a few chapters)

CHAPTER FOUR: There In Thy Scanty Mantle Clad.

“There, in Thy Scanty Mantle Clad, Thy Snawie Bosom Sunward Spread.” To a Mountain Daisy by Robert Burns 1786

"I Hear Your Footsteps in the Streets, it Won't Be Long Until We Meet. It's Obvious." Oblivious by Aztec Camera 1983

 “Ouch, be careful!”

“Well stand still, Paddy,” Trixie scolded, “and I won’t accidentally prick you.”

“Is this really necessary?” whined the publican, not for the first time that hour.

“You want it the right length, don’t you?” admonished the determined dressmaker.

“That’s too short.” Paddy grumbled, swaying unsteadily on the rickety foot stool.

“No, it’s not.”

Patsy interrupted the squabbling confirming the kilt should hang from the top of the hip and finish at the top of the knee.

“This one is too high.” Paddy fiddled with the waistband.

“No, it’s not! It sits at the navel.” Getting up from her knees, Trixie playfully poked Paddy in the belly button.

The temporary male model wasn’t amused, and Delia felt some sympathy. “Right Doc, take it off now, so Chummy can alter it.”

Paddy hopped off the footstool, the green and blue checked woollen garment swaying around his thighs. He grabbed his jeans and headed out of Patsy’s studio towards the downstairs loo. Patsy, Delia and Trixie didn’t wait until he had closed the door behind him before they burst into giggles.

 Saturday 25th January 2020

Bernie wouldn’t want anyone to accuse her of being ungrateful, but she would have much rather spent her birthday at work. To be back in Poplar-on-Tweaven working behind the bar with Paddy rather than traipsing around Newcastle city centre with Trixie.

Saturday’s were usually fun at the Crown. Sundays you could always predict to be busy, due to the temptation of Violet’s Sunday lunches and the let’s have a nice day in the country crowd. Saturday’s were more unpredictable a lot depending on whether there was a match on. The football crowd had made Bernie nervous at first, but she had taken her lead from Val, who seemed to know the right mix between flirting and being one of the lads. She even surprised herself with her knowledge of the offside-rule and recognising a few players when they came in during the off-season.

“So, what about this one?” Trixie’s irritated voice broke through Bernie’s wistfulness. They were standing in Fenwick’s department store. Her friend was holding up a black mini dress bearing a large faint gold and red criss-cross pattern.

“Isn’t it a bit tartanie?” Bernie screwed up her nose.

Trixie tried very hard not to give anything away. “What’s wrong with tartan, your Scottish, don’t you just love tartan?”

Bernie bit her lip and tried to keep a level of calmness in her voice, “I am not that kinda Scottish.”

Trixie clanged the hanger back onto the rail in frustration. Bernie felt a twinge of guilt for exasperating her well-meaning friend.

“I will probably just wear my good jeans and a sparkly top, Trixie.” Bernie tried to reassure, with little success.

“But, Paddy is taking you out somewhere nice tonight, surely you want to look the part?”

Bernie took a deep breath, “The part?...the part of Paddy’s date! I am thinking jeans and a nice wee top will do just fine, Trixie.”

 It was several hours later, Bernie was looking at herself in the oak Cheval mirror in the corner of her bedroom. The little black dress with the red and gold criss-crosses did look quite nice on and it did have pockets, so that was a bonus. She heaved up her 40 denier black tights one last time. Why did they never make the small, small enough? She smiled, knowing if Chummy were in the room she would ask why they didn’t make extra large, extra enough.

A frown reflected back at her as she fiddled with her hair. Trixie had insisted on styling it with a mountain of product she had brought back from Boots. As a result, it now seemed to flick out in all directions. The would-be stylist had been very pleased with the finished article, and Bernie had smiled and made positive noises. She really wanted to put a brush through it and tie it back in a scrunchie like she did most days. Trixie’s sixth sense clicked in and she growled, “Leave it.”

They set out, tottering the short distance from Bernie’s cottage to the Crown Inn. Arm-in-arm, more for stability than out of friendship. Trixie in nine months of living just outside of Poplar had still not mastered walking on cobbles in heels. Bernie more used to ankle boots and trainers had let Trixie talk her into buying a pair of black below-the-knee boots in the January sales. Until today, the labels hadn’t been removed. She was convinced the young saleswoman and her friend had been in collusion. Eventually the overwhelming smell of leather, shoe polish and sweaty feet on an empty stomach had rendered the usually stubborn Bernie vulnerable. Well-honed sales techniques and Trixie’s promise of a Greggs’ vegan sausage roll to offset the purchase of leather eventually triumphed. These boots were definitely not made for walking, Bernie decided. She was however glad of the extra fabric as the north wind whistled around her shorter than usual hem line.

As if sensing her friend's awkwardness, Trixie squeezed her arm a little more tightly. “You look amazing, just don’t scuff those killer, fuck-me boots on the cobbles.”

This warning unsurprisingly had the opposite effect than intended, as Bernie stuttered to an abrupt halt and dropped her friend's arm.

“What?” Bernie shrieked in horror. Trixie grabbed back hold of her stabilizer and dragged her along, laughing so infectiously that Bernie couldn’t help but succumb.

“Why are you so tarted up anyway for a night in the Crown?”

“It’s your birthday and I thought you would be having a drink before heading off with Paddy. Just because it is a country pub doesn’t mean everyone has to always wear wellies and a jumper with a hole in it.”

Bernie’s mock indignation at Trixie’s jibe resulted in a snort as she tried to hold in a laugh. They were still sniggering as Trixie lunged forward and steadied herself by slapping her hand heavily against the inn’s bay window. She pulled herself up and then slapped her hand against the window one more time. Bernie, who was still giggling, just shrugged at her friend's clumsy behaviour.

“Bit slippy there, have to tell Paddy about that.” Trixie straightened up and smiled nervously.

“OK.” Bernie nodded somewhat bemused as she pushed open the large wooden doors of the old inn.

 Bernie later couldn’t recall if it was her eyes that first alerted her that something was different; the darkness giving the game away. Or it could have been her ears as they picked up the deep drone of the bagpipes. Maybe it was neither. Her skin tingling with goosebumps was more than likely the first sign that all was not as it should be.

After that initial physical reaction, her mind seemed to give up trying to make any sense of anything. It all became a blur. She remembered Trixie pushing her in the back and into the bar and placing something around her shoulders. There had definitely been cheering and then a very tuneless rendition of Happy Birthday accompanied by the bagpipes and a small band.

The pipes - bashful Kevin and his wee dog. At first she had thought Paddy or somebody had bought her a pet for her birthday. The poor wee thing was used to sitting and looking cute outside the town hall. Raising a paw every time someone dropped a coin in Kev’s mug. The animal had become a little overwhelmed by the commotion and sheer volume of people. Realizing that the lady who had just come through the door must be somehow responsible for the change in ambience; he could not resist jumping up at the new arrival with great enthusiasm. His owner was horrified, but unsure what was more important; to reprimand his charge or keep playing. Fortunately, the situation was resolved when a large pair of hands gently scooped up the tiny mongrel and calmed him down by whispering in his ear and letting him lick his face.

Bernie remembered Violet telling Reggie to take the excited guest through the back for a biscuit. The commotion had given Bernie time to take it all in, the low lighting, the table centres made up of thistles and blue and purple hyacinths, each with a thick white candle, flames dancing a jig on every table. The black, royal blue and red tartan tablecloths and a larger trestle table covered with a different checked pattern, a lighter blue and green with gold.

Bernie wasn’t given long to take it all in, as she was overwhelmed by hugs and kisses. Mostly from people she knew like the Noakes’, Fred, Jane, Phyllis and Julia along with a few she didn’t know, which was a bit disconcerting. Along with the displays of affection, cards and packages that were also pressed into her. Finding it very difficult to accept all the hugs from her friends and free herself from those who weren’t, Bernie found it impossible to balance all the gifts too. Fortunately Trixie had been prepared for this and took on the role of a lady-in-waiting, as if Bernie had suddenly been crowned the Princess of Poplar. The village's newest resident relished her role as best friend, relieving Bernie of her burdens as swiftly as she received them. Trixie may have had a colourful life, but she did like to be of use.

It was Val who finally rescued her from the wall of wellwishers. Taking Bernie by the hand, she took her behind the bar and up the stairs to the living accommodation. “Are you ready for your present?”

Exasperated by the recent unexpected events and not knowing what to expect next, Bernie just shrugged her shoulders. Secretly she was enjoying the calm of the Turner flat and not being the centre of attention. Val gave her a quick squeeze and told her, “Happy birthday, chick.” Opening the door to Paddy’s living room she added winking,

“You’re welcome.”

[wilwywaylan]

The Artist above and the Revolutionnary below

Fandom : les Misérables

Modern!AU, Enjolras x Grantaire, 4979 words

Following of this first part, written for the Same-Prompt Fic Challenge !

Also on AO3 !

- 

There was no music the next day, when Grantaire opened his windows. Weird, the weather was quite good, so it couldn't have been the rain chasing him inside. Maybe he just wasn't there today ? He certainly had a whole life beside trying to power through a song. Grantaire sat back at his easel, started working, trying to ignore his suddenly gloomy mood. He wasn't blind enough to wonder about the reasons of that sadness, of course. He'd become used to the music, discordant as it was, as a companion. He should have known that it wouldn't last forever, of course, but now that it wasn't ruining his eardrums anymore, he was almost missing it.

Out of habit, he leaned on the windowsill to smoke and enjoy a bit of fresh air. There was a gentle breeze blowing through the trees, carrying the first fallen flowers with it. As Grantaire's gaze followed their slow dance, he suddenly noticed that there were shoes on the balcony. Red shoes, with feet in them. Ah, so the boy was here. But not playing. Grantaire bent as far as he could, and called :

- Hey, down there ! Everything okay ? Did the cat eat your guitar or something ?

At first, there was only silence, and Grantaire thought that, maybe, he'd been mistaken and those shoes had been just abandoned there. But after several long seconds, they moved, and he got an answer :

- I can't do it.

- You can't ? Why ? You've been making progress, and...

- I can't, the boy repeated. The protest is on saturday, and I still can barely play a few notes.

- It's still something, Grantaire offered.

- I'm supposed to demonstrate that music is inspiring and something we must have in our lives. All I'm going to do, he said in a pitiful tone, is to comfort them in the idea that those programs need to be destroyed as soon as possible if the only thing they can create is that... horror.

Grantaire wanted nothing more than to jump on the lower balcony and give him a hug to get rid of the sadness in his voice. But he was no Tarzan, and maybe Enjolras would find it a little weird. So instead, he said, as casually as he could with his heart beating so hard :

- Maybe I could help. You know, a little.

There was a new silence, louder, this time.

- You could ?

Did he really hear that note of hope in Enjolras' voice, or was it just his imagination ? He really, really hoped on the first.

- Yeah. I mean, I could give you some advice...

- Can  you ?

- I just said...

- No, I mean, right now.

Grantaire's heart did a somersault and stuck itself right in his throat, making it hard to swallow. He did his best to talk around that sudden lump :

- Yeah, if you have the time, I can drop by. If it's okay with you.

- I'm at number 32.

- Okay, let me just find my shoes...

And my composure, Grantaire mentally added as he dove back inside. He rummaged for a moment through the mess on and around the couch. There was absolutely zero chance of finding his shoes here, but he needed a little time to calm down before he did something weird or too embarrassing. Once his heart was back to something tolerable, he went to the door where his shoes were patiently waiting for him.

The hallway outside seemed to stretch endlessly in front of him, perilous trek full of danger, and the two flights of stairs were made of cliffs a mere man could never pass. And still, the next second, he was standing in front of a door that looked exactly like his own, but with a shiny 32 exactly at its center, with no idea how he managed to cross the obstacles.

He barely had time to knock that the door opened, and something hit his legs, hard enough to make him stagger back and look down. It was a cat. A big, fluffy cat with white fur. It seemed as distraught as him by the sudden collision. Bending down swiftly, Grantaire grabbed it before it could run away, and hoisted it up in his arms. Luckily for him, the cat didn't seem too angry at being manhandled (cathandled) like this, and just kneaded at his sleeve.

Grantaire turned to give the cat back to its rightful owner... and froze. Because in front of him, standing in the doorway, was the vengeful angel from the staircase. For the third time today, Grantaire's heart decided to do a little gymnastics. And then, the angel spoke :

- Oh thank you, you caught him ! He's always trying to run away, and I'm always afraid that...

The angel was speaking in a very normal, non-angelic voice that Grantaire was very familiar with, given that it was Enjolras' voice.

Enjolras and the vengeful angel were one and the same.

He'd just been invited by the man he couldn't forget the face, to give him a guitar lesson because the beautiful angel he'd seen for five seconds and the dorky boy who was complaining about his fingers hurting were the same person.

The man - the angel - Enjolras stepped forwards to get his cat back, and Grantaire noticed several things at once. One, he'd have to touch up his drawings a little ; he'd got the beautiful blue eyes and their long eyelashes perfectly right, as the soft oval of the face, and the small curls, and the lovely mouth.... But the nose was a little straighter than he had thought, and there was a little scar on his forehead, almost hidden under the curls. Two, that their respective places on the stairs had made Enjolras seem way taller than he was in reality. The top of his curls could barely tickle Grantaire's nose, and that's only if he were standing on his toes. Third, that maybe Grantaire needed to breathe if he wanted to be able to give that guitar lesson and not faint on the spot. So he handed the cat to his master, who immediately cradled him to his chest, and announced in a tone that he hoped was relaxed :

- So, how about we take a look at this song ?

Enjolras nodded and led him inside. The flat was almost the same as Grantaire's, the only difference being the size of the living room and the balcony. There were high windows with that weird tilting part at the top, an open kitchen on the right, and a small hallway on the left, leading to the bedroom. It wasn't very messy, but it was covered in books. On the shelves lining the walls, piled on the coffee table, the couch, on the floor... It was a wonder there was still furniture, and Enjolras wasn't just living on books.

The guitar was resting against the metal chairs on the balcony. Grantaire took it, sat on one of the chairs.

- Do you have the sheet for that song ?

Enjolras looked at him like he suddenly grew a second head.

- A what ?

- The notes, you know ?

- Ah... no. I can't read music.

- So you were... playing by ear ?

No wonder it had sounded so weird. Grantaire refrained from making any semblance of a biting remark that would have gotten his ass kicked. Instead, he put his fingers on the fret :

- Okay, look, you put your fingers here, and here....

~*~

After four hours of efforts only interrupted by some coffee (Enjolras owned a wonderful coffee machine that looked a bit like a spaceship, and made very good of it), Enjolras was finally able to get something out of the guitar that almost sounded like Wonderwall. He'd still need a lot of practice, sure, but he was on the right track to be ready for Saturday with all the notes he took on Grantaire's advice.

Grantaire got up, his back and neck cracking after so much immobility. He would have liked to stay like this for a few hours more, sitting on that balcony with Enjolras beside him, close enough so he could feel the warmth of his arm brushing against him, his eyes on him, watching his every move... But he had to leave. Enjolras had a life beside him, it was starting to get cold, he was tired, and he was getting too close of saying or doing something extremely stupid. Too much exposure to such a pretty boy, probably. He didn't want to break the fragile link that had formed between them by doing something perfectly idiotic, rude or a combination of both. It was time to gracefully leave. Which he did, assuring Enjolras that it would be alright and he'd do a perfect job during the rally.

As soon as the door closed, Grantaire made a beeline to Eponine's door and banged on it until she opened. He didn't even give her any time to protest, just dove in, flopped on the couch, buried his head in his hands and started whining. Eponine came to sit beside him, pushing his feet (and almost the whole of him) off the couch.

- What's wrong with you ?

- He is... oh, he is... The Sun, the Moon and all the Stars, he's just.... oh, he's....

Props to Eponine who managed to piece together what he was talking about. Okay, it was pretty clear to anyone whose brain hadn't turned to mush, but still.

- Which one ? The Angel ? Or the musical one ?

Grantaire moved a hand to look at her.

- They're the same.

Eponine just nodded.

- Only you can get a crush on two different people who happen to be exactly the same. So, how did you discover that you're an idiot ?

Grantaire summed up the events of the afternoon, trying not to sound too gidy despite the shivers still running up and down his arms. He didn't gush too much, at least he hoped.

- So, let me get this straight : you fall in love...

- I did not.

- Did too. You fall in love with a pretty guy you don't know the name of and only saw for five seconds in the staircase, and you also fall in love or whatever with the downstairs neighbour because he plays the guitar like I play the bagpipes.

- I'm sure you play divinely.

- Shut up. So he calls you to his help, you of course drop everything to go - and you did, don't even try to deny it - and then you realize that he's your dream angel. And then, instead of ravishing him, you spend four hours playing guitar with him. Did I get that right ?

- More or less. But I wasn't going to jump on him right now. Imagine he doesn't like men ? What if he prefers women ?

His stomach knotted itself at the thought. He hadn't even thought of it. Gay and bi men weren't exactly a dime a dozen, so what was the chance of another one living in his building, especially in his age range and exactly to his tastes ? Not very high. Not high at all. The fact that Enjolras was tiny and adorable didn't automatically mean that he prefered men. Which he, of course, told Eponine.

- You know, she said, there aren't many ways to be sure.

- I am certainly not going to knock on his door and kiss him senseless.

- Too bad. I'd love to see if he's able to punch you.

Grantaire made a face that she ignored.

- So if you're not going to kiss you or something, what are you going to do ?

- I don't know. Sigh and waste away, probably ?

- You're an idiot.

- And you're so nice.

They bickered for a few minutes, trying to push each other from the couch. Eponine put an end to it by smacking him on the head with a pillow.

- If I find a way to put you and Angel-Ass...

- Enjolras.

- Angel-Ass in a romantic mood with the possibility of kiss, what will you give me ?

- I'll give you the world and everything in it. Or more pragmatically, I'll be your slave forever. Which means a week. And I'll buy you the boots of your dreams and your choice, no restrictions.

- Careful with what you say.

She got up and went to the door, to Grantaire's surprise. By the time he'd gotten up and followed, she was already knocking at door 32, too late for him to stop her. He hid behind the railing to better listen.

- Yes ?

Enjolras' voice gave him goosebumps, and he mentally kicked himself. Come on, he had just left him ! He couldn't just be that affected by a voice ! And still, yes, he could, so much that he had to pinch himself to get back to reality and listen to what Eponine was saying.

- I'm having a party on Saturday night.

- I don't mind the noise, came the immediate answer.

- It's not about the noise. R seems to like you, and you're invited.

- R ?

The question hit Grantaire with the force of a punch from Bahorel. During all their exchanges, he hadn't thought, even just one second, to introduce himself. Of course, first he had just thrown comments into the void, and then it would have been too awkward. Also he just didn't think of it.

- Your neighbour. Tall, looks like something the cat dragged in, very dorky, black hair ?

Grantaire promised himself that he'd find a way to avenge his honor. But the description seemed to click, because he could hear the smile in Enjolras' voice.

- Is that... is he called R ?

- He'll introduce himself. Saturday evening. Bring something to drink if you want.

please say yes, please say yes, he thought. He even crossed all the fingers he could to add to the effect.

- So ? Eponine insisted, will you come ?

- I have a rally on Saturday evening, and we may celebrate with my friends, but I'll try to make it.

- Cool. See you then.

The door slammed, and Grantaire heard Eponine climb the stairs.

- I know you're hiding up there, you idiot.

No need to hide himself. Grantaire got up.

- So, aren't you glad ? Blondie will be there on Saturday, and you can flirt with him as you want. You're going to flirt, she adds before he could protest.

- And you call this a romantic meeting ?

- Just trust me for once, you animal.

They retreated to the couch again. As she unearthed the remote from the cushions, Eponine asked.

- Are you going to that rally ?

- Of course not. What would I do there ?

Eponine just snickered, and launched one of the millions cooking videos she had recorded, leaving him all the time in the world to replay the afternoon in his mind in peace.

~*~

What am I doing here ? Grantaire thought for the umptenth time, tapping his feet on the ground to get them warm. The weather had taken a turn for the rainy and chilly, and it wasn't very enjoyable, standing like this without moving. He wasn't a fan of big crowds, at least not that kind. Not that the people here looked dangerous, or aggressive, but there was something in the air, something... electric, that seemed to run through the crowd. It felt like an anticipation, an expectation. Like something was going to happen, but he wasn't sure it was going to be a good thing. Oh well, he was there, after all. He could spare a few moments. Out of simple curiosity, nothing else. Par pure curiosité, bien sûr.

After ten minutes, something finally happened. A tall man with glasses climbed on the stage and started talking about the reasons for the rally. Nothing that Grantaire hadn’t heard from Enjolras already, and he half-listened while scanning the crowd to see if he recognized someone. He thought he had seen some of his friends on the other side of the place. But before he could move, the guy with the glasses announced the first manifestant. And Enjolras stepped on the stage. He looked taller, up there, and more impressive, clad in a pair of jeans that didn't leave much to the imagination and a shirt with a slogan that Grantaire couldn't read from there. He grabbed the mic stand and started talking.

And how he talked. If Grantaire had been attracted by his voice beforehand, he was now mesmerized. Not by his words ; the arguments had been carefully constructed, crafted, even, each word had obviously been weighted to get a maximum effect, but nothing Grantaire couldn't poke a few holes in if given enough time. But the way Enjolras talked... the passion, the fury, the conviction in his voice... He was fire, he was burning, so hard and so brightly that the sun even looked paler next to him. He was talking, arguing, convincing, and Grantaire could feel the warmth, the energy, from where he was standing. He himself felt braver, stronger, as if a bit of Enjolras' strength was passing through his words.

Enjolras finally stopped, and Grantaire released the breath he had been holding. But the blond boy, apparently thinking that he hadn't shaken Grantaire enough, grabbed his guitar. He sat on the chair chair that his friend brought out, and started playing. It wasn't perfect, but it was miles above where he'd been a week ago. He'd been working very hard, and Grantaire felt a little proud of them both.

And then he started singing.

It was too much for Grantaire. The fire, the passion, and not this, the soft voice, almost lulling, and his smile.... No, he couldn't handle this. He was only human, and this was too much for him to handle. He retreated to the edge of the square, then turned heels and all but ran away. But no matter how fast he ran, the song was still bouncing in his head, and the smile when he started playing. Oh yes. He was fully and thoroughly fucked.

~*~

By the time Eponine's party rolled by, Grantaire had mostly recovered. He still felt a little feverish each time his mind started to wander in the direction of the events of the afternoon, but he could play the part of the guy cool enough to casually go to a party and spend some good time with friends and acquaintances.

When he knocked on Eponine's door, the party had already started, judging by the music pouring by the keyhole (or at least it seemed) at a volume that defeated the purpose of knocking. So he let himself in. After all, he was a friend of the house, wasn't he ? He almost lived here. He stepped into the living room bathed in a soft glow, where half a dozen people were trying to fit on the couch without falling over, things made difficult with Montparnasse who absolutely refused to squeeze himself against the armrest in fear of creasing his coat. Grantaire made a beeline to the table where the bottles had been gathered, put his own among them, then filled himself a glass that he emptied in one go. Armed with a second, he turned to the room, ready to face the crowd. Mingling in during a party had never been a problem for him, and soon, he was caught in a conversation, happy as a clam.

He was on his third glass and caught in a conversation about the latest modern art exhibition he'd seen, when a new group of people near the door drew his attention. Or rather, the very interesting color choice of one of the newcomers. There were very few people in the whole town who dared to sport such a garish pink, and only one who'd wear that much of it, especially with a very low collar to show off his chest. Grantaire made his way to the door to greet him. He noticed that Bahorel hadn't come alone ; his friend, a tall, lanky redhead, abandoned him immediately to go and talk with Montparnasse. Very interesting information that he'd need to think about later.

- Bahorel ! Grantaire screamed above the music. Fancy meeting you hear !

- What can I say, when there's an opportunity to drink and have fun, I'm always ready. Nothing better than a party after a fight !

Now that he looked closer, Bahorel had several cuts that had barely stopped bleeding, and there was a bandage wrapped around his wrist.

- Why am I surprised ? Grantaire asked. A day when you got into a fight ? Must be a day ending in -day.

- Not my fault... this time ! We were nicely minding our own business, having our rally like well-mannered people (Grantaire snickered) and suddenly, a bunch of idiots decided to storm the stage, push everyone down, scream slurs, the whole nine yards. And you know how it goes : things escalate, someone throws the first punch...

- That someone being you, I bet ?

- Not me, in fact.

Bahorel stepped aside, to reveal Enjolras standing just beside him and currently talking with another man with curly hair. Both guys looked battered, Enjolras sporting an impressive black eye, and his lip had been split. Grantaire refrained from running to him and doing something stupid, just nodded in what he hoped was a relaxed way.

- So your blond friend threw the first punch.

- Yeah ! And then it became something like the Third World War or something. Everybody started fighting, kicking, punching, it was wild ! And then of course, the police decided to step in, so a few of our opponents sided with them to hit us, and some sided with us to fight them... It was really truly epic.

- And you didn't get arrested ?

Bahorel looked offended by the question.

- How dare you imply that I'm not swift enough to leave and smart enough to know when to do so ! We missed the haul, barely, and ran home.

- All of you ?

- All of us ! It's the first time none of us got arrested. This deserves a celebration !

Bahorel grabbed Grantaire by the shoulders and dragged him back to the drinks, to Grantaire's utter despair. But he went with him, because pretty boy or not, Bahorel was his good friend, and if he wanted to celebrate with him, Grantaire wasn't going to deny him the joy. Still, he threw a look at Enjolras, and was very surprised when their eyes met. He waved at him, and was delighted when Enjolras waved back. He let himself be dragged, trying not to feel too giddy or to check again that the blond boy was looking at him.

~*~

The party was well underway when Grantaire finally managed to untangle himself from all the social interactions he was caught in for a well-needed smoke break. He was stepping on Eponine's tiny balcony, when he realized that someone was already occupying the spot, leaning on the metal railing. Someone wearing a worn red hoodie, with long, blond, cascading hair pooling in the hood. Grantaire's heart rate doubled, and he almost fell backwards. But after several hours spent talking and drinking, he needed some cold air to clear his mind, a cigarette to calm his nerves, and get away from people and the music for a moment. And Enjolras had turned around when he'd heard the window open, and he was now looking at him. If he backed down, God only could know how he'd fix the situation.

So he walked to the railing too, cigarette in hand, praying all the deities he could that Enjolras wouldn't start obnoxiously coughing to show his displeasure or ask him to put it out. But no, the other boy just looked at him. Grantaire lit his cigarette. Immediately, the sweet feeling filled his lungs. Elbows on the railing, he blowed a long puff of smoke towards the starry sky.

- Can I ?

Grantaire turned to face Enjolras, who was holding another cigarette.

- You smoke ?

- Don't I look the type ?

Grantaire refrained from answering, not wanting to aggravate him now. He motioned him closer to light his cigarette with his own. Suddenly, Enjolras was close to him, so close, that Grantaire could almost feel the warmth from his hair. The spark between them grew a little brighter, sending small shards of light on Enjolras' cheekbones, lighting gold sparks in his hair. Grantaire wanted nothing more than to touch him, right now, stroke his smooth skin, wrap those beautiful curls around his fingers, again and again.... but he simply drew back a little. Enjolras nodded in thanks, and they both resumed their stance, watching the smoke billow above us.

It was... nice, just staying like that, their arms almost touching, in a lull only troubled by the muffled sound of the music behind them. Almost... intimate, in a way. But it was just a small moment in time, a bubble that could burst at every second. A cigarette didn't last long, and Enjolras would probably go back inside once he was done. Grantaire watched the small burning spot, knowing that it may be the only thing that still kept Enjolras beside him. He needed to do something, and quickly. But what ? He couldn't kiss him now, could he ? He'd probably earn himself a punch, and never see him again.

- You were amazing, this afternoon, he blurted.

Good. Nothing embarrassing. Enjolras looked surprised.

- You came ?

- Yes ? I mean, I was curious about the song. And maybe your rally too, a little.

Enjolras smiled. He smiled, and Grantaire couldn't help but smile back.

- You were very good, he repeated.

- Wait, are you talking about....

- Both. Seems that the practice really did you good.

- And the rest ? Enjolras asked, eagerly.

- Very interesting. A few weak points here and there, of course...

- Weak points ?

Enjolras was frowning. Not very good. But life couldn't just always be peaches, right ? And Grantaire was on a roll.

- Yes ? Some of your arguments - very well phrased, I must say - are a bit weak, and could be countered without too much effort. But for a speech, it was okay. Convincing enough. You need to aim for the feelings first, and that did the job.

Enjolras' expression was hard to read in the low light, and Grantaire hoped that the red on his cheeks wasn't due to anger. Oh fuck, it probably was. He was angry.

- As if... he started, but Grantaire cut him.

- No no, sorry. Please don't take it the wrong way. I'm not starting to pick a fight. Even if I am, usually. I mean, I love poking holes in arguments, it's my favourite sport, and not just because it's not physical. I love nothing more than a good argument. Not the kind where you throw the furniture down, of course. The one that allows us to find flaws in arguments.

- So what ? You just said that for my own good ?

A beat

- Maybe ? I mean, if you want to perfect them, I could help. Discuss them with you. Play around until there aren't any holes to poke at them.

- So you want to help me. Like this.

- Yes ? I....

He sighed. This was quickly becoming a nightmare. He was going to wake up.

- Listen. I'm not usually.... I can be kind of an asshole, but that wasn't my goal. You.... you asked for my advice. I could have lied, but... that's not how I work. But I didn't mean to sound like an ass. Or judging. Or.... this.

A few seconds flew by, during which Enjolras simply looked at him. Then, slowly, his brows relaxed. He didn't smile, not yet, but at least he didn't look like running inside anymore.

- Yes, I asked you. I....

He crossed his arms, almost nervously, and Grantaire wanted nothing more than to hug him right this instant.

- I may still have some trouble with criticism, he confessed. Especially coming from someone I don't know well.  

- Maybe, Grantaire offered, I could drop by tomorrow or something, and discuss it with you ? This don't seem like a good moment for criticism, it's a party and... you look battered enough without me adding to the pile.

Enjolras gave a small chuckle.

- You're right. Maybe that could be beneficial. I can't swear I'm not going to try to convince you, or not get angry, or...

- Don't worry. I can handle it. In the meantime, maybe we should head inside ? Your friends are going to look for you.

- They know where to find me.

Had he heard right? Yes he had. Enjolras settled back beside him. Grantaire did the same, without a word. He didn't trust his voice right now to speak. So he just stayed beside him, their arms brushing sometimes, enjoying his presence in the calm of the night.

(inside, Eponine had wasted no time in gathering the different bets on whether or not the two would finally kiss before the end of the evening… )

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 20

Hey so uhhhh, I feel like this took forever?  

Ao3

00000

“I just don’t understand how you aren’t bored.” The first thing Hiccup hears is Astrid’s voice, on edge and at ease all at once, close enough to surround him entirely. When Astrid’s fingers drag softly through his hair, he doesn’t care about the hazy confusion of waking up somewhere other than his bed. He knows exactly where he is. “There are obvious problems in the league—“

“Problems like the Patriots being the greatest and Tom Brady reinventing the game every year he postpones retirement?” Snotlout snorts, slurring the edges of his words slightly. Drunk maybe, but Hiccup doesn’t care because of Astrid’s touch lingering under his ear. “Those aren’t problems from my side.”

“Ok, but you have to acknowledge that in a league of thirty-two teams, the fact that the competition is between one team and everyone else means that there’s something wrong.” She’s emphatic but quiet, one step below a whispered yell, and she twirls a lock of hair at the nape of his neck around her finger, her nail barely dragging across his scalp. He wishes he could fall back asleep before Snotlout’s reply, but he’s not fast enough.

“Or that the one team is just that fucking awesome.”

“That’s literally impossible.” Astrid’s hand grazes along the back of his neck and pauses to rub at the least pressing knot of muscle in his back.   “The entire point of the draft and the salary cap is to keep the league competitive.”

“But that doesn’t apply, because Brady plays for less because he loves the game.”

“Is that another way to say that he married someone richer than he is and he’s a little bitch who cries when he loses?” Her fingers brush across Hiccup’s forehead before she drags fingernails through his hair again, absent-minded and sweeter for how habitual the motion is. His hip and lower back feel like he’s been sleeping for hours without moving and he gets the feeling that she’s been touching him this whole time.

His arm is asleep and his eyes feel sandy and dry, but he can’t remember the last time he was this comfortable.

“You think men can’t be emotional? That’s pretty sexist of you.”

There it is, time to wake up.

He yawns, stretching slowly with a wince and lifting his head off of Astrid’s lap, elbow on the couch cushion to hold him half upright. It takes a couple blinks to detangle his eyelashes and when he does, Snotlout is staring at him, pale but distinctly smug in the way he only gets when he’s winning arguments about sports.

And he’s in a hospital bed instead of on Hiccup’s dad’s chair at the apartment. His shoulder is wrapped in gauze and his eyes are morphine bleary instead of happy Saturday night drunk.

Right, the hospital.

“Morning sleeping beauty, are you done being a spaz?”

“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?” Hiccup looks at the window, trying to judge the time. It’s too bright to be morning, the sun peeking through dispersing clouds. Early afternoon, he’d guess, given he feels at least partially back on schedule.  

“You were snoring,” Snotlout tells him, forever helpful, “and sleep-talking.”

“Oh,” he sits up, looking sheepishly over at Astrid, “what did I say?”

“Nothing coherent,” she shrugs, rolling her shoulders and folding one leg underneath her, probably stiff from being his pillow for however long he slept. Her blue eyes are bright, teasing above the worry, and the corner of her mouth twitches. “Emphatic though. You really meant whatever you were mumbling about.”

She’s too pretty to be here, smiling quietly at him and cocking her head while he sits up the rest of the way and rubs his face. His greasy, stubbly face with gritty tear streaks from crying. Apparently he got enough rest to be embarrassed that this is the condition of the head he rested on Astrid’s lap for hours, so that’s something.

He preferred being half-asleep, her hands in his hair while she and Snotlout argued in useless circles, like this was just a usual night in a world he wishes he lived in.

“How long was I out?” He stands up and twists slowly side to side, willing the deep stiffness in his lower back to fade and losing the argument.

“Long enough to watch the same football game one and a half times,” she glares at Snotlout, standing to take a sip of water from a second glass that appeared on the bedside table while Hiccup was sleeping.

“Hiccup, you should probably get this sore loser out of here before she starts being sexist again.” Snotlout rolls his eyes, hunkering down further in his pillows and Hiccup recognizes the painkiller grogginess in his face.

That’s how Hiccup must have looked in the hospital a decade ago, down a foot and wishing his dad would leave and let him sleep off the dizzy fog in his head, while his dad insisted on staying, gray-faced and worried.

There’s a short list of days in Hiccup’s life that transected reality and made it impossible for him to go back to living how he did before them. His leg. His parents divorce. His dad dying.

Meeting Astrid makes the list, and the anxious twist at the thought of trying to explain the gravity of that to her builds on the depth of the line being drawn right now. On the precipice of a relationship he’s never thought he’d be able to manage after what happened with his parents, he’s here hovering over someone recovering from a gunshot wound, too involved to let them sleep.

Like everyone with a complicated relationship with their parents, Hiccup has of course feared becoming his dad. He always thought it would have something to do with gaining an unfortunate appreciation for bagpipes or the law, and more than that, he always thought it was impossible as long as he kept generally failing. If he didn’t try, he couldn’t come up short.

But even five years of tax dodging unemployment couldn’t save him from becoming himself. Accidentally like his dad enough for it to hurt, but entirely lacking the easy to avoid roadmap of his father’s footsteps.

“You ok?” Astrid asks, hand twining more easily than he deserves with his.

“Yeah,” he lies, “I could use some fresh air, maybe—”

“Like that’s possible until you shower,” Snotlout rolls his eyes, “it smells like the locker room in here, and it’s not Mr. Sponge-bath’s fault.” He points at himself with his good arm and Hiccup takes a self-conscious step away from Astrid.

“Ok, then some not-hospital filtered air. Will you be—I mean, if I go home for a while—”

“If you don’t, I will call Sharon to kick you out.” Snotlout’s hand hovers over the nurse call button, “don’t test me, Haddock.”

00000

It’s bright enough outside that he checks the time, squinting at his phone screen in the sudden sunlight appearing from behind a cloud. A little past two, but that seems irrelevant, considering he’s not quite sure of the day.

“So, shower?” Astrid asks too brightly, her voice snapping him out of his head for the third time in the last hour.

“Huh?” He blinks at her, sure he must have heard wrong. “If my head was so greasy that you feel like you need a shower now, I apologize. Sincerely.”

“Not at all,” she wrinkles her nose, half-teasing and half looking at him like he’s crazy and he scratches the back of his neck.

“Right, and now that I drew your attention to all this,” he waves his hand in front of his face, “I’m assuming you’re not offering to join me.”

“Hiccup!” She smacks his arm, hard but not as hard as he knows she’s capable of, and he doesn’t know how he feels about the fact that she’s laughing. A real laugh, a relieved laugh. At him, absolutely, but not unkind.

“Wait, are you?”

“The concept of a shower was the only thing to get you out of that room in three days, so I reminded you,” she blushes even though her reasoning is sound, maybe because it’s embarrassing to be essentially propositioned by someone who probably looks like they’ve written off soap as a concept. “You seem a little out of it.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Do you need to go back in there and get yourself checked out? Maybe you concussed yourself sleeping on that shitty couch?” The worried lines between her eyebrows make him want to smooth them out, to assure her the way she did him when nothing but the difficult truth could.

“No, I guess it’s just that nearly losing Snotlout is somehow summing up every trauma I’ve spent the last decade avoiding.”

Great, that’ll ease her mind.

“Every trauma?” She smacks his arm again, sort of gentler, “you’ve been holding out on me, I thought I got your whole traumatic past on our midnight tour.”

“I know we said that wasn’t a date, but I was still following the first date rule of baggage dumping.” He snorts, “you know, get the dead dad thing out of the way so you subliminally didn’t worry about impressing a future father-in-law, but the missing leg would have been a lot. I wasn’t looking for pity.” He can say it because he knows Astrid would never give that to him.

He fell on her when he was at his lowest, most terrified point, and she was nothing but honest and solid, and that’s more comforting than he would have ever expected.  

“Well, I would have had more warning when we found your old leg attached to a murder victim,” she nudges his elbow and starts walking, freeing his feet from the pavement they felt glued to. He thinks if she weren’t here, he’d walk right back to Snotlout’s room, compelled but entirely unable to help.

“Second out of three,” he sighs, back internally creaking like a cartoon door when he forces his gait even, “and there was the foot? With the Ryker letter approximation?”

“I haven’t thought about the note in forever,” she shakes her head, pausing to tap too many times at a crosswalk button, “not that I forgot it, I definitely didn’t forget it.” The light changes color and she starts walking again, pulling him away from the hospital in the only way he’d be grateful for. “But no, we’re talking about your trauma, not Grimborn.”

“The letter attached to the foot sent to my apartment isn’t exactly Grimborn, is it?” He understands the blurring line attached but tugs at it anyway, seeing where in the web of Astrid’s ever-fascinating mind it’s connected.

She sighs, shoving her hands deep in her pockets like having pockets is a novelty. Then she looks up at him, biting her lip and refusing to wince at what she’s about to say, facing the truth again like he trusted her to do when it mattered most.

“Snotlout’s really high.”

“That’d be the morphine for his gunshot wounds, plural, what did he say?”

There was a time where Hiccup would have been mortified to leave Snotlout alone with anyone he was interested in, in any capacity. Let alone Astrid, or someone he felt this way about. Except no, he’s never felt like this about anyone, and her Snotlout tolerance is only part of it.

A part that lets her fit into a life he wants but doesn’t understand how to have yet, sure, but only part of the reason he likes her so much.

“He told me about your dad,” she shrugs, sheepish, and he wants to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. A sexy chin grab, she called it, mortified and adorable but he shuts that thought off before he can follow it to blood and police and complication.

“I already told you about my dad though,” he laughs, “back when you thought you’d get murdered on a tour with me, which, I guess geographically, we were both close—“

“This, he told me about this.” She stops and faces him, looking so much like she wants to shove him that he looks away, trying to be distracted. The Ripped Tavern is right there, drawing him in like a perpendicular source of gravity, but he can’t focus on it with Astrid staring twin blue lightning bolts into his face.

“My tendency to change the subject?”

“He told me about how it was when he moved in.” Her voice is as gentle as the grip on his arms isn’t. The grip tethering him rudely to present day Berk, the land of trauma wards and messes he has to figure out. The land tethered to Grimborn through mystery, one important and one ephemeral and endless, a mystery resort for fascination without commitment.

As much as people want to live on vacation, when life’s consequences follow, it gets less fun.

“He told me how you found Grimborn-ology.” Her hand slides up to his shoulder, bracing, a little uncomfortable, and worse because he knows how much he trusts her. How right she always is. “And how before, you hadn’t been leaving the house or…”

“I’d just moved here, ok?” He starts walking because he doesn’t know how to talk while standing still. Because the Ripped Tavern is an eighteen-fifties pub that makes him feel grounded and he wants to be closer to it when he says too much and untethers himself again. “When everything happened with my dad, I’d just moved here to this city that he gave his life trying to protect. It felt hostile, but going back to live with my mom would be letting the thing he died for go. And…Viggo Grimborn was the only thing that made it feel like anyone had lived in this city before my dad died in it.”

The words shed more weight from his shoulders than he thinks they will, but for once, feeling lighter is worse. Dizzy, even.  

“And now someone obsessed with Viggo Grimborn keeps killing people.” Astrid makes the leap he’s glad not to be bold enough to and he sighs, resting his head on the wall of the tavern. It’s old brick, sturdy brick, the kind of brick that weathers things it shouldn’t have to. “Centered around you.”

The bass inside kicks up a notch and the ‘Happy Hour, 3-6’ sign to Hiccup’s left catches his eye when the wall vibrates like it shouldn’t.

“Did…did Heather renovate?”

“What?”

“These walls should be solid,” he grabs Astrid’s hand and presses it against the brick, “they shouldn’t move with bass like this unless someone drilled speakers into the walls. Hundred and fifty-year-old stone walls with some cheap Amazon speaker system crumbling the mortar…” He exhales, voice heavy and tired, “there was no building code, just organized chaos relying on intuition, and when you drill into that...”

“Do you trust me?” She asks, chin set stubbornly forward like no isn’t an answer, and it hurts that she doesn’t automatically know that.

“A frankly alarming amount.” His fingers curl around hers against the wall and she nods.

“Good, come on,” she grabs his wrist and drags him after her, explaining over her shoulder as she yanks him around the corner and through the pub’s front door, “we never finished our private tour.”

He freezes just inside, bending his knees to keep her from pulling him over. It works, barely, and she turns around, head cocking under a row of tee-shirts that say ‘Grimborn 1883-?’ in drippy, red lettering, hanging on a newly installed rack on a freshly whitewashed wall. “What’s wrong?”

“Look around,” he gestures with his free hand, “she painted—is that an Alexa? I was joking about the Amazon speakers—“

Astrid cuts him off with a palm pressed a little less than gently over his mouth and chin and she’s too close for him to be this desperate and floating. He bites his lip to keep from kissing her hand like an idiot or licking it so that she jerks back and he can complain about HGTV and how it’s destroying the city’s landmarks.

“You said you trusted me.” She doesn’t let go so he nods, “then let’s finish the tour.”

“Some of the rafters in here are probably American Chestnut, and they’re coated in enough latex paint to look like shiplap,” he says as soon as she takes her hand away, “it’s—“

“You said it was my tour,” she cuts him off, pointing at the side door, her hair bouncing on her shoulder with the motion, “I want to finish it.”

“You said if you knew it was your tour, you would have specified for me to wear the hat.”

“As much as I like the hat, you don’t need it.” She pulls him towards the side door again and he looks at the old wooden booths, buffed smooth and half re-finished. “Hiccup—“

“Just a second, ok?” He impulsively kisses her too casually on the forehead, stubble scraping over her temple, and stumbles with a right-footed hop up to the bar. He raps his knuckles on the newly smooth wood counter and the busboy looks up, startled that someone is interrupting him cleaning a tap, like that’s not an insult to the impoverished people who once depended on beer drippings for calories. “Do you have a pen? And a napkin?”

The busboy stutters something to the affirmative and hands Hiccup a napkin and a branded pen that he chews on for a second to think of his message before scrawling ‘Drilling through hundred fifty year old mortar to install smart speakers, very Orwellian of you’ and sliding the napkin back across the bar.

“Give this to Heather for me when she comes in, alright?”

“Who do I say it’s from?” The busboy frowns but tucks it into his apron anyway.

“Oh, she’ll know.” He pats the counter and turns around, walking with the only immediate purpose he has left to the side door of the bar where Astrid is waiting, thumbs tucked in her pockets, “so, finishing the tour?”

“Or starting a new one, either way,” she opens the door that he’s never opened in the daytime and a direct beam of sunshine streams through, cutting paint fumes the way it never could the tavern’s usual dust.

Hiccup steps outside and half-wonders where he is, because he’s definitely not standing in the creepy, ancient alley he’s started three tours a day in for the better part of five years.

The alley is idyllic in the early spring afternoon, cobblestones clean from what could be rain if he didn’t know about the crime scene cleanup. The usually weatherized lamp post is glimmering and the crowd of people gathering between quaint, ancient brick walls could be from a picture of the outskirts of a small European city just now being recognized by tourists.

Hiccup blinks twice, his eyes measuring automatic distances from the wall to the storm drain, facts about Mary Johnson flitting through his head.

He remembers the first time he saw this alley, at the end of his first Grimborn tour when he was lucky enough to be standing at the exact spot Mary Johnson was found, just how Astrid did on the tour she attempted when she was deciding whether to have him arrested or not. Both times, it was cold and damp and the alley had a foreboding cloud hovering above the ground Hiccup still sees blood when he looks at, and he struggles to put the two images together in his head.

This alley looks like it goes with the Ripped Tavern as it was, before Grimborn-ology got a hold of it. A place where people live, a street that gets them places.

“So, fourth site,” Astrid elbows a guy out of the way of the storm drain and stands on just the right spot, “what do you have to say about it?”

“Ok,” Hiccup rubs his hands together, trying to find his rhythm with the small but irritated group of people filtering past them and trying to stand on the drain with Astrid. Oh, not people, Grimborn tourists, a phrase which makes his stomach churn like he never thought possible. One jostles her and she glares, looking back at Hiccup to hurry up. “Right. Mary Johnson, the fourth site. She was a prostitute looking for—”

“I know that,” she cuts him off, “I know all about the investigation and her last bar tab and how her murder is what got Ryker off of the suspect list for good. I’m asking why you care about it.”

He snorts, “it was always quiet. Lonely almost, except not lonely, because under that light,” he points up at the incandescent bulb that so accurately mimics the gaslights of a hundred years ago in the dark and sees a slightly cheesy-looking, oversized eyesore, “it was like stepping into a bubble where everything was the same as it was when—”

“Are you doing a tour?” A woman in a sparkly new Ripped Tavern shirt interrupts him, jostling between him and Astrid. “I thought all the tours were at night, I wanted to do one, but with the murderer still on the loose…”

“It’s a private tour, actually,” Astrid turns to stand beside him.

“He’s doing a tour!” She calls out anyway and a plump older man with a well-loved copy of that idiotic Krogan book under his arm steps up beside her. “I told you I’d find a daytime tour.”

“Do you also do a nighttime tour?” The man asks, “I think I’d prefer it with the ambiance, but my wife is scared.”

“Usually, I do, but…” But Snotlout. But the murders. But the fact that somehow in the last few months, giving tours has turned from getting to talk about his favorite thing to deflecting insensitive people away from questions that make him check corners twice before turning around them.

“See? It’s not safe to be out at night,” the woman giggles, grabbing her probable husband’s arm and tilting the book under it to better show its cover.

There’s a silhouette of a man in a top hat, brandishing a long, wicked knife and sneaking up behind a buxom silhouette of a historically inaccurate prostitute at the end of a dark alley. Hiccup bets the dog-eared pages along the bulk of it, spaced into four conspicuous chunks, are about bodies he doesn’t ever want to describe again.

“The Krogan book,” Hiccup flicks the cover with one hand and grabs Astrid’s hand with the other, “not quality research, half the dates are wrong, and he doesn’t know the difference between a ritualistic Jewish slaughterhouse blade and a steak knife at the Outback steakhouse they tore down the old kosher slaughterhouse to build.”

“Well, I’m not paying to be insulted,” the man huffs, tapping on his book and opening his mouth to make a point Hiccup can’t bring himself to listen to.

“You’re not paying at all, because I’m not giving tours,” he clears his throat like he’s doing exactly that, getting most of the attention in the alley before continuing, “you know, the great miracle of the Viggo Grimborn case is that by documenting a volatile period a little better than normal—”

“Deputy Ryker’s documentation is shit,” someone else in the crowd tries to start another argument that Hiccup doesn’t care about.

“Just a second, I’m leaving, I just want to throw something out there for you all to think about.” He pauses and Astrid squeezes his hand, encouraging even though he doesn’t need it right now, “Maybe, if you all thought about Viggo Grimborn as a fascinating window to what life used to be like, instead of fixating on who died here and how disgusting it was, maybe, just maybe, someone wouldn’t be copying it now.”

“Let’s go,” Astrid tugs his arm, half jogging past the crowd of stupid book wavers and laughing when he stumbles after her. A couple people try and follow, yelling something about the tour leaving, and he pulls her sideways into the narrow alley he hasn’t used since the night he found Jennifer’s body by the storm drain.

Two turns to the right down familiar passageways that welcome them with a faint echo of footsteps and the cool relief of damp air and he feels like he can breathe again, maybe for the first time in weeks. Maybe longer.

He’d like to think that the tall brick walls were thanking him for defending their architectural honor, separate from blood. Really, it’s him thanking them for the quiet as he pauses at the next turn, pressing his hand to the solid, cool stone.

“I doubt that counts as the rest of a tour,” he lowers his voice when the first word echoes and Astrid shrugs, a tentative, almost smug smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

“It did what I wanted it to.”

“Which was?” He steps closer, just barely, cocking his head and pressing against the ghost of a boundary when his eyes dart to her lips.

“I have dealt with so many Grimborn-ologists in the last few months,” she pokes the center of his chest and looks so defiantly at him that he can’t help but lean in, “you’re not one.”

He stops short and frowns, “what?”

“You aren’t well-adjusted—”

“We’re doing this now, ok, odd choice, I thought you were trying to cheer me up—”

“I’m not,” she smiles, pressing her hand flat against his chest, “I’m trying to tell you the truth, which is that you aren’t one of those weirdos obsessed with Grimborn.”

“I’m confused as to how you came to that conclusion,” he shrugs, gesturing at the alleys around them, “considering how we met and half of what we talk about and where we are.”

“I deal with people trying to steal Grimborn artifacts from the archives every week, at least, more often lately. A Grimborn themed bar just painted over a hundred and seventy-year-old building, to make it more comfortable for tourists to take a watered down walk past places where people died horrible deaths. Someone so obsessed with Grimborn’s methods that they had to replicate them has been terrorizing the city for weeks and murder tourism has only gone up.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me,” Hiccup chews his lip and she sighs, shoving him gently away and crossing her arms.

“Exactly.” She shakes her head, “you have an interest, sure, but it’s like you just said, you’re interested in how people lived, not how they died. And learning that you got into Grimborn because of how much your dad loved this city…”

“So, I spend five years giving tours and you’re saying I’m a fake Grimborn geek boy?” He wants to be irritated just as much as he wants to laugh, but the result of the combination is too flat to echo even in the narrow alley. “At least my hat is an actual antique—"

“I’m saying there’s nothing cruel or destructive about the way that you learn things.” She says it like a compliment, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking importantly at him, like she can beam the meaning into his brain if she stares hard enough.

He doesn’t know how much gets through, but the fact that she means it this much makes his chest ache.

“We finished your tour, what now?” It’s either the exact wrong question or the right one because her expression softens to something like worry and she shrugs.

“I’m thinking I should probably go get my phone so that I can ask Fish if his spare room is still available,” she looks around, trying to see daylight at the mouth of one of the alleys, “how do we get out of here?”

“Here,” he gestures for her to follow him around the next corner, “why do you need Fishlegs’s spare room?”

“Because the twins couch is getting old really quick,” she squints as the sun pours into the mouth of the alley, pausing just before she trips on the low gate at the end.

“What’s wrong with your place? I thought you were pretty determined to fight off the serial killer onslaught with the home team advantage.” He stumbles slightly over the gate and catches himself on her shoulder, not that she seems to notice.

“I still haven’t been back after what happened to Snotlout,” she crosses her arms again but it’s more like she’s hugging herself than keeping him out. “I know I should feel better now that he’s obviously going to be ok, but—”

“He was sh—hurt at your place?” Hiccup feels himself go pale and Astrid’s eyebrows furrow, concerned and determined.

“No one told you.”

“I guess location wasn’t important when they didn’t know if he’d make it.”

“Hey,” she rubs his arm through his jacket, “he’s going to be fine though.”

“He was almost the fourth victim, wasn’t he?”

Astrid was right about Grimborn being destructive.

“But he wasn’t,” she assures him, “and now it’s over, the copycat has four murders under his belt—”

“But Snotlout isn’t dead—”

“How would they know that?” She trusts him to keep up with her logic and he doesn’t want to let her down, so he nods for her to continue. “The last thing they saw looked pretty dismal for him and the news hasn’t said anything about it.”

“It’s a break from method, it’s—all those other slum murders in eighteen-eighty-three that people try to put the Grimborn name on to make it a more gruesome story, we know it doesn’t fit because the injury profile was different—”

She kisses him to shut him up, hands on both of his cheeks when she pulls back, “the other sites are in alleys, even today. The first is in an inhabited apartment building that’s not in an awful part of town anymore, a drive-by was probably the most Grimborn thing they could pull off.”

“I don’t want you to stay with Fishlegs,” he tugs her hands away from his face and squeezes them in his. “He doesn’t like me, remember?”

“I don’t care, because I like you, and you have enough going on with Snotlout, you don’t need me in your hair.”

“You like me now, sure, but after a couple weeks with that moustache?” His lame teasing gets a barely there twitch of a smile before she nods to herself.

“I should still get my phone.”

He could let her go alone, he knows that, it’s the middle of the afternoon and there’s nothing dangerous about it. Especially because it’s Astrid, so she’s right, the murders are over.

She’s been good enough to tell him the hard truths though, and she deserves the same.

“I know I’m the one who’s supposed to be giving you a tour right now, but I think if you stopped telling me what to do, I’d be back at the hospital annoying Snotlout and feeling even more helpless than I do now.”

“Come with me,” she suggests but something about his expression stops her, “if I don’t want to see it, you probably really don’t.”

“I just had the Ripped back alley spoiled for me by sociopathic murder tourists, let me enjoy the ‘All Safe’ wall another day.”

“The ‘Al, I. Safe’ wall,” she corrects and he chooses to cement the image of her courtyard wall behind her, stealing his hat and correcting his tour because she couldn’t stand him thinking he was right when she thought he wasn’t, into his head. He doesn’t think it’ll do much against another pressure-washed, professionally, historically scrubbed patch of the ground, but it’s nice for now.

“Maybe you’re the Grimborn-ologist,” he teases, taking her hand and attempting a step towards his apartment, but she refuses to move her feet, one eyebrow raised. “I’m just saying, you’re awfully smug about a post-murder message.”

“A murder that I don’t even think was connected, by the way,” she insists as she starts walking beside him. The alleys aren’t much quicker than the main roads from here, and they’re close to Gruff’s anyway, so he stays on the main road, crossing the street one intersection early to avoid the alcove that Astrid doesn’t mention either.

“You’re still on that?” He nudges her side and she rolls her eyes, bumping her shoulder on his.

This should feel like taking Astrid back to his place for the first time, and it does, but the butterflies in his stomach are tired, more than tired. Suffering from insomnia, actually, because they absolutely didn’t get any rest while he slept on her lap.

She seems to doubt him for a second when he drops her hand and fishes his keys out of his pockets, taking a step back and looking up at the apartments with wide eyes.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” she watches the key easily turn in the lock before continuing, “this is just a nice place, for a guy who couldn’t afford frozen yogurt.”

“It was my dad’s,” he steps back to let her go first up the stairs, “it was paid off when I inherited it.”

“That explains it,” she smiles over her shoulder at him and he stumbles, catching himself on the handrail. They’re too close on the tiny landing as he unlocks the front door but it’s not close enough.

Of course, his phone rings right as he’s swinging the door open, still on full blaring volume from the hospital when he was worried he’d fall asleep in the waiting room when someone needed to reach him.

“Shit, sorry,” he frowns at the Caller ID as they step into the living room and vaguely recognizes the number.

“Who is it?” Astrid looks over his shoulder her face lights up with recognition, “oh, that’s Ruffnut.”

“Oh,” he swallows hard, wondering how much Astrid knows about the last time he saw Ruffnut, “I should get this but um, make yourself at home?”

Snotlout always sounds like an adult saying that to people he brings home, but Hiccup feels like he’s about to have to scramble for an adult to take the important phone call. But he is the adult, and for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he doesn’t want to run from that.

“Sure,” she nods, looking absently at the poster above the couch while he picks up the phone.

“Hey Ruff, what’s up?”

“Is Astrid there?”

“Uh, yeah, I didn’t realize she’d hired me as her secretary though, I definitely didn’t accept without seeing the benefits package.” He shrugs and Astrid holds out her hand for the phone, seemingly understanding what he’s hearing.

“I’ll negotiate for you if you hand the phone over,” Ruffnut sounds almost panicky enough to drown out the suggestion, “don’t worry, you’re in good hands, I know all her terms.”

“Is she asking for me?” Astrid reaches for his hand.

“Yeah,” he hands it over and Astrid holds it away from her ear for a second until Ruffnut is done with her evidently loud usual greeting. She listens for a second before sighing and sitting on the couch, hand over the receiving speaker for a second.

“Sorry, this might take a minute.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” He sits on the other end of the couch to take off his shoes and watches out of the corner of his eye as Astrid does the same, punctuating Ruffnut’s chatter with a couple bored ‘uh-huh’ type sounds and rolling her eyes. She bites her lip when Ruffnut says something particularly objectionable and curls her feet underneath her on the couch, fingers of her free hand fiddling absently with the patch on the arm’s old leather.

The comfort he felt waking up in the hospital with Astrid and Snotlout’s gentle bickering above him hits again but harder, closer, purer without hospital antiseptic smells. He wants Astrid curled on his couch, mildly annoyed but flicking impossibly fond eyes at him when she catches him staring more than he’s ever wanted a Grimborn letter he practically bankrupted himself for. He barely stops himself from blurting that out as he jumps to his feet, hands curled into awkward fists at his sides.

“I’m going to go take that shower really quick, ok? Cool, see you in a minute.”

He shuts the bathroom door behind him and sighs, not entirely sure that wasn’t a worse thing to blurt.

[spider-man-stan]

Peter Parker and Peppermint Don’t Mix

IT’S HERE!!! IT’S HERE!!!! BOXING DAY STILL COUNTS AS CHRISTMAS, OKAY???? this fic has been months in the making, and it started as something completely different than what this final product is, but i am so happy with it. i was so set on getting out by the 25th, but the holidays got in the way (go figure, right?) but hey, 4:03 am on boxing day still counts as christmas in my book, so here it is, my irondad christmas fic. merry christmas to my whump loving ass. enjoy :^) 

(pssst, you’ll probably have a better time reading this on ao3)

Tony Stark loves to learn. That’s no secret. Sometimes he’ll sit down and learn a new skill for fun (like when he learned how to play the bagpipes), out of necessity (when he built his mini arc reactor, in a cave no less) out of spite (when he created a new freaking element), or just because (when he mastered thermonuclear astrophysics in one night. He didn’t really have to, but he made a great first impression on Bruce because of it).

Yeah, everyone knows that Tony Stark loves to learn. And lucky for him, he’s always learning something new about Peter Parker.

Well, maybe it’s not always so lucky.

“I didn’t know you were so bad at baking, Mr. Stark.” Peter giggled as Rhodey went on about the time Tony had tried baking a cake for Rhodey’s birthday years ago. Baking. The one skill he’s never quite been able to master. Tony tossed a cloud of flour in both Peter and Rhodey’s direction, their laughter rising over I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas as he did so.

“I baked that monstrosity of a cake with all the love in my heart and you know it, Rhodes.” Tony shot back, chuckling himself at the memory. It was a terribly awful cake.

“Still the best birthday present you’ve ever gotten me.” Rhodey smiled as he continued teaching Peter how the cookie press worked. A timer chimed and Tony stood to pull a sheet of cookies out of the oven. He set the tray down to cool just as Pepper walked in, grocery bags in hand and snow melting in her hair. She walked up to Tony and kissed him on the cheek, giggling at the flour all over the kitchen.

“You know I’m not cleaning all this up, right?” She said as she set the bags down on the counter and began taking her gloves and scarf off. Tony nodded, helping her pull the scarf from around her neck, pulling her into another kiss. “Of course not.” Tony spoke against her cool lips. “As trophy wife it is my sole responsibility to keep the house in order.” Tony bent down to expose Pepper’s ever growing belly, covering it in kisses. Pepper giggled, rolling her eyes.

“As it should be.” She replied. Rhodey cleared his throat loudly, causing Pepper and Tony to break apart. Tony chuckled when he saw his friend covering Peter’s eyes with one flour covered hand.

“Do I need to remind you two that we have a kid here?” He asked as Peter groaned. “Get back to work, Tony. These cookies aren’t gonna bake themselves.” It was Pepper’s turn to chuckle as Tony bowed towards Rhodey in compliance. As Pepper went about preparations for that evening’s turkey dinner and Tony began moving the golden brown cookies from the baking sheet to the cooling rack, all he could think about was how happy he was in this moment.

Unfortunately, as per usual, the happy moment didn’t last.

The Compound kitchen had gone from the baking zone to the cooking zone, as Pepper, now joined by Bruce, prepared the various dishes for their Christmas dinner. Rhodey, Peter, and Tony, were all sitting on the large couch in the common area just off of the kitchen, watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and the Island of the Misfit Toys.

Tony was sat in between Rhodey and Peter, the latter leaning against his chest, having his curls played with absent mindedly. They had all been chowing down on cookies despite Bruce and Pepper’s warnings that their appetites would be ruined, but as the movie went on, Tony and Rhodey both noticed how increasingly uncomfortable Peter seemed. He kept clearing his throat and swallowing, and couldn’t seem to sit still.

“You have a few too many cookies, Pete?” Tony asked, concerned when Peter sat up from his embrace. Peter leaned forward and coughed into his hand.

“My throat—” He coughed again forcefully. “My throat really hurts.” It sounded like it did, too. His voice was hoarse, and Tony noticed how Peter strained as he spoke. Tony sat up to place his hand on Peter’s back, Rhodey following suit.

Rhodey moved off the couch to crouch in front of Peter to get a bitter look at him. Peter was holding his hands up to his mouth, his eyes screwed shut in pain. Rhodey gently placed one hand on his bouncing knee, not to make it still, but to let him know he was there.

He reached up to pull Peter’s hands away from his mouth, offering a calm “Let me take a look.” only to find that he was drooling into his hand, seemingly unable to close his mouth. Tony instantly reached for the box of tissues on the side table, pulling out a few and handing them to Peter. As he did, he noticed how raw and red the palms of his hands were, like they had been badly burned.

“Pete, what’s going on?” Tony asked, trying to mask the worry in his tone. Peter’s breathing became more desperate and erratic, and Rhodey called for Bruce as he and Tony tried wiping Peter’s hands of his bloody saliva. Peter whimpered as they did so.

“Hh.. hurts…” He forced out, Bruce now taking a knee next to Rhodey. “I.. I-I don’t.. I’m…” Peter tried. Tony put his hand on the back of Peter’s neck, feeling for a fever. And boy, did he find one, Peter was boiling. He coughed again, blood spewing onto the tissues in his hands. Pepper walked into the room drying her hands with a towel. She exchanged a confused and concerned look with Tony, who looked up to the ceiling for answers.

“Fri, what’s going on?” Tony asked as Bruce tried asking Peter the same question. Tony was so confused, the kid had been fine, more than fine, barely half an hour ago. How had things turned so quickly?

“It appears Mr. Parker is experiencing symptoms similar to hydrochloric acid poisoning.” The AI replied. Confused looks were shared around Peter.

“The only place we have hydrochloric acid is down in the lab, but Peter hasn’t been down there all day.” Tony explained. Peter moaned next to him, breathing heavily. “How the hell did this happen?”

“The reaction seems to be in response to peppermint, boss.” Friday supplied. “Peppermint is known to repel spiders, and can be lethal in large quantities.” Rhodey’s eyes went wide.

“There’s peppermint oil in the spritz cookies.” Rhodey recalled. “The dough, Peter was helping me make them, he was handling it.”

“And he ate a lot of them, too..” Bruce finished. Before anyone could say anything more, Peter’s eyes shot open and a coffee ground like substance came up out of his mouth. He began retching weakly, Tony and Rhodey now needing to hold him up so he wouldn’t fall forward. Bruce made worried eye contact with Tony. “He’s bleeding through his stomach.” Bruce called out, urgently. “We need to get him to the med bay. Now.”

Tony went to pick Peter up, but knew that if he picked him up with his head tilted back he could choke on his own puke. He opted instead for pulling Peter close to his chest, and scooping him up with one arm, securing his head and neck with his other, as if he was carrying a small child. Peter groaned at the action, but thankfully was still lucid enough to wrap his arms around Tony’s nack. Tony did his best to ignore the feeling of vomit sliding down his back as he followed Rhodey and Bruce to the med bay, comforting Peter the whole way there.

“Friday, contact Dr. Cho, tell her it’s urgent.” Bruce called out as the four entered the private medical wing of the compound. He and Rhodey went about waking up the equipment as Tony put Peter on the hospital bed as carefully as he could. Rhodey brought over a garbage can for Peter, who was still vomiting, which Tony held under his chin. Tony brushed Peter’s sweaty curls away from his face as he coughed once again. He looked like he was fading fast.

“Bruce?” Helen’s voice came through the ceiling. She sounded irritated. “What is so urgent that you had to interrupt my meeting?” Peter took a gasping breath, and Tony knew his airways were starting to close up.

“It’s Peter.” Tony called out. “He ingested peppermint oil, and it’s not sitting so well with his spider DNA.” Helen was silent for a moment as Bruce looked over him.

“Do you have scans?” Helen asked, her voice now just as concerned as everyone else. Almost everyone that knows Peter has a soft spot for him. The kid just has a way of making almost anyone he meets fond of him. And seeing him in pain is the worst thing in the world.

“We’re sending some over to you now.” Bruce confirmed, working fast. “Friday said the symptoms resemble that of hydrochloric acid poisoning. It looks like it’s burning through his hands, mouth, throat, and stomach.” Bruce explained. “Digestive system, too.”

“Fascinating.” Helen whispered. “He’s reacting as a spider would, but it appears to be a much more intense reaction.” She observed. “How much pain is he in?” At that moment, Peter let out a loud, strangled cry, his breaths now wheezing.

“That answer your question?” Tony asked as he helped Rhodey place a cannula into Peter’s nose. “His saliva’s bloody and he’s got blood in his stomach, too.” Tony wanted to grab Peter’s hand and hold it, squeeze it, let him know he’d be alright, but he stopped when he remembered how burned they were. Rhodey tried placing a damp cloth in the palm of Peter’s hand, but it made him cry out in pain. Tony brushed Peter’s hair out of his face again, shushing him. “I know it hurts, Pete, but it’s gonna help, okay? You’re okay.”

“Helen, we need to act fast.” Bruce urged. “I don’t know how much longer we have.” She was silent for a moment before speaking.

“The Cradle can repair and print new tissue for his hands, no problem.” She started. “But we’re still testing use on anything internal. And there’s no way of knowing how Peter’s advanced healing will react with the new tissue.”

“His advanced healing is probably what’s causing him to deteriorate this quickly in the first place.” Rhodey supplied. “The only way to find out what it’ll do to him is to just have it done.” He looked worriedly at Tony. “We’re running out of time.” There was a long beat of silence before Helen spoke again.

“I hope you updated the wireless interface on the Cradle, Tony.” She pointed out, the Cradle across the room starting up. Tony grunted as he and Rhodey moved Peter to the large machine. “You know I made sure everything in this place is always in top shape.” Tony assured. Before Bruce had the chance to seal Peter inside, he reached out and clamped one hand around Tony’s wrist. Tony could feel Peter’s flesh, hot and sticky, adhering to his own skin as he did so. Peter looked up at Tony with pleading eyes, his body growing weaker by the second.

He tried to speak, but the sound he made came out as a strangled gurgle and a desperate whine. Tony gently rested his other hand on top of Peter’s, trying his best to hide the fear on his face.

“You’re gonna be okay, Pete. Helen is gonna take amazing care of you, and when you wake up you’ll feel good as new.” Peter tapped something on Tony’s wrist, so quickly he almost missed it. P.R.O.M.I.S.E “I promise, kid.” Tony whispered. “You know I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think you’d come out okay.” Peter’s eyes darted across Tony’s face for a few seconds more before he tore his hand off of Tony’s wrist.

Tony kissed his hand and planted it onto Peter’s forehead quickly before Bruce sealed the Cradle shut. Peter shuddered once locked inside, his eyes rolling back into his head. Tony immediately regretted letting go of his kid, both his hands pressing hard against the thick glass of the machine. Rhodey tried pulling Tony away as he looked up to the ceiling.

“Cho?” Tony asked urgently, severity in his tone. Bruce was by their sides now as well, all three turning their attention to Peter.

“He just passed out, but his vitals are still reading okay.” Helen reassured quickly. “I need to ask you three to leave the room so that I can begin. It’s still not safe to have others in the room when we’re attempting to repair anything interior.” Tony almost asked how, then, was it safe for Peter. But he had the right mind to bite his tongue.

“Keep us updated Helen.” Bruce called out as he tried wiping some of Peter’s flesh off of Tony, but the second he tried Tony jerked his arm away. Bruce, taking the hint, conceded.

“I will.” She seemed to sense Tony’s discomfort with the idea of leaving Peter alone, because just before they exited the room, she reminded, “He’s in steady hands, Tony.” Tony nodded, taking a deep breath.

“I know he is.”

Tony, Rhodey, Bruce, and Pepper spent the early hours of Christmas morning waiting at Peter’s bedside for him to wake up after his six hour procedure. They’d long since thrown out all the cookies they had baked, Rhodey couldn’t stand the smell of them after what they had done to Peter. Nor could anyone else. Because I almost killed the sweetest teenager on the face of the planet doesn’t exactly scream Christmas spirit.

Tony was too anxious to wash Peter’s flesh off of his arm, worried it was the last thing he would have of Peter, but after about an hour the smell became too much to bare. He finally gave in and washed it off himself, trying to convince himself that it was the stench that made his eyes water.

Christmas dinner had long since been forgotten, no one having much of an appetite after what had just conspired. It was all being kept in the fridge for when they could all eat together as a family. Until they were sure Peter was okay.

According to Helen, things had gone well. This was her first major success in repairing internal tissues in the body, and as of now Peter’s body was taking to the new cells and tissue well. Helen would be flying out on the 27th to check on Peter in person, but as far as operating on someone who’s halfway across the world goes, tonight was a success.

Pepper had gone to bed some time ago, the chairs in the med bay doing little to support her back and distended stomach. Bruce would get up every so often to check on Peter’s vitals and take notes on his condition for Helen, and Rhodey couldn’t stop pacing back and forth. No matter what anyone said to him, he felt responsible for what happened to Peter. Tony felt responsible too. He should’ve known.

Around 5:45, Peter’s eyes fluttered. He groaned, his voice weak, as his eyes slowly opened. Tony sat closer to Peter’s bed, carefully grabbing one of his bandaged hands. He blinked a few times, a confused look on his face, before he made a feeble attempt at speaking. “Mr. Stark?”

“Hey, kiddo.” Tony replied quietly, smiling warmly. Rhodey and Bruce scooted closer to Peter, and his eyes passed over everyone in the room, trying to piece together what had happened. Tony instinctively reached up to brush some hair away from Peter’s face. “How’re you feeling?” Peter took a moment to consider the question before answering.

“Throat hurts.” He replied weakly. “Bad… Hands too.” Bruce scribbled something down quickly on his clipboard, as Rhodey wiped a tear from his eye. Peter caught the action, turning his head slightly to face him. “Mr. Rhodey..?” He questioned. Rhodey shook his head.

“Peter.. I am so sorry.” Rhodey choked, gingerly massaging Peter’s forearm with his hand. “I had no idea you would react that way to the peppermint oil, I—” He took a sharp breath. “I am so sorry I put you through this.” Peter’s eyebrows furrowed at the apology, reaching out and resting his other bandaged hand on Rhodey’s knee.

“I.. I really wasn’t lying… When I said I would die for those cookies, you know.” Peter assured, causing the room to burst into laughter. “You didn’t know..” Peter reasoned, his voice still weak. “I didn’t either. It’s not your fault.” Rhodey nodded, taking a slow breath. “If you substitute the peppermint for something else so I can still have some cookies, we can call it even?” Peter proposed, lifting his hand from Rhodey’s lap. Rhodey carefully took it in his, giving it a gentle shake.

“Sounds like a plan to me, kid.” Rhodey replied warmly. He released Peter’s hand to ruffle his curls, Peter visibly relaxing at the action.

“Still tired..” Peter said to no one in particular as his eyes slipped shut, like he was just realizing it.

“You’ve still got loads of time to sleep, kid.” Tony told him. Peter cracked one eye at him.

“What about Christmas?” Peter asked. Tony shook his head, carefully patting his chest.

“Christmas can wait until you’re feeling a bit better, kid. Right now you just get some more rest.” And so he did. Peter hummed in response and was out like a light. Everyone in the room felt they could breathe a little bit easier knowing that Peter was okay.

And that’s the story of how Peter almost died on Christmas Eve. That night, Tony learned another of many lessons about his Spider-Kid the hard way; Peter Parker and peppermint don’t mix.

Add that one to the Peter Parker files. This was something Tony had no plans on ever repeating.

[inuashnar1]

love letter 6

The letters of your name...

C is for cocaine. In South America there is a drink called Maté. A leaf tea, you must boil the water to around 75-90c in order to hit peak flavour of woody, earthy, gritty, leafed pastel tongue taste. It's traditionally drunk out of a straw that you use to stir the Maté periodically, as throughout the tea’s drink, you can refill it until maybe around late lunch if you are a heavy drinker. It’s refillable, reuseable, and the flavour grows darker and swampier with every sip. Maté does not have caffeine. Instead, it has a chemical called cocaine (pronounced, co-cah-eine) inside, that delivers roughly a 4 hour energetic boost with no downside effects or caffeine hangover. Extract enough cocaine from the Maté leaves, boil it down in bleach, and crystallize it in the Amazonian jungle during it's rainy season, and you'll get one of the world's most sought after illegal drugs. When I worked at David's tea, we sold Maté, and the moment that I mentioned that cocaine was a minor ingredient in the leaf to the customer, I always sold more than I normally would. My favourite drink at David's was a Maté - Jumpy Monkey.

L is for lithe. The first time I heard this word, and actually understood it, it was describing a deer carcass. I was watching a video on YouTube about Scotland. The host, Charlet, was from London, and was exploring the Scottish culinary experience that is unknown to many parts of the world. In this particular episode, Charlet was learning how to shoot a deer. She's a tall jangly British woman with little to no fat on her body, so she herself looked as clumsy as a new born deer (in vein with what they were hunting). She had someone to guide her, a local hunter who was hush hush in every single word he spoke. As if he were always on the look out for deer. Speak too loud and you might spook them so shhhhh. They had to hunt as the sun was setting. Rolling Scottish folds of trees and brush filled my laptop screen as they were finding the best place downwind to stand - they had found a stag. A young deer. Mating season ready. But smaller than most. The Scotsman beckoned Charlet over to him, and set up these 'x' crossed sticks and propped up a rifle that seemed to be 5ft long and as thin as a hanging icicle in wet winter. Then Charlet, silently as she could, took the rifle in her hands, and on the Scotsman's cue, fired the gun. When they found the stag, she had discovered that she had grazed his heart. He only lived for 30seconds after he was hit - a merciful death. She was relieved. The Scotsman took the deer's blood and christened her with it - 'you have killed your first deer Charlet' he gruffed. She looked down at the dead dear, and as the camera cut to the young stag, she said,' he's just so brilliant and lithe. I don't want to ever do this again.' The camera captured, the fresh pink sunset, the tall Scottish grass, the rolling hills, Charlet crying, a light misty fog that touched the hills just beyond focus, the Scotsman also standing and looking over the stag hands clasped in prayer, the clouds shyly slipping into the blue sky, blanketing the space above and reflecting the plush warm sunset below and onto the tips of the Scottish forest, the deer barely peeking through the waist high wheats, the brown red blood on Charlet’s cheeks, the overture of Scottish bagpipes. The smell of wet jaded grass and chilled evening wind hit my body as I sat transfixed at my laptop. To be lithe, is to be beautifully resilient and tenderly forgiving.

A is for Angeles. I always watched to go to Los Angeles. When I was growing up, all my friends dreamt about going to New York City. But for me, the only American town I wanted to go to was Los Angeles. Something about the summer beach heat. Palms fronds. The Pacific ocean. Pretty women. If I had a dream to be fulfilled it would probably be in Los Angeles. I was no concrete kid. But the first time I went, I was 13, and I remember the wave of wet heat that engulfed my entire body the moment I stepped out of LAX - I very quickly realized that I was the husky in the middle of the desert. The dog in the hot car. The polar bear at the Beijing zoo. I barely remember much about that trip. I peed the bed. I wore a dress. I got a massive sandal tan. I decided I wasn't going to be a commercial dancer.

R is for red. When I'm angry I see red. When I am embarrassed I feel red. When I have to stop the signs are red. When you blush you turn red. When I bite my lips they swell red. When it's my birth year I must wear red. When my heart pounds I hear red. When I lick my bleeding fingers I taste red. When you make portals one of them is red. When I am asked what my favourite colour is, I say orange or blue, when I mean to say red.

Your hair is rusty orange red.

Your lips are plumped pink red.

Your words make me fill with red.

I want to leave little red stains on your porcelain white background.

Red is very hard to forget.

K is for keep/knots/knit. My grandma knits. I think she's getting too old to knit now though. Her hip. Her hands. Her left eye. It was her birthday this month and I didn't call. I feel... Sad. Not at her. Not for her. But just at the ways in which we tie ourselves to others? The way she knit this family unit to take care of things, but it turns out it was a series of knots that had no ending. If you cut them out, removed them. They're still wound up so tight that nothing could ever release it. These permanent keep-sakes now lived with the entire knitted piece. Meshed and woven into the family tree. You can hide them, I guess. But they still used up wool. They still used up string. They still used up you. The time it takes to make a knot? A second. The time it takes to unravel a knot? Much longer. The time it takes to realize that the knot wont untangle? Maybe forever. The family that both my parents come from seems delicate - as if sitting on single strands of an entire knitted tapestry where if one single string snapped, the entirety of this stretched out canvas would ripple and disintegrate. Filaments of colour and dust unbound and sailing through the air until collecting at the floor in a sigh of unknowing abandon. Fear. So much fear. I've been called a knot. In comparison to my other family members - I am a knot. A wasted moment of time/twine, that honestly should have just followed the pattern from the book. The book works! It's worked for generations! It's allowed the family to survive! You can't just leave the pattern? And you're causing all of us to suffer as a result - look we are all holding you up because you chose this. You chose this. You chose this. You chose this. And look where it's gotten you. Right back where you started.

E is for elsewhere. I don't wish to escape. I think that's the furthest thing I want. But, I don't need to be here right now either. I do wish to be elsewhere. If I'm honest with myself - I want a simple life. I want to be with a partner that I can trust and love, and that has my back while I have theirs. Do you want commitment? I do. Do you want to be on my team? I want to be on yours. Do you want to go elsewhere with me? Elsewhere into our minds? Into your heart? Into my heart? Into the valleys and canyons of your mind and mine? To turn on our headlamps and dig for treasure in the scattered mines of our friendships? I'll show you my treasures if you show me yours. Do you want to share joy with me? Do you want to share space with me? Do you want to be alone, with me? And without me? Do you want to share your sadness with me? Your triumphs? Your defeats? Your coffee? Your bed? Your colds? Your sunlight bay window? Your words? Your body? Your soul? 

It's cemented into me recently that my inner child will never stop finding you so indelibly delicious to play with. And if she likes you, then...

Do you want to go elsewhere with me?

[naenae00love]

Waffle Crew Moments(Spoilers!!)

So I have been doing this for a while. All of the quotes aren’t exact and I do miss words and funny things that happened.

I did miss my boo (at being reminded of escher)

You friends are invited to the wedding (Holly while muted shakes her head throws her snacks and disappears from frame)

Escher looks Paultin up and down disapprovingly and says we must get you fitted for a suit.

Now I have a lot of questions but I won't turn down a good suit

Time for another costume change Paultin

As Evelyn makes little noises of protest paultin coughs

Escher says: after everything is done then we can be together

Escher has been planning this since they left

Snort Count: 1

It's okay, you're perfectly safe, in fact you are perfect in every way. Thank you, I've missed you too

Escher wants to Paultin's side piece so bad

Escher speaks to her and Evelyn screams and tackles him

What in the name of holy morning lord is going on? A lot, yeah

Evelyn: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE GROUND

Your engaged but you like this guy?

Oh that's, that's

*Points* You like him?

Evelyn does not ship this

That suit of armour wasn't there before. Oh is that what you're worried about when we are back in freaking Barovia? I've already peed myself over that. I've soiled my drawers okay? Does that make you happy? *Nate nods silently*

You think it might be the shadow of Strahd. What? I'm done, bye. *Holly leaves* But Strix... *Waves hand in frame* I'm gone. I'm not here. I'm under the desk, Strix is under the desk.

Strix: BUT WE ALREADY DID A LEAVE IN BAROVIA!?!

(It would be Strahd but it has Paultin's head) Let's call it Straultin. No! There is no Straultin.

Straultin Von Seppa, first of his name

What are you going to do? Slap me with your puppet hands.

Who is the master? I would also like to know, this pertains to me.

Evelyn is a strong independent puppet who don't take no lip, Escher

You should probably let that one stand back up. Why? I.. Because he likes me

How could you see me when I'm invisible? *Rolls his eyes*

Escher is at sass level 1000 right now

I'll put a pin that statement. LET'S NOT PUT PINS IN THINGS IN BAROVIA

Sees the mongrel folk called Cyrus again from when he was in the prison. *Snaps and points fingers* Ayye!! Cyrus: It's about time. It's good to see you too friendo. Let's go! Okay.

Once he is finished meeting with his friends, take him to his quarters so he can be fitted for a suit. I will be waiting for you there, my love. I'll be seeing you there, dude.

Paultin gets to meet all of his Barovian buddies

We have a rocky history and bringing up exes is kinda weird but

But you're like not in league with evil right? cause the evil seems to be in league with you. Putting another pin in that one. We'll get to it, don't worry I got this. *Mouths: I don't got this. I don't*

Waffles squeezes in between Diath and Strix. She's here too!? You shouldn't be here! I can't believe you brought the baby

The shadow is moving along the wall. *Quiet from Diath* No, no. Strix: I hate this so much. I hate this. We have to leave. No we have to stay under the desk. It is our new home. Starts to tidy up. So Waffles is the bed.. No Strix we are not living in Barovia. We were able to leave before, we can do it again.  No this desk is our new home, shut up! I don't wanna be hear. Neither do I!

Strix: We live here...AGAIN

Strix hugs Evelyn!!  I don't think you can smell me, which is great for you. It is very nice.

Strix only bonds with inanimate objects

Paultin: Diath, I need a best man

Hand Friend is gonna give Diath a wet willy

Diath throws the hand across the room. Come on dude.

Diath holds Evelyn's hand and says we'll fix you. You always do.

Cyrus: I've never had a friend!

Evelyn wants to cry, but we've established that she can't

*Paultin turns to Cyrus* Come on I'm right here. I'm just your servant. Oh no, don't, don't, come on. don't be like that.

Strix: Would you like some snickety snooks?

Strix offers jerky. I don't eat strange food. Well then we're not friends *puts the jerky back*

And you're not supposed to offering my any lip. Now I offered friendship but I can stop being nice if you want.

Everyone had relationships I don't know about!

Evelyn missed literally all the ships

Basically, I'm kinda fucked, so I don't know what to do, kind of panicking. Thoughts?

Strix what do we do? I don't know this kind of magic. Evelyn what do we do? We leave.

Wonder where Drizzt got off to...

Paultin approaches his shadow and it moves away from him. Come on dude

Sandy is off doing his own thing now thanks to Strix

Waves at the shadow. Shadow proceeds to have its cloak turn into bat wings. Stops waving.

Omg, I'm a bat King.

Paultin: wave rescinded

Time to study up before the wedding tonight

If we were to leave, where would we even go? Away..

This is my house now, I live under this desk

ROBOT FIGHT!!!

breaking stuff, no bueno, running, no bueno

Let's not encourage Darth Paultin, Diath!

Do I get a suit? Does he get a suit?

We'll have to find something for you Sir. It may not fit perfectly but it will have to do. Don't worry about it, it's fine.

Oh a lovely CREATURE you say

Diath is definitely talking about killing someone

What about Paultin? Are we just gonna leave him with that guy? For now

Of course 'animal friend' was Evelyn's takeaway

You know, just casually wandering around Castle Ravenloft

You already have so much to worry about. I was only thinking of you. So sweet. I only ever think of you. Too sweet.

If it wasn't forbidden I'd be all over you now, but that would be improper.

Still a better love story than Twilight

Holly holds up a sign reading RUN AWAY!!!!

Forever will have a new meaning for you after tonight. So romantic

Paultin sits next to Escher on the bed. I can barely control myself. I'm sure.

Some romantic bagpipes to score this scene

All those wonderful sunny times in Barovia

Strix has indeed proven that MOST things can burn

Evelyn you see what appears to be 3 witches riding on brooms coming towards the castle. Jared: No *goes off screen* (The moment you roll a nat20 on a stealth check) Strix pulls her hat down

Strix turned Diath into a cloud. Strix: Here Diath, have a magical time out

Have you learned to perform any tricks with that hand?

Paultin: Let me tell you about this hand...

Rolls a Nat 20 on persuasion for a 28. After Escher brushes his hair away Paultin puts his hand on the side of his face leans in to him and puts his forehead against his. The dark powers won't let this be will they? They always get their way. If only there was some other way out of this and then maybe this could actually happen.

A nat 20? Oh my...

Oh. THAT bride...

Hard pass *on a sign Holly holds up*

Paultin takes Escher's hand. *Jared singing quietly* I can show you the world, shining, shimmering, splendid.

And Paultin and Escher elope. The End.

Diath doesn't care about the wedding , he just doesn't likes these brooms

What if Waffles was the ring-bearer? Wouldn't that be cute? *Nate nods silently*

Paultin and Escher enter the chapel. Is Paultin looking fly? He isn't in his suit, just the raven get up. Aw. So, yes! Yes, you're looking very fly. Still holding hands.

What if Hand Friend was the ring-bearer though?

Strix sees Paultin and Escher holding hands and she is just like aw.

Paultin: yes, Abbot, I've prepared my 'vows'

Paultin winks at Escher has Escher exits the chapel

Tweet: The #wafflecrew IS FINALLY GETTING GAY

Strix's brother is skulking around the chapel. Holly moves off screen again and waves a hand at the camera: Well, it was nice knowing ya'

Paultin is getting the best wedding he neither wanted nor needed

Oh good. Here come the zombies.

Bridesmaids? Paultin didn't even ask us if we wanted to be bridesmaids

You see materialising in his hand is a golden mace. I'm sorry?

The Abbot grows giant black wings and tells Paultin what he must do. Is that clear? *Yells* Is that clear? Crystal. Ends

I'm having a good time. There's brooms down there just you wait.

The witches skipped out like fuck it we're out of here.

No session next week. Ah! But my wedding!

Thanks them for being awesome and I'm sorry I torture you on a weekly basis. No you're not! We enjoy it.

[jloves-pp]

Merida and Hiccup’s Wedding day-part 4

Chapter 4

Hiccup's heart was pounding so hard, he thought it would burst out of his chest. Hiccup and Toothless slowly but surely walked down the aisle, nodding and lifting his arm in a small wave to the guests. The Viking may have looked fine but inside he was panicking and sweating a little underneath his helmet. The last time that Hiccup remembered being this nervous was when he was in the killing ring with a Monstrous Nightmare.

"Ok Hiccup, this is a peaceful day, one of the best days of your life" he told himself. "You've been waiting for this day and nothing is going to go sour it" he was caught up in his thoughts, he felt something brush his arm and he jumped a little. Hiccup glanced down to see Toothless giving him a gummy smile; Hiccup mirrored the smile and then sighed.

"Thanks Bud" Hiccup whispered and patted Toothless on the head before continuing down to the altar. The ceremony was set on a large flagstone in the middle of the forest. A few huge stones stood in an arch, colourful flowers decorated the stones down the aisle. The guests were seated on wooden benches, with tartan blankets laid on them. Scots on the left and Vikings on right, the guests were chatting amongst themselves and the Royal Guard Dragons stood on the outside. A few years ago, the Queen had knighted Hiccup and the Dragon Riders giving them the official name "The Royal Dragons Riders" protectors of DunBroch and dragons had been given a medal which they all wore proudly attached to their harnesses.

Hiccup and Toothless reached the altar; in front of them was the priest. All the groom could do was look over his shoulder at the guests and while he waited for his bride.

Meanwhile Merida rode on Angus who had been groomed by Astrid and Ruffnut, his coat was glossy and his maen and tail had been plaited. Merida with her mother, her maid of honour Astrid, Ruffnut and a few of the hand maidens, all made their way to the ceremony. Merida took her time enjoying the forest, seeing the sun shining and lighting up the leaves. She could feel butterflies in her stomach; Merida softly stroked and patted Angus as they continued.

"Hey are you OK Mer?" Merida heard Astrid say as she turned to see her friend.

"I'm fine, just a bit uneasy" she confessed.

"I bet Hiccup is just as nervous" the blonde said.

"Aye, I know once it is done we can relax".

"So, any ideas on your honeymoon?"

"Definitely exploring, but not exactly sure where we are going, wherever the wind take us", Merida explained. She and Hiccup loved travelling and Hiccup had drawn new places on map. They hadn't done this for a long time so they were looking forward to exploring again.

"That sounds perfect for you two" Astrid said, the girls chatted for a while until they saw Fergus waving to the group.

"What took you all so long? Were you battling bears or mad men, he asked laughing.

"Well you should know, the bride is usually late" Elinor said. The King reached and helped Merida off her horse.

"Oh, your look stunning, lass" Fergus complimented his daughter. Merida's cheeks pinked as she blushed, she wasn't use to being compliment upon her appearance.

"We'll go ahead" Astrid spoke. She and the rest of group left to take their seats.

"Dad, are you ok?" Merida asked, for she could see her father crying.

The Bear King wiped his tears away before giving a kiss on his daughters forehead "Sorry lass but it feels like I'm saying goodbye forever"

"You know very well, I'm not leaving. I would miss you all too much" she said smiling. Even if Merida said it light heartedly, she really would miss her beloved family so much.

"Well mi wee darling, when you're ready we'll head over" Fergus said holding out his arm to the bride but she hesitated, Merida would like her Dad to walk her down the aisle but a thought came to her at that moment.

"Is something wrong Merida?" Her dad asked concerned for her.

"No, it is just...I'd like mum to walk with me she said looking from her father to her mother.

Both of them glanced at each other, they were shocked, but then they silently agreed it was right for Merida to have her wish.

"Of course love, I would love to" Elinor softly replied, Merida mouth curled in a half smile before facing her dad.

"Are you ok with that Dad" the princess asked.

"Of course Merida. To be honest, I'm nervous. I was afraid of doing something too embarrassing you" Fergus revealed as he rubbed his neck.

Merida softly laughed and kissed his cheek "Thank you". She and the Queen stood where they were and the King walked and took his seat next to his sons. Some of the guests murmured to each other, wondering why Fergus isn't with the bride?

"Everything is fine, Nothing to worry about" Hiccup overheard his future father-in-law reassure the triplets on what's going on.

This made the groom more worried, he thought something had happened to Merida, was she ok?, He wished he knew what was going on!, he wished he could check to see if she was alright.

Just as he was thinking the worst, the musicians started up. As the bagpipers played, all of dragons tried to control themselves to stay calm, even if they wanted nothing more than to stop the noise.

The guests all stood up and looked down the aisle but Hiccup didn't turn he was frozen and staring straight ahead.

After a few long moments, the bride and her mum appeared. Toothless purred at the groom and nudged him to look around. Hiccup slowly turned... and his worries and fears disappeared as his eyes focussed on his beautiful princess. Merida was completely stunned when she saw him, her dragon rider that she loved. The world around them went hazy and it just the two of them, as they smiled at each other all fears and anxieties melted away. Hiccup couldn't help but admire his bride, to him, Merida was always beautiful and yet had never looked more beautiful, perfect in fact. Merida always thought Hiccup was handsome but now, standing there, he looked more like the hero she always knew he was.

Merida didn't realise that she was squeezing her mum's arm but Elinor didn't mind. The queen could tell how excited the princess was at that moment.

Slowly but surely, the bride and her mum reached the altar. The groom held out his hand Merida placed her hand into his. Elinor smiled even if she felt downhearted as her daughter slip out from her arm and joined to Hiccup.

Elinorcouldn't help feeling like she was losing Merida but it was obvious they were a good match, their eyes were just for each other they lent forward and touched foreheads..

"Hello beautiful" he whisper to his future wife.

" Hello" she returned smiling shyly, forgetting about the hundreds of eyes watching them.

They both heard someone clear their throat "Excuse me your majesties, may we begin?" The priest asked them.

"Sorry" the couple said at the same time. They both looked at each other and giggled; Merida gave her flowers to Astrid (who was her maid of honour). Soon everyone was seated and the wedding began.

"Dearly beloved" the priest began "We are here on this glorious day to bring this man and this woman together in marriage, not only to join this young couple for life but also to bond two lands which they have brought together by their love and their bravery" as he was saying this aloud, the bride and groom held hands and gently squeezed them together.

"Before we begin, does anyone object to this union, if so, speak now or forever hold your peace?" The priest asked, to his surprise, he could see both Hiccup and Merida had shut their eyes. "Excuse me your majesty" the priest gently asked in confusion. Hiccup opened one eye; he glanced at his bride, who was doing the same thing he was. He thought maybe she was as nervous as he was.

The bride could feel Hiccup gently squeeze her hand, it made her open one eye and saw that he had one eye open as well. The two smiled and burst out laughing, some of the guests watchedthem in confusion but those who knew them well joined in.

"I was a wee bit nervous" Merida confessed.

"Me too, I thought the world would end" Hiccup replied.

"So did I" the two laughed again, feeling relieved.

After this, they faced the priest and he continued "before we start the rituals, the bride and groom have wrote their own vows; making their promises to showing their love"

With that, Merida and Hiccup each pulled out a piece of princess could see her hands shaking as she held the paper, it took 10 practises to make it perfect, but now reading it aloud and seeing the hundred people of suddenly felt scary.

I just have to imagine it's just me and Hic, Merida told herself. After taking a few deep breaths in and out, she started by saying "Min elskede kærlighed, min ædle kriger, min blide prins, min drage rytter"

Hiccup grinned when his bride spoke in Norse. Merida paused returning the smile before continuing, " Before we met I'd never thought about love, in fact, I wasn't interested in it, because of this I don't know the first thing about love or relationships or things like that. Many people who know me well and that I am not perfect and I have done thing I am not proud of, but it's given me a chance to find love in my own time, little did I know that love would come sooner than I thought. You taught me how to train dragons, how to fly and most importantly how to love. We had climbed mountains, cross oceans and touched the sky together. I wished we'd met when we were younger because after hearing how hard things were; it made me want to be you through your trials. I know you are not the strongest, the hardest or... But you are the kindest, the smartest and the bravest, braver than I'll ever be.

I knew when your father past... It must have been the hardest thing for you to go through. But I remember something your mother said to you, she said, you have a heart of a chief and a soul of a dragon and I believe it is true. I can't imagine life without you and I couldn't ask for a better man. There may be a thousand Vikings...but there is only one Hiccup".

As Merida finish reading, she was surprised to hear chatting and cheering from her friends. Her eyes glanced at her parents who smiled proudly. The bride returned the smile before she felt her groom kiss her on her forehead and wiped her tears that ran as she read out her vows.

Now it was Hiccup turn, if Merida was nervous, he was 10 times more nervous. He could feel his mouth turning into sandpaper and he was sweating. He thought he would end up fainting if his bride hadn't gently placed her hand on his. Hiccup could see a reassuring look from Merida, this had a calming effect, when he felt calmer and he could think more clearly. He always felt stronger with Merida by his side.

He took a deep breath before he began."I tried a lot of ways to begin this...after which I decided to start here. I know in the past you never liked the idea of marriage in fact I thought I never had a chance, I wanted you to make your own choices and choose your own path but you picked me and I feel like luckiest man alive. Although sometimes I wonder if I am your boyfriend or your babysitter."

Hiccup heard a couple of people chuckle from the crowd including Merida, at his little joke.

"Even if you show a tough exterior, you are so much more than others see. You are determind, feisty, strong-willed, passionate and fearless. You are these and more, now I can't imagine my life without you. For most of my life, I felt I was alone...but when I met you, that all changed. There are so many things I love about you, I love the fire that burns inside your heart and I never want that go out. I will forever be in love with the girl not the crown.

In his mind, Hiccup felt relieved, he had done it without messing it up and smiled at his bride who smiled brightly back at him and the crowd cheered.

"You did great Hic" Merida whispered to him.

After the guests settled and quietened, the priest spoke, "And now that the bride and groom have said their vows to each, it's time to for the sacrifice", he picked up a bowl and a dagger and move toward Toothless. The Night Fury began to back away, he didn't know why the priest had a dragger or what was he going to do with it.

"Toothless it'sok, it's ok Bud" Hiccup said offering reassurance to his friend,

"Did you tell him?" Merida asked,

"I thought you had" Hiccup replied patting and rubbing the dragon's head. The two looked at each other, then at Toothless, it was a big risk and both wished they told him about this tradition, but better late than never. The princess knelt at Toothless' level and gently stroked him.

"Toothless, it's tradition to have a sacrifice to bless a marriage, but we're doing a living sacrifice" Toothless charged from fear and anger to calm and confusion "you'll be a sacred creature, we could of had a sheep or a chicken or even a bear but we both took the risk of having you as you are so important to us".

"That right Bud" Hiccup said, kneeling next to his bride. "You're special to both of us so we wanted you to have a big part on our day, by doing this you'll be like a sort of God".

Hearing this Toothless gave a huge grin, straightened up and puffed out his chest. He was obviously feeling quite proud of himself.

"Ok Toothless, don't get big headed" Hiccup murmured to him, which made the Night Fury gave a look and nudged him playfully.

The priest slowly stepped toward the dragon "we just need some of your blood to complete this part" he replied but Toothless wasn't having it.

"Please Bud, do it for me, do it for us" Hiccup asked his best friend maintaining eye contact. He could see his dragon thinking, and then turned to the bowl and spat, a lot of spit in it to the bowl. He then gave a look as if saying "here have this instead".

The priest looked disgusted but he had to go with it. Using a spoon, he flicks the dragon spit on the couple. Both of them chuckled at this, they where use to this slime so it didn't bother them. The priest then flicked it over the families and guests, some were in the spirit of things others were not so amused.

"And with the..ur..dragon's..ew.. this will bless not only the couple but those who have witness this day", the priest managed to say. He then beckoned the King forward; he was holding a black fur cloak which had a metal clasp with the clan DunBroch symbol engraved on it. Fergus placed it on Hiccup's shoulders and fastened it.

"I'm honoured to finally have you be member of the clan" the King said patting the young man shoulder. Hiccup gave a warm smile to his father in law before he pulled his sword from his scabbard to continue with the next tradition.

He held the old weapons with both hands and held it in front of his wife to be. "This sword has be in my family for decades" Hiccup said aloud "I give this to you to give to our future son for his wedding day".

Merida nodded and carefully took it. Just then a young maid came to the bride's side holding something wrapped in a tartan cloth. Merida thanked her before turning back to her Viking.

"I give this to symbolise the protection and trust from me and for our children" she said and revealed in the cloth was a sword. The sword shined like the sun on the blade. The handle was shape like dragon. Merida herself had designed the sword and Gobber had crafted it for her. The wings could be folded in and the blade had been engraved in Norse "The brave dragon"

"It's a bit fancy of my taste" Hiccup laughed a little.

"Well. I did go overboard with the design but I could never match your Dragon Blade" Merida admitted.

Hiccup gently took the sword and kissed on her forehead "I love it anyway Mer, I'll use it on special occasions and think of you and today when I do".

The two held up the sword as the priest untied a ribbon from Toothless, not only was the Night Fury the best man and living sacrifice but he was also ring bearer. He carried the rings on his neck, the couple crossed their weapons before the priest placed the rings each point of the swords. He then tide a long strip on cloth around they hands.

The bride could feel her groom softly stroke his finger on her hand, the two shared look as the priest spoke out "May the gods bless these young souls, help them though their trouble like a ships through the storm moving to calm seas, give them memories that they will cherish and young ones to bring them joy and love, bring them and their families and friends together to support and love one and other endless for the rest of their days".

After this speech, he took the rings and undid the cloth. Merida and Hiccup's hands were starting to ache. They each took the other's ring and faced one another again. First Hiccup slipped Merida's ring on her finger then Merida did the same to Hiccup..

"Now by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife." The bride and the groom looked each other, both feeling overjoyed as the priest spoke those words.

"You may kiss the bride", Hiccup had began to lean in, when Toothless squeezed in between them and began to lick Merida's face thoroughly.

"Toothless, that's supposed to be my job" Hiccup said even though he couldn't hide his chuckle. Merida was laughing at being licked; she was used to this so it didn't bother her. The dragon stopped and hung his head, purring quietly as if to say sorry. The princess and prince looked at the dragon, Toothless gave them both a huge toothless grin.

"It's ok he just got caught up in the mood" Merida said sweetly but then was surprise when Hiccup held her and dipped her down. He flash a smirk before he kissed his bride. Merida smiled then continued the kiss wrapping her arms around his neck, they didn't even hear the crows thundering applause.

After enjoying their long awaited kiss, the groom straightened up to see his bride who stood up giggling and blushing. Holding each other hands, they ran down the aisle, waving to their guests. Not knowing that as the bagpipers played again Hoodfang couldn't take anymore. He grabbed one of the bagpipes, threw it on the ground and set it on fire. Luckily the servants put it out easily and no one was hurt.

When they were on their own away from the wedding party and out of sight from onlookers Hiccup picked Merida up, spun her around before setting her down, they held each other close, sighing with relief.

"I can't believe it, we're married" Merida finally said as she looked up at Hiccup.

"I know" Hiccup replied "I'm just glad it's over"

Merida press her nose gently to his "me too. I felt like being sick a couple of times" she admitted letting her fingers link into his.

It felt to them like they haven't hugged for years even know they had yesterday.

"Now we can enjoy the rest of the day now that the hard part is done" He said.

"Not just today but of the rest of our lives. I just never thought this day would come", Merida added.

"Yeah me too, Mer"

"Mmm"

"How long have we known each other".

Merida began to remember that fateful day. It started like any other day until storm clouds rolled in. Merida was about to ride home when she saw something falling out of the sky. She rode toward it to see if she could help, she reached a clearing and was shocked to find a real dragon and then she saw a young boy. She pulled him over to the nearest tree and hope he would wake up which he did, little did Merida know that this boy would be her true love and that she would marry to him today.

"Let's see, you were 15 and I was 16 so...8 years",

"Really, it doesn't feels that long but every minute has beeen amazing with you" Hiccup said before giving his wife a loving kiss. Merida returned the kiss as Toothless and Angus came over and watched them.

"I love you, my Scottish Queen" Hiccup spokend softly after they their separated.

"I love you too, my Dragon King" Merida repeated she did not never want to let go.

"Maybe we should go back home" Hiccup said "you know, just for some peace before anyone arrives" but as he moved back, his bride pressed him back into another hug.

"No, no just a wee bit longer" Merida said softly, Hiccup didn't complain and hugged for a few more treasured moments.

"Right, race you back to the castle" The Viking whisper in his princess's ear, a playful grin spread across her face.

"You're on" she replied and the pair sprinted to their friends. The horse and dragon were wondering why their riders were running but then were knew they going to race. They both mounted and raced at full speed back home. It was going to be a unique marriage.

Chapter 1-http://jloves-pp.tumblr.com/post/154816595878/merida-and-hiccups-wedding-day-part-1

Chapter 2-http://jloves-pp.tumblr.com/post/157282443958/merida-and-hiccups-wedding-day-part-2

Chapter 3-http://jloves-pp.tumblr.com/post/159682746349/merida-and-hiccups-wedding-day-part-3