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phoenixyfriend · 3 years

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Auntie ‘Soka and Little Leia (and Rex)

The counterpart to Uncle Ben and Little Luke (Original Post, Chrono)

Listen. You all knew this was coming.

This got... very long and detailed and I’m going to have to clean it up and post to AO3. As in, this was supposed to be 2-3k and is literally ten times that long. It crossed 25k. And the initial section actually glosses over a bunch, actual fic-style writing starts at “That, of course, is when things get interesting.”

Warnings: discussion of various canon traumas (most relating to being child soldiers), general PTSD, several scenes featuring dissociation or panic attacks upon being triggered, and canon-typical violence.

Rated T, gen.

I still want there to be de-aging nonsense involved so Ahsoka is physically a late teenager despite having a solid two decades of field experience behind her (we’re pulling her from Malachor).

Leia, much like Luke, is now six. She just came from being a rebellion general. She is not happy about being a child. She was already short, this is just mean. She’s a human espresso.

UNLIKE BEN, Ahsoka is not happy about this turn of events. Being seventeen-ish is not helpful in the outer rim. She’s a female togruta, young and healthy, and in the Outer Rim, caring for a small human child. Sure, she has her lightsabers and plenty of combat experience, and she can keep them safe, but she’s just one person, and a major target for those looking to make some quick cash. It doesn’t matter how good she is; she needs sleep at some point.

It makes my heart happy to treat Ahsoka and Rex as two halves of the same black ops specialist so you know what, he’s there too! He’s physically like... 10-12 in natborn, maybe. They’re not sure, because clones age weird. He’s moderately more useful than Leia (who is very competent but also physically six, and short for that age), but he’s still... very small.

Reminder that none of them have been born yet.

Ahsoka has a harder time explaining WHY she has children with her, since she's barely more than a kid herself, and clearly unrelated by species. She sometimes just says “Oh, my adoptive brother’s kids” since it’s kind of the truth for Leia and she’s not touching the actual truth about Rex with a ten foot pole.

Ahsoka definitely knows about Leia being a Skywalker, or at least has suspicions that Bail never outright confirmed but was conspicuously quiet about. She does tell Leia about it, but it’s not like that means anything, right? Just, you know, your dad was my teacher! I don’t have to tell you he became Va--oh shit, you already knew that part. Well, fuck. What do you mean he had a son? OH SHIT, PADME HAD TWINS.

Alt take for explaining why she’s got kids: She’s my foundling, I know her name as my child (Leia shut up!!!)

(Ahsoka can fake Mandalore. Sometimes.)

That said, there is... significantly less gambling and significantly more theft to get to Coruscant.

As previously stated, Ahsoka is a black ops kinda gal, and more importantly, she looks like a fairly attractive young woman in the Outer Rim, with two children in good health. She’s a target, and also not the kind of person one generally gambles with. If she does gamble, people get upset when she doesn’t lose, in ways they don’t get upset about Ben doing the same, because she’s, again, a cute teenage girl. It’s exhausting.

As things go, she largely ends up stealing from people who deserve it and/or smuggling herself and her charges into someone else’s ship. They’re small, they can hide. Sometimes she can get them all passage by working as a mechanic, she’s good at that.

Once they’ve got a handle on when they are, they have to decide on Names. None of them have been born yet, so technically they could use their own names without anyone Knowing. Rex and Leia might not even be born, depending on how successful they are at, you know, stopping the war and everything. Ahsoka, though, she’s going be born in two years, and there’s no reason to prevent it, so... she doesn’t want to steal baby-her’s name. That would be mean.

Leia is already calling her “Auntie ‘Soka” when she can for reasons like “selling the bit” and “manipulating adults” and “making us both feel better after we had a mutual breakdown about Anakin being Vader.” Ergo, she decides that whatever new name she picks better include that in some way, and decides on “Sokari” because it sounds pretty.

Overall, they don’t... they don’t actually make it very far before there’s an Incident. Again, teenager with small children. They spend a lot of time hiding out in space ports looking for an opportunity.

That, of course, is when things get interesting.

Specifically, Ahsoka spots a Mandalorian.

She doesn’t recognize the armor. She does recognize the sigil, and thinks ‘well, they’re more likely to help than some,’ because from what she’s heard, the Haat Mando’ade are Decent People Overall. Her view is a little biased, mostly on account of the sheer level of grudge she has against Kyr’tsad. It’s fine! The True Mandalorians have the same grudge, right? And Mandalorians like kids and Ahsoka hasn’t slept in five days and it’s fine. It’s fine! IT’S FINE.

“Oh shit,” Rex whispers, before she can suggest anything. “Oh fuck.”

“Stop cursing,” Leia hisses, elbowing him. “People are going to notice.”

“That’s the Prime,” Rex panics, mostly quiet. Ahsoka’s heart drops, because fuck is right. “That’s Fett.”

Leia isn’t impressed. Ahsoka just angles herself between Fett and Rex and hopes that he doesn’t see them. That’s just asking for trouble.

Unfortunately, Ahsoka is in fact running on none sleep with left trauma, and doesn’t notice Fett walking up and dropping into a seat across from them until he’s actually done so, removing his helmet to glare a little more efficiently.

“Wanna explain why your kid has my face?”

Ahsoka later tells herself that he’s killed Jedi and that’s why he can sneak up on her, and that she can be forgiven some slip-ups with the exhaustion being what it is, and that she’s obviously going to be dealing with some emotional instability in light of the sudden return of teenage hormones and new forms of anxiety that are markedly different from those she was dealing with a few weeks ago.

What Ahsoka wants to say is “that’s kind of a long story,” or “maybe he’s a cousin,” or “kriff off, I don’t know you,” or maybe even “he’s a clone.”

What Ahsoka actually does is burst into tears, which is embarrassing for her, for Fett, for the kids, and for the entire rest of the bar.

It really is the straw that broke the eopie’s back. Even when she was actually this age, she didn’t exactly cry much. Objectively, Fett quasi-aggressively asking a valid question shouldn’t send her into a panic. She’s been through torture and worse. She shouldn’t be crying.

But she is, sobbing her eyes out with no control, and he’s just sitting across from her and looking uncomfortable while Rex wraps his little arms--oh Force he’s so small--around her, and both ‘children’ glare at Fett.

“So, I’m going to take it she didn’t kidnap you from a loving family or do something illicit with a blood sample,” Fett says, after it becomes obvious that Ahsoka’s not going to be ready to talk any time soon.

“She didn’t,” Rex says stiffly, with just the right emphasis for Fett to catch what’s implied. Ahsoka just keeps her head down, eyes pressed against the heels of her palms, trying to get her body to stop rebelling against her.

Fett’s eyes dart to Leia, who folds her arms and draws herself up, every bit the unimpressed princess. “My father claimed her as a sister, so she’s my Auntie ‘Soka.”

The man dithers a bit, the conversation clearly not going where he’d expected. “Right,” he says. “You--you’re all kids. I thought she was a little older, at least, but I didn’t have a good look at her face before.”

She is older, but actually admitting that is only going to make this worse, both for her pride and for her chances of making it out alive.

“Where are you staying?”

“What?” Leia bites out.

“You’re kids, you’re alone, and you’re clearly not okay if you were trying to hide the one with my face as blatantly as you did, and then... whatever this is, when I confronted you,” Fett explains. Ahsoka lifts her head to glare at him, but it’s probably not doing much with the way her eyes are rimmed with red and still wet. “Don’t give me that look, ad’ika, your kids looked as confused and horrified by that as the bartender did. They obviously didn’t think it was normal either.”

Well, kriff you too, Ahsoka thinks.

“And what do you mean by ‘blatantly,’ here?” Leia challenges. It’s adorable, but Ahsoka watched this tiny girl shoot a man last week, and wonders when people are going to start taking that seriously.

“There’s a lot of people in this galaxy, and I don’t exactly have the clearest memory of what I looked like at that age,” Fett says, slow and careful like he thinks they’re dumb. Ahsoka decides to chalk it up as being because Leia’s visibly six. “I would have thought it was just a coincidence if you hadn’t put in effort to hide him.”

Leia huffs, and Rex glares harder. Fett just sighs, like they’re all going to give him grey hairs.

“You can explain whatever the hell’s going on,” Fett says. “I’ll let you stay on my ship, there’s a spare bunk and you’re small.”

“For free?” Rex demands.

“A night on a bunk in exchange for information,” Fett clarifies. “We can negotiate from there.”

Ahsoka takes a few moments, notes that both of the others are waiting on her for the decision, and cringes. She doesn’t feel steady enough to carry that. She has to anyway.

“Rex?” she asks, voice rasping after the breakdown of the past few minutes.

“Yeah?”

“How much?”

He looks up at her, eyes calculating, and grimaces. “We don’t want Order 66. A warning is better, even if we... share information.”

She nods, and turns to Leia. “Any premonitions, princess?”

Leia glowers, cute and furious. “No.”

“No, don’t tell, or no, you aren’t getting any vibes about sharing info one way or the other?”

“The latter,” Leia clarifies, huffy to the last.

“Right,” Ahsoka says, and then just... hesitates. “Fett...”

“You’ve got conditions,” he guesses.

She bares her teeth in what could have, through a squint and perhaps a few drinks, been called an apologetic smile. “Just one, really.”

“Yeah?”

“No hurting, killing, or turning us in for bounties,” she says. “Any of us.”

“You’re children, I wouldn’t.”

She blinks at him, slow and careful. She hesitates. She reaches down, out of sight, sees him stiffen.

She unclips her sabers from her belt and puts them on the table.

His eyes are fixed on the weapons the second they enter his line of sight, and don’t move as he clearly realizes why she made the condition she did.

“I left years ago, because I couldn’t stay without it ruining me,” she says. Still slow. Still careful. She’s so tired. “But if I want to keep Leia safe, I have to get back to Coruscant.”

His eyes finally lift from the sabers, expression blank. “Just her?”

“Rex doesn’t have the same monsters coming after him,” she says. “If it were just me and him, I’d worry less. Leia’s a different kind of target.”

“You’re putting a lot of faith on the table by telling me that,” Fett says, voice flat and toneless. “Considering my occupation.”

“She’s a child,” Ahsoka says, feeling heavy and boneless. “Even with what I was and will be, even with what money you would get from the right buyer, you wouldn’t.”

“There are other risks.”

“There are.”

They stare at each other for too long, probably, and then Fett jerks as Rex kicks him under the table. The boys glare for a moment, and then Rex says, “If she weren’t good, I’d still be a slave to those who grew me.”

Fett blinks, and then nearly growls the word, “What?”

“She freed me,” Rex reiterates. “While I was trying to shoot her.”

Ahsoka lifts a hand and puts it on his far shoulder, pulling him into her side. She doesn’t meet Fett’s eyes again, because part of her is back on Mandalore, dodging her own soldiers and crying out as her family dies across the galaxy.

Fett breathes in. Breathes out. He puts a hand to his head, visibly frustrated. “Fine. A good Jedi kid, and two smaller kids, one of which is apparently in some way mine.”

Rex makes a face, which is fair, but also not helping.

“To the ship,” Ahsoka says, putting her sabers back on her belt and sliding out of the seat. “I’m... I’m Sokari.”

“You already know my name.”

“I do.”

---------------------------

Fett watches her like she’s a predator, which has the benefit of being accurate and slightly flattering. She lets other two take care of most of talking, and then Fett tells her to sleep first, and talk in the morning.

“You’re dead on your feet, jetii,” he snorts. “And that crying jag didn’t do you any favors. Sleep.”

So she does, and Fett doesn’t even wake her. He just lets her sleep. He watches her in the way of a guard. She sees him when she gets up to use the ‘fresher in the middle of the night, but he doesn’t even comment when she collapses right back into the mediocre cot she’s borrowed for the cycle.

Rex and Leia are safe, her hindbrain tells her, even in the depths of sleep. Her mind curls around theirs in the Force, and she trusts that they are here. They are not happy, but they are alive and unharmed, and that has to be enough.

When she stumbles her way to true wakefulness, groggy and loose-limbed, Fett greets her with caf.

“The kids wouldn’t let me near you,” he tells her.

“They’re good,” she says, cupping her hands around the mug. She feels wobbly, in every sense. Her body, her mind, her emotions, her connection to the Force. Nothing is on-kilter right now. “Did they tell you anything?”

“They waited for you,” he says. “But the little miss needed a nap of her own. They’re down in the other bunk.”

“I didn’t notice,” she admits. She should have. She’s Fulcrum. She’s a veteran of the Clone Wars. She’s... she’s supposed to be better than this.

“How long?” he asks, and then when she squints up at him, he clarifies. “How long did you fight?”

“My last fight--”

“No, whatever war you came out of,” he says. Her chest twists cold. “I don’t know if the Jedi sent you into it or if you waded in yourself once you left, but you move like a soldier.”

“I was,” she confirms. “But... but I don’t want to talk about the details. Not until the other two are here.”

He frowns at her. “Is there anything you can talk about?”

She shrugs and looks away, trying to take solace in the warmth of the caff she holds above the table, as if it can hide her, guard her, from the disgraced Mand’alor across the table.

“Jedi?”

“I’m not officially a Jedi,” she says, voice quiet. “Not anymore.”

“Then what do I call you?” he asks. “We’re not exactly close enough for names.”

“Torrent,” she says. “It’s not--I can’t claim my family name anymore. But I can claim Torrent, so I will. And if you want a title, I was a commander.”

“Bit young for that.”

“I got the rank when I was fourteen,” she says, and watches his face do something complicated and unpleasant. “Don’t. I know your own culture puts children on the field that young.”

“Not in command.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, well... the soldiers were technically younger. Adults, but...”

Ahsoka can see the way he casts about to figure out what species grows at that rate. He guesses a few, and she shoots all of it down.

She won’t tell him. Not until Rex is awake.

This part of the story is his.

--------------------------

When Leia tries to sit alone, a foot away on the bench like a proper adult, Ahsoka refuses to let it happen. She pulls the younger girl to her side and quells protests with a glance. It’s a decent skill, but she’s not sure how long it’s going to work on her niece-in-spirit.

“Your body needs the chemical release of skinship,” she says, and Leia glares at her. “I spent way too much time with the boys to not know about this. Deal.”

Rex sits close enough to knock their knees together under the table, and his warmth is the old comfort she needs.

“Do you want the story you’ll believe, or the truth?” Ahsoka asks.

“What’s the difference?”

“One of them involves something so impossible that even most Jedi wouldn’t believe it,” she tells him.

Fett folds his arms and leans forward to rest them on the table, challenging but oddly open. “Try me.”

“Time travel.”

He blinks, just once, fully controlled. “That’s a tough one.”

“There were only three Jedi left alive when I died,” she says. “Or... whatever it is that happened to me. I think I died. All I know is that one moment, I was thirty-two and dying, and the next, I was... seventeen again, and had these two with me. All of us younger than we were. None of us have even been born yet.”

She refuses to look him in the eye. “They both outlived me by... six years, maybe. Got caught up while traveling instead of dying. Leia was twenty-two. Rex was thirty-five. I’m not technically the oldest anymore. I mean, physically I am, but that doesn’t mean anything, and it’s not exactly doing us any good, and--”

Rex bumps his shoulder to her arm. “I dunno, Commander. I’ve spent a long time looking older than I should. Nice to look younger for once.”

She shoots him a small, pained grin. “Could be worse, yeah.”

“Let’s say I believe you.”

Her attention snaps back to Fett, who’s looking damnably blank, and is showing even less in the Force.

He waits a second for her to relax back into her seat.

“Let’s say I believe you,” he repeats. “How’s ‘Rex’ connected to me? What’s so special about Leia there? And what war did you fight in that has you acting like a veteran?”

“Three years in the clone wars,” she whispers, glancing to Rex and forcing herself to not go for her sabers to defend against an attack that her paranoia says is coming and the Force says is not. “Then almost all the Jedi were wiped out at once, and I spent a year... drifting. Then black ops for the next fifteen.”

“Black ops,” he repeats, still damnably flat.

“There was a Sith Empire,” she says, and she can hear her own tone growing somehow emptier. “Glassing planets. Enslaving entire species. Committing genocides all over. Of course, there was a rebellion, and of course I joined it. I was one of the only people left with Jedi training. For all that I’d left the Order, I still had a duty to the universe.”

His eyes flit to Leia, who shrugs and tries to look prim. “I was adopted and raised by one of the founders of the rebellion, a movement built on the desire to instate freedom and democracy in a galaxy that had lost even the pretense.”

“That why you’re special?”

Leia smiles, thin and patronizing. It doesn’t fit on her little face. “I’m special because my biological father was one of the most powerful Force users in history, and his Fall to the dark side and choice to become a Sith is why the Emperor’s rise was nearly uncontested. I do not like power, but it’s in my veins and I can’t change that. Force users are... a lucrative trade, and I’m still the size of a child, so I can’t fight back. I’ll be safer in the Jedi Temple, even if I don’t want to be a Jedi.”

Fett looks to Ahsoka, makes to ask a question, and then shakes his head. Not the time, maybe.

“So, that’s all... very complicated and I don’t know how much of it I believe, but it doesn’t explain...” he trails off, and sighs. “My kid, or whatever you are. I heard you mention clones.”

Rex grins. It is not a kind expression.

“Let me tell you about Kamino.”

---------------------------

Ahsoka has no idea if Fett believes them. Either he thinks they’re telling the truth, or he thinks their delusional kids. Whatever the case, he offers to take them closer to the Core. Ahsoka quietly offers to take a look at his engine in return, and then pretends not to notice when Fett awkwardly drifts to and away from Rex.

“They put chips in our brains to make us kill the Jedi we respected, cared for, even loved. I tried to shoot ‘Soka, Fett. She was seventeen and risked her life to get that chip out of my head while I was trying to kill her. I have never hated myself more than when I woke up and realized what I’d almost done, and I was one of the few that were able to fight it. I heard the stories of dozens of brothers who woke with their chips having degraded and chose to eat their blaster rather than live with the guilt of the orders they’d followed without question because of a thrice-damned Sith slave chip in their head.”

“So no, I won’t call you father or acknowledge you as clan until you do something to prove you’re worth it, shared blood or not.”

What Ahsoka does get out of the arrangement, for all that Fett’s route mostly takes them on a meandering path that isn’t faster than their previous system, is sleep. She gets to rest. She gets to trust that Fett won’t kill Rex, out of guilt for something he hasn’t done, that he won’t kill Leia out of a worry that she’s just a delusional child, a real child, that he won’t kill ‘Sokari’ because it would ruin any chance of gaining Rex’s favor, ever.

She’s not safe, won’t believe she can be until she’s in the Temple and Sidious is dead dead dead, but she’s safer than she’s been in a long time.

Every night, Ahsoka wakes up and stumbles to the little galley, deaths and torture sparkling behind her eyes with the energy of a thousand lost Jedi, ten thousand mourned brothers and sisters.

She is not the only one of their little group to be a survivor of a near-total genocide, but Rex could not feel his brothers die in the Force, even if his nightmares featured what they heard of suicide missions by the emperor’s favored shock troopers, and Leia had... Alderaan had more off-world survivors than there had been Jedi at all.

It’s not worth comparing their pain. It’s stupid to even think it. Part of her can’t help but do it anyway.

“Caf?”

She feels a lek twitch in response to the voice of the only other person on board who can reach the top shelf. “I probably shouldn’t.”

“Whiskey?”

“That’s a definitely shouldn’t.”

“Hoth chocolate?”

“...please.”

She doesn’t lift her head from her arms until the mug clicks down in front of her, ceramic on plastisteel.

“Do I ask what it was this time?”

She shrugs. “It’s hard to explain to non-sensitives.”

“Try me anyway.”

Ahsoka twists the Hoth chocolate in her hands, takes a sip as she thinks. “The Force isn’t just one thing. It’s... energy and philosophy and spirit, a sense of being that ties the entire universe together. Sentient and inanimate and living and dead, empty space and lush forests and stifled cities. For those of us who are sensitive to it, it’s possible to feel the life of everyone around you, theoretically possible to feel entire systems. If you have a Force bond, like a master and padawan, that can stretch across planets, even systems if one or both are particularly powerful.

“So just... just imagine, for a moment, what it’s like to feel the screaming of all those Jedi in the Force as their trusted men shot them down.

“Some of them were close enough that I could feel them die,” she manages. “I... it’s horrible. It’s horrific. It’s not something I can ever forget, and I want to. I want to forget what that moment was like. Not that it happened, but...”

She can feel the tears. Fuck..

“You want to dull the edges.”

“Don’t we all?” she asks, scrubbing the back of her hand across her eyes. “Leia lost her entire planet, billions of people, and she was forced to watch. Rex... Force, I can barely imagine, and I was there for most of it.”

Fett watches her, measuring. “From what he said, they were as much your brothers as his, by the end.”

“No,” she immediately denies. “They could have been, maybe, but the ones I was closest to died earlier, and then I left, and by the time the Empire rose, all but a handful were... no. Rex, I will claim as a brother in all the ways that matter, but I don’t get to do that with the rest. I don’t have the right.”

“You’re hard on yourself.”

“Fate of the galaxy, my good bitch. Guess who’s got it on her shoulders.”

He snorts at her, and nods at the mug. “Drink your Hoth chocolate. We’re landing in eight hours, and you’ve got kids to look out for.”

---------------------------

There’s a twitch in the Force when they land, something pulling at her in a way she barely feels. She’s had her shields up so fully for so long that it’s natural to hide away what she is to the point where she can hardly tell what anyone else is, either. It takes more than a moment to remember how to let herself spread out across the world.

“Auntie ‘Soka? Why’d you stop?”

She doesn’t have an answer to Leia’s prodding question. “I don’t know.”

It’s almost familiar. Old and half-forgotten, not the same as what she remembers, but--

“This way,” she says, and wanders off into the crowd. Leia and Rex follow without question. Fett curses and rushes through the rest of his transaction with the docking attendant. The sound of him jogging after them is almost funny, with the armor, but she can’t focus on that.

Ahsoka slips between people with the ease of a career built on such a habit, children trailing like ducklings. She knows this feeling, she knows this person, what is she missi--

“Oh,” she breathes, going stock still. She knows that face. She knows those braids. She even knows the presence.

Younger than Ahsoka had ever seen her, but unmistakably Master Billaba.

“Torrent, what the hell?” Fett demands, finally catching up. “You can’t just run off like that!”

“It’s Depa,” she says, eyes still fixed on the woman parsing through a datapad with an irritated vendor. She has a padawan braid. It doesn’t feel like Master Windu is on-planet, so this might be a solo mission, a... oh. Senior Padawan, Knight Elect. This is the kind of mission taken to test if she’s ready to be promoted.

Ahsoka feels light-headed.

Fett waits for her to elaborate, but she can’t. This was Kanan’s master. This was a member of the High Council. This was a woman who died and--

“You need to sit down,” Fett says, not a touch gruff. He puts a hand on her shoulder and guides her off the main walkway. “I’m... going to talk to the woman in the Jedi robes. You three just stay there and don’t get kidnapped.”

Ahsoka nods, feeling like she’s not quite inhabiting her own body.

It’s Depa.

Her eyes track Fett without conscious control, and her montrals pick up the sound.

Depa looks up when the armor comes close enough, free hand tensed in a way that says she’s preventing herself from reaching for a saber in reaction to the heavily-armored individual standing several feet away.

“Mando,” the woman says. “May I help you?”

“Are you Depa?”

Depa doesn’t do anything so dramatic as gape or step back, but she does blink rapidly for a moment. She then folds her hands down in front of her, drawing her spine up ramrod straight. “I am Jedi Padawan Depa Billaba, yes. May I ask why it is that you need to know?”

Ahsoka imagines Fett grimacing, or rolling his eyes, or maybe dithering. She can’t tell from this angle, and he has a helmet on besides. It turns his awkward silences into judgmental ones.

“I’ve had some Jedi kids on my ship, hitching a ride,” he says at length. “One of them recognized you and then just... froze.”

“You have our younglings in your care,” Depa says, carefully not accusatory, but close enough to be a warning.

“Not quite,” he says. “The one that actually came from the temple is seventeen. One of ‘em isn’t Force Sensitive, and the last one is but hasn’t been to Coruscant before. They’re trying to get the little one to the Temple for her own safety.”

Depa considers that, and then passes the datapad to the vendor. “Lead on.”

It’s surprisingly simple, really. Fett did all the talking.

And then Depa is standing right in front of her.

“Like I said,” Fett sighs. “She froze up.”

“Hello,” Depa says, hands laced together inside her sleeves. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Ahsoka shakes her head. “I know of you. I’ve seen you spar. You’ve never spoken to me.”

All true. A little misleading, but it’s fine, it’s all fine.

Depa waits a moment, and then says, “You seem to have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Sokari T-Torrent,” she manages. The words feel clunky in her mouth, the sound abrasive for all that it’s just her own voice, no different from usual. A little shaky, maybe. She can feel a cool breeze on her upper arms. Shouldn’t she have armor? She should have armor. “It... it’s been a long time since I’ve seen another Jedi. I’m having a hard time believing you’re real.”

“I see,” Depa says. “Perhaps we should take this somewhere more private? You seem a little unsteady.”

Ahsoka lets herself be led back to the ship, in the company of Mand’alor Jango Fett, Jedi Padawan Depa Billaba, Princess-General Leia Organa, and good old Captain Rex.

It’s like the start of a sick joke.

---------------------------

Fett and Depa talk where she can hear, but they rarely address her directly. Both seem to realize that she’s not particularly useful right now. Leia and Rex are pressing up against her at the little table in the galley, and Ahsoka lets them.

This is real. She can feel Depa in the Force, recognizes her energy even if it’s not quite what it will-was-could-have-been. This is happening.

It’s a textbook Traumatic Stress Response case, one of them says.

Fett has his helmet off. Ahsoka’s sure that’s wrong for some reason. She thinks he might already be on wanted lists. Should she worry about Depa trying to arrest him?

Depa asks about Rex at one point. Fett tells her that someone cloned him without his knowing, but the kid is more comfortable with Ahsoka so they’re still working on what that means for him.

It’s more or less true. Rex squeezes her hand the one time someone suggests separating them. She’s not letting that happen unless Rex wants to leave for whatever reason. They’ve worked apart before. They can do it again.

“Auntie Soka? You’re shivering.”

Is she?

Leia cuddles in closer, and Ahsoka runs a hand over her hair. It’s an absentminded motion, and for all that she knows Leia’s hair is fine as silk, it feels like plastic in the moment.

“I don’t think I’m okay,” Ahsoka announces. The words hang in the air like lead balloons, and she can feel Depa staring at her. “I haven’t been for a very long time.”

“Yeah, we noticed,” Fett says. “Do you need to lay down, Torrent?”

Does she?

“No,” she says. “I... I don’t know what I need.”

“The spicy drink,” Rex tells them. “It’s grounding.”

Right. That.

Fett goes to grab it, and Depa continues to watch.

“How long ago did you leave your master?” Depa asks. “Or... did he die?”

Ahsoka closes her eyes and shakes her head. She can feel the shivers now, tremors in her biceps and a shudder she can’t control in the height of her ribcage. Her teeth grind together, jaw like stone.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Depa assures her. “I’m... going to recommend you see a mind healer on Coruscant.”

That was a forgone conclusion.

A cup clinks onto the table. Fett’s back. “Drink.”

She does.

Depa and Fett continue discussing it as “the adults” at the table. She’s older than both of them. Rex is older than all of them. Ahsoka follows about half of what they say. She agrees with most of it. Rex bullies his way into speaking when she doesn’t, without her even asking, because he knows her mind as well as she does. Fett rolls with it. Depa lets him.

She’s going to reach out to the Temple and see about getting them a ride back to Imperial Center Coruscant.

Fett makes Soka go to bed, taking Leia with her.

---------------------------

She feels more like a person come morning.

Depa’s sitting at the table, datapad in her hands and caff on the table in front of her.

“Good morning,” Ahsoka says, rough and croaking, and Depa’s eyes flick up to meet hers. She nods a shallow hello.

“Feeling better?”

“Much,” Ahsoka says, and goes about gathering a breakfast. There’s definitely some dried meat in here. She can get something fresh when they stop by the market later.

“I was hoping to speak with you about your options,” Depa tells her, once she’s sat at the table. “Fett and your friend Rex took care of most of the negotiation, and I feel like I have an idea of what would work best for you.”

Ahsoka nods slowly. “Okay.”

“There is a Master-Padawan pair a few planets away,” Depa says. “The Council informed me when I spoke with them about you and your wards. They’d be headed back to the Temple in a few days anyway, and the Council has agreed to extend an offer to Fett to handle the transportation. The presence of a Jedi Master on board will allow for him to get in and out of the Core unmolested, and we’d like for you and yours to have a Jedi escort, given what happened yesterday afternoon.”

Her complete spiral into nonbeing?

“I understand,” she says instead. “I suppose Fett agreed because he’s still trying to get Rex to like him?”

Depa shrugs. “That part isn’t my business.”

Of course it isn’t.

“Rex can stay with me for a while, right?” Ahsoka finally asks. “I know it’s not exactly protocol, but I’m...”

“In need of a support system until you’ve seen a mind healer, and against all odds, the child is part of it,” Depa summarizes. “Yes, I recognized as much. I think the Council will be able to allow some leeway there. I don’t know if he’ll enjoy it, given that all the others his age are Initiates, but we can adjust as necessary. On that note... Do you know Leia’s midichlorian count?”

“No,” Ahsoka says, and hesitantly adds, “But her biological father was my Jedi Master, and I’m told his count broke records even as a child. Given what Leia’s shown so far... it’s why I’ve been in a hurry to get her to the Temple.”

Depa frowns at her, clearly working through the implications of a Jedi having a daughter and still teaching... and then visibly dismisses the situation, eyes closing to breathe in the steam of her caff.

Biological father certainly implies a child that was raised by her mother or adopted out so the Jedi father could remain in their chosen career without a conflict of interest or duty.

She’ll tell the council the truth, or... at least Master Koon. Master Kenobi is still a padawan, but she can tell Master Koon.

She already told Jango Fett, of all people.

“Padawan Torrent?”

Her head snaps up. She hasn’t been a padawan in over fifteen years. It’s weird to hear. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked if you wanted some time to think it over before I presented the offer to Fett,” Depa says.

Ahsoka gets the distinct feeling that Depa is planning a report to the Council that has ‘needs a mind healer’ underlined at least three times.

“No, I’m--I’m fine. That sounds like a good plan.”

“I’ll speak with him, then. Would you like to come with?”

"No, thank you.”

---------------------------

Fett agrees. Ahsoka’s pretty sure it’s all to do with Rex and maybe Leia. It’s probably nothing to do with ‘Sokari.’ She’s a Jedi, an adult in mind and in body, or at least close enough to count. She’s a damn sight more ‘enemy’ to Fett than the other two are. Not as much as Depa, maybe, but Fett’s been playing nice with her for Leia’s sake.

He plays nice with Ahsoka for Rex’s. That’s all.

They’re only a few planets over from the meeting point, and they have a few days to hang around before the escort meets them. Depa hadn’t given them a name--apparently it could have compromised the opsec for the Jedi team--but Ahsoka’s pretty sure she’ll be able to identify almost anyone. She gets the feeling that the Force is going to send her a familiar face, just as it did Master Padawan Billaba.

Ahsoka lets herself feel the world around her. It’s dark and dreary, in the sense that the beaten-down port is full of petty crimes and less petty horrors, but it’s still lighter than most of the Empire had been. She sneaks away from the ship at night, ignoring Fett at her back, and performs a bit of vigilante justice while she can. She’ll be banned from doing so as soon as she’s reinstated as a Jedi, probably, but for now... for now, she can look at the drug cartels and ‘they’re not slaves, really’ workers and do something to help.

She doesn’t use her sabers. She doesn’t need to. It’s been a long time since she has, for small fry like these.

“What are you doing?” Fett asks her, landing heavily behind her back.

“Chip removal,” she says, hand pressed to the slave’s leg. Her eyes are closed, but she can hear him shifting. “Let me concentrate, I don’t have a meddroid for this.”

He’s silent until she finishes, and waits until the people she’s helped are on their way to the planet’s freedom routes. He doesn’t ask what she did with the owners.

“You’ve done this before.”

“Regularly,” she confirms. “You?”

He doesn’t answer that, just ambles over to the the chains and stares down at them.

“Fett?”

“You go through this like it’s as easy as breathing,” he says. “It’s... impressive.”

“I guess?” she hesitates to continue. “I’m... I don’t think of it that way. This is the easy stuff. A time-waster that helps people. If I wanted to help for real, I’d been going after Jabba or Sidious or--”

“How old were you?” he asks, turning on his heel to face her dead-on. The vocoder of his helmet pulls the emotion from his voice. “When did this... these missions, the slavery battles, when did that start for you?”

“Fourteen,” she says. She’s not entirely sure, really, what counted as a mission for ending slavery and what counted as just a part of war, but she can round down. “Maybe fifteen. It’s a bit of a blur.”

“And you just kept doing it.”

“Of course,” she says. “If I have the time and the energy, if I need to do something and there’s nothing official on my hands, why not?”

He doesn’t answer her.

---------------------------

Rex greets them before she does.

Ahsoka, in her defense, is asleep at the time. It’s a restless sleep, but it’s enough that she doesn’t sense the nearing Force signatures until they’re almost at the ship.

She recognizes one of them.

“Auntie ‘Soka?” Leia questions, when she lurches to her feet and starts pulling on her boots with all the energy of a zombie. “Where are you going?”

“Jedi,” Ahsoka grunts. “Here.”

“I see.”

Leia dresses to follow her, in a little coat that’ll withstand the chill of the outside air, and Ahsoka makes it to the cargo hold just in time to hear Rex saying, “I’m not shaking your hand until you put your gloves on, Vos.”

She laughs to herself, breathless with the knowledge of what she’s about to find. She jumps the railing of the upper walkway, drops down just in front of the Master-Padawan team, and keeps her back to Fett and Rex. “Hello, there.”

One human, one Kiffar. She knows the latter.

“Would you be Sokari Torrent?” the Master asks.

“I am,” she says, with a slight bow. She can tell there’s a bit of judgement for how she’s dressed, but they’re covering it well. A Shadow and his trainee know the value of armor better than most Jedi bother with. “I’m afraid Padawan Billaba didn’t inform me of your names before we met.”

“And yet your friend knew my padawan,” the Master says.

“By reputation,” she says, as smoothly as she can. “I’ve encountered Quinlan Vos before, though I doubt he remembers--”

“I’d remember someone like you,” Quinlan interrupts, with a grin she’s sure is meant to be charming and rogueish.

He’s... very young for her, and not her type. Mostly, she wants to pat him on the head, but that probably wouldn’t go over very well. She still looks like she’s younger than him.

“Anyway,” she says, turning back to the master, “I’m afraid I still don’t know who you are, Master.”

“I am Tholme,” he says, with the bow that a Master gives a Padawan. She feels a little slighted, but it’s fine. She looks the right age, it’s fine.

It’s not like they know.

“It’s nice to meet you, Master Tholme,” she says. “My charges are Rex Torrent, the young man behind me, and currently coming down the ladder is Leia Antilles. I’m sure you’re aware of Jango Fett.”

“The Mand’alor,” Quinlan volunteers, and Ahsoka can almost hear Fett’s teeth grinding.

“Don’t call me that,” he says. She’s sure he’s got a hand drifting for his blaster.

“There isn’t a whole lot of room on the ship,” she says before the men can get into whatever weird contest she’s sure someone might start. Her bet’s on Fett. “But Leia and Rex are small enough to share with me, so I’m sure we can make it work.”

“There’s spare rolls for anyone comfortable with sleeping in the hold,” Fett grunts. “Or on the floor in the passenger room.”

“Well, I guess I could ask for a little help fi--”

“Vos,” Ahsoka snaps, letting her voice take on the kind of ‘obey me or get fresher duty’ irritation that she’d perfected back when the rebellion still had her managing people, before they’d realized she was more use in the field. “Do not.”

There’s a moment’s pause, and Tholme looks unimpressed with that raised eyebrow, but the kind of unimpressed that’s split between his own padawan and the stranger before him.

“Um,” Quinlan says. “I just--”

“No,” she cuts him off. “No flirting.”

It’s weird and uncomfortable and she’d have maybe been okay with it if she was actually the seventeen-or-eighteen-ish(?) that she looked, but she’s not. She’s in her thirties and Vos is... what, twenty? Twenty-one? No.

He stares at her, and she wonders momentarily if she’d gone too far in the direction of judging his intentions in the Force and preempted actual flirtations.

“I’m sorry?” He offers, looking confused, but ashamed. “I, uh, I’ll keep that in mind.”

She definitely preempted the actual flirtation.

Fuck.

Ahsoka closes her eyes and breathes in. Breathes out. Opens her eyes. “Right. That was... I’m not sure how much Padawan Billaba told you about me.”

“Enough,” Tholme says. He moves forward and puts a hand on Quinlan’s shoulder. Ahsoka has no idea if it’s to comfort him or hold him back. “I didn’t share most of it with my padawan, but I have a general understanding of what’s going on.”

Quinlan darts a look at his teacher, but Ahsoka doesn’t acknowledge it. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

“Thank you for your understanding,” she says, and bows, and stiffly turns away to walk to the galley.

---------------------------

Leia squirms into the bench seat, shoving her way under Ahsoka’s arm like a particularly wriggly tooka.

“What was that?” Leia demands, the authority of a rebellion general rather useless in the squeaky voice of a child.

“What was what?”

“The whole thing with Padawan Vos,” Leia says. “You blew up at him before he even did anything.”

That’s pretty true.

“I felt the flirtation coming before it happened and reacted inappropriately because I panicked. I’m significantly older than him, but I can’t tell him that, so it’s just awkward and uncomfortable and... I’m not okay, Princess. I haven’t been for a long time.”

“Yeah, we can tell.”

“Leia.”

“What? I need therapy too! Captain Rex needs therapy! I’m pretty sure Fett needs therapy! You, Fulcrum, you really need therapy. None of us are okay.” She huffs, wiggling impossibly closer. “I don’t like it, but it’s true.”

“I know,” Ahsoka groans. “I just... I just need to hold out until the Temple.”

“Will you be able to hold it together if you see someone you actually care about?” Leia demands. “What are you going to do when you see Kenobi?”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious, you--”

“Leia, that’s enough,” she snaps. “I was fighting that war before you were even born, and I’ve dealt with the consequences since. I know the risks and I’ll thank you to remember who taught you to control your own mind.”

Leia stiffens, sucking in a sharp breath. “That was uncalled for.”

“You’re not the child you appear to be,” Ahsoka reminds her, not a little sharply. “You want to dish it out, be ready to take it. What will you do when we see Bail Organa? When we see the toddler that is Anakin Skywalker?”

“I get it.”

“I’m not sure you do,” Ahsoka mutters. She isn’t surprised when Leia ducks out of the embrace and leaves the galley. She lets the girl go, guilt warring with the memory of how Master Kenobi had more than once spoken that way to Anakin at the height of the war. The fact that she’s an adult in the body of a child isn’t an excuse for poking at Ahsoka’s open wounds. It was cruel and unnecessary, and unbecoming of a... not a Jedi. A princess. A politician.

She rests her head on her arms and zones out. She should meditate, but that seems like... too much effort.

She can feel Vos and Tholme setting up in the room they’ve been assigned. Neither seems particularly angry. Most likely, Tholme’s given the absolute shortest explanation of ‘child soldier, dead master, highly traumatized and emotionally unstable’ to Vos to smooth over the incident in the cargo hold. Rex is with Leia; he’s agitated, but less so than Leia herself. Fett’s annoyed, in the cockpit, but he seems annoyed as often as not. There’s a shudder at lift-off, and a few minutes later, they’re in hyperspace, headed for the Core.

Fett finds her, falls into the other bench in full armor, and drops his elbows onto the table. The helmet clunks down a moment later.

She doesn’t lift her head. “What do you want?”

“Do I need to keep Vos away from you?”

“What?”

“Vos. He made you uncomfortable. Was that him being someone that hurt you in the future, or just the interaction being awkward?”

She lifts her head. She stares at him. “What?”

He leans back and crosses his arms. “Do you need me to tell Vos to stay the hell away from you?”

She’s gaping. “You realize I’m thirty-two, right? I can handle my own battles.”

“You’re also traumatized as hell and everyone can see it,” Fett argues back. “If Vos himself is a trigger, I can handle it.”

“He’s not,” she tells him. This is strange. Fett’s being strange. “He was actually a friend of my grandmaster’s. I’m just uncomfortable with the flirting because I’m a lot older than he realizes, and I can’t tell him that.”

He nods sharply, and then looks away. The silence sits.

“Thanks for asking?” Ahsoka says, well aware of how her confusion over the offer turns it into a question. “I mean, thank you for... caring.”

I guess, she finishes in the privacy of her own head. Or at least pretending to.

Fett makes a face, still not facing her. He eyes the galley instead. She can guess where his thoughts are going. The galley is... not very big, especially with six people on board instead of one, but she’s sure they’ve stocked up enough. On the off chance they do go through more than expected, because of how many growing bodies are in residence, they can stop off and buy more. They have those resources now.

Jango never does ask what she did with the slavers.

“Who’s going to cry if I spice things properly?” he asks.

“Probably Leia,” she says immediately. “Vos will try to power through it even though he’s going to be overwhelmed. No idea about Tholme, but I think he’ll keep a straight face whether he likes it or not. Rex and I are fine, ‘hot’ was pretty much the only flavor of seasoning the GAR had.”

“GAR?”

“Grand Army of the Republic.”

He finally looks at her.

“You already knew I was a child soldier, Fett; don’t act surprised.”

“That doesn’t mean I like hearing about it.”

“I was fourteen. That’s old enough by Mando standards, Fett. Just think back, when did you get on the battlefield?”

“I take your point,” he says, lip curling unpleasantly. “It just hits different now that I’m old enough to look back and think of how damned young fourteen really is.”

Ahsoka shrugs. “Yeah, well--”

“You said the clones were ten.”

There’s the rub, isn’t it?

Of course it was about the clones.

“...closer to seven, by the end. Kamino was just making speedies at that point. Triple growth on the average instead of double, but averages in that case meant they’d been growing at double rates for six years and then got forced through four growth cycles in a single year to beef up the army when we kept losing men.” She looks down at the table, picking at a scratch in the plastipaint with her nail. “Rex and the rest of the ones from the beginning were basically twenty in mind and body, even if they’d only been decanted ten years earlier. The speedies... I always wondered. They’d gone from functionally twelve to functionally twenty in a year. That’s not... even in Kamino, that can’t have been normal. They didn’t act like adults, not the way the originals did.”

Fett rubs at his face, groaning. He swears under his breath in three different languages.

She pities him, if only because he hasn’t actually done any of this yet. He’s paying for the crimes of a man he likely won’t ever become.

She kicks him under the table. “Wanna make tiingilar and see how long it takes Vos to start crying while he insists it’s fine?”

---------------------------

Dinner is when the questions start. Some are relatively easy. Others, not so much.

“My Master was Leia’s biological father,” is an easy truth to share. “She inherited his power, so I need to get her to the temple for her own safety, because home no longer is.”

“Yes, her adoptive parents were unfortunately killed rather recently. We’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“Rex is with me. Where he goes, I go, and vice versa.”

That one gets her an odd look.

“I thought...” Quinlan trails off, gesturing between Rex and Fett.

Fett keeps his face impassive, but his discomfort and guilt leak into the Force. “I didn’t know Rex existed until I ran into these three in a spaceport cantina a few weeks ago.”

Quinlan blinks at him, looks at Rex again, and then turns back to Fett with a grin that might have been described as ‘saucy’ if he were less smug about it. “Wild oats, huh?”

“Are you shitting me right now,” Leia whispers, and Ahsoka elbows her.

“That was inappropriate, padawan.”

Quinlan’s grin fades as Fett just continues to eye him.

“Um, so--”

“How old is the kid?” Fett interrupts.

Darting eyes answer him, as Quinlan tries to gauge Rex. “Ten? Maybe twelve?”

“And how old am I?”

“...early thirties?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

Quinlan’s grin fades further as he does the math.

“I’d have been between fifteen and seventeen when he was born,” Fett says, tone flat. “Between fourteen and sixteen at conception. I know damn well I wasn’t doing anything that could have resulted in a kid at that age.”

Quinlan rallies. “So, brothers?”

Tholme sighs loudly, hand over his eyes.

“I’m a clone,” Rex says, and Ahsoka can feel the amusement he gets out of Quinlan’s confused shock. They’d both had plenty of respect for Master Vos, but Padawan Vos was nothing but trouble. “Harvested genetic material, grown in a tube, inconsistent aging meaning I don’t even know how old I am for sure.”

“I broke him out,” Ahsoka adds, which is half true.

“There was a chip in my head,” Rex adds, with a bright smile. Quinlan’s discomfort grows. “She got it out. Also, lots of brothers. None of them are... around anymore. The creators were trying to make an army.”

Vos and Tholme have no response. Fett looks like he’s been carved out of stone. Leia’s just ignoring them and picking at her food.

Ahsoka lifts a hand and, without looking, Rex high-fives her.

---------------------------

“Drop your elbow.”

Ahsoka tries to cover her smile at the dirty look that Leia shoots Fett. Fett remains unimpressed by the glare of royalty, just gestures for the girl to do as he said.

“I know how to fight,” Leia grumbles. “I took lessons. I was good at them.”

“And I’m better,” Fett says, leaving no room for argument. “You want the Torrents to take over?”

The Torrents. Rex and Soka. She likes being referred to that way. Like they’re a team that never got split up.

Force, she wished they’d never gotten split up.

“Again,” Fett orders, and Leia moves through the Mandalorian kata with ill grace in her emotions and all grace in her sweeping limbs.

Well, as much grace as an undersized six-year-old can, at any rate.

“Think he’ll ask me to spar her again?” Rex asks, dropping down into the seat next to Ahsoka and passing her a drink.

“Maybe,” she acknowledges. “I think he’s wondering if it’s worth asking Vos to spar with her, so she gets more experience with size differences.”

“Hm?”

“She flinched at his face again,” she tells him. “The whole... thing with Boba, I guess. She still won’t tell me why Fett triggers her sometimes, but he’s not pressing her to spar with him, and there’s only so much she can get out of fighting me. Asking Tholme would be presumptuous, but Vos is just a padawan. I think it’d work out.”

“And you?”

She looks at him, already feeling a cresting wave of bullshit she doesn’t want to deal with. “What about me?”

“Are you going to spar with the Jedi?”

She should. She hasn’t sparred with a saber since she got tossed back into a body only half-familiar to her. She’s let Leia borrow the shorter one to learn some basic blocking moves, Shii-Cho and then, with hesitance, the first Soresu form. Another time, she loaned it to Rex to practice some attacks; they both know that the next time he picks up her saber in battle, having lost his weapons or she her grip, it will be neither the first or last time he wields a sword of light. None of that, however, is... sparring.

None of that is against someone who knows what they’re doing.

How long has it been since she sparred with anyone other than Kanan and Ezra?

How long has it been since she sparred without the looming specter of Darth Vader in the back of her mind, without fear of the Inquisitors, without the knowledge that any saber held by someone other than her two friends would be red as blood and twice as drenched.

Would she be able to hold back as she fought?

“I should,” she acknowledges, eyes on where Fett is nudging Leia’s feet into position for some kind of leveraging flip. She’s so small. “It would probably be a good idea to spar against a master at some point.”

“Do you think you can?” Rex asks.

“I never knew him,” she says. “And he isn’t Dark. It should be fine.”

Rex nods, taking her word for it. They watch as Leia stumbles on a final move, and Fett gestures for her to sit down and get a drink.

“That man is a terror,” she informs them.

(She’d once described him as a slave-driver. She had not made that mistake twice.)

“Least it’s not Kamino!” Rex tells her cheerfully. When Leia refuses to look impressed, he laughs at her.

Ahsoka has a half-second’s warning before heavy boots thud to the ground next to her. “What’s Kamino?”

“Hello, Vos, it’s nice to see you too,” she drawls. “I’m good, thanks for asking, and yourself?”

The boy-not-quite-man rolls his eyes. “Hi, Torrents; hi, tiny one.”

Leia glares at him next.

“So, Kamino?”

“Planet by Rishi,” Rex says.

“Why were you there?”

“They specialize in cloning.”

Ahsoka covers her mouth as the conversation drops into the same awkward gap that always happens when Quinlan stumbles into a subject he didn’t know to avoid.

“Like... you were made there, or you were researching how it works for your own--”

Ahsoka slaps a hand over his mouth. “Now’s a great time to stop talking.”

He licks her palm.

She bares her teeth and arches her fingers just enough to press nails into his cheek.

He bites at her palm, and she yanks her hand away.

“You’re all children,” Leia accuses, conveniently forgetting that Ahsoka and Rex are both over a decade older than her.

“I can throw you the length of a swimming pool,” Ahsoka tells her. “One of the fancy competition-ready ones that would make a Tatooinian cry. You are absolutely the child here.”

“Using the Force is cheating, sir,” Rex informs her.

“Only if there’s a competition,” Ahsoka shoots back. “And proving that a certain princess is a small child is not a competition. It’s a declarative fact.”

“I’m going to rip open the seams on all your tops except the ugliest one,” Leia decides.

“Try me,” Ahsoka challenges. “Adi’ka.”

A low, rough cough interrupts them. “Are you done?”

Fett has his arms crossed, and an eyebrow raised. He knows they’re all adults here, and is entirely unamused. As the silence drags, the eyebrow climbs a little higher.

“Done with what?” Quinlan finally asks, thereby volunteering himself to spar in hand-to-hand with Jango Fett, as one does.

“Poor, poor Vos,” Rex laughs, watching as Fett barks out orders at Quinlan every five seconds to fix his footwork, to stop dropping his guard, to stop wasting energy on flips instead of just dodging the easy way.

“Throw him!” Ahsoka calls. To her delight, Fett obliges.

The thing is, Quinlan isn’t bad at brawling. He’s got training, endurance, skill. The man knows what he’s doing, objectively. He’s just not a match for Fett, and is used enough to relying on his saber that his hand-to-hand skills are rusty. They are perhaps less rusty than those Jedi who don’t take questionable jobs in the Mid-Outer Rim, and Ahsoka’s got a suspicion that Vos regularly gets into bar fights in his downtime, but none of that is enough for him to actually do more than survive against Fett without his saber.

Even the saber wouldn’t help, if Fett had his armor.

“Whose idea was this?”

Ahsoka cranes her head back and smiles. “Hello, Master Tholme. Vos... volunteered.”

“Did he know he was volunteering?”

“No comment.”

Tholme snorts, crossing his arms and eyeing the spar in front of him. “I thought Fett hated Jedi. Giving us a ride for the sake of you three is one thing, but why is he teaching my padawan?”

Ahsoka shrugs. “Constructive bullying?”

There’s a small twitch of a smile, quickly gone. “He said something wrong, I’m guessing?”

“There was no way he could have known,” she dismisses. “We’re just, like, ninety-percent tragic backstories.”

“You’d think the Force would warn him,” Rex notes.

“That’s not how the Force works,” Leia chides.

“No, no, he’s right,” Ahsoka corrects. “The Force does sometimes step in to stop a person from saying something stupid. However, Padawan Vos is at an age where people think they are very rational while being more irrational than they likely ever will be again.”

“Do I want to ask what you were doing at that age?” Tholme asks.

“Running bla...” she trails off, then whips around to gape at him.

He smiles, bland and unassuming. “Does Fett know?”

“Know... what?” Ahsoka asks.

“That you’re significantly older than you look,” he says, voice just low enough that the sparring duo can’t hear him. “All three of you.”

Ahsoka turns back to the spar, only catching Tholme out of the corner of her eye. “He knows.”

“Mm. Were you planning on telling the Council?”

“Yes.” That part was never in question. “How did you figure it out?”

“I am a good investigator,” he says. “And you rely a little too heavily on your physical forms to obfuscate. Were it just one of you, that wouldn’t be a problem, but the pattern repeated across three is a little easier to discern.”

“I hoped the whole ‘child soldiers’ thing would be a bigger distraction,” Ahsoka mutters. She glances at Leia and Rex. Both of them are used to being in charge to some degree, giving orders and making contingency plans, but in this... in this, Ahsoka is in charge. They’d decided that at the very start. It didn’t matter that Rex had lived longer and had more experience, or that Leia had held the highest Rebellion rank of the three of them. Ahsoka had been agreed as leader, and they were relying on her.

They’re waiting on her orders. Stiff and unhappy, in Leia’s case, but they trust her.

“Will you be telling Vos?” She asks.

“No,” Tholme says. “Your secrets remain your own unless they endanger us, and I’ve a feeling they won’t be.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Rex jokes, smile not reaching his eyes. “I’ve been working with this family for too long to trust that trouble won’t find them around the next corner.”

“This family?” Tholme repeats.

“Sokari was telling the truth about her master being Leia’s biological father,” Rex says. He shrugs. “I worked with him, with his wife, with both of his kids, with his master and his padawan. All of them, to a one, are trouble magnets.”

“Ah, but that’s not the secret that’s putting us in danger,” Tholme points out. “Simply existence as a Jedi.”

Rex shrugs. “Fair enough. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.”

Ahsoka lurches to her feet, turning with a smile and dancing backward into the the stretch of empty cargo hold they used for such things. “A spar, Master Tholme?”

He looks past her, to Quinlan, and raises a brow. “Would you not prefer to spar with someone a little closer to your level first?”

She barks out a laugh. “Master Tholme, I’m afraid I’ve spent more of my life fighting to survive than having normal friendly spars. My style is more lethal than the average, and you’ve already seen what war’s done to my mind. I ask to spar with you because, if I lose control, if I slip in time or react on an instinct that isn’t appropriate, I trust that you’ll be more able to stop me than a senior padawan.”

He smiles. “Yes, I gathered as much. Still, better to ask. Shall we wait for them to finish up?”

Ahsoka shrugs, turns, and yells. “Clear the deck!”

Rex snorts behind her, and lowly mutters, “Sir, yes, sir.”

She smirks at him over her shoulder. “At ease, Captain.”

“That’s ‘Commander’ to you, I got promoted,” he sniffs, chin held high.

Heavy steps herald Fett’s arrival at their little group. “The hells are you doing?”

“I’m going to have a spar with a Jedi Master, and I want you and Vos to not get stabbed.”

“I’m not that easy to injure in an actual fight, let alone by accident,” Fett grouses. He looks up and over at Vos, who is already significantly taller, if a fair shot less built. “This one, on the other hand...”

“Hey!”

Ahsoka laughs and backs into the center of the cargo hold, drawing her sabers. “Don’t worry, Vos, I won’t play dirty. You’ll probably get your master back in one piece.”

He wrinkles his nose at her. “Getting a bit ahead of yourself there, aren’t you? He’s a Jedi Master and former Watchman. You’re... what, eighteen?”

Ahsoka raises a brow and activates her sabers, tapping the blades together and watching as more than one person winces. “Wanna bet on how long I last?”

“No,” he says immediately, stepping back to join Rex on the bench. “You’ve already blindsided me enough. I’m not dumb enough to fall for whatever you’ve got up your sleeve.”

“I don’t have sleeves.”

“Armwarmers-slash-greaves, then.”

“Greaves go on the legs, these are vambraces.”

He throws his hands up in the air. “I’m just going to stop talking now!”

“Good plan,” Leia snarks, and then literally hisses when Rex ruffles her hair.

Tholme lights his saber and sinks into an opening stance.

Ahsoka mirrors him.

---------------------------

She wins, but barely. She's had a few weeks to practice her forms, has sparred hands-only with Rex and Fett, but this is her first real try at using her sabers against a person, instead of a blaster or thin air, since she arrived in the past. She’s only mostly adjusted to her body.

But Tholme is a healer and a watchman, not a duelist. Ahsoka held her own against Ventress, against Grievous, against Maul when she was this age. Still adjusting to her body or not, her lineage is one of battle, and it bled true.

“You’re terrifying,” Quinlan tells her after they’re done, smiling like the sun as he hands her a towel. “Please never turn that on me.”

She laughs at him. “Would you believe that I’m out of practice?”

“Out of practice with what?” he asks, horrified and fascinated. “Fighting Sith Lords?”

“Among other things,” she says, and smirks when he chokes on his drink. “Multiple darkside users who claimed to be Sith, at least. One being a full Lord, one that was disowned by his master, and one that was apprenticed to a Banite apprentice, so she wasn’t technically allowed to be a Darth because of the rule of two.”

Tholme meets her eyes past Quinlan’s shoulder, head tilted and eyes half-shut in consideration. He’s taking her seriously. He knows what she’s not saying.

“How...” Quinlan trails off and shakes his head. “You know what, no. Asking you people questions never ends well.”

“Good plan,” Ahsoka says, clapping a hand down on his shoulder. “Also, you need to spar with Fett more. Your footwork is shit.”

“It is not,” Quinlan gripes. “You’re all just scary good at this stuff.”

“You mean surviving?” Leia pipes up, and smiles innocently when Quinlan turns to pout at her.

“You’re getting bullied by a six-year-old,” Rex informs him.

“Yeah,” Quinlan sighs. “I know.”

Ahsoka laughs, and it’s fine. It’s all fine. For a week, everything is honestly great. She trains, she laughs, she works through the nightmares.

Then fucking Denon happens.

---------------------------

Denon is a city-planet on the intersection of two major hyperlanes. It’s the kind of place where they stop for two things:

Fuel.

Paperwork.

Technically, there’s a whole mess of paperwork they have to fill out to continue along this specific hyperlane, since they aren’t official Republic ships, and don’t have the licenses to just pass along like ships that are pre-registered to the Trade Federation or the like. They could sneak past--literally all of them know smuggler’s routes--but it’s honestly less of a pain to do things legally. They have a Jedi Master. They have cash. Some of that cash wasn’t quite legally acquired, but nobody needs to know that.

It’s supposed to be a pit stop. That’s all.

It’s just a pit stop.

But no, the galaxy isn’t that kind and Ahsoka’s luck is currently being compounded with a Skywalker, two Fetts, and Vos, which means that of course they run into trouble. Of course they do. There was never any other option, was there?

“Motherfucker,” Ahsoka snaps, lifting her head up and slamming her drink on the table.

The glass is empty. That’s good. They’re in a restaurant right now, a little splurging after weeks with only each others’ company, and spilling the sugary child-friendly juice with that move would have drawn way too much attention from the servers.

“Language,” Tholme says, voice idly unconcerned.

“Sir?” Rex asks, kicking Ahsoka under the table. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wr--that jackass,” she hisses, getting to her feet. “Rex, grab a blaster, I’ve got shebs to kick.”

“Okay,” Rex says, grabbing one out of Fett’s holster and scooting out of the booth before anyone can tell him not to. “Whose?”

“I didn’t even know that he was... osik, I don’t have jurisdiction,” she realizes. “I don’t have any record of wrongdoing. I can’t arrest him since we don’t have evidence of criminal wrongdoing...”

“Are you two going to explain what’s going on?” Vos asks. “Or sit down, maybe?”

Ahsoka makes her decision. She eyes the window--the restaurant in question is a little dingy, but it’s also several dozen stories in the air. “Rex, remember the thing we did on Geonosis that you hated?”

He pauses, and then sighs heavily. “Yes, sir. I remember the... yeeting.”

Hah. That slang doesn’t even exist yet.

“Great. With me!”

It’s a good thing the windows are forcefields instead of transparisteel. A bit of a twist to the energy and they’re gone.

She only hears a little screaming before the wind tears all noises away while they plummet.

They land lightly--of course--and Ahsoka wraps them both in a don’t notice me aura. Nobody even notices that they’ve just come from above. It’s great that she can just Do These Things again, and get brushed off as Weird Jedi Shit, instead of worrying about the Empire. She’s missed being able to jump out of windows without fear.

Rex follows her as she starts running through the city. They don’t have comms, and he’s still so small, which means he can’t keep up with her even if she runs at normal speeds without Force enhancement.

“Should you carry me?” he asks, before she can figure out if it’s worth suggesting. She did it a few times before they joined up with Jango.

“It’s not... urgent, I think,” she says. She hesitates to speak, even as she keeps jogging with Rex at her heels. “Honestly, I’m trying to figure out if there’s anything I can ding him for so we can attack him. It’s all well and good that I can beat him right now, but all the crimes I know about haven’t happened yet, so it wouldn’t be legal...”

“Commander?”

“Hm?”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

She scrolls the conversation back mentally, considers, and says, “Oh.”

“Who’s getting steamrolled?”

“Uh, Maul’s here,” Ahsoka admits.

“Ah,” Rex says. He makes a face. “I understand the desire to jump out a window, now. I don’t agree with it, but I understand.”

Ahsoka laughs. “I mean, I just... every time I’ve seen him for almost twenty years, it’s been like... on sight, you know? We’ve never not attacked each other, except when I needed him to cause problems on Mandalore. But I always knew I was in the right, then.”

“So... what do we arrest him for?” Rex prompts.

“Um... carrying a lightsaber without a license?” she hazards. “We’ll need Tholme there. Hopefully I can just shout at him and he’ll attack me, but I think he only went full nutjob after Master Kenobi cut his legs off. He might be too controlled to try to kill me just for yelling at him.”

“...do we have to stalk him?” Rex asks, sounding like he’d most likely sigh if he weren’t mid-run.

She scoops him up and swings him around onto her back before she answers. “I think we have to stalk him, Rex’ika.”

“Don’t call me that.”

---------------------------

Maul is... exceptionally sneaky, actually. Either that, or he hasn’t done anything wrong yet. Ahsoka’s betting on the former, because she’s seen this particular skocha kung take over a planet before anyone realized he was the most dangerous person around.

Or maybe he’s just not committing crimes, and is in fact just here to buy groceries.

He’s examining a papaya.

She fantasizes about jumping across the market and greeting him with a heel to the cheekbone.

“Are you imagining a flying kick, Sir?”

“Yeah...”

“He’s examining a papaya, Sir.”

“I know...”

“Does he know we’re here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? Do you think I should go hit him?”

“No.”

“Should I hit on him?”

“No, Sir. I would not advise that.”

“He’s looking at the neloms.”

“I can see that.”

“Why does he have to be so bo--did he just fucking bite a nelom?”

“It appears so, Sir.”

“Like... like rind and all. Just bit the little fucker.”

“Seems it.”

A scuff of metal. “What the fuck are you two doing?”

Ahsoka tips her head around to peer through the grate. “We’re spying, Fett, what does it look like we’re doing?”

Rex cranes his head. “We’re hanging upside-down from a fire escape to get a look at a suspected Sith Apprentice that is currently shopping for various fruits, Mand’alor.”

Ahsoka waves. “Hi, Master Tholme.”

“Sokari,” the master greets. “This seems a very conspicuous way to spy.”

She shrugs as well as she can from this angle. “Yes, but you see, this way’s more fun.”

“Is it now.”

Rex shifted. “He’s on the move!”

“To kill someone?!”

“No, to the deli meats.”

“Kriff.”

---------------------------

Apparently, Tholme and Fett had told Quinlan to take care of Leia, as Leia had wanted to finish her juice and refused to get involved in the Torrents’ nonsense. According to her, if they couldn’t be bothered to explain the nonsense, they didn’t need her.

This was true and accurate.

Quinlan shows up while they’re still stalking Maul, having moved to a low rooftop for a decent vantage point with less likelihood of being spotted. He’s giving Leia an eopie-back ride, and the pout on her face at needing it is adorable. She pouts harder when she sees them.

“Are you even trying to hide?” Leia scoffs.

“Not really,” Ahsoka admits. She’s got Fett’s binoculars out. “I’m not sure he’s caught wind of the fact that we’re here yet.”

“Or he has and he’s just biding his time to escape while we’re distracted,” Tholme points out.

“Meh,” Ahsoka says, avidly devouring the visual that is a teenage Maul glaring at leafy vegetables. “I just want him to do something so I have an excuse to beat his ass.”

“Do I get to know who?” Quinlan asks, setting Leia down on the roof. “Or are we going to keep being completely unwilling to share information?”

“Baby Sith Lord,” Ahsoka says. “He’s fifteen. A child.”

“A baby,” Rex agrees.

“You’re... that’s... ugh,” Quinlan groans as loudly and as dramatically as he dares, flopping down to the rooftop. “Master Tholme, please tell me this isn’t a real Sith.”

“He’s Dark,” Tholme confirms. “Sith is... up for debate until we have evidence.”

“He’s a bitch is what he is,” Ahsoka mutters. She observes the teenager in question stop to poke at some pink tomatoes. “E chu ta, break the law, already!”

“Does he have a lightsaber?” Quinlan asks. “If he has a lightsaber and no Jedi ID or specialty license, we can probably arrest him.”

“Auntie Soka doesn’t have a license or ID,” Leia points out.

“She’s got a Jedi escort,” Tholme says. “And if our supposed Sith is polite and plays nice, we can probably escort him to the Temple as well.”

Rex snorts derisively.

“Do you know why he’s on Denon?” Fett asks.

“No clue,” Ahsoka admits. “Evil reasons, probably.”

“You’re useless,” Leia tells her.

“Thanks, princess, how’s that attempt to open the jam jar by yourself coming?”

Leia says something very inappropriate for a princess, for a child, and for a lady. It’s fairly appropriate for a soldier, which is admittedly what she’s been for a few years now. Ahsoka sticks her tongue out at the girl like the mature operative she is.

“I wish we could still get him to lose his osik by just showing up and insulting him,” Rex mutters, low enough that Quinlan probably can’t hear.

“I wanna punch him in the face,” Ahsoka confesses. “I want him to try to punch me in the face, and fail.”

“Don’t bully the baby Sith,” Rex admonishes.

“He’s a Sith.”

“He’s fifteen, it’s tacky.”

“But it’s Maul.”

“I know, but you’re tw--significantly older than him.”

“But... but it’s the motherfucker himself.”

“...you can bully him a little, but only because he’s a Sith.”

Fett steals the binoculars. “You can borrow them again when you stop acting like children.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Rex says, dry as Ryloth. “I’m ten.”

“Pretty tall for your age,” Ahsoka mutters, and then giggles.

“Don’t steal my jokes,” Rex says. He elbows her, hard.

“You know,” Quinlan says, slow and tired. “Master Tholme and I are trained investigators.”

Ahsoka and Rex look at each other, and then up at him.

“Okay?”

“...do you want me to find actual evidence of this guy doing something criminal?”

“Oh, yes please.”

---------------------------

Quinlan, as it turns out, is not overselling his skills. He does catch Maul doing something illegal later that day. It’s a little more ‘stealing corporate secrets in the dead of night’ and less ‘torturing people for kicks,’ but it’s still enough to legally arrest him. Quinlan attempts to do so.

Quinlan does not succeed, and is forced to jump out a window to avoid getting cut in half. Maul follows, steals a passing speeder by throwing out the driver, and takes off. Someone--looks like Tholme--drops back to save the driver, but the rest of them give chase. Ahsoka gleefully takes point on that, of course. She’s the best pilot.

(Rex looks bored, but someone is likely to puke by the end of the night. She hopes it’s not Leia, who insisted on coming for some fucking reason.)

“How the kriff is a teenager that good?!” Quinlan yells, clinging to the edge of the speeder to avoid getting tipped out as Ahsoka swerves around a corner with a wild laugh.

“He’s a Sith!” Leia shouts over the wind. “What do you think?”

Quinlan is not impressed by the claim of Sith.

Ahsoka screeches as she drifts across four lanes of traffic and into an alleyway to pursue Maul. He’s pretty good at dodging cross-building walkways, but she’s better. She bares her teeth, hissing, and tries to pick a plan.

“Vos, how’s your aim with Force throws?” She calls to the backseat.

“Uh, decent?”

“Great! Fett’s the projectile!”

Vos takes a second longer to process that than Jango does.

“I’m wh--”

He cuts off, screaming, and is flung forward by Quinlan to crash headfirst into a teenage Sith.

“Take the wheel!” Ahsoka commands, not waiting to see who follows the order, because Fett and Maul are both getting to their feet, the other speeder is about to crash, and she’s not sure who’s going to win that fight.

She jumps from the speeder they’ve been violently dragging around Denon, and lands feet-first on Maul’s... shoulder.

Hm.

That definitely dislocated something.

“You should wear armor!” she chirps at him, drawing both sabers and grinning as he whirls to face her, eyes wide with hate.

He’s utterly silent.

That’s disturbing. Expected, but disturbing.

“Did you just throw me?” Fett demands, higher pitched than she’d normally expect.

“No, Vos threw you.”

“Because you told him to!”

“Yeah, it’s a good strategy!”

“It is not!”

“Why not? Throwing people was standard practice in the GAR.”

She can’t see his face, but she’s pretty sure he’s about ready to strangle her.

Ahsoka cannot, at that point, continue snarking with the father of her best friend, because there’s a red lightsaber coming for her throat, and she should probably worry about that. Maul’s very good at killing people and she’d like to avoid becoming part of that statistic.

As she is quickly reminded, he is... fifteen. And shorter than she’s used to. And already injured.

It’s really, really easy to take him out, actually.

At some point, the other speeder was safely recovered before it caused property damage, and their own is landing a few meters away with Vos and the kids.

“You have Force-negating cuffs, right?” Ahsoka asks.

“No, Master Tholme has them.”

“Oh,” she says, and grimaces. “I guess I’ll just... keep sitting on him then.”

Maul snarls, and she raps him on the skull. “Stop that, it’s uncivilized.”

Rex snorts.

Jango makes a noise that is incredibly frustrated with the lot of them, and turns on Rex. “Was she telling the truth?”

“About?”

“Throwing people being standard practice for the GAR.”

Rex’s face goes pained. “It was in the five-oh-first. And a few others.”

“What’s the GAR?” Quinlan asks.

“None of your damn business,” Fett snaps.

Quinlan throws his hands up in the air again. “Come on! I just proved I know what I’m doing!”

“And their tragic backstory is none of your business, prudii!”

Quinlan blinks at him, and then glances at Ahsoka. “Um.”

“He called you a shadow since your training, um, seems to be pointing in that direction,” she says as carefully as she can. “We were theorizing.”

“Wh... you actually paid attention?” Quinlan asks, looking horribly confused. “I thought I was just annoying you.”

Ahsoka laughs at him. “Oh, Vos... I’ve been running black ops for... much longer than most would guess. Trust me, I know another spy when I see them.”

She smiles as kindly as she can, because she hadn’t actually meant to make him feel left out or unwanted or... well, she’d been pretty patronizing, especially for someone seemingly younger than him. The smile does not work. Quinlan just looks kind of horrified about how young she just implied she started spy work.

Granted, she’d been sixteen for Zygerria...

Deciding to ignore him for a bit, she shifts on Maul’s back and pats him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Baby Sith. We’re going to get you lots of nice therapy. Mind healers, no Sith tortures, all that fun stuff. Maybe some plushies.”

“You’re also getting therapy, right?” Quinlan asks. “Please say you are. I’m required for the specifics of my training and if anything you’ve said is true, I feel like you really need it and I’m scared of what’ll happen if you don’t.”

Ahsoka laughs, knowing exactly how empty it sounds. “Oh hell, if I didn’t get therapy, I imagine Kix would rise from the grave to force me into it.”

The name means nothing to anyone except Rex, and... ah, yeah, she told Fett about Kix a few weeks ago.

“No more throwing me without warning,” Fett grumbles, dropping to sit on the ground next to her. “Especially not at baby Sith Lords.”

“I am not a child!” Maul spits.

“He speaks!” Ahsoka cheers. “Aw, I knew you could do it.”

“’Soka, I told you not to bully him,” Rex complains. “It’s tacky. You’re being tacky.”

“I’m allowed to be tacky,” Ahsoka declares. “I’ve died twice, that’s, like, permission from the universe.”

“You’ve died twice?” Quinlan asks, back in ‘fascinated horror’ territory. “Wait, no, I shouldn’t ask--”

“Too late! The first time was on a planet that doesn��t exist and my Master lost his mind, killed a god, and used the good favor of another god to have me brought back to life at her expense. Not in that order.”

“I--what? No, that’s--what?”

Ahsoka smiles brightly. “You asked.”

Tholme finally shows up with the cuffs.

---------------------------

“You should eat something.”

He glares at her.

“Baby Sith Lords need to eat.”

He keeps glaring at her.

“Maul, you’ll never get big and strong and ready to kill if you don’t eat your vegetables.”

He bares his teeth.

“No, I don’t eat my veggies, but I’m a Togruta, so if I eat too many vegetables I throw up.”

Rex kicks her thigh, right on the faulds. “What did I say about bullying the Sith Lord?”

“Not to.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Making him eat his vegetables.”

“Soka.”

“Rex’ika.”

He kicks at her again. “Get up, we’re swapping out the watch.”

“But I wanted to hang out with my favorite little criminal mastermind.”

Rex drops to the floor and presses his forehead to her shoulder. “How the hell is being around this guy the first thing to make you cheer up in weeks?”

“I’m allowed to be mean to him.”

“He’s going to bite you.”

“I’ll bite back.”

Rex jabs a finger into her ribs, and she squeaks. “Go get something to eat, Commander.”

“Fine,” she huffs, rolling to her feet and moseying along to the galley. She walks in on Tholme and Fett having an argument about the ways in which Jedi and Mandalorians differ. Quinlan’s on the side, watching with wide eyes, and little Leia’s drinking a juice box at his side, tucked up under his arm and occasionally saying things to fan the flames. Ahsoka assumes she’s enjoying herself.

She opens the cooling unit, looks over the contents, and pulls out a raw leg of eopie mutton. She leans against the counter, bites into the chilled-but-not-frozen meat, and uses the back of one hand to wipe the blood off her chin. The ‘real adults’ don’t notice.

“I’m like ninety percent sure you’re doing this to mess with me but also...” Quinlan trails off, staring at her with horror. “Why?”

“A girl’s gotta eat.”

“Yeah, but all the obligate carnivores I know are like... generally holding to basic rules of courtesy when it comes to not grossing people out,” Quinlan says. “Like, I don’t chew with my mouth open. You don’t... eat in the most intimidating--did you just crack the bone with your teeth?!”

Ahsoka smirks at him, using her free hand to take away the shard of bone so she can suck out the marrow without eating the bones themselves. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t polite society. We’re in a galley on a bounty hunter’s ship, and I’ve been living on the run or in an army for most of my life. Table manners are optional.”

“No, they’re not,” Leia orders. “Fett, it’s your ship, tell her to--”

“--and another thing!” Fett snaps at Tholme, clearly paying less than no attention to the food argument.

Ahsoka keeps on eating, trying to catch wind of where the discussion’s at. Mostly, it seems to be at ‘talking past each other.’ Neither of them seems to have fully grasped more than the absolute most basic parts of the other culture, and that’s only enough to insult each other, not actually have a constructive conversation. She’d have expected more out of Tholme, at least. He’s not exactly young.

“Hey, quick question,” she says, in a moment where both of them have paused for breath and the opportunity to seethe. “Fett, when’s the last time you worked with a Jedi, or any member of a Force-based religion, before I popped into your life?”

His nose scrunches up as he makes a face.

“And Tholme, when’s the last time you worked with anyone from the Mandalorian system?”

Tholme’s reaction isn’t any more gracious than Fett’s.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she says. “Vos, were either of them actually interested in that conversation, or just looking for an excuse to yell?”

“Now listen here, jetiika--”

“Fett,” she snaps. “I am not a child.”

“And neither am I,” he growls right back. “This is my ship, and I damn well don’t need you treating me like a misbehaving youngling. You’ve got a problem, you bring it to my face, not get all smug about people’s tempers blowing over.”

Well, then.

She smiles thinly. “Of course.”

He stands with his arms crossed, in full armor save for the helmet. She puts aside the eopie meat and wipes her hands, smiling until she can put her hands on her hips and let it drop to a challenge.

“You know, I’m just--I’m just gonna go,” Quinlan mutters, pulling Leia out with him, the girl hanging from under one of his arms. “This, uh, this looks like a problem for... you folks. Um. Yeah.”

He sidles out.

Tholme doesn’t.

Fett rubs at the bridge of his nose, and then gestures at the table. “Sit.”

“I’d prefer not to.”

He drops his hand and glares at her. “We have another week on this ship together. We are going to have this conversation. Sit.”

She sits, right on the warm spot left behind by Quinlan and Leia. She crosses her arms, lifts a brow, and waits.

Fett takes the seat across from her. Tholme leans against the counter.

“We all know you’re older than you look,” Fett says. “I heard Tholme mention it, I know that much has been shared. You’re acting like an actual teenager, and I’ve... I’ve put up with a lot. I am trying to keep things civil, particularly with you. I’ve tried to be friendly. You’ve been fucked up since we met, fine, everyone’s got trauma. The thing where you’ve started talking shit to our faces for what seems like your own amusement? That has to stop. You’re older than me, Torrent. Fucking act like it.”

She blinks at him, slow and not exactly happy, and turns to Tholme.

The man shrugs. “I was planning to put up with it until we arrived to the temple and handed you over to some mind healers. Fett doesn’t have that kind of time.”

There’s a curdle in her stomach, defensive and angry and guilty.

“You’ve been... a bitch,” Fett finally says. “You know that. I’m not going to mince words. You’ve been holier-than-thou and rude and condescending, and aiming that at Antilles is one thing, when you’ve apparently known her since she was a toddler and taught her things. Aiming at the rest of us isn’t going to fly. We’re all adults trying to share a space. Stop acting like... just like you have been.”

There is no defense to be made that they aren’t both already aware of.

She closes her eyes and tries to strangle the burst of irrational rage.

Their accusations aren’t unfounded.

They deserve an apology.

She is in the wrong.

She’s felt freer than she had in years, and in that freedom allowed herself too much rein, let herself lace her words with barbed wires and poison instead of sparks and spices, comments that were cruel instead of just joking. Too familiar. Too comfortable.

“My behavior’s been inappropriate,” she finally says, the words clumsy and too big in her mouth. “You’re right about that. I’m sorry, and I’ll endeavor to keep a tighter rein on my less pleasant behaviors in the future.”

At least she only lashes out with words. It could be worse.

She opens her eyes, fixes her gaze on the wall behind Fett, wrestles her expression into stiff neutrality. “Am I dismissed?”

“...uh, no, not after that,” Fett says, sounding just a little horrified. “What the hell was that?”

Tholme hisses out a breath. “Let her go.”

“No, this needs to be discussed, that’s not a healthy rea--”

“Fett, let her go,” Tholme insists, low and heavy.

Fett looks between the two for a moment, seems to come to a realization he doesn’t like, and then gestures almost violently towards the door. “Fine. Go.”

She walks out, doesn’t sprint. She’s stiff. She’s controlled. She’s the one that fucked up, so it’s fine if she doesn’t feel great right now. Getting called out on one’s own failings as a person isn’t something to get upset about if the failings are real. The feelings are real and normal, but this was her fault, and so it’s up to her to fix it, and she can’t let them know it hurt her, because this was her mistake.

She goes to the cargo hold.

---------------------------

Ahsoka works out her frustrations on Fett’s punching bag. She does not augment herself with the Force, just uses raw strength and technique, ignoring the tears that press at her eyes.

She’s fine.

It’s not weird. It’s not odd. It’s not strange to not notice she’s been kind of a bitch since her mood came up with the whole Depa thing, and then Maul. She’s been mean, mostly to Vos and Fett, and nobody’s confronted her about it until now. They let her have room for her trauma, and she hadn’t reined it in. She’s just gotten worse.

‘Snippy’ she’d always been, but age apparently hadn’t fucking tempered it.

“Um.”

She catches the punching bag, breathing heavily and covered in sweat. She hasn’t worked out all the twitchy, nervous energy yet.

“Vos,” she greets, once she’s caught herself enough that her voice won’t waver. He’s on the other side of the bag, but she knows his voice. “Do you need something?”

“You’re kind of... projecting,” he tells her, drifting to where she can actually see him. “Not self-loathing, but, um, recrimination? You just don’t feel very good and I was hoping to help”

Why in all the Sith hells does he have to be nice.

“I got called out on my behavior and wasn’t ready to face the fact that I’d kriffed up,” she tells him. “I’ll be fine. And I’m... sorry. I haven’t been fair to you and was using you as an easy target for some of my ruder comments.”

“I mean, I kind of figured,” he admits, coming closer. “I’ve been tutored by Shadows before, and a lot of them act like you. I just assumed it was more of that.”

“I still shouldn’t have let myself run loose like that,” she says. “I’m... it wasn’t appropriate. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

He shrugs, not meeting her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she says. “Not with... not with you. Or anyone other than Rex and a mind healer, really. Most of it is...”

She trails off, distantly noticing that her eyes are tearing up enough to blur her vision, and her nails are digging into the bag in a way Fett won’t appreciate.

There’s so much that beat her down, never quite breaking her, that she doesn’t even know what made her act the way she does.

“Want to spar?”

She looks over at him, wonders what he sees that makes him want to fight her when she’s visibly unstable.

He smiles, kind and easy, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s genuine in intent, if not in energy. He wants to help. “You all keep saying I could work on my hand-to-hand. Just take off the armor so I don’t break a finger, maybe.”

“You’re serious.”

“No, I’m Quinlan.”

She’s going to wipe the floor with this boy. “You sure you wanna fight me?”

“You won’t be able to meditate until you do,” he says. He’s right, damn him. “The other option is that I go get your... vod, I think? I go get Rex and you two can talk it out since you trust him with more. I don’t want to do that, though, he’s still a kid.”

She eyes him, lips pressed together and mind awhirl with emotions and thoughts she’d tried to beat out of her head and into the bag. “Ever fought someone without the Force?”

“...yes?”

“Was it cuffs?”

“Oh, you meant me not having the Force,” he realizes. “Er, no. Is... is that something you’ve done a lot?”

She smiles at him. “You’re planning on Shadow work. That means getting captured and stripped of everything you are at some point, Force included. Unfortunately, the cuffs are in use on a very annoying Dathomirian right now, so we’ll have to make do with you shielding like your mind’s a Kessel Spice Mine.”

“...do I want to know how often you’ve been captured?”

“No, you don’t.”

When he comes at her, it’s easy to dodge. It’s easy to tap him on target points, little pokes that show she could take him out, but isn’t going to until he’s learned something. He stays grinning throughout, letting her take the lead, and he treats her like... like a knight. Like a teacher. He’s stepped back and gone from trying to impress her as a fellow padawan, to proving himself to a full knight.

She’s not sure when that change happened, or why or how, but it makes things much smoother. She wants to think that it would have even if she hadn’t gotten a wakeup call from Fett.

So she treats him the way she treated Ezra, for the year she’d spent traveling with Kanan. She treats him as a student that’s willing to learn, good but not yet great, competent but not yet ready to survive. She draws him into the kind of chest-heaving exhaustion that tells a fighter just how much energy they waste.

(Ahsoka may have had her own style, but her grandmaster had been the pinnacle of a Soresu user. She’d spent years on the frontlines of a war. She knew the worth of conserving energy, and she’d teach it to any who stepped in to challenge her.)

“Who taught you to fight like this?” He asks, when they’ve taken a handful of moments to circle each other. His steps are heavy, sure, planted. Her own are light and ready.

“Soldiers,” she says. It’s true enough.

“Not your Master?” he asks, just as he tries to kick for her upper arm. It’s a safe question. For anyone else, it would be a safe question.

But for Ahsoka, it’s another chink in the armor, after a maelstrom of emotion, a storm of self-loathing, a dervish of instability.

She doesn’t break right away.

She spirals. She fights Quinlan, but doesn’t quite see him. Her strikes get sloppy, her feet stumble. She can’t make herself meet Quinlan’s eyes, not when the scrape of his heel against the metal sounds like the rasp of a breathing machine. Her shields get fuzzy, she knows, and she leaks what she feels into the air, making it sour and thick. She doesn’t notice, because all she can see, all she can--all she can hear and feel and--

She drops to her knees and grabs at her head, trying to stop it.

“Sokari?”

She breathes. In and out, harsh and jagged but natural in a way that the damned respirator wasn’t.

Her master her teacher her brother the traitor the hound the executioner

Her face is hot. Something prickles. It might be tears.

She tries to say something, tries to say a name or a request, tries to make anything come out of her mouth that isn’t the broken wail of a woman who hasn’t let herself think about how she died.

She feels herself pulled into someone’s arms, and she can’t quite tell who, but they’re bigger than she is, and feel warm and worried. They care. They don’t understand, they’re scared, but they care.

Her hands shake, clutched to her chest and she can’t breathe she can’t make herself take in enough air to do a Force-damned thing the empire is going to feel her her shields are down and broken and her emotions are spilling and the empire is going to find HER ANAKIN IS GOING TO FIND HER AND--

“COMMANDER!”

Rex.

Rex is here.

Her breath is coming so fast that she’s hiccupping more than she’s actually inhaling. She feels small hands in gloves on either side of her face, and then her forehead presses to something warm.

Rex. A Keldabe kiss. Her brother, her partner, her other half. He’s here. He’s calm. If he’s calm, then things are fine.

“What happened?” Light voice, high voice, small and distant. Leia. Little Leia little princess Leia she’s in danger she’s in trouble Anakin will--

“Commander.”

No. Here and now. She needs to focus on here and now. Her throat feels cold. She breathes too fast, still. She can’t stop it.

“I don’t know.” That’s Vos. He was... they were doing something. He was here. Talking to her. “We were sparring, and she just--”

Right, sparring.

“I don’t know if I said something?” He offers, voice pitching up, unsure and worried. Is he the one holding her? He’s the one holding her. That’s embarrassing.

“Commander?” Rex prompts. “Commander, can you open your eyes?”

She tries. She can’t. She shakes her head.

“Soka?” he asks, voice quiet. “Where are you?”

“F-F-Fett,” she manages. It’s enough.

“And where were you?”

His voice is so soft. So worried. She held him the same way after Mandalore, after Order 66, after all his brothers, all her friends...

“Soka.”

Her mind is spinning, and suddenly all she can hear is Anakin Skywalker is dead. I destroyed him.

Her breath hitches, and she wails.

“Commander,” Rex tries again, but her head is a vortex of Then you will die and Perhaps this child and not the Jedi way.

Our long awaited meeting.

I destroyed him.

Then you will die.

She can’t breathe she can’t breathe she can only see that yellow eye that’s too familiar but belongs to a stranger can only hear a voice that shouldn’t exist can only mourn and break and--

“Soka?”

“Malachor,” she manages. “I--h-he--I died.”

“What did you say?” someone asks. A vod. It’s the right voice, almost, rough and business-like, not accusing anyone yet, and... and... no. No. Not one of her boys. It’s Fett.

“Um, right at the end? I asked her who taught her to fight like this,” Quinlan says, nervous. “And she said it was soldiers. And I joked, I asked that it wasn’t her Master, and she didn’t answer that. A couple minutes later, she just started...”

“Oh, Soka,” Rex whispers, pulling her closer. “Commander, just breathe with me.”

“H-h-he, he just--R-Rex, he j-just--and I c-c-couldn’t--”

“I know,” her captain whispers. “I know, just breathe with me.”

“He k-k-k-killed me,” she sobs, falling out of the Keldabe and into too-small arms. “I l-loved--he was my broth-ther and--and he just--he killed me, he didn’t even stop.”

“I know,” Rex whispers. “Soka, I know.”

Of course he does.

---------------------------

“It was just bad timing,” Rex says, once they’re in the room she’s been sharing with her little family, curled up under a blanket and watching the floor like it has all the secrets to how she lost her world three times over.

“Is there anything we need to keep in mind?” Fett asks, gruff and uncomfortable. She wonders if he’s angry that she took his necessary confrontation and turned it into this mess.

“Don’t bring up her Jedi Master,” Rex says, and pulls her in when she shivers. Her eyes squeeze shut before she can stop them, tears beading up again. “Just... don’t. It’s too soon.”

“He’s--”

“He Fell,” Ahsoka interrupts. “I thought he died, but he became a Sith. And fifteen years later, we ran into each other, and I refused to join him in the Dark, so he tried to kill me.”

Fett swears, low and muffled. She thinks he has a hand over his mouth.

Quin and Leia aren’t there. She thinks they’re keeping an eye on their Baby Sith prisoner. That’s good.

“Soka,” Rex whispers, and she buries her face in his shoulder. She’s too old to be this kind of mess. She’s thirty-two. She’s Fulcrum. She’s...

She’s in need of a lot of therapy.

“We can avoid the subject unless you bring it up,” Tholme promises. “Definitely until the Temple. Is there anything else we shouldn’t talk about?”

Ahsoka can practically feel Rex’s deadpan look. “Sir, we’re a trio of child soldiers ripped from everything we know. Every other sentence is a risk. We’re just... working our way through.”

There’s a knock at the door. Oh. Quin and Leia.

“Just figured we’d drop this off before we went down to visit Mr. Grumpy-Face,” Quinlan whispers. He still thinks Leia’s a child. He’s trying to make things less terrible for her. That’s nice. “We decided he’ll be less angry if he tries Hoth chocolate, and made some for everyone.”

They definitely made it for Ahsoka herself, and Maul was an afterthought. Still. It’s sweet.

“Commander?” Rex prompts, jostling her a little to try and get her to sit up.

“Gimme a sec,” she manages. It takes longer than it should to push herself away from him, to accept the mug that Leia gives her, too-serious worry in the furrow of her brow and the twist of her soul.

She doesn’t look six. She doesn’t even look twenty-two. This girl was always too old for her skin, forced to grow up in the hostile fear of the Empire.

“Thank you, Princess.”

She sips.

She can barely taste it beyond the ashes she imagines coating her tongue.

I destroyed him, her memory echoes. His slightest hesitation before he made the final move, it haunts her. She almost reached him. If only she’d tried harder, yelled louder, been better...

She shivers.

“Do you need help falling asleep?” Tholme asks. “I’m a regular healer, not a mind healer, but...”

She probably should.

She takes another sip of her drink, willing herself to taste it. It’s good. She likes it. She knows she does.

“Can you make it dreamless?” she whispers.

“It doesn’t always work, but I can try,” he tells her.

She nods. “When I finish the chocolate.”

“Of course.”

---------------------------

Everyone’s careful around her for days. The whole decision to be nicer doesn’t mean anything when she’s walking about in a daze of too few emotions, drained of everything she could feel in favor of a grey cloud of fluff in everything she does.

She does forms. Single saber and Jar’kai. Ataru and Djem so and Soresu. Reverse grip, regular grip, partial reverse on either side.

Again. Again. Again.

She loses herself in the motions, not meditating so much as just empty.

Rex worries. Fett worries. Vos worries.

Leia and Tholme keep their shields locked up tight, and she doesn’t know how they feel. She thinks Leia might be judging her. She think Tholme might be pitying.

Maul simply hates. It’s an old and familiar sensation to walk into, and she takes unthinking comfort in his rage. She’s silent instead of snippy, when she plays the role of guard, and they stare at each other in silence. His eyes burn, and she wonders how much he’s heard of her nightmares.

“You need to talk,” Rex tells her, when he finds her with a cold cup of caff, eyes fixed somewhere beyond it all. She lifts her head. “Soka.”

She just stares at him.

He sighs and pulls her into a hug. “Commander, please.”

She can’t.

Ahsoka stares at the wall behind him, resting her chin on his head. Her neck itches under the lek at the back of her head, a little tingle of a feeling that she can’t bring herself to do anything about. The pale light of the galley is sharp against the chipped paint of the metal that surrounds them. It hurts her eyes to look, but it’s not the deep and dark lit only by red--

Then you will die, her memory growls.

She flinches.

“Breathe,” Rex tells her, too-small hands clinging at her back. “Just breathe, ‘Soka.”

She curls in tighter and tries to just breathe.

---------------------------

“Tell me something good.”

Ahsoka blinks. She looks at Leia. She doesn’t have the energy to parse that.

Leia chances a look at Rex, who isn’t leaving Ahsoka’s side any more than he has to, and Fett on the other side. Tholme’s asleep and Quin’s on Baby Sith duty. It’s just people who know, right now.

The little girl across the table, the child senator, the spy, purses her lips and huffs in irritation. “You knew my biological father before he became one of the worst people in the galaxy. Both of you did. Tell me something good about him.”

Good things.

About Anakin.

“You fought a war as a Jedi,” Leia prompts. “Surely you must have done some good things with him, or at least thought you were.”

Did they?

Every mission ended in tragedy or was just a ploy of Palpatine’s. Every saved life was just...

Wait.

“He built Threepio,” she finally says. “Your father wi--I mean, Bail wiped Threepio’s memory after the Empire rose, for your safety, but Anakin was the one who built him.”

Leia sits up, eyes brighter. “I didn’t know that. I... was Artoo involved? Did he build R2D2, or...”

“No,” Rex says, “But Artoo was his favorite astromech, and they always pushed each other into stupid stunts. We risked a hell of a lot to save that droid, more than once, and I didn’t find out until you started working with the Rebellion full-time, but Artoo and Threepio were the witnesses for your bio-parents’ wedding.”

Leia gapes at him. So does Ahsoka. (Fett doesn’t know enough to care.)

Rex grins, and if it looks a little forced, that’s fine. “He had a holo recording. I was one of the few people left that knew about the marriage that might have wanted to see, so Artoo offered. It was... sweet.”

He waits, probably for Ahsoka to add something herself, but she has nothing.

“I think that’s when they swapped droids, since Threepio was more useful to a politician and Artoo did his best work when we set him loose on the enemy.”

“He never changed,” Leia muses. “Did he always swear that much?”

“Yes,” Ahsoka answers, as Rex laughs. “Always. All the binary I learned started with the best swears.”

She tries to think of another good memory, something else that Leia might appreciate. Her mind ticks back to saving Stinky, which is just a terrible option, because that mission started with Hutts and ended with the Battle of Teth. That massive loss of life, all for the son of the creature that had put Leia in chains.

She wonders if she has anything in her memory that doesn’t end in blood and graves.

“Soka.” Rex.

“Hm?”

“Remember that time Fives and Echo got lost in the undercity their first time on leave, and we had to get the General to help us find them?”

She does.

He’s right, that’s a good story.

“Okay, so what you have to understand,” Ahsoka says, already digging the faint details out and dusting them off, “is that these boys were ARC troopers, top-notch, terrifyingly competent once they got through specialty training, and loyal as hell. Echo had memorized the reg manuals front to back, and Fives was... well, Fives ended up being the only person to figure out the chips before they went into action. Point is, the Domino twins were good... eventually. Just like everyone else, though, they started out shiny.”

---------------------------

“Tholme’s hiding something.”

Ahsoka wonders if Leia will just leave if she ignores her enough. Probably not. This was the girl that got kicked out of boarding school for leading a sit-in at age seven. She’s got patience.

“His job requires him to hide a lot of things,” Ahsoka says instead. “Not as many as Vos will have to, eventually, but a lot.”

“He’s hiding something from us,” Leia insists, visibly frustrated that Ahsoka isn’t as upset about this as she is. “Something important.”

The way she says ‘important’ is clumsy and impacted by the missing baby tooth. She can’t say the r. It comes out as ‘im-poh-ten,’ which is adorable, and if Ahsoka comments on it, she’s probably going to get punched by a six-year-old.

“The Force doesn’t care,” Ahsoka says. “I trust his intentions, if not him as a person.”

“If you don’t trust him, then why trust his intentions?”

“Leia, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I trust one and a half people in the galaxy,” Ahsoka points out. “Me not trusting a person isn’t a sign of anything except my paranoia. The only person I trust fully and without reservation is Rex. Even you, I only mostly trust, because my brain starts screaming if I think too hard. That’s why you’re the half.”

“Okay, whatever, paranoia aside,” Leia barrels on, “He should tell us. Whatever it is that he’s hiding, we deserve to know. We’re not children that he can just hide things from for our own good.”

Ahsoka presses her lips together. “Leia. Princess. I know you’re used to holding all the cards--”

“This isn’t about me being a control freak!”

“It is, though,” Ahsoka soothes, and smiles. “Your mother--the bio one--was the same way. You spent years as one of the leaders of the Rebellion, so obviously you’re used to having all the information, and people reporting to you... but Tholme is a Jedi Master. He reports to the Council and the Republic. Do you know how many people I kept secrets from while I was a padawan? We’re an unknown, Leia. They have no proof that we’re on their side, especially since we’re traveling with Fett.”

Leia crosses her arms and glares as hard as she can.

“I’m not going to bother him,” Ahsoka says. “I’ve already had, like, five unrelated mental breakdowns. I’m putting this on hold until we get to the Temple and I can trust that there’s a healer on hand to sedate me or something.”

“You... want to be sedated?”

“Leia, this... really should be obvious, but a Force-Sensitive losing their osik the way I have been isn’t actually safe. I know I broke a weapons rack last week.” Ahsoka gestures vaguely. “If the Jedi Master isn’t telling me something for reasons that might relate to my clear and obvious mental instability, I’m going to assume he’s got a point.”

“So he should tell me or Rex.”

“We’ll be on Coruscant in four days,” Ahsoka soothes. “Just... let it be. They won’t hurt us.”

“You don’t know that.”

Ahsoka shrugs. “I don’t have to. The Force leads me in all things, including this.”

Leia isn’t impressed by that, but Leia isn’t impressed by much in the first place.

She strides off in a fit that is, perhaps, more influenced by her six-year-old emotional control than she’d like to admit. Ahsoka lets her. It’s not worth the argument.

It’s only a few minutes later that Fett strides in, takes the seat Leia was just in, and asks, “What would it take for you to teach me how to use a jetii’kad?”

She blinks at him. “You want to learn how to use a lightsaber?”

“Yes.”

“...why?”

“Viszla.”

“I see.”

She does.

Ahsoka taps her fingers against the table, eyeing him with the kind of interest she copied from Master Kenobi, years ago. Fett doesn’t fidget, but she thinks he might want to. He just looks back, waiting for her judgement.

“You’ll need to justify it,” she finally says. “It’s a significant difference from what you actually did, so I need to know your reasoning for doing it, and your plans for once it’s done.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s step one,” she corrects. She tilts her head, considering. “My standards for you aren’t built in a vacuum, and you know that. Explain to me what you plan to do and how you plan to do it, and if I approve...”

“You’ll help me achieve it.”

“Maybe,” she allows. “A lot of that depends on Rex.”

“I expected as much,” Fett says. “He is... an admittedly large part of the reason.”

“He would be,” she says. She gives the silence a few more seconds to sit awkwardly between them, and then stands up. “I’d guess you’ve been brainstorming already. Do you have it written down or is it mostly just in your head so far?”

“I’m still... debating options, so to speak.”

She grins, and the shape of the predator’s smile, the baring of teeth... that almost makes him step back. She can see it in the twitch of his muscles. Smart man.

“Follow me,” she says, and doesn’t wait for him to stand. She strides out with tooka-light steps, hears the heavy beskar tread behind her, and goes to the cargo hold. Fett’s confusion grows tangibly behind her, especially when she tosses him a wooden quarterstaff. She picks up the other and spins it in one hand.

“You’re going to fight me,” she tells him, stretching and letting the staff help with the process. “And while we fight, you’re going to tell me what your plans for Mandalore are.”

He mimics her, but there’s a frown on his face. “And why staffs?”

“You and I, we’ve only sparred bare-handed,” she says. “I need a feel for how you fight with a weapon anyway. These are a good start.”

“Not the beskad?”

She grins, and the twitch is back. “No. That can wait. We start with the staffs.”

He takes a stance, and she mirrors him. She lets him strike first with a weapon, but she’s the one that asks all the questions.

(He is the only one on the ship that can fight her one-on-one right now, and he can win. Still, she makes him work for every inch, and what she doesn’t win in bruises, she wins in words.)

(Fett might yet be a proper Mand’alor, but Ahsoka learned war from her brothers, negotiation at the knee of a general and in the shadow of a prince, and government at the side of duchesses and queens.)

(If he wants her help uniting his people, he needs to prove that he can hold them together once she’s gone.)

---------------------------

Ahsoka’s interrogation of Jango’s plans is thorough, and she’s not the only one involved. She brings Leia in, and has her join in on the grilling. She maybe laughs as the twenty-seven-year-old survivor of Galidraan, the Mand’alor, a man who has killed Master Jedi with his bare hands, gets lectured on various government structures by a tiny girl that's missing several teeth and needs to sit on books to see the table properly.

Still, Leia knows this better than any of the rest of them do. The girl might have grown up heir to a monarchy, but she got a classical education and was drilled on democracy and all associated forms of government. Where Ahsoka knows military protocol and law enforcement, intersystem relations and defensive measures, Leia knows agricultural subsidies and welfare programs, infrastructure and education.

Ahsoka may know how to find out if someone’s breaking a zoning law, but Leia knows why it exists in the first place.

“And I grew up in a cult,” Rex says, when an argument on that topic breaks out. Everyone that hasn’t heard the joke-that-isn’t-a-joke stares at him. “The Jedi grew up in a religious meritocracy; Leia grew up in a monarchy; and I grew up in a cult.”

Ahsoka elbows him. He’s not wrong, but still.

Unfortunately, Ahsoka is about forty-seven percent sure that Leia will put her foot in her mouth when it comes to Mandalorian culture, blunt as the girl is. That prefrontal cortex isn’t anywhere near as developed as it should be, either, so impulse control for the princess isn’t great. Ahsoka refuses to let Leia and Fett talk about ways to mend the breaks between tradition and the pacifism of the New Mandalorians without either Rex or Ahsoka herself as a mediating presence. Tholme sits in a few times, but while he knows that Leia isn’t really six--though not about the time-travel, yet--Quinlan doesn’t.

They admittedly end up doing this while he’s on Maul-sitting duty.

“It’s like he doesn’t even care about making nice with the people that, at this point, make up the majority of his people!” Leia grumbles one night, as Ahsoka kicks over a step stool so the girl can brush her teeth. “He may not like the New Mandalorians, but from what I understand, it’s still early enough to prevent the majority of the cultural bleaching you brought up. If he stays this stubborn--”

“Leia,” Ahsoka says, and the girl’s mouth snaps shut. “I’m aware of your reasons for not trusting his intentions. But if I may say? Chill.”

“He’s not even trying!”

“He’s trying a hell of a lot harder than he did in the original timeline,” Ahsoka reminds her. “Brush your teeth.”

“I’m not a--”

“Teeth.”

It’s a little worrying, how the child’s brain affects Leia, but... well. That’ll pass in time, hopefully. Until then, Ahsoka gets to be the aunt she should have been. This includes tucking Leia in, which the girl grumbles about despite the fond waves of comfort that enter the Force around her. Ahsoka doesn’t call her out on it, just brushes back wisps of hair to plant a kiss on Leia’s forehead, and then does the same once Rex stumbles in, grumbling about the limitations of a cadet’s body, but far more ready to follow the protocol that is bedtime.

Rex doesn’t pretend to not like getting tucked in, for all that he’s sharing with a grumbly, already-asleep princess. He smiles up at Ahsoka, lets her hug him, and pretends they can be a normal family for five seconds.

Quinlan’s making a late night snack for himself in the galley. Tholme is guarding the Baby Sith. Fett...

Ahsoka goes to the cockpit, takes the copilot’s seat, and watches hyperspace pass them by.

It takes long minutes before either of them say anything.

“Do Jedi believe in souls?”

His shields are up, locked up tighter than the innermost chambers of the Imperial Palace. She has no idea where he’s taking this question. She has to cast about for an answer.

“That depends on how you define a soul,” she finally says. “Leia told me about Force Ghosts. A Jedi Master who underwent the right meditations and training could pass into the Force upon their death without losing their sense of self. They could remain themselves, to an extent, and interact with force-sensitive individuals. I don’t know if they could last that way indefinitely, but depending on your definition, I could argue those ghosts were evidence of a form of soul.”

“So you believe that the dead pass into the Force, but that what passes could be a soul. Something must exist for a sense of self to disappear at death in a way that impacts the Force as you understand it, and many would use the word ‘soul’ for that something.”

“Mm,” Ahsoka considers it. “I’d say that’s pretty accurate. You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“What about those not yet born?”

Her fingers feel cold, and she finds herself no longer able to watch the passage of hyperspace as passively as she had, and her eyes catch on streaks and motes of what is not dust, her vision unable to keep any more still than her heart.

“Oh,” she hears herself say. “The clones.”

It’s a long time before he answers, but the walls come down. He carries a confused sort of grief with him, guilty and a mite resentful. His questions have been building for longer than she’d thought. His voice is rough. “I’ve taken plenty of lives, but I’ve never known the name of someone I erased from existence before they were even born.”

“The stories we told Leia about the brothers.”

There’s a grunt of agreement from Fett, so those dots at least connect.

“I take it my answer wasn’t helpful,” she manages to say.

“Will they still exist?” Fett asks. “Will they be born elsewhere? Or is... is a soul something that only comes into existence after the body does?”

“I have no idea,” Ahsoka admits. “I want... I want to think that I’d be able to find them eventually, to recognize them, if their souls are still born into this world elsewhere.”

“And if your Sith finds someone else to build his army out of?”

Ahsoka looks at him, sharp and pointed. “You wouldn’t.”

“They’ll be doing it anyway, if their plans are as ironclad as you say.”

“You’re already associating with Jedi,” Ahsoka says, fighting the urge to break his nose. “They wouldn’t approach you, not now. They can’t leverage your anger against you. They won’t know everything, but they’ll know that you have friends among the Jedi.”

“You think they can’t come up with better lies?”

He has a point. He has more than one point and she hate hate hates it.

A Jedi does not hate.

I am no Jedi.

“You’re going to have to convince me,” she says. “Especially if you want to somehow balance this with the darksaber thing. I won’t teach you how to fight with it if you’re not planning to retake Mandalore.”

“That’s how they’d sell it,” he says. “Retaking Mandalore. An army ostensibly for the Jedi, and ultimately...”

“You’d build an army of slaves.”

“No, I’d be the inside man for when they build that army anyway.”

She holds his gaze. She looks away first.

“Torrent?”

“I’m thinking.”

He lets her.

“I’ll need to talk to Rex. Probably Leia.”

“Understandable.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I’m only just considering it. It’s an idea, not a plan.”

“That’s the only reason I haven’t ripped your throat out with my teeth.”

“Hyperbole doesn’t suit you.”

She glares at him, and leaves, her mind chopping up and laying out every possible angle on Fett volunteering to do the exact same thing as last time, but somehow worse.

Great. Just what she needed.

---------------------------

Ahsoka isn’t there for the shouting match between Rex and Fett, but she doesn’t have to be. She can hear it form clear across the ship, and Rex comes to her afterwars. He’s been crying, which isn’t as surprising as it could be. These bodies are still prone to such things, and will be for years. She doesn’t comment.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“We need to take out Sidious before he starts anything on Kamino.”

“Agreed,” she says. “It’ll be hard, though.”

“I don’t care.”

“What did Fett say?”

“That if it wasn’t going to be my brothers, it would be someone else’s. Either we stopped the cloning from happening at all, or we mitigated damage by being there.”

“I don’t think Sidious is going to tap him for it,” Ahsoka admits. “Not unless you’re willing to stage that kind of fight publicly enough for Fett to claim the Jedi poisoned you, family, against him. It could work, but it’s a gamble.”

He knows all of this.

“I miss them,” he says, and she cards her fingers though the curls he’s managed to grow in the past weeks. “I just... even at the end, I had Wolffe. I knew Boba was out there; I wouldn’t be surprised if the beskar let him survive a Sarlacc. I had brothers. Not as many as I used to, but there was always someone. I miss them all, so much it hurts.”

“It wouldn’t be them,” she reminds him. She pulls him closer, puts her cheek to his head. “It would be the same process, the same faces, the same training, even, but the boys themselves...”

He clings to her and shudders.

“Rex?”

“I can’t force them to grow up the way I did. I want them back. Sidious is going to make the army no matter what. Someone’s going to suffer, and I don’t want it to be my brothers, but they won’t exist otherwise, and...”

“And it’s an impossible choice,” she summarizes. “And it sucks.”

“It’s sucks Gungan balls, ‘Soka.”

She laughs, and feels him smile against her shoulder. Good. He needs to smile more.

“He’s still trying to get me to like him,” Rex says. "He’s still making an effort, and he never did that for anyone except Boba, and it’s weird. I don’t know what to do with any of that.”

“Gain a brother,” Ahsoka whispers, and she feels him jerk against her. “If that’s what you want.”

“He’s not vod.”

“Same blood as all the rest, and you’re older than him, so he’s not really in a position to be a parent to you like he was to Boba,” she says carefully. “You don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to, but... I think he’s trying. I think this means a lot to him, and that he isn’t any more sure of what to do than you are. You don’t have to forgive him for what he did in the future, you don’t have to accept when he reaches out, you don’t have to ever talk to him again after we reach Coruscant if you don’t want, but I think... I think it’s worth at least considering what you have to gain. I think it’s worth looking at what he’s trying to give you.”

Rex huffs. “Why couldn’t he just be the shabuir I knew in training?”

“Something happened between now and then?” she offers. “I don’t know. I never met him in the original timeline. I just know the guy that keeps trying to get on my good side so you’ll like him.”

He outright scoffs. “Soka, that’s not the only reason he’s trying to get on your good side.”

“...I’m a former Jedi who talks trash to his face,” she says slowly. “And I cried on him. There is no reason for him to be nice to me, other than you.”

“He thinks you’re cool and a good person and wants you to be his friend.”

“Bantha poodoo.”

Rex grins in a way that goes straight to smirking. “Soka, I’m not joking. Jango Fett wants you to be his friend.”

“Kriffing why?” she asks, more than a little horrified. “I’m a mess, look like I’m ten years younger than him, have gleefully kicked his ass in front of an audience; I even told Vos to throw him at a baby Sith Lord. Putting up with me is one thing, but I’m... I’m only barely not a Jedi. I’m a historical enemy of Mandalore, and part of the community he hates more than anything, and--”

“And his reaction to you kicking his ass was pure Mando,” Rex says. “In that he now thinks you’re a badass, and thus worth being friends with.”

“I can’t believe that. I physically cannot.”

“Soka, just accept it. The Mand’alor wants to be friends with you.” He scratches at his scalp. “I mean, he met you while you were protecting what appeared to be children, and it’s apparently still early enough for him to care about that.”

She leans back in her seat, eyes on the wall ahead of her and back against the cool metal of the other side. Rex falls back with her. She wonders if Rex changed the subject so they didn’t have to talk about deciding how many of his brothers get to exist, and whether or not he can swallow the bitterness of his history to have a connection with at least one member of his blood. She doesn’t ask. If he wants to change the subject, that’s his right.

“I don’t... no.” She denies it as well as she can, and then the implications dig a little deeper. “Is this me accidentally signing up to be the Jedi Order’s official liaison to the Mand’alor?”

“I mean, this point in time... they’ve got Kenobi for the Duchess, yeah?” Rex shrugs. “Good relations with the system are probably a good thing, and you’ve got a stronger connection than Tholme and Vos.”

“Ugh,” she says. She rubs a hand against her head, and then lurches to her feet. “Fine! Fine. If it’ll get him to retake Mandalore before the Sith decide to bribe him with an army he doesn’t get to keep, I’ll teach him how to fight for the kriffin’ Darksaber.”

“That’s what makes the decision for you?”

“Well something had to!”

They only get one lesson in before Coruscant, but the lesson lasts a full day, and Ahsoka’s got his comm number. Fett’s a quick learner anyway, and Tholme was there to give pointers where Ahsoka couldn’t.

He won’t measure up to a Jedi in saber-to-saber combat, but he doesn’t need to. He just needs to learn enough to turn all those skills with a beskad to something that works with a jetii’kad.

(The balance of a saber is wrong to those used to a physical weapon. The inertia doesn’t work the way anyone expects. There’s no need to worry about damaging the blade.)

(Fett is good. Ahsoka is better. And, bless his heart, he knows it.)

(She will mold him into the shape of someone who not only can, but should rule a system with a history like that, and he damn well knows that too.)

---------------------------

“Dropping out of hyperspace in T-minus twenty seconds.”

The Slave I is not, in fact, a Venator-class starship, or anything else near the size and smoothness of the ships that Ahsoka grew up on. This is a bounty hunter’s vessel, and the drop to real space jolts like nothing else. Ahsoka’s in the copilot seat for the return, but Tholme’s going to swap with her as soon as they’ve got confirmation that there were no problems with exiting hyperspace, and nobody’s shooting at them.

“We’re not going to get shot at,” Tholme had assured her.

“I always get shot at,” she’d told him.

“I have our clearance,” he reminded her, seeming more amused than frustrated. “There’s no need to worry about getting shot at.”

“I also always get shot at,” Jango had thrown in.

“Okay,” Tholme had allowed, after several minutes of his trust in the Temple warring against Ahsoka and Jango’s learned paranoia. The looks Quinlan had darted around the room when Leia and Rex also claimed ‘chronic getting-shot-at disease’ had been a treat. The paranoia of a Watchman and a future Shadow was great, but the paranoia of three revolutionaries and a galaxy-wide criminal was greater. “You can take us in close enough to get in radio contact, but the second we have to ask for clearance and a vector, I’m in the seat.”

She’d agreed, of course. She was paranoid, not inexperienced.

“We’re much less likely to get shot down by ground control if you tell them we’re with you,” she’d said, to his hilariously apparent metaphysical exhaustion. “Obviously.”

“Good enough,” he’d sighed.

What that means is mostly just that Ahsoka gets to watch the distant star at the center of Coruscant’s system grow rapidly brighter. She can pick out the constellations she’d grown up with, the stars the creche had projected on the ceiling every night, the ones that she may not have seen from the surface, but had greeted her and then sent her on her way every time she left on yet another campaign that lost her men their lives for a Sith Lord's wretched plans. These were the shapes and stories she’d never seen again as Fulcrum, a woman so hunted that to come within a dozen subsectors of the planet was to court her death.

For sixteen years, she hadn’t ventured closer than Alderaan, save for a single trip to Chandrila.

And now, maybe twenty minutes away at this speed, was the Temple. It was home.

A home that didn’t know her, that had sentenced her to death, that had hosted the rampage of her former master... but home nonetheless.

“Stable?” Fett grunts.

“Thrusters are good,” she confirms.

“I meant you.”

Ah. “I’m... fine. As good as I could be, anyway.”

She hesitates, but manages to speak before he does. “You?”

“I’m not the one walking into an entire building of triggers.”

“Only because you’re not entering it,” she says. “It’s the home of your ancestral enemies who, bad info or no, killed off a whole lot of your friends.”

“I get to leave,” he says. “You don’t.”

She plans to needle him a bit more, maybe on something a little less based in both their traumas. She needs to talk, if only to fill up the silence and keep herself from reaching out to all the lights in the Force. It’ll be too much, she knows.

Tholme enters the cockpit. “Change of plans.”

“Better be a good reason,” Jango says, voice flat.

“Leia’s crying.”

Ahsoka’s unbuckling herself before she can process the words fully. “What?”

Leia doesn’t cry for no reason. Her emotional control is as difficult as the body makes it, but she doesn’t just cry. There’s always a cause.

“I don’t know. Rex said to get you,” Tholme explains. “She was saying a name. He seemed to recognize it.”

Not good not good not good. If Leia was feeling the Emper--No. She cuts the thought off there. No catastrophizing. Information first.

“What name.”

“Luke. Mean anything to--and she’s gone.”

Ahsoka ignores him, just sprints to where she knows the ‘young ones’ are. They’re all in Maul’s room, because nobody wants to be alone with him now, but it’s the worst time to leave him without supervision. It’s not the worst option; he mostly refuses to talk, still.

This holds true, because he definitely isn’t talking when she bursts in. He’s sitting on the bench, in a corner, hugging his knees and watching Quinlan try to calm Leia down.

“Captain, sitrep.”

“Vos and Tholme attempted to show Leia how to reach out to feel the Temple from a distance. They felt that it would be a good use of the time, and an interesting exercise at this distance. She attempted to do so, struggled for several minutes, and then reacted with shock. She has repeated the name ‘Luke’ several times since then, and we’ve been unable to fully calm her down. I asked Tholme to get you, as you are the only Force-Sensitive on board that understands the situation in full.”

“Understood.” She nods to him, and then goes to nudge at Quinlan. “Vos, move.”

“Torre--”

“You can sit behind her, hold her in your lap like you did when we had lunch the other day, but I need to get in her face.” She waits for him to comply, and then drops to her knees and takes Leia’s hands in her own. She radiates calm and assurance, even though she knows Quinlan’s probably been doing the same since this started. She dips her head enough to get in the girl’s line of sight, waits for her to meet eyes.

“Princess,” she says, and meets Leia’s eyes. “What did you feel?”

“Luke.”

From this distance... they’ve got half the system to go, at least, and Leia’s training shouldn’t reach that far for anything more than the fact that the Temple is there. Ahsoka could feel unshielded individuals from here, if she focused, but she’s also been doing this much, much longer. The twins theory holds more water than ever.

“Can you show me?” Ahsoka asks, instead of asking for more clarification. She squeezes Leia’s hands and smiles. “In the Force?”

Leia nods, and closes her eyes. It’s not the first time they’ve done this, but it’s the first time in a while that Leia’s needed Ahsoka to guide her through.

Luke’s light, for all that it’s unfamiliar to Ahsoka, is brilliant among the rest of the signatures in Coruscant. Like Anakin and Leia, he’s a star in his own right, but he’s brighter. He doesn’t have Anakin’s bitterness or Leia’s righteous anger, just... light. Ahsoka had asked Leia to show her instead of looking for herself because she’d expected to not recognize the boy, but she needn’t have. He’s unmistakable.

He’s so bright that she almost misses the other signature that she does recognize. She shies away, knowing that it would be there, but... but it’s almost twinned with another nearby. Not identical, but different in a way that comes with age, with trauma, with... death.

Leia hadn’t arrived alone, after all.

Why would Luke?

Her eyes snap open, her hand coming up not-quite-fast enough to clap over her mouth as she gasps. She feels a shudder, one that starts in her shoulders and reaches deep into her ribcage, finds a home in her chest and doesn’t stop.

“Oh fuck,” Quinlan whispers. “Torrent? Um, Sokari?”

Rex steps closer. “Commander?”

“That shabuir faked his death again,” she manages. “Three times, Rex!”

He blinks at her. “...I know way too many people who fit that description, Soka.”

“Master Ke--” she cuts herself off. He might have changed his name, just like she had. There’s already an Obi-Wan here. Rex seems to be figuring it out, but she needs to give him another hint.

“He pulled a Hardeen,” she stresses, and Rex’s eyes snap shut with a tired groan.

“Who?” Leia asks, her own tumult of emotion paused in the wake of Ahsoka’s shock. There’s a hope and relief to her, and Ahsoka belatedly realizes that her main worry had been that she’d misidentified what was going on, that she’d given herself a false hope. Ahsoka’s internal reaction, her approval and awe at Luke’s presence, had trickled over enough to give Leia the reassurance she’d needed.

Unintentional as it was, Ahsoka was glad that she’d succeeded in helping her charge.

“Er...” she trails off. “I don’t know what name he’s going by, right now. We’ve spent so long in hiding...”

“The man Luke knew as Crazy Old Ben,” Rex says, and Leia’s eyes light up.

“Oh,” she breathes. “General O--no, names. The High General, then.”

“Yeah,” Ahsoka says, not a little soft. “Yeah, I guess death didn’t stop him any more than it stopped me.”

“I could have told you that,” Leia says, smiling far too widely. She squirms where she still sits on Quinlan’s lap. “He was... he taught you, right?”

“As much my master as the official one,” Ahsoka says. She glances as Quinlan, feels Maul’s gaze on the back of her head. “Your f... my official master was very young when I was assigned to him. He wasn’t ready to teach, wasn’t even ready to be a knight, entirely, so my training was split between him and his master.”

Quinlan pops in at that moment, “Your grandmaster was military, too?”

We all were, she thinks. Even you, in your own way.

“I landed in their care mid-battle,” she says carefully. “It was a complicated situation.”

He nods, and she vaguely notes that he’s got his arms wrapped around Leia, and his chin tucked on top of her head. She isn’t sure if Leia’s noticed, but Quinlan’s picked up ‘baby’-sitting duty so often recently that she’s fairly certain he’s all but declared her ‘little-sister shaped.’ It doesn’t matter that Leia’s older--she’s still taking the juice boxes and gummy snacks that Quinlan shoves at her every single snacktime.

“Do you think...” Rex trails off, something uncomfortable twisting in the Force, even though his face keeps it mostly hidden. “My brothers. If the General survived and... and made it back...”

“I didn’t feel any,” Ahsoka says, because she knows she’d have noticed if it was anyone she’d met, and likely any clone at all. They all felt different in the Force, but they all held a spark that made her know it was one of them. “I’m sorry, Rex’ika.”

“A long shot,” he says, that dash of hope shriveling up. He must see something in her face, because there’s a curl of warmth in him, even if his smile is brittle. “It’s fine, really. I have you, ‘Soka.”

Rex and Ahsoka. Two halves of one whole.

She can’t wait to hear the lectures on attachment, the way people who haven’t seen her wars try to criticize her for clinging to any chance at still having a will to live. She can’t wait to see them justify telling her that it’s selfish to hold her sanity in her hands and refuse to let the grief take it away. She can’t wait to stare someone down for asking her to ‘learn to let go’ after she’s lost her family, her life, her universe three times over.

Most of the Jedi are more sensible than that, are reasonable enough to see those shades of grey and how to approach rules in the spirit they are meant instead of the rigid letter, but there will be some.

There will be more than enough telling her she is wrong to hold her oldest, closest, best friend as dear as she can.

Attachment, they’ll say.

What they’ll mean is ‘codepedence.’

They won’t be entirely wrong.

She reaches out for him, lets him fall into her side and stay there, closes her eyes and reaches out for the man she’d long called father, when they’d still been in each other’s lives.

This time, past the deafening flare of surprise-love-hope of the little star next to him, she can feel him reach back.

---------------------------

The second the ship has landed, even before Tholme and Fett are done with the checks, Ahsoka’s waiting at the exit. She strains her hearing so she’ll know the second the system will let her open the massive door of the cargo hold.

Leia clings to her side, and the boys stand to her back.

Quinlan’s stressed enough that she can feel it like a cloud. She is very much not trying to feel that stress. Quinlan’s stress levels, back where he’s got Maul so he can keep an eye on Ahsoka and the Baby Sith at the same time, are so low on her priorities list that it’s a a little sad.

It doesn’t take long for her to be able to punch the button and open the damn door.

It opens slowly. She bounces on her toes, because there’s a beacon of light and a steady, familiar glow on the other side, and she’s so, so close. She can’t see through the crack yet, because it’s day in this part of Coruscant, and the sunlight is blinding against the dark of the hold. So close. She’s so close.

“The hell’s wrong with you?”

Fett? Fett. He’s already here to get off? This door’s slow.

She doesn’t answer him, because the door is finally open enough to let her out, and she leaps through the gap.

She lands on a pourstone floor, feels pebbles and grit compress under her boots, frantically looks around as her eyes adjust to light and--

The High General, the Negotiator, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, looking just as he did when she first met him, if a little less armored and a little more fed. The hair, the beard, the crinkle in the corner of his eyes. His spirit is a little older, his smile a little more strained, his posture a little more tired, but it’s him.

He spreads his arms, low enough that she could have dismissed it if she’d cared less for hugs, except she’s almost as small as she was when they met.

And every other hug she’d given back then had been, functionally, her being a living missile aiming her montrals for someone’s organs.

She’s a little more aware of how to avoid stabbing her friends in the intestine now.

“Master!”

She sprints for him, collides and sobs, feels him stumble back and then sink to his knees on the too-hard floor, and can feel the tears pouring out of her already. Her breath hitches, and she wails like a child, and that last part of her that couldn’t even grasp at safety shreds itself. His arms are tight around her, warm and strong and Master Kenobi don’t you dare leave again.

It doesn’t matter that Sidious is out there, that the Republic’s been building towards war for a century, that even now someone’s kicking up the Trade Federation. Her dad is here.

“I’ve missed you too, my dear,” he says, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, the bristles of his beard scratching along the skin of her forehead. Off to the side, the binary suns that are Luke and Leia grow brighter in proximity, so bright she can barely bear it.

(“Fett, why the kriff are you reaching for your blaster?!”)

(“Torrent said her master tried to kill her.”)

(“Different guy, that was a different guy, put the blaster away.”)

(“You could have just warned me.”)

(“I didn’t expect you to go for a shot on sight!”)

(”Calm down, Jetiika, if I was going to shoot on sight, we’d already be in a firefight.”)

She ignores everything.

“If you fake your death one more time, I swear I’m going to kill you myself.”

He tries to pull away to talk to her more directly. She does not let him. He apparently resigns himself to this, because he just adjusts how he’s sitting and pulls her in closer.

“In my defense, I was far from the only one presumed dead that took advantage of that status, by the end,” he says, letting her slump into his lap and cry herself dry. “I’m proud of you. You know that, I hope.”

She nods against his chest, smearing tears and snot across the linen and wool. She doesn’t care that they’ll need a thorough washing. She can have her public breakdown and it’s fine because Master Kenobi is here.

He doesn’t even know what she’s spent the past fifteen years doing. Luke wouldn’t have known. He doesn’t know she’s thirty-two and broken, beyond a shadow and cut down by her own master. There’s so much he doesn’t know but the Force rings with the truth of it: he’s proud of her anyway.

“I’m going by Ben, now,” he mutters against her montral. “There’s already an Obi-Wan here, after all. Still, I remain a Kenobi.”

She can’t make the words come out of her mouth. She’s overwhelmed, so much so that speech is a mite bit beyond her.

Sokari Torrent, she presses along the frayed bond that’s knitting itself back to life with every breath they take. Leia was already calling me Auntie Soka, and Rex and I both took Torrent, for...

“For the men you lost,” he mutters. “Yes, that’s fitting.”

He smells like sapir tea and a spiced beard oil.

There’s a whirl of activity about her, greetings and ‘a Sith apprentice?’ and introductions. She distantly notes when Fett almost shoots Dooku before Rex shuts that down and advises the Master to leave the area before things spiral out of control. She feels Ben stand, and she stands with him, clings to his side like a child and trusts that whatever happens, whatever needs to happen, he’ll take care of it until she can stand on her own two feet without swaying.

Rex grabs her free hand, and she feels herself settle back into her skin, bit by bit.

She’s back at the Temple. The twins are safe. Her grandmaster is here. She has her other half.

They can save the galaxy this time.

She’s alive she’s home she’s okay.

She’s okay.

Everything’s going to be okay.

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chudleycanonficfest · 3 years

Text

The Soul Truth

Day 2, Story #1 is by @honouraryweasley12

Title: The Soul Truth

Author: honouraryweasley12

Pairing: Ron x Hermione

Prompt: Soulmates

Rating: K+

TW: none

The ornate doors slid open and Hermione stepped out of the lift, her shoes clacking on the stone floor as she walked forward, head held high but movements stiff. She quickly found that it was best to give off a strong, confident air as she met with various ministries in her new capacity.

She hadn't been in this part of the Ministry often and it was quite unfamiliar to her. All the more reason to keep her guard up.

"Greetings, Minister Granger-Weasley. Congratulations on your victory."

A wizened old man in heavy, dark robes welcomed her, limping forward and holding out a shaky gnarled hand. She took it and met his eyes, which were still sharp—despite his advanced age. A playful twinkle shone out from them, reminding her immediately of Dumbledore.

"Thank you."

He gave her a smile. "Welcome to Archive floor of the Department of Mysteries."

She looked around the cavernous space, taking everything in. She could practically feel the hum of ancient magic reverberating around the walls.

"And you are?"

"I am the Archivist."

"Oh, I meant your name."

He chuckled. "We don't use our given names in this department, just our titles. There is great power in names, as you no doubt know, and we don't want that to interfere with the work we are doing here."

"What should I call you?"

He thought for a moment, before looking up at her. "For today, you can call me… Dave."

She immediately relaxed and shook her head, her face incredulous. "Why Dave?"

"Ah, you see, the power of names. By picking something so simple and informal, your posture and tone changed completely. Had I picked something more formal, you would have responded in kind."

She smiled, immediately taking a liking to the mysterious old man. "Lead the way, Dave. I was told I would be receiving the grand tour."

The two walked slowly through the vast archives, the various rooms and chambers full of different experiments, mystical objects, and parchments.

"Where is everyone?" Hermione stopped to ask, noticing that they hadn't seen a single person, Unspeakable or otherwise, as she was shown around.

"Some of our greatest breakthroughs happen in the early morning or late evening. We encourage our members to work when it best suits them." He squinted at a battered gold watch that seemed to weigh heavily on his wrist. "Yes, 3:00 PM is usually the quietest time of the day down here."

"I see. I do some of my best work at odd times as well."

He nodded sagely. "The quiet mind is often the clearest."

They continued touring through, until they came to a small door tucked behind several suits of armour. It was so old and dark that Hermione wouldn't have even noticed it, had Dave not mentioned it.

"Most Ministers of Magic I've worked with seem to be worried about other objects down here that might help them, but I have something interesting which I think you'll appreciate."

He fished out a small key from within the folds in his robes and turned it in the lock. The heavy door creaked open to reveal a closet-sized space with a single pedestal. On top of it sat a thin, aged book.

"It's my understanding that you are an avid reader, Minister."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"It's my job to know," he added gravely, watching her eyes narrow. He waved his hand dismissively, grinning again. "No, no, I'm only joking. I happened to share a lift with Auror Weasley one Monday morning, and while I didn't mean to eavesdrop, he was complaining quite loudly to Auror Potter that he missed you, because you had your nose stuck in a book all weekend. I mean no offense, of course."

She blushed and rolled her eyes affectionately. "That sounds like Ron alright."

"That's why I thought this might be of interest to you," he continued, gesturing to the pedestal.

She couldn't help but be intrigued as she stared down at the frail old book, her voice dipping down to a whisper of reverence. "What is it?"

"It's called The Book of Souls—though it's just a single parchment. Yet, it's the most dangerous object down here."

Hermione stared at it, her face a mask of awe. "How so?"

"Legend has it that the parchment was created by a powerful young witch, who was being courted by a prince. She wasn't sure if he was her soulmate, for she sensed a darkness in him, so she invoked some very ancient magic to help reveal the truth."

"It worked?"

"Indeed, it did. The parchment was charmed to reveal a small note, riddle, and sometimes even a name to the reader, one that would help them understand who their soulmate was. Unfortunately for that witch, her soulmate was most decidedly not the prince. She rejected his proposal, and as was the case back then, disappeared under mysterious circumstances soon after."

"That's terrible. Then what happened?"

"As the story goes, rumour spread about the witch's parchment, and as with most powerful objects, the lure of it drew out many seekers. Though the object was made with good intentions, it soon led to a trail of darkness and bloodshed. Broken families, obsessions, blackmail, jealousy, and even death. Knowing that kind of unshakeable truth proved to be a valuable commodity, or a lifetime of heartbreak for those unable to meet their soulmate."

Hermione nodded. It sounded very much like the Elder Wand, but more subtle and insidious. One thing was puzzling her though. "I've never heard of this before, and I've studied many books about souls, both ancient and dark."

"Once the Ministry recovered it, they deemed it was too dangerous for this information to be out there, so they've removed all known references to it. Those who had known of it died off, and it was forgotten from memory."

"When was this?"

"Centuries ago. However, as Minister, you are privileged to learn certain pieces of information that the general population is not privy to."

"Fascinating," Hermione replied. She watched as he slowly reached a hand toward the weathered book. "Wait! What are you doing?"

"Every so often I check to make sure it's still under the cover, and since we're already in here, I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. Does… does that mean you've looked at it?"

"Oh no, never. I always look away, as should you."

He lifted the corner for a second, and try as she might, Hermione couldn't help but open her eyes to see a word of blazing red ink, before he shut the cover again. Hermione felt the blood drain from her face, unable to comprehend the word she saw so very briefly.

"No, it couldn't be."

"What was that Minister? Did you say something?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Everything seems to be in order here. Shall we continue?"

Hermione nodded mutely, the word still burned in her thoughts.

~*~

She cancelled the rest of her meetings and went straight home after finishing with Dave, or whatever his real name was, needing time to collect her thoughts. How could she tell Ron, the love of her life, what she had seen?

She sat at their dining table, absentmindedly stirring a soothing cup of tea when he walked in.

"Hermione, I'm home."

He came bounding into the kitchen, a piece of parchment in each hand and a wide smile on his face. "Look, the kids wrote. Hugo promises he's already started studying for O.W.L.s, and Rosie is nervous, but excited, to captain her first match against Ravenclaw next week."

"That's great," she replied, her voice a dull monotone.

"They even said their classmates think it's cool that you were elected as the youngest Minister of Magic in history."

"Hmm."

Ron looked at her and frowned. "What's wrong? Tough day?"

Hermione pulled out the chair next to her and patted it. "Come sit down."

Ron scrutinized her again. "The last time you did that, it was to tell me you were pregnant with Hugo. Are you pregnant?"

She sighed. "No, please just come here, I need to tell you something, and I don't think you're going to like it."

He sat down, unsure of what was coming. She quickly told him about the Archivist, the tour, and the Book of Souls, before swearing him to secrecy.

"You saw something when he lifted the cover, didn't you?"

She nodded sadly. "I saw a word."

"What did it say?"

"I-I don't want to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not true. Whatever it says, it's not true."

"C'mon Hermione, please tell me."

"It said… Krum."

Ron let out a laugh. "Oh, is that all?"

"What do you mean? Viktor Krum is my soulmate, and that's all you have to say!?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"That you're upset, that you care that I was destined to be with Viktor."

"Destined? We have two beautiful kids, an amazing family, and great careers. I don't care what some ruddy old book says, the charms are probably wonky anyway." He pointed to his chest. "I know that I love you with all of my heart, and you feel the same."

She slid into his lap and threw her arms around his neck. "I do, you know I do… but…but…"

"What?"

She suddenly burst into tears, burying her head in his neck as she sobbed. "I-I always had this idea in my head that we were real soulmates, if such a thing existed. We met when we were so young, and I've only truly ever loved you. I know it's silly, but I hate that it's not true. I didn't even like Viktor that much."

Ron ran his fingers through her hair and rubbed her back comfortingly. "Maybe it was a mistake or something. You said yourself you only saw one word."

Her breathing started calming down. "I-I suppose that's true."

"We know what happens when a charm or prophecy is misinterpreted."

She sniffled. "It would be nice to know."

Ron gave her a squeeze. "Maybe we should sneak in there tomorrow and take a look."

"We can't just sneak in there! I'm the Minister of Magic! Besides, there was a key to get into the room. I don't know how we're going to get it from the Archivist."

"You're the Minister of Magic. I'm sure you could come up with some reason to be there."

She gave him a dirty look. "I'm not abusing my position like that."

"I don't mind abusing my position, as you put it. Maybe I can say I'm researching something for a case."

"No, Ron. What if you get in trouble?"

"Who am I going to get in trouble with? Harry? You?"

"That's not the point. We swore we'd never take advantage of our roles for our own gain."

He sighed. "Fine, you're right. Sneaking in it is, then. It'll be like the good old days! A secret mission, breaking into places we have no business being in. An ill-formed plan. It'll be fun."

She smacked him on the arm. "Those days were terrible."

"Aren't you curious though, to find out the truth?"

"Of course I want to know the truth! I don't want to go through the rest of my life thinking Viktor was my soulmate, when it's clearly you."

"As sweet as that is, we clearly only have one choice."

Hermione shook her head. "Fine."

"Good, things like this are much easier when you're agreeable to them," he smirked, nudging her playfully. "You said 3:00 PM was when it was empty, right? Meet me in my office tomorrow at 2:55 PM, and we'll head down there. I'll just tell Harry we're going to a broom closet or something."

"Ron!" Hermione screeched. "You'll do no such thing."

"It's perfectly plausible. It's not like we haven't done that before."

She blushed, unable to count the number of times they'd had fun at the Ministry. "Alright, fine. 2:55PM at your office."

"Good. Now, I'm starving. I'll whip up one of your favourites. I bet I'm a better cook than ol' Vicky. What do Bulgarians even eat?"

"Not funny, Ron."

~*~

The next afternoon, Hermione was found pacing in front of Ron and Harry's office, much to the fear of the recruits who were stationed outside the door. It wasn't often the Minister of Magic would show up unannounced, muttering under their breath.

The door swung open and Ron sauntered out, his lips upturned in a smug smile. Harry's face had gone a shade of green from what he'd just heard from his best mate.

"Hi, er, Hermione," Harry greeted her awkwardly. "You two… um… have fun."

Mortified, Hermione could only return a quick wave before grabbing Ron's arm, hauling him toward the lifts before she was forced into any further interactions with Harry.

"I honestly can't believe you told him we were going to go shag."

"I literally told you I was going to say that."

"I didn't think you actually meant it." She let out an exasperated snort and pinched the bridge of her nose as they entered the lift. "What's the plan?"

"Plan?"

"You are the Head Strategist of the Auror department. Surely you must have thought of something!"

Ron shrugged his shoulders and grinned. "We'll make it up as we go. Seems to work best for us."

"I don't like this one bit."

The ding of the bell signalled they had arrived.

Ron clasped her hand, their fingers entwining. "Let's do this."

The doors opened and they were greeted with utter silence. It was as if the entire floor was abandoned, which it likely was.

They crept forward, trying to make as little noise as possible before finally reaching the same spot she had been the previous day.

Hermione turned the handle of the door, and to her surprise, it was unlocked.

"Hey, look at that!" Ron exclaimed loudly.

"Ron," she hissed. "Keep on the lookout."

He nodded and stood in front of the armour blocking the door, ensuring that Hermione couldn't be seen, in case they were interrupted.

Hermione took a deep breath, her heart pounding. Whatever it said under the cover wouldn't change anything between herself and Ron, but she needed to know for sure.

Her fingers paused for a second, lightly gripping the frail corner, her body tense. She delicately opened the book, the bright red ink bursting into view, almost glowing in the small, dark chamber.

Her greedy eyes flew over the words that were revealed.

"I knew it," she whispered.

Ron suddenly poked his head in. "Everything alright?"

"Perfect. Everything's perfect and wonderful!" Her giddiness couldn't be contained as she closed the ancient text.

"I guess this means you aren't going to chuck me?"

"Never."

"What's it say?"

Her pink cheeks were starting to hurt from her wide grin. "Your soulmate will first love, then hate, a Mr. Viktor Krum."

"That confirms it. See, nothing to worry about."

"Oh Ron, I'm so relieved. I knew it couldn't be true. This whole thing is ridiculous, but I'm still glad to know it's always been you."

Ron nodded. "Me too."

"We should leave before we get caught."

"Not so fast, it's my turn now."

"What?" Hermione asked sharply. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Might as well take a look while I'm here."

Hermione stepped back, biting at her bottom lip—a sure sign of anxiety. "But… but… what if—"

Ron cupped her cheeks in his large hands and gently kissed her. "It doesn't matter what it says, I love you and only you. Trust me."

She nodded, before resuming his place as the lookout.

After a moment, she heard him chuckle and close the door behind him.

Hermione whispered urgently. "What did it say?"

"It said my soulmate will be a nightmare."

Hermione let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Thank goodness. I don't think I would've been able to handle it if it wasn't me."

"It's always been you. I thought you'd have learned by now."

"I know, I never should have doubted it."

"Can you imagine if we'd learned this information when we were younger? We might have been able to get together much sooner," Ron remarked.

"Or we'd have made an even bigger mess of things."

"True. It doesn't matter in the end though, does it? We figured it out and we've done pretty damn well for ourselves."

"We have, Ron. I love you."

"Love you, too. We'd better get out of here before someone sees us."

The two quickly retreated to the lift, having successfully completed their mission. A minute after the doors had shut on the snogging couple, an old man slowly made his way toward the chamber and pulled a small key out of his robes, locking the heavy door.

As it's appointed guardian, he had vowed to never look in the book, and he had kept that oath. That didn't mean he couldn't use it's power in other ways. Past Ministers, those inquisitive few who had the intelligence to understand the book's worth, often revealed something in that moment when he checked the parchment, for good or ill. Usually it mattered little to him, but not in this case.

He paused for a moment, before extracting a small glass sphere from the same pocket as the key. A sphere he'd kept with him for many years, since he was a young man working with prophecies in the Department of Mysteries. Knowing Minister Granger-Weasley was coming to take a tour was the perfect opportunity to solve a mystery he'd been researching for the better part of seven decades.

He held it up to the light, the familiar swirls of mist dancing in the globe. He had long since memorized the prophecy, which had been made by a seer almost a hundred years earlier. His colleagues at the time had dismissed it, because like many visions, it was almost impossible to determine what the seer was referring to.

He had kept this one, for it always gave him hope. He never thought he'd actually solve it. Yet here he was, still alive and able to record this last surviving prophecy in the annals of history.

He turned it over in his hands, the glass still unblemished.

"Magic," he whispered, "such a wonderful tool."

He stared at it again, reciting for the last time the fates encompassed within.

"Two soulmates, brown and orange, will form a triangle with black to defeat evil. Through many trials the two will forge a love so strong it will be unbreakable, and their strength will reshape the world."

He let out a final chuckle, his long-held desire now confirmed by the soulmates themselves. He lifted the glass to his lips, his breath fogging up the shiny surface.

"Prophecy fulfilled."

The sphere melted away into nothing, the outcome recorded somewhere else in the archives. He shuffled away back to his office, his eyes sparkling, and his heart lifted with hope.

#chudley canon fest #chudleycanonficfest #hp canon pairings #hp canon pairings romantic #romione #ron x hermione

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whenihaveyouromione · 3 years

Text

When I Have You - Chapter 22

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Chapter 22

“I can’t believe I lived eleven years of my life without magic.” Harry smirked as he stared out the window of Ron and Hermione’s flat, watching the stragglers of the day making their way back home from Diagon Alley.

Despite the music raging, the lights flashing, and the ridiculous raucous that was coming from above, the people on the street below seemed not to notice. In fact, they would hear no sound at all.

“I mean, how great is this? Throwing a party and you don’t even upset the neighbours?”

“Yeah, well, lucky for us,” Ron said, glancing around at the small room filled with more people than Ron had ever anticipated. Having a few close friends over had turned into half of their year turning up, word of mouth spreading rapidly. It had been unexpected, though a pleasant surprise. Some of these people Ron hadn’t seen in over a year, having not caught up with them at the memorial service a few months prior.

There was Seamus, Dean and Neville by the kitchen, Butterbeers in hand, laughing at something Seamus had just said.

Beside them was Lavender, apparently her first big outing since the war. She was looking around very nervously at everyone, always touching her face, which was horribly scarred. Lavender, Ron had heard, had refused to come unless Parvati did, and Parvati had told Padma about it, who had invited her Ravenclaw buddies.

Neville had been invited, who was somehow in contact with the Hufflepuffs, so they’d all shown up, too. Then there was George and Percy, who’d brought Audrey along (who seemed very much at home being surrounded by a bunch of wizards and not at all put out by it), and even a few faces Ron didn’t recognise.

“Remind me to put some damn good privacy charms around this place afterwards,” Ron said to Harry, watching a tall, slightly older man skulk around the edge of the partiers.

Harry snorted into his half-drunk Butterbeer. “You’ll need some Ministry-level ones after this.”

“Well, at least everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.” Ron scanned the crowd, unable to stop himself from smiling. It was good to see everyone again, even if most of them he’d spent seven years never speaking to. It reminded him of the old times.

“There you are!”

Ron spun to find Hermione striding towards him. She was very pink in the face, her hair — which she had attempted to slick back — had slipped in parts, the curls escaping the magic. But she was wearing a large smile as she flung her arms around Ron’s neck and drew him into a deep kiss.

Her breath smelled of Firewhisky, and Ron suspected she may have helped herself to a few too many glasses of the potent drink that was being passed around freely.

He chuckled against her mouth, to which she pulled away, frowning. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Ron said, stifling a grin. He looked over her shoulder to where Harry had been standing with him by the window, but discovered that his friend had snuck away and was now talking to Dean, probably about Auror training.

He looked back at Hermione, whose cheeks had turned from pink to red. Her hair had slipped out even more, and Merlin, she was beautiful, even in a drunken state.

“You’re smiling,” Hermione said, her frown deepening. “Do I amuse you?”

“Yes, a little,” Ron said. “Found the Firewhisky, did you?”

“George was pouring everyone some glasses. I thought —”

Ron could no longer contain the laugh that had been desperate to escape ever since she’d kissed him in a manner that a sober Hermione never would have in the vicinity of so many people.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“I’m not!”

“You are,” Ron said. “And it’s fantastic. Kiss me like that again. I liked it.” He set aside his own drink, wrapping her in his arms, but she pulled away, looking up at him with an offended look.

Ron grinned, and he guided her over to where Harry and Dean were talking.

“... Ron, Neville and I are doing a lot of work with Patronuses at the moment,” Harry was saying to Dean. “It’s the second year of training. So don’t worry too much. Neville didn’t master the talking Patronus until a few weeks back.”

The words seemed to ease Dean’s concern. He nodded, waving to Ron and Hermione as they joined him. A moment later, Ginny came over too, clutching a Butterbeer. Everyone was going to wake up with headaches in the morning, Ron thought.

“Excited about your NEWT results?” Dean asked, looking between Hermione and Ginny. “I hear they’ll be out soon…”

“Why do you think Hermione has had far too many Firewhiskies?” Ginny said, grinning.

“I’m not drunk!” Hermione said, though as she spoke, she somehow managed to stumble on her own feet and clutched Ron for support.

Ron, Harry and Ginny stifled laughs, while Dean looked at her, slightly taken aback.

“But now that you’ve reminded me… Dean, I think I might find George and see if he’s got anymore…” And she pushed her way through the crowd towards Ron’s brother.

Ron shook his head, watching her in amazement. He couldn’t contain the grin on his face, as thoughts wandered into his head — thoughts that he had so desperately tried to push aside for the year and a bit he’d been with her, but ones that had always lingered, threatening to burst through at any moment.

If he could love her like this, drunk and stumbling her way through a party, then he could love her always. Forever. No matter what.

I want to marry her.

He refrained from laughing when she crashed into Ernie MacMillan.

“Excuse me?”

Ron turned away from Hermione, and back to the others. They were all staring at him, eyes wide. “What?” he asked, looking between their bewildered expressions.

“What do you mean, what?” Harry said. “‘I want to marry her.’ Explain yourself.”

Ron opened his mouth, feeling heat creep up his neck and onto his ears. “I, er, I said that out loud, did I?”

“Yep,” Harry, Ginny and Dean all said together.

Ron flushed. “Well, I don’t mean now,” he said. “I just mean… one day.” He glanced over his shoulder again, where Hermione was talking to George and Lee, appearing much happier to be in their presence than she had ever been before.

“What a romantic,” Ginny said, her voice reeking of sarcasm. “She gets drunk for the first time in her life, and you decide you want to marry her.”

“Yeah, well, don’t go telling her that,” Ron said. “I don’t want her thinking…”

“No need, mate,” Harry said, who had had the clearest view of Hermione still across the room, apart from Ron. “Pretty sure she heard you.”

“It’s too noisy in here,” Ron said. “She can’t have.”

Harry shrugged, and Ron once again looked over at Hermione. She cast Ron a bright smile, which he returned. She couldn’t have heard him from all the way across there. He hoped not, at least. He didn’t want her thinking he was planning anything so soon into their relationship.

“Who do you think will be the next to get married?” Ginny asked.

“Ron and Hermione,” Harry said with a wry smile at Ron.

Ron went very red.

“Nah,” Ginny said. She scanned the room. “Percy and Audrey look fairly cosy over there, don’t they? And Audrey doesn’t look at all bothered by the whole magic business. In fact, I think they’re the perfect couple. She’s as pompous as he is.”

“What?” Ron said. “Audrey?” He followed his sister’s gaze. He’d met Audrey a few times now, and not at all gotten that impression.

“Well, yes. Have you heard her rambling on about how her ‘boyfriend leads a department’ or ‘her boyfriend did really well in his exams’. She’ll tell anyone who’ll listen. Doesn’t matter that she doesn’t understand half of what she’s talking about. The fact that he’s successful is what attracts her. He could have been You-Know-Who’s right hand man and she’d be proud of the fact that he got promoted so highly.”

Ron stared at Ginny for a moment, amazed that she seemed to find fault in all of her brothers’ girlfriends. “So, what’s wrong with Hermione then? Go on, tell me.”

“What are you talking about?” Ginny asked.

“Well, you take issue with Fleur, and now Audrey, so what’s wrong with Hermione?”

“Nothing,” Ginny said. “And I never said I didn’t like Audrey. Didn’t I just say they’re a perfect match? It’ll be a competition between you and Percy, though. Who will be the first to grow a pair and ask their respective girlfriends to marry them?”

Ron opened his mouth to argue, to ensure anyone who would listen that he was not planning to do that anytime soon, but Harry jumped in before he had the chance.

“And what about me?” Harry asked, looking at Ginny with a rather amused expression.

“Oh, I know you’ve got a pair,” Ginny said mildly. “And I know you’ll use them when the time comes.” She smiled to herself.

Ron balked at her, and Dean looked rather bemused at the casual exchange. Harry opened his mouth but didn’t respond, apparently not expecting that response.

“Well, if you must know,” Dean said, breaking the silence, “Seamus and Lavender are engaged.” He indicated behind him to where Lavender stood beside Seamus, still looking rather terrified. She spotted everyone looking at her and turned away.

“You know, I think that’s sweet,” Ginny said. “The fact that he’s stood by her after everything that happened. Good for them.”

Ron had to agree with Ginny, but more on the fact that Seamus had stayed with Lavender, even after her attack. She’d always been alright looking, but now, a lot of her prettiness was covered with scars. There was barely a patch on her face that didn’t have some kind of reminder of her injury.

Ron hated himself for thinking it, but if they’d still been together when she was attacked, he was fairly confident he would not have done the same. He drifted his eyes to Hermione, who was now speaking to Padma Patil. Although, if it had been Hermione who had been attacked… well, his feelings for her and his feelings for Lavender had always been very, very different. If it had been Hermione, he didn’t think one thousand scars across her face could have changed the fact that he’d fallen helplessly in love with her.

He supposed that was how Seamus felt, too.

Ron left the small group, having just spotted Hermione heading toward the bathroom. She appeared rather unsteady.

“You alright?” he asked, catching her arm. She was very flushed in the cheeks now.

“Yep,” Hermione said, beaming. “Perfectly fine. Perfectly happy. Great party, isn’t it?”

And it was then Ron decided that even if she had heard what he’d said, she wasn’t going to remember it anyway.

“It’s not bad,” Ron said, catching her as she swayed against him, “but maybe you should sit down. And no more Firewhisky for you, either. Since when do you like that stuff?” He guided her to the sofa, as two people Ron didn’t know the names of hopped up before Hermione collapsed on top of them.

“I think I’ve failed all my NEWTs,” Hermione said vaguely. “I’ll be jobless, and… and NEWT-less —” she giggled in a very unHermione-like way. “NEWT-less…”

“Apparently that’s why you drink,” Ron said, sitting down beside her. He Summoned a glass of cool water and passed it to her. “I’ll remember that for the future,” he said as she took a deep drink from the glass.

When she’d finished it, she looked at Ron with a slightly more sober expression. She smiled. “You know what?”

“Yeah?” Ron said, his thoughts running away from him again as she stared at him with her astray hair and pink cheeks. I do want to marry her. One day. Merlin, I really do.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at Firewhisky again after tonight. My mouth is numb from it.”

Ron grinned, and then laughed. “Yeah, well, you did drink an awful lot of it. And for the record, you’re not going to fail your NEWTs. And also for the record, I will never let you forget this. You, drinking too much Firewhisky… I’ll remember this forever.”

Hermione scowled.

“I’ll make sure you never forget it either,” he added, drawing her towards him so that he could kiss her. He could taste the burn of the Firewhisky on her lips, and it had never tasted better.

…

Two days after the party, Ron woke to sunlight blaring through the drawn window. It was one thing he hated about this place — the sun rose far too early and glared right at him at some ungodly hour in which he was forced to get up.

It had been most unpleasant the day before, where he (and Hermione, which Ron was still laughing about) had been attempting to sleep off a horrible hangover. Hermione, more so than Ron.

She had felt dreadful when she’d woken, groaning as the humming of the crowd below grew noisier the later it got. Shops began opening around nine on Sundays, but that had been far too early for her. She hadn’t even been able to get out of bed until Ron had gone to the apothecary and bought her a Pepper-Up potion, which she’d downed in one hit.

Ron had spent the day laughing at her every time she complained, which had resulted in her not speaking to him for most of the evening and night.

“Morning,” Ron said as he yawned and rolled over to kiss Hermione, only to find her not there. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. It was a Monday, and he’d have to get to training in an hour or two, but she had nothing to do.

Curious as to what, apart from the glaring light, had dragged her out of bed so early, he stumbled from the room and into the tiny living space, finding her sitting at the little kitchen table.

“Morning,” he said, coming over to kiss the top of her bushy head. “What’s got you up so early?” But the answer was laying in front of him the moment he asked it. Sitting on the table in front of her, spread out, were five official envelopes, all addressed to Hermione, with the Ministry symbol in the corner.

Hermione was staring at them, white-faced, her hands clasped together in her lap.

“Oh,” Ron said, “Your NEWT results have come.”

Hermione didn’t even look at him, but gave a short nod, her face very pale.

“Hermione,” Ron said, “why haven’t you opened them? You’re not seriously worried that you’ve failed, are you?”

Hermione said nothing.

“If you’d failed, you wouldn’t have these.” He indicated the four thinner envelopes as he took the other seat at the table.

This time, Hermione looked up at him, looking terrified. “What are those other ones?” she whispered. “I was just expecting one, but then the owl also had these…”

Ron chuckled. “They’re job offers, Hermione,” he said.

“What?”

“Well, the Ministry is aware of everyone’s results before you receive them, you see. They go through them and highlight who might be suited for particular jobs. The jobs aren’t always at the Ministry, either. Then, they send you offers along with your results.” He studied the envelopes for a moment, before smiling at her. “Four’s impressive. Percy only got two.”

This didn’t seem to ease her nerves at all. If possible, she looked even paler.

“Oh, come on,” Ron said, picking up the most formal of the five envelopes.

“You do it!” Hermione said. “I don’t think I can bear it.”

Shrugging, Ron tore open the results to Hermione’s NEWTs, and for a moment, considered telling her she’d failed everything, but thought better of it when he saw how anxious she appeared.

“An Outstanding in every damned thing,” he said, laying the parchment in front of her. “I could have told you that. In fact, I’m pretty sure I did.” He beamed. “You are honestly the smartest person I know.”

Relief flooded Hermione’s face as she read through her results. Her face grew some colour back in it, and a smile played at the corner of her mouth.

“Now, let’s see who wants the most brilliant witch to ever grace this world to work for them.” Ron opened the first envelope and read it. He snorted.

“What?” Hermione asked, snatching the letter from him.

“You’re not going to waste your talents working at the Menagerie,” Ron told her. “That’s actually insulting to send you that. I hope they’re not all like that.”

The next three were all Ministry offers — one in Magical Law, one in the Magical Creatures department and the third in the Magical Transportation department.

“Honestly, you’d be great in all of them,” Ron said, “but I’d say no to the transportation one. Percy would be your boss.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” Hermione reasoned. “He’s a lot better now, and seeing a familiar face…”

She looked at the other two letters, her eyes darting between them. “Oh, there’s so much to think about. I never saw myself in Law, and Magical Creatures would be of interest, but…”

“You don’t have to decide now,” Ron said, and he tapped the letters with his wand. They folded neatly into a pile.

“Where’d you learn that spell?” Hermione asked.

“Training,” Ron said. “Well, kind of. Was more of a tip from one of the Aurors. Said it saved some time with the paperwork.”

“You’ll have to teach me it,” Hermione said, smiling slightly.

“Coffee?” Ron asked, waving his wand again to set the kettle on the stove and then a third time to light the stove.

“There’s no water in there, Ron,” Hermione said with amusement.

“Oh, right.” He got up from his chair and filled the kettle with water.

“I wonder how Ginny and Luna went,” Hermione said as Ron returned to the table. “Maybe I should Floo them and see —”

“Later,” Ron said, grabbing her arm to keep her in her seat. “Let’s have breakfast together. What do you want? Toast? I can make some eggs if you want.”

“Toast is fine,” Hermione said. “And I can make it.” She got up and made her way over to the bench. She took out some bread.

“At the party the other night, Luna said she didn’t think she’d take any job that resulted in a desk,” Hermione said as she began to prepare the bread for toasting.

“Well, that’s Luna, isn’t it?” Ron said. “What do you think she’ll do? Go searching for Crumple-Horned Snorkacks?”

“Well… yes,” Hermione said. “She mentioned something like that… honestly, that’s very —”

“Luna,” Ron said. “She’ll never change.” He grinned. “So, you remember that conversation, do you? I would have thought the whole night would have been a blank. It seemed to be yesterday.”

“Well, things are coming back to me,” Hermione said in a very matter-of-fact way. “In fact, I think I remember most of what was said to me, or… about me.”

Ron froze. She had her back to him, but her voice had changed as she said the last part. He’d been quite comfortable in thinking that she hadn’t heard a single word of his slip of the tongue that night. That, worst case scenario, she had been too far away. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain to her that he hadn’t meant right now. Just one day.

“Right…” he said slowly. “Well… everyone was really drunk, so whatever you heard, you probably shouldn’t take it seriously.”

“So, you don’t want to marry me, then?” Hermione turned around to face him, and to Ron’s surprise, she was smiling.

“Of course I do!” Ron replied, and he could have kicked himself with how quickly he’d said it. His stupid brain couldn’t even be bothered to pretend to hesitate on the matter. “But not right now!” he added hastily. Now that just sounded insulting. He grimaced.

Hermione didn’t say anything, but continued to watch him with a smile on her face.

Ron sighed, realising he had no choice but to address it now. “Listen, Hermione… I didn’t even realise I said it. It was a thought that popped into my head in the moment, and I accidentally spoke it out loud. I daresay the drinks loosened my tongue a little. I was hoping you hadn’t heard.”

“It was a nice thing to hear,” Hermione said. “I liked hearing it.”

Ron stared at her, rather taken aback by how easily she was taking this. He’d expected her to start listing all the reasons why they shouldn’t rush into it, why they should wait. Her cheerful silence caught him off guard.

“You really want to get married to me?” Hermione said after a moment.

“Yes,” Ron replied. “I do. Of course I do. If I get married, I want it to be to you. I love you. But… er… you don’t mean now, do you? Because I’d like to be able to do it properly. You know, ask you... with a ring and everything, and I simply cannot afford to get you a nice one right now…” He flushed. Why did his mouth have to speak?

Hermione looked as if she was trying to fight back a laugh. “I don’t mean now,” she assured him. “Don’t worry. But it’s nice to know you’re thinking about it. I’d like to marry you, too. One day.”

“Oh… well, that’s good to know,” Ron said, not quite believing what he was hearing. Were they really talking about getting married?

“What else do you see in the future?” Hermione asked, retaking her seat and staring at him intently.

“What do you mean?” Ron asked. “Like, with us? Our future… together? Well…” He thought about it for but a second, and suddenly an extremely clear picture flashed into his mind. It was as if it had always been there, but suppressed, not daring to be thought until the timing was right. And now, apparently, was the right time. “I can see us in a house that we own together. Not this tiny flat forever. I see us getting married. I see us… maybe we’ll have kids, too. One day. Two or three, or however many you want. Just not seven. I see us being pretty happy together, if you'll tolerate me for that long, and… well, I guess…"

"What?" Hermione asked, sounding as if he'd paused in the middle of an immensely captivating story.

"Er…" Ron looked away, unsure on whether he should continue or not. Just how far did she want him to go?

"I'm not going to freak out," Hermione said, as if reading his mind. "I promise."

Still not entirely convinced, Ron averted his eyes to the toast, which had begun smoking because Hermione had been distracted. Smiling slightly, he said, "Well, I guess I'll be taking care of the cooking if you can't even handle toast."

Hermione looked to where he was staring and jumped to her feet, swearing as she ran to get the now burnt toast. Muttering to herself, she tossed the toast in the bin and turned back to look at Ron, her eyes questioning.

"You really see us having children… and… and all that?"

Ron shrugged. "One day, I guess. If you want."

"I do want that," Hermione said quickly. "One day." She smiled.

"A long way away," Ron emphasised, for he could not picture himself with a child right now, or in the near future.

Hermione's smile widened, and she nodded. "Yes," she agreed, "many, many years away."

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blazehedgehog · 4 years

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Do you ever think of yourself as being on the ASD? Up until the past few years (I'm 25 now), I never considered the possibility but as I delved deeper I identified with a lot of common behaviors (obsession, preferring isolation, social issues/anxiety, pickiness) and explained why I found it so difficult to assimilate in high school.

I’ve occasionally wondered, but there are a lot of things that kind of go against the grain of that kind of diagnosis. The few symptoms I exhibit of ASD also overlap with something that’s far more likely, and that’s that I probably have ADHD.

I had two or three teachers growing up try to convince my Mom that I had ADHD and that I needed to be medicated for it. My Mom refused to believe them, because back in the early 90′s, the traditional definition of ADHD included hyperactivity, and I was not a classically hyperactive kid. The image of ADD kids back then was being unable to sit still, unable to stop acting out. ADD kids were loud and grabby and uncontrollable, which I definitely was not.

We understand a lot more about the condition now and even though you should never self-diagnose, I’m 99% sure I have ADHD. My inability to focus on one singular hobby (hi, I’m an artist, game developer, sound engineer, youtuber, streamer, and writer), my extremely selective and poor memory, my inability to switch tracks and get motivated on something else after my mind is already set, my utter impatience for certain things, etc.

My isolation and social issues can be explained simply by my depression more than ASD, I think. I’ve talked about this before but I fell apart in high school. Things happened to me in middle school; I had bullies that acted like my friends, they did some deeply horrible things to me, and it completely destroyed my ability to trust anyone for decades. To some degree, it still persists to this very day. It just... wrecked me, in a way that’s hard to describe, and harder to even comprehend. I stopped showering. I stopped brushing my teeth. I just gave up on taking care of myself. I’ve blocked most of the memories out because of trauma coping mechanisms; I only know some of these things because other people have told me they happened. It really was that bad.

I had a really bad stretch of like, five years, from around 13 years old to 17 or 18, maybe even 19. I did eventually get away from those bullies in high school, but the combination of self-loathing they left me with combined with my ADHD and the mounting anxiety problems I was developing meant I coasted through an entire semester of algebra class absorbing absolutely nothing and I got a failing grade. Friends (new ones) dared me to skip one class with them for fun, and I figured “Well I’m doing bad in algebra anyway, so yeah, I’ll skip with you and go to the bowling alley.”

And that started the snowball. I became unmoored from the routine of school, which can be a big problem when you have ADHD. Skipping algebra every now and then became always skipping algebra. Then I started skipping gym too, because getting undressed in front of the other kids in the locker room was an introvert nightmare. Skipping two classes turned in to skipping three. Then four. Then all classes. Who cares, right? I couldn’t muster up the interest, especially when I realized I had no idea what the current lesson plan was anymore.

My girlfriend dumped me. The school waited until the start of my senior year to pull me aside and inform me that it was impossible for me to graduate under any circumstances (the first and only sign of disapproval they had shown me in three and a half years). My internet friends were yelling at me. I lost touch with my real-life friends. I had massive, gigantic, reality-ending panic attacks that left me too paralyzed to leave my room even to go to the bathroom. I teetered on the edge of having a nervous breakdown. I lost over 100lbs, leaving me nothing more than skin and bones. The mountain of stress I was feeling was taking a toll on my health.

I shut down. Closed myself off to the outside world. Ryan did not exist anymore. And for something like a decade, that’s how I lived. My only human contact was with immediate family (when they could drag me out in to the sunlight against my will) and with a core group of shrinking internet friends. The few that did not lose respect for me, anyway.

That does things to you. The parts of your brain that knew how to socialize atrophy and you forget how to hold a conversation. When I was still going to school, my cousin and I told each other we should become therapists, because we were excellent at listening to people and being mediators. We could fix anyone’s problems. Now, those skills died inside of me. I went from being able to make anyone feel better to constantly sticking my foot in my mouth. Being a nuisance, even when I wasn’t trying to be. I lost all sense of what was appropriate to say, or how to convey my feelings. Or convey anything outside of a keyboard, really. I made a lot of people angry and upset totally by accident, or pushed them away without realizing what I was even doing.

And all of these bad habits fed in to each other like an endless loop. It was a slippery slope that steeply went down, and down, and down. The more isolated I became, the more I wanted to isolate even more. The shame and embarrassment for who I was becoming kept getting stronger. I was caught in a spiral.

I was getting close enough that I could see where the bottom of the barrel was. I call myself introverted, but I’m also the guy who, completely of his own volition, downloaded the Shoutcast Server software in September of 2000 and hosted an all-night live internet radio broadcast. Alone. I was livestreaming myself playing video games for the internet four years before Twitch.tv was even invented. Whenever it came time to read aloud in class, I was always one of the best, clearest students, never needing to sound out words or pause for anything. Nowadays I'd never say I was anything but an introvert, but deep down there’s also been a voice inside of me dying to get out, and at some point I woke up and realized I could be better. I just need less fear and more confidence.

The person you see writing this blog today is the result of finally starting to become aware of what I was doing to myself, and forcibly dragging myself back out in to the world, inch by inch. I don’t think it’s going very well, but at least I’m still making an effort. I fell apart in to many small pieces, and they’re taking a long time to reassemble. I finally graduated high school about five years ago. (I re-read that post a few months ago and started crying.) As you may pick up on from the differences between that post and this one, I’m still learning a lot about myself and what’s wrong with me. The picture is always becoming clearer by the day.

But knowing the problem means you can find the solution, right? That’s what you’re doing, too. It’s a slow process, but I continue the fight to heal the damage I’ve done to myself.

Anyway, sorry for getting so randomly heavy and spilling my guts out like this. I appreciate people looking out for me like this. And who knows, maybe I am on the spectrum after all. Just because I have my own theories doesn't mean they're necessarily right.

#questions #heavy #personal #Anonymous #public therapy

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morkhan · 5 years

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Will Byers is Gay: The Evidence So Far

With the release of Stranger Things 3, there has been a lot of discussion kicked up about the character of Will Byers and his sexuality (or lack thereof). I've seen a lot of takes about what "it's not my fault you don't like girls" was intended to mean, many of which seem to take it in isolation, so I wanted to make a post putting it into what I think is its proper context; not an isolated incident, but the latest carriage in veritable train of queer themed language and imagery that has followed Will Byers since episode one of season one, and before that. You ready? Alright, let's go.

Season Zero: the Montauk Files

Before Stranger Things became Stranger Things, it was called Montauk. Like many would-be show makers, the Duffer Bros put together a "show bible" describing the premise, setting, tone, and characters of the show they intended to make. Like many shows, a lot of these ideas changed or were lost on their way to the screen, but it's always worth looking into their original concepts. Here is their description of Will Byers in the Montauk show bible:

Obviously, the major whammy there is in the first line "sexual identity issues." But there are some other interesting notes, like his "colorful clothes" that you might want to keep a lookout for on your next rewatch. Now, onto...

Season 1

The thing to pay attention to regarding Will in season 1 is in the language used to refer to him when he is not present (which he isn't for most of the season).

Episode 1: the subject of bullying comes up right away in the conversation between Joyce and Hopper. "The kids, they're mean. They laugh at him, laugh at his clothes, call him names." "What's wrong with his clothes?" "I don't know!" This harkens back to the Montauk show bible, but it's arguable, since it's never made clear what about his clothes draws ire.

She also mentions that he is "sensitive," "not like most," and that his dad said he was "queer" and called him a "fag." Hopper asks "is he?" to which she replies "He's missing is what he is!"

Episode 3: Troy says he's not missing, he's dead. "Probably killed by some other queer."

Episode 4: Troy, again "Will's in fairyland, flying around with all the other little fairies, all happy and gay."

Sensitive, queer, fag, fairy, and gay are all used to describe Will in season 1, but perhaps more notable is the fact that they aren't used to describe anyone else. If the show were truly period accurate, let's be real; the whole party would've been called queers on a pretty regular basis, because "queer" doubled as a generic insult back then. But in season 1, these words are only ever used in relation to Will, with one exception; in episode 6, Steve says to Will's brother, "I used to think you were queer." So it's not even an active accusation in that moment; it's used in the negative.

Hell, Troy walked up to Lucas mockingly proposing to Mike and proclaiming his love for him, and he still didn't call them queers. That language is reserved for Will.

Now granted, most of these are used as insults by characters who don't like Will, but still; as a writer, if you want your audience to remember something, repetition is an excellent way to embed it in their minds. There's a reason for the specificity of language surrounding Will, and a reason that language keeps coming up over and over and over again.

Season 2

Season 2 retires much of the homophobic language used to insult Will, replacing it with "Zombie Boy." The only homophobic language used in season 2 is the word "faggot," used by Billy's father to refer to Billy, who expresses a clear interest in women (and an arguable interest in one particular man, but that's the subject of another post).

Still, there is an arguable bit of queer theming in Will's conversation with Jonathan regarding the benefits of being a "freak" and how normal people never accomplish anything. Jonathan even invokes bisexual icon David Bowie to make Will feel better about his "freakishness."

The clearest piece of queer theming for Will in season 2 comes in episode 8, in this beautiful speech from Joyce to Possessed Will:

"When you turned eight, I gave you that huge box of crayons, do you remember that? It was 120 colors. And all your friends got you Star Wars toys, but all you wanted to do was draw with all your new colors. And you drew this big spaceship, but it wasn't from a movie. It was YOUR spaceship; a RAINBOW Ship, that's what you called it. And you, you must have used every color in the box. I took that with me to Melvald's, and I put it up. I told everyone who came in, 'My son drew this.' And you were so embarrassed, but I was so proud. I was so, so proud."

This is one of the most powerful memories of her son that Joyce has, an image so strong and distinct that she uses it to invoke his true identity against the monster that is slowly subsuming him. She notes very specifically that it's not something he copied, but something that came entirely from Will himself, an image that she felt represented him so perfectly that she took it with her to work and proudly touted it as his to everyone she knew. The Rainbow Ship is Joyce's picture of her son's very heart, and surely I don't need to explain to you how powerful a piece of queer imagery the rainbow is.

Some subtextual stuff; in episode 9, when the girl asks Will to dance, he stammers "I... I don't..." and only goes to dance with her when Mike literally pushes him towards her.

During the final montage, the scene cuts to different characters in time with appropriate lines from the song: "every move you make" cuts to Mike and El (as he is teaching her to dance), "every vow you break" cuts to Nancy dancing with Dustin (as she technically cheated on Steve with Jonathan), "I'll be watching you" cuts to Lucas dancing with Max (as she has playfully called him 'stalker' all season). What line cuts to Will? "Every smile you fake," specifically on the word fake, while Will dances with a girl wearing this expression:

That is not a real smile, that is not a comfortable boy, and that is not an accident; Noah Schnapp is one of the best actors in the entire show, and of the young boys, he is the one the Duffers trust most to do dramatic heavy lifting.

Do you want it to be a little more explicit? Okay, here is that scene in the script:

I mean, that pretty much speaks for itself. It's less explicit in the actual show, but it's still there, you know?

Season 3

And now, the biggest and most explicit thing to date; The Scene. I mean, you could discuss the obvious subtext in the simple fact that Will is the only male main character who has yet to find a girlfriend or express any interest in girls whatsoever, but that pales in comparison to The Scene.

The setup for The Scene is pretty simple; after declaring "a day free of girls" in order to get his friends to run the D&D campaign he's probably spent a significant amount of time creating, his friends have blown him off to continue bemoaning their girl troubles, so Will has decided to leave. Mike, realizing too late that he has genuinely upset his friend, chases after him to try and get him to come back.

A back-and-forth argument ensues, where Will accuses Mike of ruining the party and abandoning his friends in favor of girls, and Mike, in the heat of the moment, responds with "It's not my fault you don't like girls!" After which, everything stops. There is a full second of silence, and a close up on Noah Schnapp's face so you can take in his reaction.

There is a lot to unpack here. Now, acting is up to interpretation to a degree, but to me, that expression conveys two primary emotions; shock, and betrayal. That face says "how could you?" Because here's the thing; regardless of what Mike does or doesn't know about Will's sexuality, Mike knows for a fact that Will has been called a queer all his life by everyone from his school bullies to his own fucking dirtbag father. By invoking even the specter of that, Mike has crossed a fucking line, and he knows it. And we know he knows it, because he immediately backtracks and tries to mitigate the damage. But it's too late. The damage has been done.

I also think there is a tinge of fear in that image. Just a moment of soul raking panic that pretty much every closeted queer person knows intimately. It's very brief. But I think it's there, if you look.

This scene sends Will into an emotional tailspin that culminates in him tearing down the literal last bastion of his childhood in a fit of sorrow and rage. His innocence has been destroyed. He cannot regain what he has lost, and he can never go back to the way things were before. This is the emotional climax of his arc for season three. It's a powerful one-- shame it comes in the third of eight episodes, but that's neither here nor there.

And that's pretty much it for now. Any one of these things taken in isolation could be very easily dismissed, but here's the thing; they aren't isolated incidents. They are part of a clear and consistent pattern, one that goes all the way back to the show's inception, before even one minute of footage was filmed. And this pattern points to one very obvious conclusion; the Duffer Brothers have always intended, and continue to intend, for Will Byers to be gay.

Now, for the obvious question; why haven't they made it explicit yet?

The answer is as unfortunate as it is obvious; I don't know.

It's entirely possible that there is some external force that the Duffers have to answer to that is preventing them from actively pursuing this particular storyline. This happens all the time in Hollywood, and it could be anything from Netflix to Noah Schnapp's parents to Noah Schnapp himself just being uncomfortable with it. Many are the creators who dream Big Gay Dreams only to run into the horrors of our Forced Hetero Reality. If the Duffers ultimately submit to these pressures, I hope you won't be too hard on them. This shit is harder than you think to get to the screen sometimes.

But it's also possible that they just aren't ready for it yet. That they have been saving this for a future storyline, that they just want their characters (and the actors) to get a little older before they pursue this particular storyline explicitly, but they've been busily laying groundwork for it so that anyone paying attention will know it's coming.

I don't know. Only time will tell for sure.

For now, I can tell you this; I see a great deal of evidence that the Duffers still intend for Will to be gay, and precisely zero that they have changed their minds.

I hope that holds true.

#stranger things #will byers #mike wheeler #lucas sinclair #dustin henderson #stranger things spoilers

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beca-mitchell · 5 years

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dj, turn the radio up (1/1)

Entry for @bechloe-week Day 2: Coworkers.

Summary: PP1 AU. Beca never joins the Bellas. Chloe and Luke are good friends, which leads to Chloe occasionally working at the radio station. Shenanigans of the FWB kind ensue.

Rated M/E because of sexual encounters. Huge shout outs: @zentamaus, @chloes-yellow-cup, @the-orange-orange, @cotebdepablo, @shadowsinwinter, @snowbritt, and @myhatsbeonbackwards (and a few others) who read over my work and assured me it wasn’t completely crazy while also catching as many blips and errors as they could. 💕

Word count: 11,572

Read on AO3 or below.

It’s not that Chloe’s annoying. In fact, she’s quite the opposite. She’s probably the most caring person Beca has ever encountered in her life. She’s attentive and intelligent about things that Beca can barely bring herself to care about. Things like ensuring everybody’s tea is an appropriate temperature. Or that everybody is appropriately bundled for a chillier mid-winter evening.

And somehow, Chloe manages to do it all without coming off as a mother figure – or in Aubrey’s case, a dictator, from what Beca can tell. Chloe is friends with everybody. Beca thinks that she can’t go anywhere with Chloe on campus because people are always stopping her to say hello or worse – to flirt with her.

Beca’s not jealous, not at all.

It’s just kind of an inconvenience, especially when Beca suddenly has to push through no less than two broad-shouldered seniors who are just dying to hang out with Chloe.

“I’m going to class,” Beca tosses over her shoulder, not caring to see if Chloe responds.

-----

How they become friends is kind of an accident.

Friends is probably a strange way of putting it.

-----

Beca has been vying for the coveted evening supervisor position for the school radio station and she thinks she’s busted her ass enough to deserve it over the course of the semester.

So it’s kind of a surprise to her when Luke greets her one evening with a very happy Chloe Beale standing by his side.

Beca vaguely recognizes her as the girl who interrupted her shower and tried to make her sing an impromptu duet.

And further tried to make her join an acapella group.

Beca dodged a bullet there, but she must have really pissed off somebody in the past because Chloe is standing in front of her, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“Chloe’s going to be taking over for me tonight.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Beca says angrily.

Chloe looks startled at Beca’s sudden burst of anger, but collects herself quickly enough. Luke looks unphased. Beca almost wishes Jesse were there to look appropriately scared.

“Chloe’s a good friend of mine,” Luke says lightly. “She–”

“I’m sure she is,” Beca mumbles. She’s mostly grumpy that Luke obviously still doesn’t trust her enough to let her oversee the radio station by herself. Granted, it has only been a few weeks. She doesn’t care that Chloe is ridiculously pretty or that her eyes are somehow the clearest possible shade of blue. It is just incredibly annoying that Luke refuses to let her take the reins, even just for a little bit–

“I know you,” Chloe says, interrupting Beca’s inner tirade. She clearly decided to weather the storm of Beca’s personality. “We sang in the shower together.” Chloe’s brow furrows then. “You didn’t show up for auditions.”

Luke splutters incoherently. Beca’s blush rises up to her cheeks and possibly her forehead. Chloe grins.

Bitch, Beca thinks, without any real bite.

-----

Maybe in another life, she would have been given the opportunity to get to know Chloe the old-fashioned way. Beca’s favorite way: where her walls are sky high and people struggle to climb over them.

Maybe in another life, Chloe would have been her friend first. A leader of sorts, maybe.

Maybe.

Beca’s just counting her lucky stars that she didn’t join that acapella group. That would have been as lame as she originally suspected.

Lame, mostly because what woman bursts into another woman’s shower only to ask about her singing?

The memory of Chloe’s voice still rings through her mind.

“How high does your belt go?” Chloe had asked, too focused and too serious for Beca to think of this situation as anything other than a literal recruitment attempt. Beca had stifled the disappointment, then subsequently the confusion that followed.

Mostly though, Beca had barely remembered to respond because she was too busy trying to focus on not letting her eyes wander inappropriately, though the time for inappropriateness had long passed. “My what ? Oh my God.”

So maybe in another life, she and Chloe would have come together in more ways than one.

-----

Okay, Chloe’s attractive. Like almost unfairly so. She’s all unrestrained smiles, blue eyes, and gentle waves of the prettiest shade of red Beca has seen in her life.

Beca has eyes and enough of a grip on her own sexual preferences to acknowledge that she’d probably flirt hard with Chloe (maybe awkwardly) if Chloe weren’t so damn happy all the time. Or so into acapella.

She’s not against sleeping with Chloe, she thinks. That alone is enough to startle her out of her reverie and she quickly stacks the remaining CDs before Chloe can catch her staring at her from behind the shelf. That would be–

Too late.

Beca narrows her eyes at Chloe who is smirking at her from behind the glass of the booth, oversized, worn-out headphones on her head.

She shouldn’t look that good, considering she’s hellbent on ruining Beca’s life.

She makes sure Chloe can see her eye roll.

-----

Chloe Beale is most annoying whenever she brushes past Beca to grab a CD off the stack or shelf, clearly intent on messing up Beca’s hard work.

It has nothing to do with the way Chloe’s breath ghosts hot and sure against her ear. Or the way Chloe’s breasts feel pressed against her arm or back, even for the briefest of moments.

It’s incredibly annoying. Frustrating, maybe.

(And to be fair, Beca plays dirty when she needs to. She knows what she’s doing when she’s bending over in full view of the booth. She knows what she’s doing when she takes off her plaid shirt and ties it around her waist, leaving her shoulders bare and her neckline more visible.

Her father would be devastated to know that student funds are going into this decrepit radio station so Beca can shamelessly rile up her supervisor.

Oh. Is that what she’s doing?)

-----

“Beca, come here.”

“Freshmen aren’t allowed in the booth,” Beca parrots back at Chloe, crossing her arms. Chloe leans against the doorway, an eyebrow raising in a somewhat challenging manner. Still, Chloe somehow manages to make it look pleasant.

As Beca nears, she wills her heart to stop beating so quickly and finds herself wondering if Chloe is doing the same. If Chloe is struggling with her own internal turmoil.

It’s subtle, but Beca catches the way Chloe’s gaze drifts to her chest.

Checkmate.

She only barely resists smugly pushing up her breasts higher by tightening her arms, but she figures Chloe actually does have something she needs to talk about and she’s not about to risk getting into Chloe’s good graces if it means Chloe will eventually talk to Luke for her.

Beca can be rational. Beca can be focused enough on her career.

Her ‘career’, she repeats in her mind, her father’s disdain in his voice filling the empty spaces where her own voice fails.

“Beca, ” Chloe says, voice sharp with something akin to warning.

Beca obeys, walking into the booth.

“I get the feeling that you’re…” Chloe twists in her chair, facing Beca. “Annoyed or upset about something.” She fixes Beca with a sincere, concerned expression, which is surprising enough that tension flows out of Beca in response. “And that something might be me, So I just wanted to...apologize,” she continues, in the same genuine tone. “I wanted to also apologize if I made you uncomfortable back when...you know. Shower.” She gestures vaguely and openly.

Beca swallows hard.

Chloe makes her anything but uncomfortable.

(Okay, maybe a little uncomfortable, but it’s Pleasant.)

Chloe stands from her perch, with enviable poise. “Friends?” she asks, extending a hand, though that’s hardly necessary with how little space there is between them.

Surrounded by stacks of CDs and cassettes, Chloe seems to glow.

A strange, sad thought flits through Beca’s mind: you don’t belong, she thinks. Chloe could never belong here - alongside the dust and the outdated music. Chloe is the kind of person who shines beyond reason. This much, Beca knows. She knows it to be true, as true as her instinct allows her to believe.

So, Beca opens her mouth and for once, honesty slips out. “We can’t be friends,” she says, noting the sudden spike in temperature. Was the booth always abnormally warm? Beca wonders.

Chloe raises an eyebrow, the motion slicing right through her thoughts. “Why not?” she inquires with a hint of confusion and a dash of sadness, like the thought of Beca not being her friend will plague her for the rest of her days.

Because I’m insanely attracted to you and I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that day.

She kisses her instead.

-----

“Fuck, fuck, shit–” Beca scrambles to find her footing because Chloe is suddenly lifting her onto a tiny desk in the corner of the booth. Beca’s hands spread out on the hard wooden surface, knocking pens and papers to the ground as Chloe’s tongue pushes into her mouth.

“Language,” Chloe murmurs, leaning back an inch or so. The way her eyes just about gleam in Beca’s direction is almost enough to send Beca over the edge.

“Shut up,” Beca retorts, but she doesn't mean it and Chloe knows. She pulls Chloe in for a harsh kiss that almost immediately softens the moment their lips touch.

Chloe is all about soft curves and gentle caresses, despite the very obvious strength she has over Beca. Beca is a mess of hard edges and roughly drawn lines. She barely has time to process it all, but she’ll start with the way her breast fits neatly into Chloe’s hand, her nipple hard and insistent against Chloe’s palm.

Or maybe she’ll start with how eager Chloe is to feel Beca’s hand beneath her dress and how easily Chloe’s thighs part for her.

There are too many beginnings and not enough rope for Beca to fully immerse herself in each one, so settles on how well they fit.

But, the fact is, they fit.

-----

That’s the first night.

Well, the first night they kiss and touch and do other things–

It’s probably about a week into Chloe supervising Beca, and all things considered, Beca thinks that it’s probably surprising that they don’t jump each other sooner than that.

Chloe gets a call soon after their heavy-handed make-out and they basically spend the rest of the night clearing their throats from opposite ends of the booth.

Beca tries not to think about how Chloe’s lip gloss tasted like mangoes. And how her tongue tasted like peach.

So she thinks instead of how damp Chloe’s underwear had been – like she too had been waiting for this for a long time.

-----

“What the hell?” Luke asks, seeing a mess of pens and papers on the floor that they had forgotten to clean up.

“Oh, you know how Chloe is,” Beca responds after a moment. She shrugs and turns around so he can’t see the blush spread across her cheeks.

“Unbelievable.”

“I know, right.”

-----

Beca’s not sure when she’ll see Chloe again when Luke returns from his mini-break.

She’s almost relieved, but realizes that she’ll miss her. How unfortunate.

She catches glimpses of red hair on campus sometimes, but she never quite makes out the face properly. She doesn’t know that much about Chloe in all honesty. Just based on snippets of various conversations at the radio station, she knows that Chloe is the youngest of four siblings, that Chloe is majoring in Philosophy but wishes she had studied Literature instead, that Chloe ties her hair back into a ponytail when she’s stressed, that Chloe hums when she thinks nobody’s listening, that Chloe’s smiles are all different somehow–

Shut up, Beca tells herself.

It’s not that she’s looking for Chloe Beale, Beca just hates unfinished business.

She doesn’t have to wait long however, because Chloe is grinning at her from across the room at a house party Luke invited her to and God, Beca’s drawn in immediately. She had hoped Chloe would be there, hoped against hope, but something tells her to bottle that sentiment up and keep it close to her chest.

“Hey you,” Chloe greets happily. Beca notes that she’s alone. “Didn’t expect you to be the fraternity party type.”

“Same could be said about you,” Beca shoots back. She takes in Chloe’s surprisingly appropriate attire that isn’t a cheerfully bright shirt or a sundress. It is instead an appealing combination, most pleasing to Beca: black jeans and a snug, well-fitting tank top. “Don’t you have some acapella performances to arrange?” she asks, pulling her eyes up from Chloe’s chest. “Or whatever it is you do,” she amends quickly when Chloe’s eyebrow rises. “I don’t care.”

Chloe clicks her tongue and pours two cups of beer from the keg nearby. She peers at Beca. “How old are you?” she asks, ignoring Beca’s mild snark.

Beca shakes her head. “Nineteen, but I don’t like drinking anyway.” She says this oddly – at least to her – like she feels the words don’t quite fit. She’s nervous, somehow. Does Chloe think she’s young ? Does Chloe think she’s too inexperienced? Questions drift in and out of Beca’s mind while she watches Chloe’s expression with rapt attention.

Chloe looks oddly pleased to hear that and not at all judgmental, though Beca can’t imagine Chloe judging her for anything. Or anybody for that matter. It’s refreshing. “Good to know,” Chloe states, shoving the cups of beer away to a passing boy. “I don’t need to drink either. Want to dance then, Bec?”

“Not really,” Beca says. Chloe bats her eyes. “Okay, fine.”

Chloe pulls her close and for a second Beca thinks she’s about to kiss her. Instead, Chloe is pulling her, pulling her, pulling her until they’re in a space that Beca assumes used to be a living room. There’s a broken, but still brightly lit disco ball above their heads. The music is loud and reverberates through the floors. People are faceless and numerous. Beca can’t imagine looking at anybody else, not at this moment when the light catches on Chloe’s face at random intervals.

Chloe is serious about dancing apparently. She pulls Beca close by the belt loops on her jeans, stepping into her orbit again.

Beca never really got the appeal of dancing on makeshift dancefloors. Of being in such close proximity to various drunken bodies.

It makes her shudder at the thought. Recoil in disgust.

Usually.

Now, however, Chloe’s breath is hot against her face - so similar to how Chloe had felt brushing up against her at the radio station.

“How’s it feel?” Chloe asks, leaning in so her lips graze Beca’s ear. “Dancing with your boss.” She hisses on the last word, like it’s a private little inside joke.

Beca shivers. Chloe’s hips are tantalizing and graceful and rhythmic all at once. Beca finds herself enraptured by the beat of the music and the sway of Chloe’s body against hers. She imagines, for a split second, Chloe teaching her how to dance. She imagines that Chloe would be a good teacher, attentive and responsible.

She strikes that thought immediately because she can’t imagine Chloe being her teacher.

“Could be better,” she finally manages to say, quiet enough that she’s surprised Chloe catches it over all the noise. "Since you're not my boss."

Chloe’s raised eyebrow - that damnable eyebrow - spurs Beca into action.

She presses one hand against the small of Chloe’s back, bringing her closer than before. The slow movement of Chloe’s hips shifts so it matches Beca’s. Chloe’s legs brush her own and almost immediately, Chloe’s thigh slips between her own, solid and firm unlike anything Beca has felt before. She suddenly craves that skin-on-skin contact. She wants to feel exactly what Chloe’s thigh feels between her own thighs. Exactly how soft Chloe’s skin must be.

She tries not to let it show that Chloe is affecting her - that Chloe’s body is eliciting all kinds of responses in her own body.

But she’s sure it’s obvious enough. It's in the way Chloe’s hand comes up to the back of her neck to pull Beca in for a kiss.

-----

Beca gasps out a shuddering breath against Chloe’s neck, unable to help herself from coming alongside Chloe’s orgasm. Her fingers twitch and flex inside Chloe, snug and warm. She hesitates in pulling them out, determined to make Chloe feel every last movement until she tells Beca she’s had enough.

“God,” Chloe murmurs, lazily sliding a hand into Beca’s hair. She tugs and Beca moans immediately, lifting her head obediently to meet Chloe’s lips in an equally lazy kiss. Chloe’s thigh presses up against the seam of Beca’s jeans and she’s once again reminded by how wet she is. How wet her jeans must be – damp at least – considering her underwear is completely ruined. “I knew it would be like this with you.”

Beca doesn’t know what to say to that, but finally has the sense of mind to remove her fingers from Chloe.

She has the strongest desire to taste Chloe, so with her eyes fixated on Chloe’s half-lidded gaze, she lifts herself up on her elbow, just so she can hover above Chloe. Then, she brings her fingers to her mouth and does just that. She swirls her tongue repeatedly around wet fingers, cognizant of how hard her heart pounds in her chest.

Chloe’s gaze flashes with renewed desire. She sits up and pulls Beca close and astride her lap completely. Beca barely has time to remove her fingers from her mouth to grip tight to Chloe’s shoulders or to tangle her fingers in Chloe’s hair. The messy waves feel thicker somehow, easier to hold on to. The strong grip Chloe has on her back, paired with the sure hand creeping up her thigh. Heat spreads beneath her jeans. Chloe is quick in how fast her hand navigates beyond the waistband of Beca’s now-uncomfortable jeans, but her wrist twists and flexes and suddenly she’s so close to where Beca aches for her.

Beca moans - not caring how desperate she sounds anymore - into the kiss and her hips jolt forward of their own volition.

A sharp rap on the door startles them out of their moment ( their moment, Beca thinks gleefully), just as Chloe’s fingers are mere inches away from Beca’s aching clit. Her hips rock forward again, even more impatient and more eager than before, trying to speed Chloe along.

“Impatient,” Chloe rasps, voice low and strained. She doesn’t sound like she thinks that’s a problem at all. Beca grasps her jaw and tilts her head up for searing kiss, aiming to distract her. It works for a few moments and Chloe’s hand is almost there–

“Hey, who’s in there! This is my room.”

Chloe curses under her breath – Beca, loudly – and just like that, her hand is gone. Beca almost whines at the loss.

Suddenly, Chloe is helping her re-button her jeans and readjusting her own clothes and they’re slamming the door open. They lift their eyes to meet a surprised-looking frat boy with boring wind-swept hair and an equally boring polo.

“Were you guys…” He grins, though without much malice or leering. He mostly just looks amused. “In my room?”

Chloe rolls her eyes, pulling Beca behind her as they beeline their way out of the house. “None of your business, Brandon,” she calls over her shoulder.

(Because of course Chloe is on a first name basis with everybody at school. Friends with frat boys and acapella girls alike. Everywhere all at once. Perhaps it was inevitable that Beca got swept up in her orbit, helpless like the rest of them.)

Whether he makes a noise of derision or not like Beca expects him to, she finds that she doesn’t really care and the fleeting thought of what they just did in a random bedroom dissipates.

They can’t get out of there quick enough. After a brief stop in the bathroom to rinse her hands, her face, and to let Chloe’s lips trail up and down her neck lazily, Beca thinks she feels a million pair of eyes on her in the house. Almost like they can tell she’d just spent the past little while getting Chloe Beale off in a nondescript frat boy bedroom. She’s not upset about the fact, not at all. Just amazed that this is the turn her life took when she decided to acquiesce to her father’s request that she attend school for at least a year.

Chloe’s fingers twitch in hers and suddenly Beca is no longer present. The memory of Chloe coming apart beneath her fingers. Chloe’s hair sprawled in many directions across plain navy blue sheets, in every direction like the way Beca’s heart suddenly bled with unexpected desire and passion.

“Wait,” she calls, as they round the side of the house, the sounds of the party finally dying. Her fingers flex in Chloe’s hand.

“Are you okay?” Chloe asks, pausing. She isn’t ready for an armful of Beca - of the way Beca all but throws herself at her, lips and hands exploring desperately and suddenly. She moans, long and low, into Beca’s mouth, sure hands coming up to grip Beca’s hips.

How long they kiss like that, in the shadows next to a house party, is a mystery to Beca. She focuses on how soft Chloe’s lips are - how soft they had been when she had been buried in Chloe’s pussy, two fingers deep.

Chloe’s whispered “more” echoes in her head. Her underwear dampens more at the memory.

She’s drunk on Chloe, she’s sure. She’ll never be curious about alcohol again, not when Chloe satisfies her so wholly and fully in a comparable intoxicating manner.

“Your place,” Beca breathes. ��P-Please.” She hates the stutter in her voice.

Chloe lifts her head from Beca’s neck, eyes dark beneath mild eyeliner and full lashes. “Yeah?” she asks, like she needs Beca to be certain.

Beca is half tempted to shove Chloe’s hand between her legs to just feel how certain Beca is.

“Yeah,” she chokes out instead. Chloe’s chest heaves against her own. “Yeah, please, Chloe.” Beca feels desperate enough - so close to combusting again - that she pulls Chloe in for a hard, fast kiss. Their teeth nearly clash, but Chloe props herself up against the side of the house - one hand on hard brick, the other tangled in Beca’s hair.

-----

Chloe’s apartment is cozy. Beca almost feels calm.

Almost.

Almost, because Chloe, at some point, decided that it was her mission to give Beca reasons to have consistent heart attacks. She exhales hard against Beca’s skin, all warm breath and barely-there touches. “Careful, don’t wake Aubrey,” Chloe mumbles, lips pressed tight against the curve of Beca’s jaw. She then lets her keys clatter against the bowl and Beca jumps, pressing herself tighter and closer against Chloe’s body on instinct. Chloe snickers. “Kidding, she’s away for the weekend. You’d like her,” she comments, like she’s not about to fuck Beca well into the night.

At least, Beca hopes that’s what is about to happen or she’s going to need to take a shower immediately.

By some great stroke of fortune that Beca does not at all anticipate or eagerly hope for, Chloe reads her mind. She tugs Beca towards the bathroom. It is small and cozy like the rest of the apartment, warm highlights and comfortable bath mats. If Beca is going to venture a guess, she’s going to assume that Aubrey – assuming that was the other young woman Chloe was with that day at the activities fair ( Why are these memories so vivid? ) – did not have a say in the decor.

Beca doesn’t have time to dwell because Chloe drops her hold on her wrist and works on shedding her jeans, then her underwear. Beca blinks, trying to let her brain catch up with her. “Are we taking a bath?” she blurts, a little slow from sudden fatigue, though perhaps more accurately stated, slow from the sight of new skin suddenly visible to her.

Chloe pulls her tank top over her head before responding. “I’m going to take a shower because I need to get that house off me.” She wrinkles her nose. “But you can feel free to use the shower after me.” She steps into the shower. “Or…” Chloe’s tone implies that Beca has some catching up to do.

Beca doesn’t need to be told twice.

When she steps in under the warm spray, she blinks up at Chloe taking in the sight of water dripping off her forehead and nose.

Chloe’s hands come up, surprisingly soft and intimate, to stroke her cheeks and her jaw, like she’s committing some part of Beca to memory. “Okay?” she asks, finally speaking after a long moment of staring at Beca with undisguised desire.

It sends the most pleasant thrill up Beca’s spine. Mine, she thinks abruptly and without warning.

Beca nods, swallowing back the heat that rises and threatens to escape in the form of something horribly cheesy, but words erupt before she can help herself. “This is familiar,” Beca comments, unable to help one last bite of snark before Chloe completely overwhelms her senses. She prides herself on waiting at least two seconds before her eyes drift below Chloe’s collarbones. “Are we going to sing now?”

“Are you ever not annoying?” Chloe asks. She presses Beca right up against the wall of the shower and kisses her hard and suddenly Beca can’t remember anything else.

Chloe’s tongue is deft and sure, pushing into her mouth to explore.

-----

They’re doing everything out of order, Beca thinks.

She was never one for order anyway.

There is no order, not when Chloe’s hands drift up her thighs, her lips following the same path. Not when Beca can only crumble against her touch, like the ruins of a fortress long gone.

-----

Texting enters the rotation of things they do together.

Wish you were here, Chloe texts from out of town.

She knows Chloe is at some acapella competition. Beca shudders. Lol where? Beca texts back.

here, Chloe replies. And Beca can almost hear her voice - the smooth timbre of it. Especially paired by the very vivid photos Chloe sends her.

-----

Luke’s rule is simple enough: no sex on the desks. He slaps a desk cheerfully sometimes whenever Beca is sitting, minding her own business (often trying not to think about what Chloe looked like the previous night, errant strands of hair plastered against her sweaty forehead. Sweaty perhaps because of the utmost concentration on her face, lips pulled between white, even teeth. Sweaty, most likely because of how hard her hips grind into Beca, their centers meeting repeatedly and deliciously and over and over again until Beca comes apart–). She fixes him with a reproachful expression and ignores Jesse’s delighted laugh.

None of that matters though.

It turns out that Chloe is the very reason for that rule from a time before Beca.

She smirks at Beca when Beca asks her about it. It is unfortunately the first question out of Beca’s mouth when she sees Chloe push through the glass door, before she is confused by Chloe’s presence.

“Are you jealous?” Chloe asks nonchalantly, dropping her bag next to Beca’s. Chloe is somehow at the radio station even though Luke is there and Beca is there and nobody told Beca that Chloe would be coming.

“No,” Beca replies immediately, frowning for good measure. “Gross.”

Chloe laughs.

Beca realizes she doesn’t want to know, not at all. Her stomach rolls unpleasantly.

“Get to work,” Chloe tosses over her shoulder, climbing up into the booth to greet Luke.

-----

Chloe’s radio style is all fun anecdotes and cheesy lines. Chloe speaks to everyone at once, inclusive and vibrant. It’s not that Beca wants to like them at all because Chloe’s anecdotes completely go against everything she thinks this station should be –

(“Beca, it’s just like five kids out there listening to this, and they’re all probably high.”

“So?” Beca grumbles back. “They deserve quality content.”

“Oh?” Chloe chirps with interest. “They do, do they? So you don’t think the story about how I got my scar is quality content? You were laughing about it last night.”

She tries not to completely melt at the affection in Chloe’s eyes.)

– it’s just that Chloe is annoyingly adorable sometimes and Beca hates that she wants to keep listening to Chloe’s voice whenever she can. Almost in a greedy, selfish way. She wants to hear Chloe’s voice directed at her more often than not.

-----

Sometimes Chloe sits on Beca’s tiny school-sanctioned bed and recites Russian Literature aloud while Beca fiddles with her latest mixes. Beca pretends not to care, until she realizes that she had been listening to dead air through her headphones for the past fifteen minutes, if the timer on her computer is anything to go by, just to listen to the sound of Chloe’s voice.

She glances at Chloe out of the corner of her eye, comfortable in her oversized sweater and gray leggings. Without looking, she knows Chloe is donning a pair of Beca’s cabin socks and for some reason that makes Beca shift in her seat uncomfortably and clear her throat.

Chloe’s reading doesn’t falter, but Beca finds herself wishing that Chloe would focus on her for just a moment.

-----

Car sex is somehow both terrible and fulfilling.

Beca feels various limbs nearing dangerous cramping territory, but she can’t bring herself to care at the moment. She can’t. Not when Chloe’s tongue is unforgiving between her legs, pushing through wet folds and pulling almost-foreign sounds from Beca’s chest.

“Say my name,” Chloe rasps suddenly, breath hot and heavy against Beca’s bare center. Her eyes glitter up at Beca from between her thighs. The sight alone is too much and Beca nearly concusses herself with how hard her head rocks back against the car door.

“No,” Beca grits out, simply because she can.

Chloe’s fingers are suddenly on her clit and she’s tugging at Beca’s hip with her other hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Beca,” she whispers, now hovering over her. Chloe’s hair is curlier than before. Before, as in earlier in the evening when she had smiled at Beca from across the table in a charming old diner. Undeniably messier. Her lips are parted and glistening. Her tongue comes out to trace her lower lip, to catch some moisture and shine.

Beca thinks she looks beautiful, but somehow her eyes bely any trace of happiness.

She looks sad. Anxious.

Beca’s throat tightens in a way that has nothing to do with the way Chloe’s fingers slip down to her entrance, gently probing. Chloe leans into her, her hips pushing against her hand so her fingers slide into Beca with ease.

Beca gasps, words dying on the tip of her tongue. So many words, so many phrases. Chloe swallows them all in a deep kiss.

Chloe takes the opportunity to kiss her – a sweet, open-mouthed kiss, unlike any other kiss they’ve shared thus far – and Beca feels everything.

Heat.

Passion.

Desire.

Possession.

They rocket through her in quick succession or sometimes stacked atop each other. They send heat through her body – a thick coil – like how the first taste of herself from Chloe’s mouth feels. They settle somewhere in her chest, where the ruined fortress rests, a white flag waves and Beca grasps at it – grasps at Chloe’s back, really – in desperation.

She comes hard, devastatingly so, with Chloe’s name on her lips like a blessing and a curse all at once.

Chloe pants into her neck, fingers never quite stilling. Instead, her fingers coax Beca higher again, over the edge of a smaller cliff. It’s all Beca can do, really: she follows obligingly, chasing that explosive moment once more, just once more, Beca thinks–

“More,” she whispers. She imagines the stars beyond the roof of Chloe’s car and when she shuts her eyes once more, gripping hard at the back of Chloe’s head, Chloe’s fingers twist just right and Beca thinks of galaxies to call their own.

“Beca,” Chloe murmurs, thick against her neck like she might be crying. The moment disappears, however, because Chloe is kissing her again, murmuring thanks against her lips. There are no tears on Chloe’s face and she suddenly looks the same like she did when she let Beca lead her into the backseat of her car after a half-hearted attempt at stargazing. Bright-eyed and almost falsely curious, like she wants to know what new things Beca can show her. False, because Chloe knows all her tricks by now.

(But all the things they don’t know yet about each other – that’s what keeps Beca up at night sometimes.)

“Chloe,” Beca begins, blinking back the haze so she can focus on Chloe’s distress. “Chloe, what –” She accepts her jeans and underwear from Chloe’s outstretched hand. “Hey, no–” she stops, placing a hand on Chloe’s arm. “What’s going on with you?”

“It’s nothing,” Chloe says quickly. “Really nothing.”

“You’ve been off all night,” Beca points out.

“What do you call what I just did?” Chloe cuts back, nearly uncharacteristic bite in her tone.

Beca rolls her eyes. Snark and sarcasm and closed-off responses: she knows them like the back of her hand, so she ignores Chloe’s brief moment of lashing out and pats herself on the back for not feeling the immediate urge to close off and stop. “You can talk to me, I promise.” She swallows. “We’re...friends.”

Chloe’s shoulders pull up in a tense gesture, then and she pauses in rebuttoning her shirt. “We are?” she asks quietly. Timidly.

Beca bites her tongue because her first instinct is to correct Chloe and herself: no, they’re just coworkers who occasionally fuck in the back of dark cars in quiet areas of the local park.

But she knows they’re not just coworkers, well beyond that. She knows too much about Chloe. Every intimate detail and every funny story. They compete uncomfortably for dominance in Beca’s mind and her heart.

“We are,” Beca says softly, because she knows this to be true. “Just friends,” Beca continues because the urge to say that is too strong. She is unsure as to how to navigate this unfamiliar territory because Chloe’s display of emotions are new and unknown. It feels safe to clarify this, to draw boundaries since they eviscerated their previous boundary of mere coworkers.

Still the ache in her chest doesn’t quite ebb, even as she fully catches her breath and the lust and desire dwindle to nothing. She sits in the front again, next to Chloe who drives quietly. If Beca had to hazard a guess, she thinks Chloe is being pensive in fear of her own embarrassment, which is another thing Beca has learned about Chloe. Chloe is not somebody who is easily embarrassed. Many things roll off her back and she never seems to shy away from uncomfortable conversations.

But this is something new.

Beca could say many things.

You’re scaring me. Please talk to me.

You scare me in general, actually.

I’m here, I promise.

I want to listen to you.

But they’re just that: things she could say and words she has never said to somebody in any intimate way. She bottles these words up and keeps them almost selfishly in an attempt to protect her own heart.

Car sex might have left Beca with an uncomfortable lingering strain in her shoulder, but the car ride home is a little worse.

-----

Somehow things change and then they don’t.

They don’t talk about that strange night in the darkness of Chloe’s car and it hovers over Beca’s head with a whole host of other problems, like getting her mixes on the school’s airwaves and passing her classes. Her first semester was a surprise to both herself and her father, so she feels a renewed determination to finish off strong enough so she can go to L.A. in peace.

She and Chloe still sleep together regularly enough. Chloe still occasionally shows up at the radio station like she owns the place and chats with both Jesse and Luke amicably. Beca is suspicious that Chloe is gossiping about her, particularly when she sees Jesse and Chloe conspiring together between the stacks, but she figures that it’s probably mainly Jesse trying to pry her for information about Beca. Whenever they see Beca approaching, however, they brush off their conversation and lift their bent heads. Jesse busies himself with a heavy stack of records that he pretends he can carry without straining his back.

“What are you two weirdos up to?” Beca asks, trying to keep the demand out of her voice. Chloe simply smiles and shakes her head, then, she later teases Beca about Jesse’s ever-lingering crush on her.

“Jealous?” Beca asks, irritated mostly by the impossible passage she’s reading. Theory and never-ending sentences float through her mind. Even with all of that, her question still remains with a tinge of hopefulness because it wouldn’t be terrible if Chloe were a little jealous of a woefully incomparable competitor. The thought is a little savage and a little abrupt, but Beca lets it pass with a hint of comfort.

“No,” Chloe responds easily.

Right, because Chloe has no reason to be jealous of Jesse of all people.

Beca returns to her laptop and Chloe returns to her book.

-----

Sometimes they go on dates, though neither of them is willing to call it a date. Beca kind of wants Chloe to do it first – to ask her on an actual date – but she wonders if Chloe expects it of her.

Sometimes when Chloe introduces her to her friends on campus, she uses the word “friend” and it haunts Beca at night. She doesn’t necessarily disagree with the label, but she itches to figure out what they could be. It’s the oddest kind of of hunger, one that she hasn’t necessarily had before.

It’s not that Beca has never hooked up with somebody before in her life, but when she looks at Chloe, it’s hard to see her as just another faceless entity.

So Beca watches men and women alike flirt with Chloe like no tomorrow from the sidelines and waits for Chloe to return to her side. Back into their bubble.

Her favorite moments are when Chloe stares at her from across the table in a diner; when Chloe stares at her from across a candlelit dinner at a surprisingly upscale restaurant (and sometimes she’ll let Beca pay her half or pay the whole bill good-naturedly); when Chloe wrestles her mini-golf club from her in an attempt to stop Beca’s weirdly good putting skills; when Chloe sometimes just gazes at her for no reason.

(Or too many reasons.)

So there are a few changes, sometimes. Beca is still figuring them all out. She’s still figuring herself out.

-----

Something that never changes – hasn’t changed – over time is how often Chloe tries to convince her to attend Bellas meetings or rehearsals. Or that time Chloe tried to get her to attend a Riff-Off, whatever the hell that was. Beca had immediately declined, citing illness.

“You have to come at least once,” Chloe begs now.

“But why ?” Beca whines. “I think it’s kind of lame, you know this.” She doesn’t mean it in a bad way. It just...it is kind of lame. Beca had been mildly interested at the activities fair but only because Chloe had been so earnest and open and passionate. Looking back, Beca had thought at the time that it was only because Chloe and Aubrey were both attractive and innocent-looking enough that stopping by their booth would have been just a blip in Beca’s day. Nothing more than a moment.

But she sees now what moments spiral into and how they consume and consume until Beca gives in to the unforgiving nature of the laws of attraction.

It had been so much more then. She knows this now.

“Yes I know, but I promise you won’t think it’s that lame.” Chloe heaves a breath, tapping her fingers dramatically against Beca’s arm. “ And you get to see me in a sports bra.”

Beca makes a choked noise of discontent. “That’s not interesting to me.”

“It is a little interesting,” Chloe assures her, like she needs to convince Beca that seeing her in less clothing is a hard and arduous task. “Come on. We’ll consider it like a little field trip. I swear to God, you’ve never been outside the four walls of that radio station on this campus.”

“That is not true,” Beca corrects immediately. She drops her book so she can shift Chloe’s legs off her lap. Chloe’s protests die in her mouth because Beca is all but crawling up her body, settling on straddling her hips. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“This, uh, apartment isn’t technically on campus,” Chloe murmurs, distracted by the sliver of skin that shows beneath Beca’s shirt when she raises her hands to pull her hair behind her shoulders.

“I’ve been to my dorm,” Beca continues, ignoring Chloe’s statement. She leans forward over Chloe, so she is hovering over her face. She grins down at Chloe when she feels Chloe’s hand sliding up the backs of her thighs lightly at first, then firmly when she reaches Beca’s ass.

She leans down to kiss Chloe, enjoying the always-appealing ripple of pleasure and heat stemming from her chest and spreading to the rest of her body. She rests her hands on the armrest behind Chloe’s head, slowly lowering the rest of her body to spread out across Chloe’s, careful to distribute her weight evenly.

Slowly, Chloe’s hands move along her back, mapping new and old paths. She holds Beca to her and like that, they kiss gently and languidly. Chloe lifts a hand from Beca’s back to hold the back of Beca’s head to slowly increase the pressure and intensity of their kisses. Beca will never tire of the ways Chloe continues to show her intimacy and physical affection. Even the gentle drag of Chloe’s fingers through her hair, paired with the slow brush of Chloe’s tongue against her lower lip, has devastating effects on Beca’s peace of mind.

Beca doesn’t expect this kiss to go anywhere really and it’s that thought that she fixates on. It thrills her and makes her fingers curl into the fabric of the couch. The fact that Chloe would enjoy these moments of pure intimacy without sexuality makes something almost completely foreign settle in Beca’s body. She files it away for the future.

“I have something to tell you,” Chloe murmurs, when Beca finally draws back to take in deep breaths of air. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. It isn’t a big deal, I promise.”

Beca doesn’t trust herself to speak without her voice cracking at the moment, so she nods. She hates the fear that rises up in her.

“I...I’m going to get my nodes taken out in a few weeks and I’m a little scared of what it’ll mean for me and singing.”

“Nodes,” Beca repeats. “Are those–?” she lifts a hand to Chloe’s throat and runs a finger across soft skin gently. She looks at Chloe questioningly.

“Yeah, and I…” Chloe sighs and gestures for Beca to sit up. “I want to be able to sing and I want to be able to compete, but they’re getting bad and they hurt a lot sometimes.”

“When did you hear from your doctor?”

“I guess a few weeks ago. Maybe a month and a bit. I didn’t know what to do about it.”

“Does it hurt now?” Beca asks a little anxiously. She stares at Chloe’s neck, like she expects to see some kind of bulge or noticeable deformity.

“No, not really. Only when I sing a lot.”

“Then why do it?” Beca asks urgently. “Why do it if it hurts?”

“Because I love to sing,” Chloe says, looking at Beca so suddenly and deeply that Beca cannot bring herself to look away.

She swallows. “I know you do.”

“And I want you to be able to hear me do it before...I can’t do it anymore.”

Beca opens her mouth to tell Chloe how dramatic that sounds – that of course Chloe will still be able to sing – but she takes in the genuine apprehension on Chloe’s face and the sincerity of her tone. She processes all of that and feels herself relating to Chloe on deeper levels than before. She knows too well what these feelings are: they are too late and last chance and regret – so much regret – all rolled up in anxiety and sometimes indescribable sadness.

She wants to share in it with somebody, but it is difficult to know the repercussions of opening herself up to that kind of vulnerability.

But, sitting here, near Chloe, next to Chloe, she feels like she could do it. She feels like she could try.

“Okay,” Beca finally says. “I’ll come.”

-----

Beca vaguely recognizes some of the girls who make up the Bellas. She thinks Fat Amy (though her name is listed as Patricia in Beca’s email list) was who she met at the Activities Fair. A few others, she recognizes from orientation and her dorm.

Then her eyes zero in on Chloe, standing in the middle of the room with her blonde friend – Aubrey? – by her side. Aubrey unfortunately spots her first.

“This is a closed rehearsal,” Aubrey says immediately.

“No it’s not,” Chloe argues. “There isn’t a rule about that. Besides, I invited her.”

“Hello,” Beca says, waving awkwardly. She lets Chloe pull her towards the group. “I...told Chloe I’d come by and watch you guys.”

“Beca’s a really good musician! You should hear the kinds of remixes and melodies she comes up with. She can help us, maybe. Like a consult.”

Aubrey looks increasingly pale even as the other women all murmur with interest at Chloe’s words.

“Okay, she can stay,” Aubrey says when it’s clear that Beca has the support of the room. “We can talk later. I just wish you discussed this with me, Chloe.”

Chloe’s face falls a little. The sight makes Beca clench her fist and Aubrey’s tone really grates on her nerves. “Hey,” she starts. Both Aubrey and Chloe quickly glance at her. Chloe’s gaze is sharp and she shakes her head discreetly, while Aubrey eyes her challengingly. “Nevermind.”

The rehearsal ends up being surprisingly fun and lighthearted, despite the initial tension. Beca wonders why they’re singing songs that are twice as old as them, but she holds her tongue. Instead, she watches Chloe correct a few dance steps for a few of the members (she knew Chloe would be a good teacher) and listens to the smooth sound of Chloe’s voice. It washes over her during her solo, but listening carefully, Beca can hear the strain. Knowing about Chloe’s nodes, it makes Beca wince.

But Chloe’s voice is beautiful.

-----

Arguments come naturally enough. Beca’s personality, while not necessarily volatile, leans towards the side of bottling emotions until they burst from her like an overly-shaken bottle of soda. And not even the good kind. Probably a discount brand Dr. Pepper.

Chloe, on the other hand, is the most expressive person Beca has ever met, sometimes without even speaking. Her eyes shine like two luminous windows into Chloe’s exact emotions at any given time. It is absolutely terrifying.

Another thing about Chloe is that she pries. She pries at Beca’s boarded-up windows and tries to peer in. Beca half-heartedly bats her away and dodges other attempts, but it gets to a point when Beca realizes that she pretty much considers Chloe her best friend. It happens somewhere in between Kimmy Jin happily saying hello to Chloe as she lets her into their shared dorm room and Chloe holding out a hand to read Beca’s recently finished essay.

She watches Chloe’s eyes flit across the page as she reads carefully, nodding along.

“My dad called me again today,” Beca blurts just as Chloe flips a page.

Chloe looks at her with interest. “Oh? What did he want?”

“I let it go to voicemail. He probably just wants to make sure I haven’t joined a cult or done something else to give him a bad name.”

“I’ve always wanted to take a class with Professor Mitchell,” Chloe says lightly.

Beca flicks Chloe’s hand. “Hey.”

“What? He’s a good professor!”

“So?” Beca feels petulant.

Chloe sighs. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but honestly it sounds like your father is trying. And you have to admit that this ‘little college experiment’ as you would say hasn’t been a complete waste.”

Beca bristles. “Not you too.”

“What?” Chloe asks, a hint of exasperation slipping into her tone.

“Just...trying to get me to stay.”

“I’m not trying to get you to do anything, Beca,” Chloe says patiently. A little patronizingly. “You’re an adult.”

“But–”

“L.A. will still be there,” Chloe says quietly. “And you’re so talented. I mean it, Beca. You’re going to make it there. But honestly, I can tell you enjoy school. And you’ve enjoyed Barden.”

It’s difficult to admit how right Chloe is. She is right, though. Beca can’t bring herself to admit it because it means having to deal with the truth of it all.

The truth about how Beca feels herself changing and shifting into a new person. The growing pains of realizing what it means to be self-sufficient. Independent. Responsible.

In love.

“I don’t...I don’t enjoy Barden,” Beca finally says, lying through her teeth. “Stop saying that.” Stop saying things that make me think about how in love with you I am.

Chloe stares at her. “Look, I’m just saying–”

“Stop!”

Her outburst startles them both.

Embarrassed, Beca tugs the paper from Chloe’s grasp – gently enough as to not give Chloe a sudden papercut – and turns back to her computer. “I think you should go,” she says softly.

“Beca,” Chloe starts, then thinks better of it. She stands from Beca’s bed and leaves quietly.

The door clicks shut, echoing in the silence of Beca’s room.

-----

“Do you work here now?” Beca overhears Jesse asking somebody. “It’s cool to see another acapella friend.”

“An aca-friend,” Chloe’s voice replies, too cheerfully for Beca’s taste, especially considering she just created a portmanteau of acapella and friend. Beca almost shudders, but she finds herself slinking past the rows of records to step into the clearing between stacks. “And yes, just a part-time thing because Luke has been looking for some extra help managing you two while he figures out the rest of his life.”

“Beca has been wanting to get into that booth,” Jesse says helpfully. Beca feels affection rise in her. He was listening.

“I know,” Chloe replies. “I–” Her eyes flick up at that moment from where she’s thumbing through a folder. “Oh, look who it is.”

“Hi,” Jesse greets immediately. “You look like shit,” he says helpfully. Chloe cuts him a glance with an unreadable expression.

“You’re back,” Beca says to Chloe.

“Yeah, it was just a weeklong thing for school.”

“No,” Beca says haltingly, gesturing at Chloe. “You’re back here.”

She feels tired and frustrated. Her conversations with her father have been going nowhere. She and Chloe haven’t really talked over the past two weeks, which gives rise to feelings of anxiety and nervousness.

-----

“Hey,” Chloe greets cautiously. “Are you-?”

“I’m fine,” Beca says quickly. “Sorry, I’ll just.” She begins packing up her things. “I’ll just go. My shift ended a while ago.”

“You know, you don’t need to keep pushing me away,” Chloe says as gently as she can. “I won’t pry or anything, but I’m here for you. I care about you, Beca.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Beca argues weakly.

Chloe’s hand drifts up to her shoulder, where she rests it. It feels heavy to Beca. “I know you and I want to continue knowing you. Getting to know you.”

Beca shifts. “I don’t know.”

“Bec.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Chloe murmurs an apology and looks so contrite that Beca immediately feels bad. She can’t continue hurting Chloe like this, not when Chloe hasn’t done anything wrong.

“I can’t keep doing this with you,” Beca says before she can stop herself. Now, she finds she cannot stop. It spills out of her like venom. “I can’t keep this up. It’s – it’s too confusing and too stressful. Going out and holding your hand. Sleeping together.” Beca blinks back tears of insecurity. “You...we haven’t even really talked in like two weeks.” Not that she had been counting.

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“I just need some space. And no, I can’t break up with a friend,” Beca corrects a little snidely. “You’re not my girlfriend.”

Chloe doesn’t gasp or cry or anything quite as dramatic. Instead, she just looks the saddest Beca has ever seen her.

That speaks more volumes than if Chloe had lost her temper. Beca's tired of people leaving (but she is even more tired of pushing people away).

-----

The silver lining comes soon enough: Luke raps sharply on the booth window and points at Beca when she turns. Come here, he mouths.

“Me?” Beca asks.

Luke merely stares at her with a tired expression. She flushes and immediately drops the album she had been holding and quickly makes her way into the booth.

He grins at her. “That was quick. I knew you had it in you.”

“Did you call me in here to make fun of me?”

“No, I called you in here to let you know that I have to go out of town for the weekend and you’re getting the Friday night shift.”

“I already work Friday nights,” Beca says, slow on the uptake.

“No, you work out there on Friday nights. This Friday night, I want you in here. Lining up songs. Your own, even.”

“You what ?” Beca blinks and shakes her head. “That – that’s amazing!” She exclaims, unable to hide the glee in her voice. “Seriously?” she asks quickly, just to be sure. “Like this is serious, right? You’re not fucking with me?”

“Yeah. You’ve been responsible and on-time for work. And I’ve seen you fiddling with your laptop from time to time. I’ve listened to your mixes. You’re ready.”

You’re ready.

Beca cannot express how not ready she feels, but she’s going to take the plunge. If only she felt ready in other aspects of her life.

It’s less of a silver lining and more of the barest hint of sunshine peeking through the ever-lingering storm clouds.

-----

The shifts get better and better. Beca tries to ignore the rolling in her stomach when she thinks about how sad and disappointed Chloe had looked.

It’s easy to ignore it when she can focus on being alone in the booth. Just her and music. Her previous radio shows were a success and her mixes were received well. For the first time, Beca feels the strangest wells of happiness and success fill her chest, though she tries not to think about how there are gaps now. Gaps being that she so desperately wants to share these thoughts with Chloe.

It ends up coming out to Luke of all people in a fit of emotional outpouring. Beca stares hard at her clenched fists and admits to Luke that while she did not Have Sex on the Desks, she and Chloe were definitely a thing and they had been for most of their time ‘working’ together in the radio station. Mostly, it’s just an attempt to glean how Chloe is doing from the one person that Beca knows well-enough as a mutual friend between them both.

Luke is surprisingly attentive and lets out a low whistle at the end of her story. “First, holy shit.”

“Shut up.”

“Didn’t peg you as Chloe’s type.”

“I’m not going to ask why you would even think about any of this, even abstractly.”

“This explains why Chloe hasn’t been around recently.”

“Yes, that’s what I just said.”

“You two had a good dynamic from what I saw. I mean, I now know that it was more than just good rapport, but Chloe deserves to be happy.” He squints at her. “Why are you two having issues?”

“I just. It’s too much,” Beca gestures vaguely. “I don’t let people in like that, I just don’t. I literally chose to work here because it has two people. Three, I guess. I like the quiet, I like my space, and I like not having to worry about whether people are going to get up and leave. And besides, we were just...friends anyway,” Beca finishes lamely. She hopes against hope that Luke didn’t catch the way her voice wavered.

Luke stares at her for a long moment.

Beca glances at him, nervous under his scrutiny. “Like, why didn’t she just ask me to be her girlfriend, then? Why dance around this? I’m not...good with this stuff. I don’t do relationships. She probably thinks I’m so fucking young and just not ready for her. But I am. I was. I think?” Beca frowns. “She just scared me a lot.”

Luke sighs. “Yeah, she can be like that. But she only ever cares too much for her own good. Thanks for telling me though.” He smiles. “You’re an interesting person, aren’t you?”

Before Beca can respond or process any of Luke’s cryptic words disguised as limited wisdom, Luke is leaving the keys on the table and leaving without another word.

-----

She thinks that’s the end of it.

She finally responds to a few texts from Chloe and does her best to not make them as lackluster as she initially wants them to. She berates herself a little for her insecurities and makes a note to herself to keep her chin up at work.

Speaking of work.

Luke looks down at Beca from his perch in the booth.

“No booth today?” Beca tries weakly.

“Beca,” he begins in a tone that she hates immediately.

“I just want to take my mind off things,” Beca interrupts. She doesn’t want to see sympathy or judgement in his face, though at this point, she’s not sure she can differentiate between the two. It’s all the same to her.

“Yeah, about that.”

And there it is. She regrets telling him anything. “Dude, no, I get it. Chloe’s your friend and I should have never-”

“You’re kind of thick, aren’t you?”

Beca is at a loss for words before she realizes exactly what Luke just said. “What?”

“Stupid. It means stupid.”

“I know what thick means,” she fires back.

“Did you know that Chloe hates the radio station?”

That’s not what she expects at all. “She what?”

“She really does. I mean, she used to work here with me on and off in our freshman and sophomore years, but then she pretty much threw herself into the Bellas and I didn’t see much of her after that. She hated the darkness, the smell, and our other coworker.”

“And now?” Beca asks, a little stupidly, she realizes too late. Luke is already rolling his eyes and brushing past her. She turns just in time to catch the keys he flings in her direction.

“Remember, no sex on the desks!”

He’s so fucking funny, Beca thinks.

-----

It’s not quite the greeting her father expects, but Beca thinks there are worse things to say than “I think I’m in love with a girl and it’s seriously messing me up.”

Her father takes it remarkably well. “Oh, do I know her?” he asks, pouring her a cup of tea.

Beca wonders if that’s his attempt at a joke, but he doesn’t seem to be amused or making light of the situation at all. It’s his attempt to let her know that he does want to know about her life and he wants her to open up.

It’s a pattern in Beca’s life, it seems. Like she’s constantly missing these opportunities to connect – or reconnect – with people every so often.

She knows she’s difficult and she knows she’s hard around the edges, but Chloe makes her want to be better. Her entire experience at Barden this past year has made her want to be better.

Not that her father needs to know, but as she watches him and observes the lines around his eyes and mouth, she sees so much pain and regret. It manifested in her own vulnerability and insecurity, especially around the time her parents split up. She had been so sure that it had been easy for her father to leave – to pack his bags and leave.

She sees now that it probably wasn’t easy. It didn’t excuse his actions – still doesn’t – that much Beca knows with one hundred percent certainty, but time really wears on people, especially those living with regrets. Chloe had always subtly tried to encourage her to talk to her father, or to at least agree to his attempts to meet up for coffee. Beca had brushed both of them off until eventually her father stopped asking and she had been pleased at the time. But she saw the same kind of familiar sadness in Chloe’s eyes whenever she contemplated Beca, like she knew Beca was lonely.

Like she knew Beca was sad.

Beca sighs, reaching out to stop her father from adding sugar.

“I’ve missed you, you know.”

He smiles, causing the crinkles around his eyes to turn up. “So tell me about this girl.”

-----

“Hey, you know good restaurants around here, right?” Beca asks, the moment Jesse picks up his phone. Her father’s advice had been surprisingly simple and sound: apologize and talk to Chloe. So that’s what she’s trying to do, but she’s going to do it with some nice take-out and a custom-created mix.

Something clatters in the background. “Beca, what ? Happy spring break to you too.”

“Around the school,” Beca continues a little impatiently. “Restaurants around the school.”

Jesse sighs. “Is this about Chloe?” he asks.

“Why would it be about Chloe?” is Beca’s defensive response. Jesse is silent. “Yes, this is about Chloe.”

“Are you going to take her out on a date ?” he asks, too happy for Beca’s liking. “Finally?” he continues. Beca can see his playful expression. She doesn’t hate it necessarily.

“I just want to do something nice for her,” she says.

Jesse laughs. “This is exactly the conversation I had with Chloe.”

“What? When?” This is news to Beca. She sits heavily, suddenly, already piecing things together despite Jesse’s loud guffaw right into her phone. “Shut up,” she insists. “When?”

“Oh man, it was right out of a movie. She always wanted to talk to me about the kinds of things she thought you would enjoy. And she used to ask me about my favorite places to hang on dates. I mean, I didn’t understand it at first, but I kind of saw you two making out when you both thought I had gone to get Luke a burger.”

Beca inhales indignantly. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“About your fraternizing with your coworker?” Jesse asks. Beca can hear the delight in his voice. “I mean, I always thought it’d be me, but the moment Chloe started working here, I knew I was finished.”

She can’t tell if he’s actually serious, but she’s suddenly laughing. Laughing like a purge of emotion because it makes complete sense. Chloe had been planning dates. So many dates and so many nights out. Never really just a casual, on-the-whim moment.

Chloe had always been laying down the foundation for them, always just waiting for Beca to catch up.

And now, to find Chloe.

-----

Aubrey looks at Beca like she thinks Beca is a particularly interesting piece of dust. She peers down at Beca and appears to delight in their (very slight) height difference.

“Chloe’s not here,” she says, her nose wrinkling. Beca privately thinks that she might be envisioning the last time she caught Beca and Chloe going at it on their living room couch. “You’re...Beca, right? Chloe talked about you a lot.” She narrows her eyes suspiciously, then, like perhaps Chloe hadn’t been talking about Beca a lot recently.

Beca tries to smile, but manages a grimace. “I...okay. I can wait until she gets back,” she offers.

“She’s not coming back.”

Beca’s eyes widen. “What?” she squeaks out, fear causing her tone to rise.

Aubrey’s eyes widen too. “No, no, I’m so sorry, I just meant that she won’t be back for a while.”

“Oh, I thought she was staying here for spring break,” Beca murmurs. “She said she was,” she says, pulling out her phone to see her last brief message exchange with Chloe a few days ago.

“She didn’t tell you?” Aubrey asks, her entire stance softening. She looks at the take-out in Beca’s hands and then looks at Beca’s face, as if determining her true intentions.

For once, Beca doesn’t feel afraid. She lets Aubrey assess her and stare straight at her. She hopes Aubrey can see her honesty and sincerity and, if she dares, affection and care for Chloe Beale.

Aubrey seems to like what she sees, at least enough to inform Beca that Chloe is in the hospital, recovering from her nodes operation.

For some reason (many reasons), that makes Beca cry.

-----

Beca makes a soft sound upon seeing Chloe sound asleep in the pristine hospital bed. As uncomfortable as the bed itself looks, Chloe looks peaceful - content even.

Somehow making the worst things a little brighter, Beca muses. She gently places the roses down on the window ledge before moving closer to Chloe. As she nears, she becomes more aware of all the various instruments about: the complicated machinery, the wires, tubing both unused and used, the metal – so much metal – lining various aspects of the room. All together, it’s not a pretty sight, but Chloe is safe. Chloe is alive. The surgery was a success. Beca can breathe again.

The sheets rustle and Beca's eyes dart back to Chloe who is staring back at her. Chloe blinks slowly, like the last dredges of sleep are slowly fading away.

“Hi,” Beca says weakly. “Hi. Oh God, you’re awake. Okay, uh–” Chloe points at the rolling table Beca had pushed aside and Beca belatedly notices the whiteboard and marker. “Oh, okay. Sorry, I’ll just…” She quickly snatches it up and presses them into Chloe’s hands. Chloe fixes her with an amused expression. “I’m just nervous,” Beca explains.

Chloe is writing furiously on her whiteboard.

“I’m going to start with an apology because I’m probably the last person you want to see right now.”

Chloe glances up briefly to roll her eyes, shaking her head. You’re not, she mouths.

But she still writes.

“Uh, okay. I’ll make this quick, so you can...um, drink water or something. I just want you to know that I’m so fucking sorry about everything. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen the way it did, starting right from the beginning. When you started working at the station and then everything that happened right after.

“Honesty, the way you make me feel is probably just a combination of the happiest I’ve ever been and terrified. More terrified than I’ve ever been in my life. I’ve never had any real kind of close relationships and I never thought I’d be able to feel close to anybody, not when I spent so much time trying to figure out how to leave.

“But something occurred to me,” Beca continues, trying to will her voice from cracking. “And I’m not, like, talking about while we were sleeping together or anything. Though, that was nice.” Chloe flashes her teeth at her in what Beca assumes is a silent laugh. “I realized that I don’t want to leave. Not for the next year at least. And I don’t know what that means for us or anything, but I want you to know that I like you more than a friend and I have for a while. I was just too afraid of my own damn feelings.”

Chloe coughs a little, some sound escaping her and causing her to wince. She smiles at Beca gratefully when she immediately hands her a glass of water from the side table, then picks her board back up again.

“What are you writing?” Beca asks nervously. “You’ve been writing a lot.”

Chloe looks a little teary-eyed, but she slowly flips the board over.

The inscription is surrounded by dozens of hearts of varying sizes, finally underscored by a postscript.

Beca Mitchell, will you be my girlfriend (again)? Choose one. YES / NO p.s. you’re so cute when you’re nervous. And of course I forgive you, you dummy.

There is so much more Beca wants to say – so many more apologies and explanations. And she’s sure Chloe has more she wants to say as well.

So she leans in instead and moves closer for a quick kiss. At the last minute, she thinks better of the idea because she’s unsure if Chloe’s allowed to engage in kissing so soon after her surgery. She kisses Chloe’s cheek instead, letting her lips linger for as long as she dares. Chloe shivers a little when Beca pulls back and Beca is surprised to note that her eyes are wet.

“What?” Beca asks, nervous again.

Chloe taps the board impatiently.

“Oh. Duh, yes.” She quickly grabs the marker and circles the yes. Chloe grins at her, pulling her in for a kiss to Beca’s cheek of her own.

The touch is tender and gentle, a far cry from their very first kiss.

Beca has never felt anything better.

fin.

#bechloe #bechloe week #mine #my fanfic #beca mitchell #chloe beale #pitch perfect #text #pp #movies #fanfiction #bechloe week 2019

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blogs-of-our-lives · 6 years

Text

I, Frankenstein is a Trash Movie

I’ve been putting off writing this for some time now. I watched Episode 98 immediately after watching 97, and you can tell it was getting a little hazy by the end. I can vaguely remember the beginning of the episode, and that’s when my memory was at its clearest. So I may take some creative liberties and make my own plot as I go.

Welcome to Carter’s nightmare carnival funhouse version of Days of our Lives.

This show makes me sad. I write way way way slower than they produce episodes. As I write this review for Episode 98, they’ve already released episode 205. Granted, I have no intentions of following it every day (episode 200 has a thumbnail of Ciara passed out on the floor as an obviously fake fire consumes her house, so I’m abso-fucking-lutely reviewing that one next), but the blistering pace that this show takes is disheartening. It just goes to show that life moves fast. You blink, and kids your age are getting married. In the previous NFL draft, the Buffalo Bills selected linebacker Tremaine Edmunds in the first round, at the age of 19. He’s younger than I am. That’s ridiculous. I’m getting old, fast.

The episode opens with John at the hospital. He looks flustered, glancing around desperately. For those who haven’t read about the previous episode, the last we saw John, he had just entered the Dimera mausoleum with Will. As the door shuts, we hear a gunshot. Shortly behind him is Paul (wearing a black leather jacket, everybody in this show is wearing a black leather jacket, it’s like the soap opera version of Sons of Anarchy).

“What have you done?” Paul asks, staring in horror at the floor.

John steps in behind him, holding a comically small gun. “The same thing I’m going to do to you,” he says. It cuts to the outside of the mausoleum, where we hear another gunshot.

I didn’t mention this last episode, but imagine if that was the last thing you heard. It was clearly not a sincere question. Paul knew what happened. Ugh. I hate that line so much. Imagine your first memories. Imagine kindergarten, first grade, all the way up to middle school and high school. Every moment of your life, every love and every regret, every moment of anger or sadness, has been leading up to an old guy in a black leather jacket with a tiny gun saying “The same thing I’m going to do to you” and then shooting you.

Anyway, we’re caught up. John is distressed, and at this point it’s kind of unclear what he’s trying to do. I can’t remember if John is trying to finish off Steve (John is a spy tasked with killing Steve, the eyepatch guy), trying to tell his wife (Will’s grandma, and just so you guys all know, there’s no coming back from murdering someone’s grandson. No amount of foot rubs and boxes of chocolate shaped like hearts can help you come back from murdering your wife’s grandson) that he’s a spy, or maybe he just had a moment of clarity and realized that Days of our Lives can only rent like three sets at one time and he truly had nowhere else to go.

I’ll just tell you all the truth. Will and Paul are alive. They both make an appearance on the thumbnail of episode 191, and unless it’s from a flashback (more on that later), they survived. Just as a good rule of thumb, if this show wants you to think somebody is dead, they’re probably alive.

Fun fact, when someone on the show says “They’re in a better place” when talking about a dead character, they’re telling the truth.

Oh god, I just realized that it doesn’t even matter. They’ve blurred the lines between life and death so much (Will returning from the dead with amnesia, the Salem Stalker victims returning to life, John dying in a car accident and somehow appearing in this episode) that there truly is no reason to believe anyone is dead. It doesn’t matter if an actual licensed doctor comes on screen and pronounces the character dead. You could probably bring back your favorite character just by emailing the producer. The email is [REDACTED BY EDITOR – You absolutely may not use my personal email address], by the way. Email that at least twice a day every day, and soon you’ll get your character back.

The scene cuts to a man and a woman standing next to each other in front of the Dimera mausoleum. The mausoleum has “DIMERA” etched into the marble, just in case the viewer has forgotten that scene from less than 24 hours earlier. It could have easily been confused with any of the thousands of mausoleums that appear in our day to day television. These two people (the woman is a former lover of Andre Dimera, the most recent Dimera to pass away – which apparently is common enough that it merits the need for a mausoleum – and the man is of absolutely no consequence and isn’t worth the number of words I’ve invested in him already) take up most of the episode, pondering Andre’s life in front of his tomb, before they will presumably enter and discover Paul and Will’s “bodies” (I have no idea what they will find there), but are also painfully boring. I’ve said before that a single Days of Our Lives episode contains very little content. Usually it has about a conversation’s worth of information. For example, the description of episode 189 is “Kate makes a huge confession to Chad.” Presumably they also talk about the confession, right? Usually not. Usually the episode breaks down in the following way: Kate sees Chad and says hello, cut to other characters, cut to commercials, Kate says she has a confession, cut to other characters, cut to commercials, Kate says the confession, cut straight to commercials, Chad looks upset, the episode ends.

This is a very long-winded way of me telling you that it takes the full 60 minutes of Days of our Lives for the two people to enter the goddamn tomb.

It’s about time I talk about the flashbacks. I don’t remember what each individual flashback contained, but there were two or three in this episode. And holy crap, they were genius. Not the content of the flashbacks, but the idea of them. Because they literally reused old Days of our Lives footage. Imagine if I could copy and paste bits of previous Blogs of our Lives episodes, label them as a flashback, and call it a day. Oh man, I am jealous of the writers. Until I remember they’re stuck in the Fields of Asphodel that is being a writer for Days of Our Lives.

Naturally, the flashbacks have slightly lower quality than the episode itself. We live in an age of progress, and in a few years, even the most recent movies will look dated. But this is just absurd. It looks like someone went frame by frame and printed out the entirety of the flashback, photocopied them, photocopied them again, and put them back in. Also the audio sucks. I don’t have anything poetic to say about it. It just sounds like the voice actors did their recordings via walkie-talkies.

Remember Gabi, the chic murderer? Well now she’s talking with a police officer in the station. He’s trying to get help her out, clearly a friend of hers. “You’re going to be home to see your daughter soon,” he said.

“That’s not likely,” a woman says, strutting into the room. She’s got a satisfied, smug smirk. “I’m pressing charges.” Ah, she must be the DA. I think? Is that how law works? The DA can just press charges? Does that mean that she just as easily could have chosen not to? For murder? I’ll give DOOL a pass because I don’t understand it myself.

And now my notes start making even less sense. The handwriting is larger and sloppier and mostly illegible.

The former lover of Andre Dimera and the man accompanying her continue on their Hamlet-style soliloquy, talking and talking and talking and just standing outside the damn mausoleum. Finally, she opens the door and gasps, before the camera fades to black, ending the episode. Which is the biggest cop out I’ve ever seen, but nothing in this show surprises me anymore. I’m not mad, just disappointed. I’m telling you guys, an hour of Days of our Lives contains about five minutes of something actually happening.

Of course, this isn’t the end of my notes. I will transcribe them below exactly as it is written:

· GUY IS MURDRER

· WOMAN SEES THINGS

· PUNTS SRYNGE IN SLEVE

· FIGHTS OF ANGELS AND ALL THAT

All of these wonderful pieces of insight culminate in a full page entry, in all caps, on the next page. SHE FINDS HIM THERE.

I don’t know. I was going to put more to that sentence, but I realized it answered every question one could possibly have about that list. Why did I forget how to spell? I don’t know. Presumably I was in a rush to get all my ideas down. Where does the syringe (or rather srynge) come in? Who is the woman that sees things? Why are the angels fighting? I don’t know.

My best guess is that John Black stole a syringe to inject Steve with poison, seeing as both were in the hospital. Which opens up the possibility that I meant to write “punts srynge in STEVE.” Somehow I doubt that, however. I assume I meant “flights of angels,” a Shakespeare reference. Who even knows. You guys can probably decipher my notes better than I can.

The other day, I was at Walmart (while procrastinating writing this, and I suppose in a way I’m still procrastinating by writing this side segment), when the $3 movie bin caught my eye. I’m drawn to it every time. I love DVDs (there’s something to be said about physical media rather than digital), I’m a cheap bastard who loves cheap-ass shit, and I love love love love love bad movies. More on that later.

I found a three movie collection of Prom Nights 1-4, starring Jaime Lee Curtis. It seemed to be some kind of an off-brand Carrie. Also, for those of you with keen eyes, it was not a mistake that the 3 movie collection contained 1-4. For whatever reason, the set contained Prom Night, Prom Night 2, and Prom Night 4. Why not Prom Night 3? Won’t I be lost without knowing what happened between Prom Night 2 and Prom Night 4?

I truly, sincerely believe I have good taste in movies. I watch a lot of good movies and can understand what makes them good and why. However, on one fateful day about three years ago, I discovered that it was far easier to enjoy a bad movie with your friends than a good one. I get upset if people talk during a good movie, and don’t care if people talk during a bad movie. We can make fun of bad movies, but not good movies. Most of all, a good movie often invokes a specific mood. It’s hard to match that mood with a group of people. A bad movie also invokes a specific mood, always laughter, which is very easy to match with a group of people.

Which is why I’ve seen Fridays the 13th Parts 1-8, Jason Goes to Hell, Jason X, Freddy vs. Jason, Nightmares on Elm Street 1-3, FACE/OFF, The Room, a lot of Scooby-Doo direct to DVD movies, Scared Shrekless (in my defense that was a gift), The Wickerman (the one with Nicholas Cage, obviously), The Gingerdead Man (starring Gary Busey), Starship Troopers (starring Gary Busey’s son), Antz, Darkman (treat yourself, it’s pretty great), Flushed Away (I enjoyed this one a little too genuinely), Birdemic: Shock and Terror, S. Darko, Jurassic Park III, Vampires Suck (not as much as that movie did), Hellraiser, Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2, Meet the Robinsons, Hannibal Rising (swapping Jodie Foster for Julianne Moore was a poor decision), Alvin and the Chipmunks, Eragon (sweet Jesus Christ, I forgot about Eragon), Annabelle, Annabelle: Creation, The Conjuring (people will try to tell you the Conjuring is a good movie… don’t let them), Ouija, The Boy, and The Visit. Honorable mention goes out to Rubber, which isn’t actually a bad movie, and one other.

I, Frankenstein.

A movie so bad its title needed to be separated so it couldn’t taint any other sentences. The worst movie I’ve ever seen. But I can save that for another post.

You’ll notice that a lot of these movies are horror. I looove horror movies, so I say this with all the love in my heart. It’s a trash genre. I’ve never seen anything like it. For every one good horror movie, there are at least fifty horrible ones. Not fifty bad ones. Fifty horrible ones. I’ll talk about horror as a genre next time, but I’ll leave you with an anecdote. My friends and I wanted to watch a horror movie, so we found a list of the Top 100 Horror Movies of All Time. We didn’t recognize a single movie until #50, and they had the movie Oculus as the 25th best horror movie of all time. That’s ridiculous. The nicest thing I have to say about Oculus was there were a lot of parts of the movie where I didn’t want to get up and leave. There were a lot of mediocre scenes, and I mean that as a compliment. I thought about this for a moment, that Oculus was ranked 25th of all time, and realized that’s about right. There are so so so few good horror movies, and just an absurd amount are terrible. I think it’s due to the fact that all horror movies are vaguely formulaic, relying on tropes for the genre. It makes them really easy to write and produce.

Anyway, thanks for reading, and I’ll have the next Blogs of our Lives out much sooner than I got this one out.

Fuck I, Frankenstein.

#Days of Our Lives #blog #soap opera #movies #funny #hopefully #I'm the internet equivalent of a guy talking to himself on the bus #bad

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alvvayspure-blog · 6 years

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hello & good evening everyone ! my name is monse, and i have been awarded the privilege of writing with you. this is bellatrix ( bella, for short ) and so under the cut you’ll be able to find more details about her. here you can find her pinterest board and her musings blog. // EDIT: i love plotting, and chances are that i’ll be down to write mostly anything. i’d love to flesh out connections, i’m super chill with going witht he flow, i’m happy to write your own plot ideas -- like i said, i’m happy to write a lot of things ! i’ll be contacting you ( probs tomorrow ??? ) but still, if you’d like for us to plot, HIT ME UP ! feel free to send something through the ask box or tumblr dms, or discord ( monse / bella 🕷#7358 )

* △ — the dark lord has targeted [ BELLATRIX BLACK ] ! the muggles say she holds resemblance to [ CRYSTAL REED ]. the [ 29 ] year old [ CIS-FEMALE ] was [ SKILLFUL & PERSEVERANT ] before the war, but have now become [ MALICIOUS & UNBALANCED ]. though they were once a part of [ SLYTHERIN ], they have now taken up the position of a [ METAL CHARMER ]. whispers throughout the ministry claim that the [ PUREBLOOD ] is actually [ A DEATH EATER ], but i wouldn’t report that to the daily prophet.

𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆...

( THE BASICS )

.— name: bellatrix black

.— age: 29 years old

.— wand: 12¾", walnut, with a core of dragon heartstring

.— profession: metal charmer working at some dodgy establishment in magical london. however, it’s a mere mask used to keep suspicions away -- the only ‘position’ she dedicates herself to is that of a death eater, she’s fully committed to the group.

.— amortentia: humidity, copper, old wood

.— height: 1.73

.— gender: cis-gender female

.— sexuality: pansexual demiromantic ( but closeted due to her family’s beliefs )

.— previous house: slytherin.

.— boggart: the two most important male figures in her life ( her father & her master ) being disappointment at her

.— patronus: * is unable to produce one *

( THE AESTHETIC )

.— moonlight seeping in through dark curls ; black velvet ; sharp citrus perfume ; bruised and bloody knuckles ; ‘you’re better than them’ muttered into a young girl’s ear as her mother combs her hair ; laughter echoing down a dimly lit hall; dark shades of lipstick ; wood burning in a fireplace ; smirks that whisper ‘i know something you never will’ ; cold, empty rooms ; self-made haircuts ; thunderstorms ; a hatred for all things sweet ; a beckoning void ; dimly lit alleyways ; taste of copper in the mouth ; mysterious knocks in the middle of the night ; curling your hands into fists to keep the tears from falling ; a sheltered heart ; the chilling glint of a pair of eyes amidst the darkness ; your father’s daughter ; ‘you’re purer than them ’ ; heels hitting the elegant marble floors ; ignoring opinions foreign to your own ; a mother’s disappointed looks ; boxes and boxes of jewels that will rot away with rust ; the smell of the burning tapestry on the wall ; deceitful grins ; ‘i’m better than them’ ; treasuring the sister you’ve got left as though she’d been the only one from the beginning ; feeling as though there were something lurking in the shadows ; a starless charcoal night sky ; inked skin ; power’s taste so fresh and addictive on the tongue ; mocking thoughts and voices clouding one’s mind right before going to bed ; a child infected by her parents ambitious ; bottles and bottles of liquor kept inside the night table drawer ; ringed agile fingers with ; black lace ; dead flowers ; and candles on bedside table ; the smell of incense ; the half-moons engraved on the palms ; eyes that were raised never to cry ; talk back, get slapped ; long dark gowns ; ‘ always pure, always better ’ ; wicked sisterly love ; unparalleled devotion ; blood before family.

( THE HEADCANONS )

.— you were the firstborn, the eldest daughter, the one to set the examples. that didn’t mean your parents’ slaps on the cheek and disappointed gazes hurt any less. you came first, and although many would think it’s the firstlings who experience new parents’ clumsy mistakes, this wasn’t your case - you were modeled after what your parents believed in, shaped to their liking by feeding you their wicked ideology like it was gospel. they vowed to raise you as perfectly as possible, and perfect was pure. “don’t mingle with them, bella. you’re better than them,” your mother said to you over and over, and although young, you were perfectly able to see past the soft, motherly tone and absorb the warning, the so-called ‘truth’ you’d follow later on in your life. your upbringing was stained by opulence and wealth, your family displaying you and your sisters like rosy-cheeked porcelain dolls. your father’s daughter, you became far too much like him. your youth was not yours, but his and your mother’s to mold like clay. you frequented balls and events with your family, gatherings you’d never care for or worry over. this was the only good you knew, the only truth, so you never blamed them for what you turned out to be, for what they turned you into. much too absorbed by the mirk, your distraught urges caught up with you - but you let them. you let your shadow friends embrace you and carry you. the darkness was light to you - so tempting, so satisfying to the touch, so addictive -, and so you’d eventually make your home amidst the fog.

.— ever since you were young, you’ve always shown brilliant skills in whatever it is that caught your attention. your parents enrolled you in violin, harp, and piano lessons. it was a matter of a handful of years before you were playing like the most prodigious of musicians. you mastered italian and french, and calligraphy. you began displaying signs of magic at an early age - flickering lights, shattering vases with a look -, and so your parents could not be prouder at the sight. you’d always been talented, skillful, and determined to excel at whatever you got your hands on, so it was only expected of you to thrive during the time you were to study at hogwarts. you had an enviable knack for charms and transfiguration. admittedly, your parents never doted nor coddled, but you found pride and fulfillment in the envy projected by your fellow classmates’ eyes. your mother’s words were a self-fulfilled prophecy: you were better than them, after all.

.— you couldn’t shrug off that mixture of frustration and confusion when you first managed to boil a successful amortentia potion. your classmates were in awe, describing scents like poppy flowers, cinnamon bread, cardamom – all you smelled was humidity. similar to the scent of moist soil, you couldn’t help but feel perplexed at the scent. it seemed miserable, dull. you managed to pick up other smells - old wood, like the one your family’s piano was made of, and copper – you were annoyed, mostly because you couldn’t comprehend what these scents indicated, and secondly, because you felt as though they lead you nowhere. to this day, the smells haven’t changed, yet you’re still puzzled by it.

.— you’ve been known as one to have a short-temper, but nothing had set you off like the inability to produce a corporeal patronus did. you felt the others’ gazes engraved on you as you tried and tried to achieve it during class, each attempt more frustrating than the previous one. you took in a deep breath each time. your mind always projected an image of your family - so noble, so strong, the only support you knew and had -, of your mother. you saw her singing to you as you practiced the piano, yet the memory soon became bitter, as it was followed by her getting upset at your mistakes and scolding you to no end. you thought of your father, the powerful, intelligent man he was and the massive shadow he cast on your path, yet all you could think of were his words about those less pure than you, words expressed at every gathering, words him and his inner circle constantly shared and nourished you with. you thought of your sisters, of andy and cissy, the three of you playing outside your family home. nothing seemed to be enough, and so after what seemed like an infinite number of attempts, you ended up throwing your wand across the room. many years later you tried, the first two memories resurfacing and soon becoming stained by the torment that followed those moments, yet you landed in the same place. now you couldn’t think of your siblings without feeling disgust for andromeda take over you, her carelessness, stupidity, and stubbornness costing you a sister. the image of her would be forever stained, and so you found yourself out of memories to use to try cast the spell effectively. you treasured your youth, you weren’t raised an unhappy child – were you? you told this to yourself over and over, and for a couple of moments, it eased the sting of pain failure had left you with.

.— a boggart managed to sneak into the garden adjacent to your family’s house one afternoon, while you and your sisters were out enjoying the pleasant weather. it hid behind a nearby bush, catching your attention. you didn’t scream when you saw, you simply froze, too consumed by fear to move or make a sound: you saw your father’s figure, with bloodshot eyes that showed the clearest shades of disappointment and hatred, his head shaking in discontent. “i thought we’d compromised, bella,” he said, approaching you in a way you found menacing and terrifying. “i thought we’d agreed you’d do your part…” and right then, the monster before lounged forwards, making you lose your balance and fall down. the creature seemed confused, changing form in a tornado-like way, and it was until you turned to look at one of your sisters, who had just approached and had managed to throw the boggart off. you shrugged off their worried inquiries and pushed the memory to the recondite of your mind. years later, however, the two of you met again: it’d hidden in an old, dusty closet, and so as you unknowingly went to open the door, the figure stepped outside. it wasn’t your father anymore, however. it was a different silhouette, with different features, the creature no longer taking after the man who’d fathered you. it was no stranger, and this time, you found yourself slipping and crawling away from it in the most pathetic manner. you whimpered like an injured animal as tears welled up in your eyes. “i thought we’d compromised, bella,” it was the same sentence you’d heard as a teenager, that day in the garden with your sisters, but before stood the man you’d developed a fascination toward, the man who’d managed to corrupt you more than your family ever did, the man who’d implanted himself amidst your thoughts and ideas, the man you were completely and utterly devoted to, the man you referred to as your lord. the distorted features showed you nothing but disapproval and discontent, the pale, waxy skin glimmering and planting fear in your heart in a way you’d never experience. you sobbed until a foreign noise sent it storming out of the room, your limbs still shriveling.

.— there must be something in the water, or rather, in the way children of the black and lestrange families are raised, something that plants in them an attraction to the dark. despite having a seemingly-calm exterior throughout your earliest years, you always knew there was darkness inside of you. like a void holding what you desired the most, whispering to catch your attention and draw you in, you grew up with a fascination with matters that were too complex and far too obscure for a girl your age. your family made no effort to cease these thoughts, but rather, they fostered them, encouraging you to believe in exactly the same things as they did: purity and destruction. it was a matter of time before your malice bloomed - you were shoving your playmates aside, finding amusement in their suffering; you’d stare at the hues in the bruises and scratches you gave yourself in fights and duels, much too amazed at the unnerving yet pulchritudinous allure. it was the force and power you exercised over others, the thought of your judgment determining their state and place, that what you’d always lacked and thus that you could not resist upon getting the opportunity to experience. it was the electricity to the pain what kept your heart beat fast and your temples pounding & what caused you to develop a tolerance and fascination for it. you’d find ways to entertain yourself and encourage the growth of this evil within you, and so it was no surprise you joined the death eaters upon leaving hogwarts.

( MISC. )

character inspirations: anakin skywalker ( star wars ), elena de la vega ( zorro ), elizabeth swan ( pirates of the caribbean ), nebula ( guardians of the galaxy ), harley quinn ( dc comics ), o-ren ishii and gogo yubari ( kill bill ), magenta and riff-raff ( the rocky horror picture show ), count olaf ( asoue )

TO BE CONTINUED...

#noc.intro #× — intro !#× — about !#× — inspo !#tw abuse

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the-chubbiest-dumpling · 7 years

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Endings and Beginnings: Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen: Rebirth

Summary: You’re just an ordinary 25-year-old photographer working in a small studio in downtown Toronto. Your life is as normal as it could possibly be, except the fact that you are given an opportunity most people only dream of.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 14 178

Warnings: Swearing, violence, torture

A/N: I’m not 100% satisfied with this chapter, but after this, it’ll be progressing into Civil War. After I change a few things, it should be well on its way.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter NineChapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Eighteen Epilogue

Tags: @shamvictoria11 @blazeshira

Amongst the silence, Bucky’s howling could be heard from a mile away.

He’s kneeling on the ground with Steve’s arms wrapped around him, consoling his best friend in the best way he can. Steve’s never heard Bucky make such a sound before, for anyone. His wailing is enough to pierce your eardrums, he’s so upset. His throat is raw, and he finally allows himself to cry. He’s not a crier, not usually. But when you have one of the greatest things that life has given to you ultimately taken away?

There’s no reason to hold your emotions back.

He lets go of Steve’s arm and plants his palms on the ground, and bores his eyes into the grass. His entire body shakes as he replays what’s happened in the last few minutes.

We got her out. We. Got. Her. Out. I was holding onto her. I was helping her walk. We were almost at the door. We were right there. We could’ve gotten out in time. But the explosion. The blast sent us flying apart from each other. Everyone was okay. Even _______ was okay with a goddamn metal rod plunged into her shoulder. She was alive. She was talking. She wouldn’t tell us to go if she wasn’t able to walk by herself. But I still shouldn’t have listened. I should have gone in there. I should have stayed. She doesn’t deserve to die, not like this. God, not like this.

He starts punching the ground with his metal fist, and watches small patches of grass be forced out by the roots. He keeps beating the same spot, over and over, until there’s a hole in the ground. He clenches his flesh hand around the grass, and pulls at it hardly. He knits his brows together in fury as he painfully stares at the blazing fire. His veins pulse with his aching heart; he refuses to believe that you’re dead. It’s implausible. He feels sick to his stomach just thinking about you not being in his life anymore. He dryly swallows and pushes himself up from the ground. He angrily wipes his tears away and begins walking towards what used to be the warehouse.

But once again, Steve grabs his arm.

“She’s gone, Buck,” Steve tries again, trying to make Bucky accept the truth.

“She’s in there, Steve,” Bucky says. “I’m not gonna leave her alone.”

“Bucky,” Steve pleads, gripping his arm tighter. Bucky stops for a moment before pressing on. “Bucky, stop!”

Steve drops his shield and physically moves in front of Bucky to hold onto his shoulders. He makes Bucky look at him so he knows he’s listening.

“_______’s gone, Buck,” Steve says. “She’s not coming back.”

“Yes she is,” Bucky argues. “I’m going in to get her.”

“No you’re not,” Steve orders. “We’re not going to lose you too.”

“Her life is worth more than mine ever was,” Bucky declares, gazing behind Steve. “And I’m going to see to it that it is.”

Steve drops his arms when he can’t seem to bring Bucky to his senses. Bucky walks around him, still intent on walking into that burning building. Steve scoffs and shakes his head, wondering what the hell is going on in Bucky’s mind.

“You have to accept it, Buck,” Steve tries one last time, turning to face his friend. “_______’s dead. She can’t come back from that.” Bucky’s anger reaches a boiling point and his whips himself around in utter rage.

“And how do you know that?!” he bellows. “How do you know that she’s dead? How do any of you know?! My instincts are telling me that she’s alive in there, Steve! She’s–“

“You’re in denial, Bucky,” Steve informs, slowly raising his hands. “You’re not thinking clearly and–“

“I’m not in denial about anything!” Bucky challenges. “You don’t know shit, Steve! She’s–She’s a pyro… fuckin’ maniac or whatever the hell she’s called! She produces fire, Steve! What makes you think she can’t survive being surrounded by something that she has control of?!”

“Up until thus far, she wasn’t able to generate flames that engulf her entire body,” Steve explains, inching closer. “The most she could do was up her forearms, but no more. Adding to the fact that she was doused with water and extremely weak, I doubt she could have made a spark with her fingers. You saw how she was, Buck–she was barely strong enough to walk on her own. Let alone concentrate long enough to pull herself together. She wasn’t able to do it, Buck.”

“But that can’t be true!” Bucky cries. He tugs at his hair to search his brain for a conceivable reason as to why you are in fact still alive and not suffering alone in the blaze. “She can survive this. Her body–the fire could have recognized what she’s made of and protected her. It could have flown right past her o-or it… it could have avoided her altogether!”

“You’re starting to sound irrational, Buck,” Steve says, finally closing the distance again. He plays a hand on Bucky’s shoulder but he swats it away. That doesn’t deter Steve at all. He just needs Bucky to understand in the clearest way possible.

“I know this is hard for you to accept,” he starts, voice gentle. “But you must. Look at me, Bucky.” Bucky tilts his head up, and stares at Steve from the corner of his eye. “_______ loved you. I knew it, the team knew it, and you knew it too. Better than the rest of us. She would have taken a bullet for you. You meant the whole world to her. And she wouldn’t want you doing something stupid like walking right into those flames to retrieve something that’s already gone. She wouldn’t, Buck. You have to let her go.”

Bucky begins shaking his head and backing away from Steve. He repeats “no” over and over, trying to convince himself that Steve is wrong. He believes that the harder to denies it, the truer it’ll be.

“No. No. No. No. She’s not dead,” he says to himself. “She’s in there. I have to go get her. I can’t just–“

He looks up at Steve again, desperate for him to agree with what he’s saying, but he simply removes his helmet, and gives him a forlorn expression. Bucky runs a hand through his hair and tearfully looks behind him at the burning building.

“B-But she’s–I can’t–it doesn’t mean–She’s–“

Bucky covers his mouth with his hand and lets out a choked sob as reality ultimately sets in for him: you’re gone. And you’re never coming back.

“Why,” he asks aloud, his lips trembling, “why is it when everything is finally getting good for me, when things are going well, that something just steps in and ruins everything all over again?”

Steve doesn’t know what to say anymore. He’s heartbroken to see Bucky so vulnerable and so goddamn broken. Nothing he can say to him will be able to help now. He just lost the best thing of his life; it’s impossible to see the bright side to that.

Alongside Tony, Natasha also feels immense guilt and responsibility for what’s happened. She was there when Marko broke into the Tower and took Maeve. She could have done something to help. But she was powerless, just like Tony. She doesn’t have many moments like that; there’s been very few instances in her life where she stood and watched instead of taking action. She regrets this one the most. Nevertheless, she keeps a poker face and continues to attend to Maeve’s injuries as best she can.

Sam has been incredibly quiet. He compartmentalizes better than most, so he hasn’t cried, nor expressed any other emotions that would befit the situation. He realizes that you’re dead, and that you’re not coming back. But instead of focusing on that, he’s been thinking about all the good times he shared with you. All the teasing, jokes, pranks. He doesn’t want to remember you in your last moments; he doesn’t want to remember the desperation in your voice. Every time he closes his eyes, he wants to see your smile, to hear your laugh, and to remember the good times. You deserve that.

There’s not much to do now, other than clean up the mess. Steve picks up his shield and throws it on his back before walking up to Bucky to bring him back to the jet. Sam follows suit, his head hung low, his head full of memories. Tony, however, decides to do one more scan for any sign of survivors. F.R.I.D.A.Y. picks up on a single heat signature, and alerts Tony.

“Sir, there seems to be an unidentified male individual about fifty meters to the left of the warehouse.”

Without hesitating, Tony flies to the sky to retrieve the man. Steve calls after him, but he knows it won’t stop him. Steve continues to lead the now silent Bucky to the jet to give him some time to himself; but the harsh thump that comes from behind him makes him stop, as well as Sam and Bucky. They look behind them and see a man wearing an ashy lab coat, laying face first in the ground. Tony lands beside him and yanks the man back by his hair.

“Why don’t you go on and tell everyone who you are,” Tony says, his eyes icy. The man perks up into a smile, and Tony smacks him across the face.

“Tell them who you are!” Tony yells.

Chuckling, the man smiles again at the three of them before giving everyone an honest answer.

“Marko Snyders,” he says. “Pleased to meet your aq–“

Tony smacks him in the face again before letting him go to stand in front of him with Sam, Bucky, and Steve. Steve starts as he looks at the man calling himself Marko Snyders; he remembers him from the surveillance video of your solo mission. He looks worse than he did back then. But Steve doesn’t care. He clenches his jaw, recalling what happened to you back then. Being shot in the leg and on the verge of death. All because of the man in front of him.

Steve lets Bucky go and approaches Marko as he stands up, intent on giving him a good ass-kicking, but Bucky blows right past him and beats him to it. As Marko lays eyes on Bucky stomping over to him, he holds his hand up.

“Nice to m–“

He doesn’t get to finish his greeting as Bucky sends him flying ten meters back by kicking him square in the chest. Bucky swears he heard something crack, which is an added bonus. There’ll be a lot more of that when he gets his hands on him.

He trudges towards Marko again, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. His pulse is racing, and he needs to punch Marko’s face. And fast. As Marko struggles to sit on his knees, Bucky helps him by grabbing the collar of his coat and pulling him on his feet. Then he punches him across the face, sending him back to the ground. Marko voices his pain, but Bucky doesn’t hear it. All he knows right now is pain; his own pain, and the pain he’s going to inflict on Marko.

Bucky kneels down in front of him, grabs him by the front of his shirt, and starts punching the hell out of him. He uses his metal arm, since he knows it’ll inflict the most damage, and punches the scarred side of Marko’s face. Bucky yells each time he hits him, and feels stronger after each one. He’s secretly satisfied as blood pours after a particularly hard blow. Bucky’s not looking for closure or forgiveness or a truce. He’s looking for a fight, to see blood, and to seek vengeance. He’s not about to let your death be for nothing. He will avenge you.

“The Winter Soldier,” Marko manages to say, despite having a cracked sternum. Bucky pauses with his fist in the air, and fire in his eyes. “Such a p-pleasure. The world’s most… most feared man.” He swallows thickly and coughs a few times, the effects of Bucky’s wrath taking their hold on him. But that doesn’t stop him from getting in a few taunting remarks.

“Such a shame,” he continues. Bucky’s arm shakes as he holds it behind him, ready to knock Marko out if he says something he doesn’t particularly like. Everything that comes out of his mouth is offensive, but Bucky has at least a sliver of control. “I could have done some wonderful things with you. Tinkered what HYDRA put inside you.” Bucky grips his shirt tighter and Marko puts his hands up in defence. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Take it easy, soldier. I could have done a lot to you. But what I did to poor miss _______? Well. I’d say she’s lucky to be alive after all I did to her.”

Bucky finally lets his arm come swinging and socks Marko in the jaw. He falls to the ground, and Bucky watches him try to collect himself. He smirks from feeling so good. Beating the hell out of Marko isn’t fully satisfying, but it’s enough for the moment.

No one from the team has tried to stop Bucky from beating Marko to an inch of his death. Because truth is, they all want to do it too. But they’re holding themselves back because Bucky is the one most affected by your death. Losing your lover in battle is one of the worst things possible. Tony knows exactly what that feels like; he nearly lost Pepper once. But he can’t begin to imagine how Bucky’s feeling after losing you for real.

They watch on in silence as Bucky beats Marko until he can’t even move. As Bucky stares down at Marko’s beaten, bruised, bloody face, he can only picture you, and what you felt in your last moments. The pain, the fear, the desperation, the loneliness. He wanted to be there with you, to get you out of there. But you didn’t give him that chance. All you thought about was him. To get Bucky to safety first before yourself, because he deserves to live his life to the fullest, even if you’re not with him.

“I want her back,” Bucky growls lowly, scowling at Marko. Marko’s too weak to speak, and one of his eyes has been beaten shut. He doesn’t have the strength to respond. Bucky uses both hands to raise him up off the ground, and shake him in anger.

“Give her back to me!” he yells. “Give her back! Give. Her. Back!”

“Bucky, stop,” Steve urges, staring straight ahead of him. Bucky hears him, but he doesn’t obey. He keeps pounding away with all his strength into Marko’s face. As the team looks up as well, they too tell Bucky to stop. But he doesn’t. Not until his anger has been satisfied. He continues to order Marko to give you back to him, but Marko just hangs loosely in the air, unable to give a coherent reply. Bucky finally shoves him back to the ground, then sits back on his knees. He places his fists on his thighs, and breathes deeply. He can’t do this anymore. He needs to leave.

He brings his leg forward to push himself up, but Marko moves again, groaning in pain. Bucky almost snaps again, but he gains control of himself and lowers back down to the ground. Leaning over Marko, he gives him one final, intimidating expression.

“This is for _______.”

Slowly, silently, Bucky pulls back and wraps his flesh hand around Marko’s throat, and begins to squeeze. He does so leisurely, and wants his face to be the last thing that Marko sees before Bucky kills him. As his grip tightens, a light behind him grows stronger. He has no idea what’s coming, but quite frankly, he’s too preoccupied to be focused on anything else. But when the light gets too bright and too hot to ignore anymore, he loosens his grip, and sends daggers over his shoulder at the source.

His stomach drops.

Something bright, beautiful, and bounded by flames in the shape of a woman stands before him. He’s not afraid, but he’s too stunned to move. He’s never seen something so ethereal in his entire life. He instantly thinks of you, for obvious reasons. But this being doesn’t really look like you. There’s too much flame surrounding her face that he can’t make out any details. However, he strangely feels at ease; a short moment of peace for his tortured mind. The being puts her hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and speaks gently.

“That’s enough, Bucky.”

Even the way she says Bucky’s name is enough for him to lose his breath. He’s surprised to not be consumed by the flames from being touched. He doesn’t sense any cruel intent coming from her, only serenity. The complete opposite of what he’s feeling at the moment. Bucky rises from the ground while staring at her, and takes a step back. She smiles at him, before turning her gaze upon the barely alive Marko, laying motionlessly, pathetically, on the ground.

“Stand up,” she demands. Her voice is smooth and silky, but strong and dominant. Marko opens his eye, and sees something so beautiful that he cannot even fathom who made it.

“Stand up,” she repeats, her patience growing thin. Marko obeys, and steadily takes his time in getting to his feet. When he does, the woman steps forward.

“Ask for forgiveness,” she says. “Do it not, and you will die here and now.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Marko laughs as best he can with the injuries he’s sustained. The woman’s expression changes from calm to almost dangerous. Marko notices the tiny change in the woman’s face, and stretches his arms out beside him.

“And what do I have to be sorry for?”

In the blink of an eye, the woman plunges her fire-coated arm straight through Marko’s stomach, causing him to gag in pain and shock. He can speak no more, and finally begins to succumb to his wounds.

“For hurting my friend,” the woman growls. She twists her arm violently and pushes it in further so she can whisper in his ear.

“This is for Maeve.”

Pulling her arm back, she lets Marko’s lifeless body fall to the earth, and gingerly wipes her arm clean of Marko’s pungent stench. She stares down at the gaping hole in his abdomen now, and finally allows herself some harmony. She stumbles back from using so much of her remaining energy, but keeps herself upright to face the team.

Her flames flicker the longer she stays in this state, but she must explain herself before the light goes out. She musters a smile at Steve, Tony, Sam, and Bucky, and raises her arm for Natasha, Wanda, Vision, and Maeve in the quinjet. Bucky seems to be the only one not knowing what’s going on, since Steve, Tony, and Sam seem to get the picture. At least, they hope they do.

Her eyes find their way back to Bucky, since he will be the one that needs to hear this the most.

“It’s me, Bucky,” she says. “It’s _______.”

Bucky lets out an unsettling laugh. He feels like somebody’s pulling his leg, or playing a sick joke on him. Even though what’s right in front of him is terrifyingly real, he can’t grasp the fact that it’s you. He didn’t exactly see you die, but you didn’t come out of the warehouse when it blew up either. And he knows that no one can survive that.

His mouth goes dry, he blinks rapidly, and grips his hair. He wants to desperately believe it’s you, but the person in front of him seems too different. Her voice, the inability to see her face; it’s messing him up too much. He needs solid proof that this is you.

“Really, Bucky. It’s me.”

She takes a step forward, but he takes one back. He’s so confused, but at the same time hopeful and distressed and in disbelief. The turmoil inside him is blinding his judgement, restricting him from seeing the truth. He’s not afraid. He just doesn’t want to get his hopes up when everything seems impossible.

Realizing Bucky’s inner conflict, the woman takes a risk, and meddles with her power, seeing how much of it she can control. She closes her eyes for a brief second before taking another step towards Bucky and opening them again.

“It’s me,” she says gently, the flames slowly pulling away from her face. “It’s _______, Bucky. I’m alive. I’m okay.” Her face is completely visible now, and Bucky blanches. He’s at a loss for words, but his body says it all: his eyes water involuntarily, his lips part, and his legs shake. He reaches out for you, but stops himself because of the flames. You do the job for him, and reassure him that you won’t hurt him.

“It’s okay,” you say, putting your hand on his cheek. “You’ll only burn if I want you to. And I’ll never want that.”

“Is it–“ Bucky starts, swallowing thickly. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me,” you smile, the tears forming in your eyes.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

Bucky lets his tears fall as he wraps his arms around you tightly and pulls you to his chest in a gripping hug. You hug him back just the same, the tears sliding down your cheeks. Bucky sniffles from holding in more sobs, which only makes you cry even more.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you apologize, clenching the back of his vest.

“I thought I lost you,” Bucky says quietly. “I shouldn’t have–“

“Shh shh,” you hush him. “Don’t worry about that now. It’s alright. It’s alright…”

The rest of the team have their own moments of relief when you confirm that it is in fact you and not something that just crawled out of the flames. They smile at each other, and at the scene in front of them. What goes from an unbearable reality, turns into an immeasurable bliss. You pull away from Bucky too soon, but despite your new form, you still need some medical attention. However, one thing must come first.

“Bucky?” you ask, looking up at him.

“Yes?”

Stroking his cheek, you smile lovingly at him, before pulling your hand back, making a fist, and punching him in the face. He takes a step back as his head turns the other way, then looks at you in surprise.

“What the hell was that for?”

“I told you I would punch you as soon as I got out of there,” you smirk. He can’t help but smile too and shake his head at you.

“You love to keep your promises,” he says.

“I do,” you agree. Smiling, you hold onto his arm and face Steve, Sam, and Tony.

“I’m glad to see everyone alive,” you say a bit breathlessly. “And I want to give all of you your sense of relief, but I’m feeling a bit under the weather still.”

You stumble back into Bucky from being in this state for so long. Your fire flickers and begins to dim away gradually. Your energy is leaving you just as quickly, so Bucky picks you up again, and brings to back to the jet with Steve, Tony, and Sam following behind. Bucky watches in surprise as the embers begin to disappear, and your naked body becomes exposed. Your injuries are still very prominent, except for one.

“The rod is gone,” Bucky tells you, smiling softly.

“Hmm?” You blink and wearily look down at your shoulder. “Maybe that’s why I feel a little better. Somehow managed to melt it away…”

You close your eyes again and just rest in Bucky’s arms, until he gets you onto the jet and covered up. Natasha, Wanda, and Maeve are in a state of shock when they see you for real. Vision however is steadily calm, and waits to hear for anything that needs to be said.

“She’s okay, for the most part,” Bucky says as Natasha throws a blanket over you. The flames have completely diminished. “But she has a weak pulse, and I don’t know if she has any internal injuries.”

“Get the jet going,” Natasha demands, staring at you wide-eyed. “We need to get back to the compound as fast as we can. Stark, take the wheel. Wanda, come here with me.”

Without hesitation, Tony and Wanda go to their designated positions while everyone else takes a seat. Maeve sits on the other side of you, putting the back of her hand against your forehead.

“You’re so warm,” she whispers, smiling tearfully. Wanda comes to her side, and smiles gently at her.

“I’m sorry, Maeve,” she says. “But we need some space for her.”

Maeve nods once without looking at Wanda and finds a seat for herself while still being able to see you. Bucky does the same thing, leaning his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together. His eyes never leave you as Natasha and Wanda determine what kind of medical attention you’ll need. At this point, all everyone can do now is pray.

You wake up several hours later, about one in the morning of October 2nd. You’re back in the infirmary at the compound, laying in a bed. Your body feels like lead; even just lifting a hand seems like too much energy. Blinking and moaning awake, you stretch your legs and yawn widely, then wipe your eyes. You didn’t think you’d be staring up at this ceiling again. The lights are dimmed, and all you can hear is the gentle sound of the medical equipment monitoring your heart. You take a glance to your right, and do a double-take at what you see.

“Maeve?”

Also in a hospital bed adjacent to yours, Maeve is sleeping soundlessly and peacefully. From what you can see, she isn’t hurt badly. You have no idea what the rest of her body is like, but you trust that Dr. Markson took very good care of her. Your eyes well up just looking at her; she may seem okay, but the immense guilt you feel takes over. Your lip quivers as you breathe deeply, trying to keep yourself quiet as to not wake her. You cover your mouth as your throat closes up, and the tears get hotter.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, holding back a sob. “I’m so sorry, Maeve. This should have never happened. You didn’t deserve this. I’m so sorry I let this happen. I–“

You have to turn away and press your face in your pillow to suppress your cries. Your chest tightens as you think about all they did to her: shocking her, hosing her down with water. You don’t want to think about what else they did to her.

Upon hearing your crying, Maeve opens her eyes. She’s somewhat disoriented from experiencing the longest day of her life, but she knows crying when she hears it. Looking to her left, she sees you holding a pillow to your face.

“_______?” she calls out weakly. You sniffle loudly, and clutch your pillow tightly. Great. Now you feel guilty about waking her up.

“_______?” she calls again. “Are you okay?”

Sighing, you flop the pillow down on your lap and start wiping your eyes and under your nose. Clearing your throat, you turn your head to face her, but as soon as you do, you start crying again. You bite your bottom lip to control yourself, but your voice is still shaky.

“I’m sorry,” you say, letting a sob escape. “I’m so sorry, Maeve. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, _______.”

Maeve wants to get up and comfort you, but given her current state, she’d collapse without any assistance. For now, she simply pushes herself up into a sitting position, and stays faced towards you while she speaks.

“You listen to me right now, _______,” she begins, her tone hard. “This is not your fault. You’re not responsible for anything that happened. Nothing could have been done to prevent this, okay? Nothing you did was–“

“Stop it, Maeve!” you beg. “Please don’t act like everything that happened isn’t my fault. Because–“

“Because it’s not!” she interjects. “You’re not the one who kidnapped me! You’re not the one hosed me with water! You’re not the one that–“

“Basically ruined your life?”

Maeve closes her mouth and sighs while shaking her head. But before she can defend herself, you keep piling on.

“If I never invited you to the Tower–no, if I never even told you about me, then none of this would have happened,” you say, staring at the ceiling. “You wouldn’t be laying on a goddamn hospital bed from being hosed down with freezing cold fucking water and shocked with a bazillion jolts. You wouldn’t be traumatized or–“

“But I’m not traumati–“

“–developed some emotional damage or psychological. Hell, it might as well be all three. And all because I–“

“Shut the fuck up, _______!”

The heart monitor clearly states your surprise as it beeps dramatically. You’ve never heard Maeve raise her voice like that; well, not at you, anyway. And hearing it directed at you honestly makes you want to cry in fear. You’re paralyzed, and your breathing is tight. Maeve notices your distress, but she keeps her firm voice as she speaks.

“That asshole did this to me, not you,” she says. “He’s the one that kidnapped me. He’s the one that did those things to me. He’s the motherfucker that nearly killed my friend. He did that, not you! Do you hear me?! None of this could’ve been prevented! It’s–“

“I could’ve killed him on my mission,” you mutter. “I could have prevented all of this from happening, Maeve. If I would’ve just killed him on that mission I–“

“He’s dead now, _______,” Maeve says. “You killed him. He’s gone. What happened before doesn’t matter now. Because he’s never coming back. He’s never. Coming. Back, _______. Never.”

By now Maeve has calmed down, but you certainly have not. The more Maeve spoke, and you yourself, the more you got upset. Thinking about what Marko did to Maeve is something you’ll never be able to take back. And, traumatized or not, you know Maeve will never be the same. You know she’s strong, but… not everyone is as strong as they make themselves out to be.

(You are a prime example.)

Covering your face with your hands, you shield yourself from Maeve as you begin crying again. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes sting, and there’s an impeccable weight on your chest that you fear you can never get rid of. You turn on your side so Maeve doesn’t see. She’s only seen you cry this hard once before, and that was a year ago. Hearing how much you want to keep it in aches Maeve to the core, so she slowly, and painfully, gets out of bed and goes to your side of the room, rolling her IV with her. She puts her hand on your shoulder, but you just curl up more. It doesn’t stop her from comforting you.

“It’s alright, _______,” she whispers, rubbing your arm. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

You repeat those words over and over as Maeve tends to you, and you can’t help but feel that it should be the other way around. You should be the one comforting Maeve, since she was the one that got kidnapped under your watch and was put through intense torture and mental damage. You did as well, and you recognize that, but you’re not your priority right now. You didn’t know what to expect from Maeve, but her stoic and composed demeanour is not what you were anticipating. She hasn’t cried, nor spoken about her emotions. She could just be keeping it all inside and waiting to speak to the right person about it. You suppose she has her own reasons about staying quiet, but crying about everything that transpired shouldn’t be what you’re doing.

“God, this is so stupid,” you mutter, more to yourself than to Maeve. “I should be the one comforting you, not the other way around.”

“You went through hell too,” she points out. “I’m not the only victim here. You need this just as much as any other person.”

But not as much as you?

Finally, you give in, and turn around to press your forehead into Maeve’s stomach. She combs her fingers through your hair, which eventually calms you down to a loud sniffle. It’s quiet for quite some time; you don’t know what to say, and Maeve doesn’t want to speak at all. Being able to help you find some peace of mind satisfies her enough to not have the need to talk about what happened. For now, she just wants to be there for her friend.

After what seems like hours, you pull away from Maeve, and sit up to let her see your face. You give her a weak smile behind all the tears, and continually wipe your face to get rid of them. You clear your throat, and sigh after letting all your anger and sadness out.

“I–“ you begin, intent on apologizing again, but one look at Maeve’s face tells you to rethink your statement.

“Thanks,” you say instead. Maeve smiles and nods.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, patting your shoulder. “I’ll be right in that bed if you need me.”

“Hopefully no longer than necessary,” you say. “In your bed, I mean. I’d rather not see you in that bed for more than a day, at the most.”

“Maybe I will,” Maeve says, heading back to her bed. “I’m feeling good. Nothing really hurts that much anymore. And I’m walking. Sooo… I could be out of here by the morning. After a check-up, probably.”

“That’s very optimistic,” you chuckle, laying back down. “I hope you’re right.”

“Mm, me too,” she agrees. “You on the other hand… you look like shit. Probably feel like it too.”

“I can’t argue with you there,” you smile, glancing down at yourself. “I ain’t feeling too hot. Everything is just so sore.”

“That happens when you’re–well,” Maeve stops herself and sheepishly looks to the side.

“It’s fine,” you wave her off. “I know what you mean. I feel like I got punched by Steve a hundred times.”

When Maeve doesn’t answer, you look over and see she has a dopey smile on her face. You know that kind of look. Well, you think you do. Only one specific think comes to mind when you see a face like that.

“I take it that you met Steve?” you ask, smiling a little bit smugly.

“Yeahhhh,” she sighs contently.

“Sweet, isn’t he?”

“The sweetest.”

“Anything he do in particular that made his sweetness shine?”

“Everything, basically,” she laughs. “He said that I could talk to him about anything. That he’d always be around if I needed anything. His smile, his caring nature… he’s everything that he was livened up to be. America’s Golden Boy and perfect soldier.”

She clicks her tongue then, making you raise a brow.

“Buuut…?” you egg her on.

“But he’s not,” she sighs, loosely crossing her arms. “I mean, it’s amazing all that he achieved and we owe him our lives, but… he’s just one man. He’s not perfect like everyone makes him out to be. He served in the second World War. You don’t come out of a war-torn country and expect to escape without scars. He shouldn’t even be here, but it’s not like they’re gonna put him back on ice. Fuck. This man deserves the world, but the world doesn’t deserve him. Honest to god.”

“I agree with you there,” you say, getting as comfortable as you can. “He’s seen, and been through a lot of shit. He’s done more than anyone bargained for, simply because he has to. He can hardly ignore a situation where the outcome isn’t good for the masses. There’s still so much expected of him, but all he needs is a vacation. Retirement, even. He deserves to be able to rest in peace, not pieces. Vigilante my fucking ass. He needs a break.”

“He’ll get one, I’m sure,” Maeve assures you. “One way or another.”

“Well it better not be when he’s dead,” you say. “Otherwise I’ll be pissed.

You huff angrily and pout, staring hardly at the ceiling. Maeve watches on with a sort of amusement, and shakes her head at you. She’s glad that you’re reverting back to yourself, and to be able to speak with you like this again after not seeing each other for months. As the topic of Steve has passed, she decides to bring up another.

“I also met Bucky,” Maeve announces, albeit quietly. Your eyes widen in shock. Not about the fact that she met him because obviously she did, but about the fact that she’s another person that knows where the (ex-) Winter Soldier is currently residing. It makes you nervous for her safety again. However, Tony’s been able to keep it under wraps from the public eye. And Maeve is an excellent secret-keeper. She wouldn’t dare to expose him like that.

Maybe.

You may know the real Bucky, but that doesn’t mean that Maeve had already formed her own opinions on him, prior to meeting him. But given all that you’ve said to her about him, you’re hoping at least she’s had an open mind towards him the whole time. Or else, you’re in some deep shit.

“A-And?” you ask, gulping nervously.

“He’s… also sweet,” she says, choosing her words wisely. “He’s not what I expected, to be honest.”

“Oh?” you say, peeking over at her. She seems as if she’s deep in thought. “And what did you expect?”

“Hostility?” she says unsurely. “I dunno if that’s the right word or not but… yeah. The entire flight back to this place, he kept his eyes on you. Once you were treated as much as they could give you, he sat there with you, holding your hand. He didn’t leave your side the flight back, when they wheeled you in, while they were treating you more… hell, I’m pretty sure he was in here while we were both asleep and sat with you until he was told to go back upstairs. I’ve never seen someone so… so–“

“Worried?” you guess. “Nervous? Panicked?”

“In love,” she says, her smile growing fondly. You sheepishly avoid her gaze.

“Shut up,” you whisper in embarrassment.

“But it’s so sweeeet,” she drawls. “Doting on you and speaking quietly with you while you were unconscious. He was worried as fuck, I’ll tell you that. But I could tell that he would crash and burn if you didn’t make it. When the doctor said you were stable, I swear he almost passed out from being so relieved. I was being treated at the time, but he got wobbly in the knees and needed to sit down. I didn’t see him much after that, but when I did, he was always asking about you. Steve was the only one he spoke with, no one else. How you were doing, when he could see you, if you’re allowed to eat. In all honesty, _______, I’ve never seen anyone so devoted before. He fucking loves you, and any who says otherwise is lying to themselves.”

You smile widely into your pillow, and giggle under your breath.

“Yeah, we’ve made it abundantly clear that we love each other,” you mention. “With words of affection and some… intense, physical contact…”

Maeve whips her head over at you when you say that. Her eyes widen in surprise before her gigantic smile follows.

“No,” she says, filled with nothing but excitement. “Did you actually–?”

Your embarrassed, mischievous smile says it all. Maeve claps in congratulations to which you roll over and pull the sheets over your head. Maeve expresses her blessings and gives you a hearty “well done”.

“Stop iiiiit,” you complain, still with a smile on your face.

“So how was it?” she asks, eager to know.

“I’m not saying!” you say, looking over your shoulder. “They have cameras in here. And audio. I know for a fact that Tony loves watching surveillance videos, so I’m not saying a goddamned thing.”

“Oh come ooooon,” Maeve whines. “Not even a little bit? Besides, I don’t think Mr. Stark would find your sex life that interesting.”

“Oh my god, Maeve,” you grumble. “And on the contrary, Tony absolutely loves to humiliate me when the opportunity presents itself. Like playing all the recordings for everyone of me a training room, making a fool out of myself. He’s a cheeky shit, and you better remember it.”

“Okay, okay,” she agrees, waving you off. “But can you tell me at least if it was good or not?”

“Alright, fine,” you sigh. You’ve been wanting to tell someone, and you felt that Natasha and Wanda wouldn’t give you the same reaction Maeve would. You shift again so you’re facing her completely, but rest your cheek in your hand as you remember the first night.

“It was… incredibly awkward, at first,” you start, giving her the truth. “We just silently agreed that we were ready and… well. I didn’t know how different it was from the forties, but I knew what to do in this day and age. It took some… explaining, and just overall getting in the goddamn mood because saying all that stuff made me stiff. And–don’t even say it.”

You add that part in when you see the sly smile on her face and the raise of her eyebrow.

“I’m not saying anything about that,” you say before getting back to the story. “Anyway, I tried to laugh to diffuse the tension and so we could have fun with it. He went right along with it, thank god, and after some–um. Exploring, it happened.”

You pause again, waiting for Maeve’s reaction, but she’s silent and waiting for more. She rolls her wrist to make you keep going, and you shrug.

“What else do you want me to say?” you ask.

“I dunno,” she ponders, hand under her chin. “Maybe how it felt? You can tell me that, right? For you, at least. It’s not everyday that one of your friend’s isn’t a virgin anymore.”

Your face goes red then, because a very important–yet not so important–fact just came to light. You swallow, wondering if it’s okay to tell her this.

“Wellllll,” you say, your voice getting squeakier.

“Well what?” she questions.

“Um.” You look around the room, wondering where the hell the cameras are. Just to be safe, you speak in Gaelic.

“Bhí sé ina maighdean,” you say.

He was a virgin.

“A maighdean?!” Maeve shouts.

A virgin?!

Maeve didn’t see that one coming. She has a moment to herself, slapping a hand on her forehead, and shaking her head. Blowing her lips, she tries to find the words to give a coherent response, but nothing comes up. It’s just jumbled jabbering. She doesn’t know what to say. After thinking about it, however, she draws her conclusion.

“Okay, I guess it makes sense,” she sighs, still in disbelief. “After all that, um, happened, to him, it seems plausible. But wow. I never would have guessed.”

“I know,” you agree. “I was just as surprised as you were. But I didn’t judge. And neither did he. It was very nice. Fun, definitely relaxing afterwards. He was so sweet and nervous and so was I and it was just a big pile of cuteness.”

“Awwwww,” Maeve sings, much to your chagrin.

“Shut uuuuup,” you say, covering your eyes. “I love him, okay? Fuck, I love him so much. And afterwards, bhí gnéas againn ar feadh seachtaine.”

We had sex for a week.

“Excuse the fuck outta me?!” she shouts again. “Feadh seachtaine?!”

For a week?!

“I am surprised at you, _______. But in a fantastic way! Oh my god! Mo sheacht mbeannacht ort!”

My seven blessings on you!

“Go raibh maith agat,” you say.

Thank you.

Maeve continues to have a small, freak-out moment for your accomplishment. Well, both yours and Bucky’s accomplishment. She can’t stop giggling or giving you her biggest compliments and cheers. At one point you have to ask her to settle down so no one will come in. It’s the middle of the night, and you don’t exactly want Dr. Markson to come strolling in to do a check-up when you and Maeve are having a private conversation.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Maeve laughs, dialing it down. “I’m done now.”

“Honestly I couldn’t stop covering my face from happiness afterwards,” you confess. “It wasn’t exactly magical or mind-blowing, but it was nice for us. A couple of losers just… being losers.”

“Adorable losers,” Maeve corrects you.

“Yes, yes we are,” you agree proudly, biting your bottom lip.

Amongst all your laughing and joking, you two have aroused the attention of none other than Dr. Markson. He strolls in and brightens the lights on the way, and smiles at the both of you.

“It’s good to see you two up and about,” he says, closing the door behind him. “But please, don’t push yourselves.”

“Maeve already walked,” you say.

“Walked?” Dr. Markson repeats, eyeing Maeve.

“Just over to me, though,” you clarify. “Not any further than that.”

“Hmm. While I am glad to hear that you have motor function, Miss Lockette,” he says, “I would prefer you to stay in bed until you’re completely healed.”

“Yes, doctor,” she replies compliantly.

“And Miss _______,” he says next, turning to you. “While I am happy to see you again, I am displeased to see you in this unfortunate state.”

“Me and you both,” you agree, sitting up more. “So what’s the damage? For the both of us, if I might ask?”

Dr. Markson approaches Maeve first, and makes sure that the machines are giving proper readings and to give her a quick once-over.

“Miss Lockette sustained minor injuries,” he starts, asking her to sit up. “She developed hypothermia, as well as yourself, but she was easier to treat. We gave her some warm IV fluids, peritoneal lavage, which is just washing out her abdominal cavity, and some humidified oxygen. After a few hours her body temperature improved and she was stable. Now, while she didn’t receive any serious internal injuries by the cause of a device she described to us as a ‘minimized shock therapy’, there was some damage nonetheless. A small bundle of sensory nerves was targeted in her lower back. How does this feel?”

He puts pressure on one of the spots he’s talking about, and Maeve groans in pain. Dr. Markson pulls his mouth to the side and checks her legs next.

“It’s most likely due to the trauma,” he explains. “It’s treatable, mind you. I always recommend physiotherapy and painkillers first before jumping to a more serious solution like surgery. If the patient does not improve after a certain amount of time, then I am willing to refer them to surgeries.”

“Sooo, she’s gonna be okay?”

Dr. Markson looks over his shoulder and smiles at you, then nods.

“Within time the damage will be reversed,” he says, standing up straight. “We have access to some pretty sufficient equipment and medicines, so Miss Lockette will be better in no time.” You and Maeve smile at each other, but Dr. Markson looks grim. You don’t like that look.

“As for you, _______,” he starts, your smile falling. “You sustained multiple serious injuries. Hypothermia, blood loss, frostbite, muscle damage… I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to repair what had been done to you. It was more serious than your first admission here. I hadn’t seen something like this before. Just what the hell were you doing?”

You shrink down under his intimidating gaze, even though none of your injuries were your own fault. However, it doesn’t make you any less ashamed that Dr. Markson went through that stress as a doctor.

“Nevertheless,” he continues, taking a seat at the end of your bed. “We were given a stroke of luck. The frostbite around your wrists and ankles were fairly difficult to treat, as well as the hypothermia in general. Furthermore, it was as if our efforts were useless because they were not working sufficiently. I feared that you were not going to make it.”

“So what happened?” you question.

“You,” he answers. “Your body fought back. Your power itself, in fact, is what helped heal you. After we tried treating the hypothermia and frostbite, we sent you in for an MRI to examine you internally to figure out what was happening. Your abdomen was severely bruised, and was hard when I put pressure on it. I do not know what kind of object was used, but you had a ruptured spleen. It wasn’t severe enough that the whole thing had to be removed, so we performed a partial splenectomy. This method helps to avoid the increased risk of infection that results from removing the entire spleen.

During your surgery, one of my assistants noticed that the purple bruising left behind from the frostbite began to gradually fade away. Your internal temperature was raising at the same time it was happening. I have zero knowledge about flames on the inside of the body, but it seemed to do the trick. I classified your frostbite on a third-degree level when I first received you. Third-degree frostbite causes permanent tissue damage, and you could lose all feeling. You could have lost all mobility in your hands.”

You’ve never been so afraid of a doctor before. Hearing what could have happened if not for astonishing circumstances is utterly terrifying. You didn’t know you could withstand all that without going into cardiac arrest at least twice. You cast your eyes downward and rub your chest uncomfortably.

“There’s no need to worry now,” he assures you. “You’re healing progressively, but I am still going to recommend some therapy for your wrists and ankles. Your power may have restored and reversed the damage, but it wasn’t one hundred percent thorough. You’re just out of the danger zone, and some aftercare is all that’s needed. You will feel weak, as you may have guessed. So I suggest that you stay in bed when you wake up, and then I will be back to examine you.”

“Okay,” you nod.

“And as for scarring… I leave that up to you. The cuts you received weren’t that deep, except for two. We stitched those up, and I want them to heal first before you make a decision. But the others are up to you. They were from the shocking device that was used on you. They are also fairly easy to treat, but you have a lot of them. I did not know what your choice would have been, so I didn’t leave it to chance.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

You peek down your gown, and see several small, reddened scars along your abdomen and legs. You run your fingers along them tenderly; they feel spongy, like a patch of wrinkled skin from an old blister.

Gross.

“I’ll sleep on it,” you say. “I’ll get back to you in the morning.”

“Sure thing.”

You pull your hand back and lay it down beside you. Overall, you feel fine. Physically. Just sore and tender all around. Your mental state isn’t the best, but when has it ever been? Your sigh turns into a yawn, and Dr. Markson takes that as his cue to leave.

“I shall return in the morning,” he announces to the two of you, moving towards the door.

“Oh, wait!” you call. “Dr. Markson!”

“Yes?”

“What happened to the rod in my shoulder?”

“Rod? There wasn’t any–oh. Oh, I see. According to Mr. Stark and company, you had melted away the metal pole imbedded in your shoulder. The wound was closed up completely.”

“Really?”

“So I’ve heard. There was no indication of an entry or exit wound, so we did not treat you in that area.”

“Oh… okay, thanks.”

Nodding, Dr. Markson takes his leave, and dims the lights back down on his way upstairs. You settle back down into your bed, and are about to say something to Maeve, but she’s already gone back to sleep. Closing your mouth, you turn on your side and pull up the sheets to your shoulders. Your mind is processing too many thoughts at once, making it difficult to fall asleep quickly. You shift positions many times, and rub your eyes out of irritation. But eventually, you close your eyes, clear your mind, and succumb to your fatigue.

Being the late sleeper that you are, and the fact that your injuries have taken a massive toll on you, you don’t wake up until after two o’clock in the afternoon.

You feel even worse than when you woke up twelve hours ago. Your muscles are stiff, your eyes hurt, and your heart is beating quicker than it should be. These underlying annoyances prompt you to forcefully open your eyes, and stare at the blinding white lights of the infirmary. You groan to yourself, not wanting to face the day. You’re spending it in your bed until tomorrow. Normally you’d love to sleep the day away, but not under these circumstances. Your whole body is lead, and you’re pissed off. Not exactly the best conditions to go back to sleep, nor see anybody. But you know that that won’t not happen. You’re expecting to have some visitors, but right now all you need is Maeve for company.

“Hey, Ma–aaaand you’re not here.”

One look to your right is enough to elevate your irritation. Maeve is missing from her bed. Well, more like she’s been discharged. The entire bed is gone, along with the medical equipment helping Maeve to get better. There’s not much you can do about it, so you just sigh in disappointment and wait to be checked up on.

Half an hour later of being alone with your thoughts, Dr. Markson shows his face again. You show no distinguishable reaction to his arrival, you’re so dead tired. Your eyes are heavy, and you could definitely fall asleep again after being awake for a bit, but Dr. Markson isn’t about to let that happen.

“Good morning, _______,” he says, standing at the end of your bed. He looks at his watch and smiles. “Or should I say afternoon.”

You zone out while he makes his greeting, not staring at anything in particular. Your focus goes in and out, and your head begins to drop. You snap yourself awake again however when he calls your name over and over. You stare up at him wearily, not exactly looking at him.

“Are you feeling alright, _______?” he asks, getting out his flashlight. He shines it in both your eyes, but you just keep staring straight at him. He crouches to be eye-level with you.

“_______?”

“I am–“ you begin, clicking your tongue, “–fucking, exhausted.”

You press your head back into the pillows and yawn widely as you shift in your bed in hopes of waking yourself up more. Dr. Markson checks up on the equipment to see how your health is progressing before examining you. He has you sit up, tired as you may be, and turns your wrists over, then looks at your ankles. He’s absolutely astounded by how much they’ve repaired themselves, but he is still going to recommend therapy.

“I suggest you do some whirlpool therapy,” he says, standing back up. “It keeps the skin clean and naturally removes dead tissue. It’ll be in one of those deep tubs, like what athletes use for ice baths. I have one prepared for you in the other room for when you’re ready. And have you given any thought to your scars?”

You nod when he mentions the bath for you, then tilt your head to the side when he asks about your scars. You just don’t want your family and friends finding out about them. But they’re ugly anyway, and they remind you of Marko.

“Get rid of ‘em,” you decide. Dr. Markson nods, then helps you up to take you to your bath. He unhooks you from your IV and helps you walk to an enclosed room with a sizeable bathtub just waiting for you. He allows you some privacy as you get into the tub, the jets already turned on. Once you’re settled, Dr. Markson tells you what to do.

“Keep moving your arms and legs,” he says. “It’ll help circulate the flow. The allotted amount of time is half an hour. When you’re finished, we’ll wrap up your wrists and ankles for good measure and you’ll be good to go. I will come back later to remove your scars.”

“Okay.”

Dr. Markson leaves once more, but a nurse is on standby if you need anything. The bath makes you smile because it’s so warm. You contently swish your arms and legs around like he said, and gingerly trace your fingers over wrist. You can’t believe how much it’s healed on its own. You have no idea if it’s because you have some underlying healing abilities that you never knew about. It can’t be the case because it never happened when you got hurt before. But maybe because the wounds this time are so serious that your power began acting up to protect yourself. You barely have any knowledge about your capabilities, so you’re in the dark about this.

Either way, you’re just glad that you still have feeling in your hands and feet.

You don’t want to leave the tub when the therapy is over, but you get out quickly and get dressed with the clothes provided for you. They’re simple sweats, but they’re cozy. The nurse applies the bandages, and lets you go right after. You thank her and take your time going upstairs. Your mood is still a little iffy, even though the bath calmed you down. Facing everyone is what you’re most nervous about. It should be fine, for the most part. You just want to act normally and not like anything is wrong.

You get a chill as you’re walking up the stairs, and stop walking to compose yourself. You instinctively rub your wrists, and take a deep breath.

“You’re fine, you idiot,” you say to yourself. “I’m barefoot. Of course I’d get a chill.”

You continue on your way, pulling your hoodie sleeves over your hands. You’re practically shivering now. The heat from the bath quickly disappeared as soon as you left it. You annoyingly stuff your hands in your pockets and trudge upstairs to the kitchen. But you hesitate when you reach the end of the stairwell. You peek through the window, but all you see is the wall. You open the door and peek your head out; you don’t see anyone there. You don’t know why you’re so anxious, but you suck it up because you really want to see your friends.

You creep down the hall, staying close to the wall. You don’t hear anyone in the kitchen and living room. You sigh a breath of relief, but your heart jumps out of your chest when someone calls out to you.

“_______?”

Turning around, you realize you’re right in front of Bucky’s ajar door, and peek inside. He’s sitting at his desk, writing in a journal, with a pained expression on his face. You open the door to reveal yourself, and muster a weak smile.

“Hey,” you say, waving. His mouth drops open, utterly astounded that you’re up and walking.

“How–How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Alright,” you reply, stepping inside. “Could be better but… I’m okay.”

He gets out of his chair, and takes four big steps to close the distance and wrap his arms around you. You didn’t realize how much you needed a hug. Relaxing into it, you return the hug, gripping the back of his shirt. You absolutely cannot begin crying now, otherwise you won’t be able to stop. And you don’t want Bucky, or anyone else for that matter, see you like that. Sobbing is one thing, but uncontrollable, hysterical crying gives off a very different impression. You suck all of your emotions back and just enjoy this time with Bucky.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “I’m so so sorry. I should’ve–”

“Bucky, how many times do I have to tell you?” you interrupt. “It wasn’t your fault. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But I do,” he says. “I do, _______.”

He pulls back and looks at you.

“As a former soldier, and as a person, I have the duty to disobey an immoral order,” he explains. “I never had the chance because I was never given such orders, but I did when you told me to go. I never should have listened. I should have dragged you out of there. You were freezing and beaten and bruised and you had a rod in your shoulder and I should not have left you alone in that warehouse.”

He cups your cheeks and makes you look at him. You put your hands on his and lean into his touch. He gives you a sad smile, then kisses your forehead.

“I’m never listening to you again,” he says.

“I can never win with you, can I?” you joke.

“I guess not.”

He then leads you over to his bed, pushes you down, and slides in next to you. He sees the small smile you have before it disappears from your face. He immediately reaches for your hand, and notices the bandages wrapped around your wrist. He frowns at it.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice laced with concern. “Does it hurt?”

“I’m fine,” you reply, turning your wrist around. “It doesn’t hurt at all. Maybe a little numb still, but it’s nothing serious. Dr. Markson said that… my body or power or whatever healed whatever what was affected. But that doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t know how true that is, but fact of the matter is… it’s healed. Well, about ninety-five percent healed. I did some therapy when I woke up for my wrists and ankles. They should get better if I keep doing it.”

“I hope you stick to that regimen,” Bucky says. “I’ll know if you don’t.”

“And how will you know that?” you question, lowering your hand to the bed. “Are you going to come with me every time I do it?”

“If you want me to,” he says. “And it’s fine if you don’t. But just keep doing it. It’ll give me some ease. Please?”

“I will,” you promise. “It’s a whirlpool therapy, and I greatly enjoyed it. It’s warm and it tingles a bit. It’s just for my wrists and ankles, but my whole body gets treated. I like it.”

“I have no doubts then that you’ll stick with it,” he smiles. Despite your slight smiles and willingness to take care of yourself, Bucky will still worry about you. What you went through was absolutely maniacal and horrifying. You’re scarred in so many ways, and he doesn’t want to see you reduce yourself to what he’s become: a shell of what he used to be. He doesn’t know who he is anymore. And he hopes to god that you won’t go through the same crisis. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if you did.

He wraps his arm around you, and cradles the back of your head. He’s not very good at finding the right words for situations like these; he used to be okay at it, but after everything that’s happened to him, his mind is muddled. But he does his very best to comfort you.

“_______, listen to me,” he begins softly. He feels you tense up, but he just strokes the back of your head and continues on. “Whenever you’re feeling the lowest of the low, please come talk to me. You don’t have to look at me, or speak to me directly. You can be speaking to yourself and pretend that I’m not there. It doesn’t matter. But… just speak your mind. Whatever it is, you can tell me, directly or indirectly. You know I’m always here to listen. Will you promise me?”

You heart constricts from how genuine he is. You don’t know if you can keep that promise. You never, never, ever tell anyone about what’s going on in your head. Not Natasha, not Steve, not even Wanda (she could easily peer into your mind whenever she’d like, but you have faith that she wouldn’t do something so invasive). Everything is too personal to talk about, so you keep your mouth shut. You’ve written some things down in a journal, but the relief only lasts for so long. Soon enough, a new problem would snake its way into your life and give you something new to worry about. It’s all the same things, but they find a way to circle around you and make it more complex than it needs to be.

Chewing your lip, you dip your head down, giving the impression that you’ve nodded. Bucky takes your supposed answer, and hugs you tighter. You wrap your arm around him as well and press your forehead into his chest. You can’t believe how unbelievably lazy and tired you’ve gotten over the past few weeks, but you’re jaded, and need at least an hour of sleep. You yawn widely and flutter your eyes until they close. Bucky senses that you’ve fallen asleep, so he presses a kiss to your head, and pulls up some of the blankets on you. He stays awake a while longer before joining you in a calming slumber.

You’re as cozy as can be when you open your eyes again.

It’s pitch black in Bucky’s room, but you know the familiar feeling of being wrapped in his arms. And the comforting smell he carries with him. It brings a smile to your face.

You’re burrowed into Bucky’s chest, with his big, warm arms wrapped around you. You can feel the heat radiating off of him. You try looking around, but he’s got you firmly pressed against him. You yawn widely and stretch your legs, prompting him to shift. His grip loosens on you, and he rubs his face against his pillow. You take the time to feel him; running your hand down his back, along his arm, his neck, to his hair. You stroke his face with the back of your hand until he opens his eyes. He’s a groggy as you are, and brings his hand up to rub his eyes.

“_______?” he says.

“Hi,” you whisper.

You yawn again and stretch your arms before snuggling back into him. You feel better than from waking up from your other naps. No headaches, no tiredness in your eyes, no nagging feeling to stay in bed. Though it would be very satisfying indeed to stay in bed with Bucky and cuddle the hell out of him, but you need, and want, to see the rest of the team. And Maeve. You want to know where she ran off to.

But you decide to have one small, heart-warming moment with Bucky before getting up.

You use your hand to find his lips, then push yourself up to kiss him. He reciprocates sensually, his hand snaked in the back of your hair. You slide your hand down his side and stick it up his shirt, and trace your fingers around his skin. His hips shift forward at your action, making you smile. You pull away, but continue kissing him along his neck. He pushes his hand up your shirt as well, and rubs circles on your lower back. You shiver at his touch, and trail your hand farther up his back. His shirt rises, and he presses you against him. You chuckle and pull the hem of his shirt over his head. He groans, but you just laugh at him. He pulls you on top of him, and pokes his head out.

“Am I that ugly that you have to cover up my face?” he wonders, smiling a bit.

“Mmmmm yeah,” you joke, cupping his face. You give him a kiss, and grin widely at him. “Of course you’re not. You’re beautiful, Bucky.” You brush the stray strands from his face and stroke his cheek with your thumb.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“I feel a lot better now.”

He smiles back at you, and pulls his shirt down before rising up to envelop you in a hug. You sit in his lap with your legs wrapped around his waist, while he sets his chin on your shoulder and rubs his hands up and down your back. You make the happiest of noises in the back of your throat, causing Bucky to chuckle.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. You can’t control your smile and just snuggle into his chest.

“Shut uuup,” you mutter.

“Never.”

He kisses the side of your head before dragging his feet over the side of the bed and standing up, still with you clinging to him. He securely laces his hands together under your butt to keep you upright, and leaves his room to bring you into the kitchen. You stifle your laughter into his shoulder, but joyfully enjoy the fact that he’s carrying you like this. He stops, and you’re about to ask him why when he turns around, allowing you a good view of everyone staring at you. You yelp in surprise and jump down from his arms, embarrassingly flattening the front of your clothes.

Everyone casts a smile in your direction. You want to cry from how relieved they all look, but you’ve had enough of that for a while.

“Hey guys,” you say. The whole team seems to be present, two people are missing. “Where are Tony and Maeve?”

“Discussing Maeve’s absence,” Natasha speaks up. “Though I don’t know what else. They’ve been in Tony’s lab for quite some time.”

“I’m sure she’s just mesmerized by all of his toys,” Steve says. “But she’s okay, first and foremost. She’s been very… ecstatic, since this morning.”

“Of course she is,” you smile. “I’m glad to hear she’s doing okay. But I want to see her. Right now.”

“I shall go retrieve the two,” Vision offers, sinking into the floor.

“I sorta missed him doing that,” you say to yourself. You look up again and give everyone a smile, but you can feel the tears trying to push their way through. You manage to keep them in for a short minute, but they spill over once you begin giving everyone a hug. You’re overwhelmed with emotion; you had the biggest scare of your entire life, not knowing if you would see them again. But here they are, in the flesh, alive and well.

Moments later, Vision comes back with Tony and Maeve, who are still deep in conversation. You perk up at the sound of her voice, and turn around, clutching your chest. She looks completely fine on the outside, but you know, you know, she’s burning on the inside. When she looks at you, she gives you one of those smiles where she’s excited about telling someone how much she loves the environment and what she’s going to do to hone it.

You can’t even hear her as she approaches you; all you see is her smile, and the fact that she’s walking on her own. You meet her halfway and wrap your arms around her, and squeeze tightly. You rapidly blink the tears away, and revel in this moment with her. She hugs you back just as enthusiastically, and continues to chatter your ear off. She’s glowing when you pull away from her, which only makes you embrace her again. She stops her ranting and takes the time to give you a real hug, without her unknowingly ruining it.

The room goes silent as you and Maeve have a reunion. Though it was reassuring to see her when you woke up in bed, it’s much better to see her walking on her own two feet. Her hug is warm and familiar, yet secure and surprisingly strong. She’s never hugged you with such ferocity before, but you couldn’t care less. It feels great.

“You look a lot better,” you mention as you pull away again. You give her a quick once-over, just to be sure.

“I am a lot better,” she confirms, swinging your hands. “A little bit sore in some places, but overall, I’m good! Mr. Stark was showing me his lab! It’s huge! He was showing me this amazing piece he’s working on and–“

“Ah bup bup,” Tony cuts in. “That’s still a secret. Can’t go giving anything away, Miss Lockette.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck. “Guess they’ll just have to wait and see!”

“Exactly,” Tony agrees.

“Another secret project?” you guess.

“Yup,” Maeve says. “It’s a really good one.”

“Then why do you get to know about it and we don’t?” you ask, though you don’t really mind.

“Because he likes me best,” Maeve smiles.

“I’m sure,” you smile, giving Tony an eyebrow raise.

“Enough about that,” Tony says, ending the conversation there. “_______ is up and about. Welcome back.”

“Thanks.”

No matter if he likes it or not, you move forward and give him a hug as well. You don’t remember the last time you saw Tony hug someone. He probably needs it, anyway, so you make it last. You pull away when you sense he’s had his fill, and smile up at him.

“How you feelin’ kid?” he asks.

“Better,” you reply. “My wrists and ankles still need time to heal, but I’m good. Dr. Markson will get rid of the scars, too. After that, I know I’ll be alright.”

After greeting everyone equally, you all sit down for dinner. Tony made an order of Chinese some time ago, and arrives right on time. Sam, Steve, and Bucky bring everything in, and organize it on the table in the dining room. You’re surprised by how lively everyone is; you know they’re happy about you and Maeve being alright, but you didn’t expect this.

Sam and Bucky have seemed to have called a truce, and are actually talking to each other without casting in a sarcastic remark or arguing about stupid things. Tony hasn’t teased anyone (in a bad way), and Vision is speaking more. You don’t know what else has all of them in a good mood, but you’re not complaining. You all have a nice meal together. Maeve is the most enthusiastic of the bunch, since she’s meeting such extraordinary people all at once. She has a mountain of questions for each person, including Bucky. They’re all safe questions, though. She knows not to say anything sensitive or put someone off, just like a regular person would. Just stuff about their lives, what they like, what they do in their spare time. Generic things when getting to know a person. And she’s loving every minute of it.

Afterwards, everyone goes to their own quarters. Maeve has taken a very strong liking to Steve, Wanda, and Natasha, so she stays with them. Meanwhile, you decide to go see Dr. Markson to remove your scars. The two more serious ones you’ll leave alone, but the many others scattered along your body have got to go. You don’t need the daily reminder. Bucky goes with you, because he wants to be with you for the remainder of the night and see how this goes. He’s never seen how something like this works, so it’ll be informative for him.

The process is fairly simple and painless. Dr. Markson has you remove your clothes and spread your arms and legs evenly so he can access each scar with ease. He uses a small, hand-held device that sends pulses into your skin. It looks like a hot glue gun, in your opinion. But the red light emitting from the tip fluidly removes your scars with no trouble at all. The whole procedure takes about half an hour, so you speak with Bucky during the entire thing.

“You nervous?”

“Nope. You?”

“Why would I be nervous?”

“Because you came down here with me.”

“Of course I did. I wanted to be with you.”

You smile widely at him. You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to hearing Bucky say that. You’re not even sure if he’s used to it yet. You’re still very new to having a relationship with a man, and Bucky having a relationship with anyone at all. You’re both still healing from new and old wounds, but so far, you’ve been nothing but supportive of each other. Offering comfort and insight and sympathy when needed.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, staring down at Dr. Markson’s hands. He only has a handful more to go. That time is spent in a comfortable silence, and when Dr. Markson is finished, you sit up to get a good look at yourself.

“It’s like they weren’t even there,” you comment, smoothing your fingers over where the scars used to be. “Thank you for this. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re most welcome,” he says, taking off his gloves. “There is no aftercare needed for this. Just keep up with your whirlpool therapy.”

“I will. Thank you again.”

You put your clothes back on as Dr. Markson takes his leave. Bucky takes you back upstairs, and you go straight to the kitchen to see if there’s any ice cream in the freezer. Luckily there is, so you grab the tub, two spoons, and plop down on the couch with Bucky trailing behind. You happily lay his legs over your lap and share the ice cream with him while watching TV.

The whole atmosphere seems very domestic to you. Sitting together at home, having a night in, watching some simple TV and falling asleep together. It’s exactly what you’d imagine yourself doing someday, even though you did it quite often with Maeve. But it’s much different when it’s with your lover. You even eat the rest of the ice cream when Bucky can’t have any more. Then you bury yourself against his chest while he throws a blanket over you. Steve, Wanda, Natasha, and Maeve are upstairs, Tony is most likely in his lab, Vision in his room, and Sam either in his room as well or has made his way upstairs to join the fun. But being here with Bucky is enough to keep you calm for the remainder of the night.

You two retire early to bed, despite it being ten at night. You’re nearly falling asleep on the couch, and you don’t want a sore neck in the morning. So you force yourself up, and grip Bucky’s arm to drag him off to bed as well. He’s grumpy about it, but once you push him down on his bed he instantly recoils. He pulls in his legs and hunches over. You crawl in beside him, put the covers over him, and decide to be the big spoon tonight. His metal arm is lukewarm since you were laying on it in the living room, so you settle into him quite nicely. You kiss the back of his neck and grasp his hand.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper as a goodnight.

“I love you too,” he says, kissing your fingers.

“See you in the morning.”

You manage to keep him in your arms the entire night, and also prevent him from having any nightmares. But that doesn’t stop you from having some of your own.

A week later, on October 9th, Maeve is going back home.

She’s had a tremendous time at the compound, you’d say. She was smiling, participating in every conversation, and wouldn’t shut up about all that she’s learned. And not one ounce of her happiness annoyed you. She’d been given the opportunity to get to know the Avengers when they weren’t risking their lives for the world. And even though she can’t speak a word of this to anybody back home, she’s perfectly fine keeping it to herself. As long as she’s able to share her experience with you over and over, she’ll forget that it was even a big event in the first place.

You walk with her to the private landing strip outside the compound where the jet is waiting for her. Tony tags along as well, to see that things go over smoothly. It’s a surprisingly quiet walk, though everything Maeve wants to say, she’s already said. It’s news enough to be able to meet at least one member of the team, but all of them at once? You’d have a small riot on your hands.

Once you’re nearing the steps of the jet, you sigh, and stop walking, as does Maeve and Tony. He hangs back to allow you to say a proper goodbye.

“This… isn’t exactly how I wanted you to meet everyone,” you say solemnly, but manage a small smile. “But I’m really glad you did.”

“So am I,” she agrees. “And sorry for chatting your ear off. I’m sure you knew everything I told you.”

“Mostly, yeah,” you nod. “But I didn’t mind. You have the right to be excited, and you know I love talking about them whenever someone brings them up.”

“We just can’t help ourselves.”

“No we can’t.”

You have a small laugh together before Maeve brings you in for a hug. You immediately reciprocate it, and control the tears when you feel yourself getting emotional. Even after hugging for a solid minute, you feel like she pulls away too early. The wind whips her wild hair across her face, and she pushes it behind her ear.

“Be sure to still keep my updated,” she says. “On them, and on you.”

“Same to you,” you say. “I wanna know how you’re doing too.”

“Agreed.”

Just then, Tony steps in, and holds out a long, rectangular box for Maeve. He hands it over to her, and she takes it.

“Just a little goodbye gift,” Tony says. “Nothing too fancy.”

Maeve takes off the lid, and her eyes widen as she stares down at what seems to be a very expensive looking Michael Kors watch. She takes it out and watches the diamonds shine in the sun.

“This is–“

“No need to thank me,” Tony interrupts. “Also, it’s not just a watch.” He makes a gesture that tells her to flip it over, so she does. “See that there? There’s a button inside that’s exclusively designated for extreme emergencies. If you ever need us, we’ll be there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” Maeve quickly says before Tony cuts her off again. “This is more than I could ask for. I don’t know how else to–“

“No need,” he interrupts again, holding up a hand. “It’s the least I could do after all that’s happened. And I am assigning a body guard for you. Though he will act as a sort of concierge for your apartment building. If you’re ever in trouble, he will be there. He’s waiting on the jet.”

“Thank you,” Maeve says again. Tony can only smile, and offer a small hug before taking a step back to watch her take her leave. You share one last hug with Maeve before she disappears up the stairs and into the jet.

“You gonna be okay?” Tony asks you.

“I will be,” you say. “But it’s her I’m worried about. She hasn’t said a word to me since that night in the infirmary.”

“She’ll be alright, kid,” Tony assures you. “She’s strong. From spending just a few hours with her, I can tell that she’ll pull out of this okay.”

“I hope you’re right. And what is she gonna say when she gets home? She’s still in school, y’know. Her friends will know she wasn’t there.”

“I got that handled.”

“What did you say?”

“That I reviewed her work and decided to give her a tour of the clean-energy Tower. And gave her a few tips and tricks about how to achieve that.”

“Clever.”

“She’s bringing back evidence, too. I gave her some blueprints and my personal notes. So she won’t be lying about where she was.”

“Always a way out.”

“Exactly.”

“Thank you, Tony.”

“No problem. Come on. She’s gonna be fine.”

“Un.”

The two of you watch the jet take off, and you don’t go back to the compound until the jet has disappeared from your sight.

19 notes · View notes

brettonio-one-chicago · 7 years

Text

I Knew I Loved You

Hey all! I know you guys have been waiting for a sequel to “Bulletproof” since I posted it... so here it is! It is also a prompt “You’re telling me you’ve never been to Ikea?”

So here it is! Hope you enjoy... and I really thank you all for your patience in me getting to these! Some inspiration comes from the Savage Garden song by the same title.

It had been a couple months since Sylvie had been shot. She was no longer in a plaster cast, but she was still not back to 100%. She also was having to be more cautious considering the precious cargo she was carrying, but only Antonio, Matt and Gaby knew about it, other than her and the doctors. They were planning to announce the big news at Molly’s this weekend. In the mean time, she’d temporarily assigned to Dispatch. Gaby and Chout had been partnered for the next little while.

“Hey.” Antonio came up behind her. “What you thinking about?”

“Announcing all this to our friends and family tomorrow night.” Sylvie held up her left hand. Despite them being engaged for the last couple months, they hadn’t formally told everyone yet.

“Worried?”

“Well... your ex is still insane.” Sylvie pointed out.

“Not her problem.”

“Well, she’ll try to make it her problem.” Sylvie cringed at the last time that the kids had come over and Laura had flipped out on her because Antonio wasn’t there.

“She can’t ruin this.” Antonio put his hand on her belly. “How are you feeling?”

“Well, now that I actually know I’m pregnant, I actually have morning sickness.” Sylvie groaned. “I hate it.”

“It should be almost over... or at least that’s what your OB said.”

“Uh huh... or I could be one of those ‘lucky’ women that gets it until I deliver.”

“Stop being so negative... have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

Antonio went to the fridge to grab eggs.

“If you’re thinking of making me eggs, you can stop right there.”

“You need to eat, the baby needs to eat.”

“The baby is like the size of a lemon... baby doesn’t like eggs right now.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Toast... with jam.” Sylvie sipped her tea. “Please.”

“Well... it’s something.” He kissed her cheek and went to put bread into the toaster. “When do you start at Dispatch?”

“I just got cleared for next shift. So I’m here for another few days.” Sylvie sighed.

“Don’t you like just being able to sit at home and rest?” Antonio took a sip from his coffee.

She stared at him. “For a couple days, sure... but it’s been two months... I’m getting cabin fever.”

“You’ve left the house a couple times since.” Antonio said.

“I had a routine... I can’t even do Zumba anymore.”

“You got shot... and the bullet broke your leg.” Antonio reminded her.

“Still!” Sylvie pouted. “You’ve been shot and you went right back to work.”

“I was a cop.” Antonio put his empty cup in the sink. “You are a paramedic... bullets shouldn’t be flying when you’re on the job.”

“Hmph.”

“Plus, I didn’t get broken bones.”

“Gaby told me that you almost bled out both times you were recently shot.”

“Gaby has a big mouth.” He spread the jam over the now toasted bread. “She shouldn’t be making you upset.”

“I wouldn’t get so upset if you’d talk to me.” Sylvie took a bite of the toast.

“I do talk to you.”

“Not about that stuff.”

Antonio groaned. “Okay... if you promise to endure the next few days, I promise to answer any and all of your questions about my old job and my new job.”

“Risks and dangers too?”

“Yes.”

Sylvie grinned. “Okay... I will endure the next few days with little to no complaining.”

“That’s my girl.” Antonio looked at his watch. “I gotta go.”

“Have a good day and try to stay out of trouble.” Sylvie got up and hugged him.

“But... where’s the fun in that?” Antonio mock whined.

She punched his shoulder. “Just get going before I decide to keep you all day.”

Antonio was putting his jacket on. “What are your plans for today?”

“I’m starting to plan the nursery.” Sylvie pulled out a bunch of catalogues.

“Exactly what all are we needing in a nursery?” His eyes bulged at pile of catalogues.

“Well, painting it... and crib and change table...” Sylvie rattled off a bunch of thing.

“Woah, woah... woah!” Antonio exclaimed. “I had two kids already... we didn’t have all that... and where exactly would we get all this?”

“Ikea.”

Antonio arched an eyebrow. “Ikea?”

Sylvie nodded. “They have everything in one store... it would be one trip.”

“Uh huh.” Antonio was unsure of this idea. He’d heard many horror stories about letting loved ones shop at Ikea.

“You mean to tell me you’ve never been to Ikea?” Sylvie asked.

He shook his head. “Nope. Never had the need. When Eva and Diego were born, a lot of the stuff was given to us as gifts... or I went to Wal-Mart... can’t we go to Wal-mart?”

“But... but...” She held up the catalogue that she had opened. “Look how adorable this is?”

Antonio had to admit it was pretty cute. “Okay... you pick some stuff, and we’ll talk about it when I get home tonight, okay?”

“Okay.” She kissed him quickly before going back to browsing the catalogues.

He was chuckling as he left for work. He knew he was going to be stuck going to Ikea, no matter how much he protested, but for Sylvie, anything was worth it.

“So, what exactly is this big party for?” Laura asked looking up from her file.

“Just wanna have a get together, you know, celebrate Sylvie going back to work and all that.” Antonio didn’t look up from the computer. He was praying that she didn’t push much more because he was busting at the seams to announce their engagement and pregnancy.

“Uh huh.” Laura didn’t buy it. “There’s more to it than that.” She closed the folder and walked over to his desk, leaning against it. “Spill, partner.”

Antonio looked up. “What makes you think there’s more to it?”

“She was shot two months ago... coulda had a celebration then. Ya know, celebrate surviving and all that?”

“She wanted it now, who am I to argue with her.” Antonio shrugged. “It’s her party, I’m just helping organize it.”

“I can always ask your sister. She’ll tell me.”

“She won’t say anything because there’s nothing left to say.” Antonio hit print on the screen. “Come on, we’ve got results, let’s go see Stone and see if we can’t get a warrant for this today...”

“This discussion ain’t over, Dawson.” Laura said as she followed him to Stone’s office.

“Are you excited?” Gaby asked.

“About?” Sylvie was going through her collection of nail polishes for the mani pedis they were getting today.

“The party!” Gaby exclaimed. “Come on... we’ve been busting at the seams to spill this!”

“It’s one more day, Gaby.” Sylvie sighed. “One more day before the whole world knows the truth.”

“You won’t be able to hide it much more anyhow.” Gaby pointed to her midsection. “I can see that tiny bump already forming.”

“Hey!” Sylvie batted her hands away. “I don’t want everyone to know yet.”

“There are only so many baggy things you can wear right now, Brett.” Gaby sighed. “It’s getting hot out.”

“I’ll invest in muumuus if I have to.” Sylvie stuck her tongue out.

“Not exactly a CFD regulated uniform.” Gaby chuckled. “Have you and Antonio told the kids?”

“Tonight over supper.” Sylvie smiled. “Did you know your brother has never been to Ikea?”

“That surprises you?” Gaby feigned shock.

“Gaby!” Sylvie tossed a cushion at her head. “I’m serious. I brought up designing the nursery and stuff and wanting to go to Ikea and he was like... like a deer in headlights.”

“Well, they either got gifted some stuff for the kids or went to Wal-mart.”

“That’s what he told me!” Sylvie huffed, collapsing against the couch. “What’s wrong with Ikea?”

“Well... there’s the fact that the instructions aren’t the clearest... that you have to go through the entire store to get to what you want... and Antonio has probably heard the horror stories of men who go shopping there with their girlfriends or wives and get stuck in there for hours... just to name a few reasons.”

“You don’t like Ikea either?”

“Hell no!” Gaby exclaimed. “I bought a book case from there once and I ended up using it as fire starter for a drill about a week later because I didn’t understand how to put the whole damn thing together. Matt ended up coming over, tearing a strip outta me for not asking for him to build me one, then he built me the sturdiest bookcase known to man.”

“Hmm.” Sylvie picked up the bottle of champagne pink nail polish she’d decided on. “Well, he said we’d discuss it later.”

“Good luck.” Gaby picked a sultry red for herself.

The two of them headed to where their manicurists were waiting for them.

Antonio got Sylvie’s text that she wasn’t home and was wondering if he could come pick her up before heading to pick up the kids from Laura’s. He began packing his things up for the night and was heading out when Stone cornered him.

“Boss.”

“Antonio... anything we need to bring this weekend?”

“It’s Molly’s... pretty sure you only need to bring yourself.”

Stone chuckled. “So, you’re really not going to say why we’re all invited to this big shindig?”

“I’ve told everyone... you guys are the ones who don’t believe it... Sylvie wants to celebrate being able to go back to work... even if it’s only Dispatch until she’s done her physio and stuff.”

“Okay.” Stone put his hands up. “We’ll see you guys around 7?”

“Definitely.” Antonio smiled. “Gotta go pick up Sylvie and the kids... before my ex decides we can’t have them for this weekend.”

“Good luck.” Peter patted his back and headed off to Jeffries’ office with a stack of files.

Antonio sighed. He couldn’t wait for the weekend to get here. There was only so much dodging the subject he could do. Now, he just prayed that no one would notice the ring on Sylvie’s hand until the party. 24 more hours. He thought to himself. 24 hours and the whole world will know and I won’t have to worry so much anymore. He had to hope he wouldn’t have to worry. He did worry though. Even though they were divorced, Laura was bound and determined to make his and Sylvie’s new life miserable. Before the shooting, she’d even tried ambushing Sylvie a the fire house. That had not ended the way Laura had probably hoped it would. He chuckled to himself at the memory of the phone call he’d gotten from Chief Boden.

3 months earlier...

“Dawson.” Antonio answered his phone.

“Antonio... Chief Boden.”

“Chief?” Antonio panicked. “Are Gaby and Sylvie okay?”

“Gaby’s fine... Sylvie... not so good and your ex has a busted nose and is currently locked in my supply closet.”

“My what?” Antonio was stumped. “Why the hell was Laura at the firehouse?”

“My question exactly.” Boden said. “I’d really appreciate if you come sort this all out... before CPD has to arrest both your ex and your girlfriend... the latter who also happens to be part of one of the best paramedic teams in the whole damn city of Chicago.”

Antonio gulped. “Yes, Chief. Uh, right away.” Antonio ended the call and looked up to see his new partner, ironically enough named Laura, but reminded him a lot of Jules, hovering by his desk.

“What was that all about?”

“Uh... not really sure.” Antonio looked around for his keys. “That was Chief Boden... my ex ambushed my girlfriend and I have to...”

She handed him the keys. “You looking for these?”

Antonio nodded. “Thanks... yeah... uh, I have to go solve this... so could you?”

“You got it.” Laura nodded. “Good luck.”

Antonio rushed to Firehouse 51 and saw that Chief Boden was waiting for him out on the apparatus floor. He slowed his breathing and made his way over to join Chief. “Chief.” He extended his hand. He then saw that Severide and Matt were also standing there. “Kelly, Matt.”

“Antonio.” Boden shook his hand.

“What the hell happened?”

Matt stepped in. “Laura showed up, pissed off that Sylvie had picked Diego up from that Chess tournament the other day when it was supposed to be you... and well, she called Sylvie a dumb, college blonde... and a few other unsavoury things...”

“And Brett decked her.” Severide added. “LIke, Laura landed on her ass.”

“Shit.”

“Mhm.” Boden said. “Now, I get that she’s your ex... and y’all have issues, but they do not get worked out in MY FIREHOUSE!”

“Understood.” Antonio stood straight up. “I... it won’t happen again... I can assure you of that.”

“It better not, because wether or not, you are dating Sylvie or are Gaby’s brother... I will call CPD next time.” Boden huffed before heading back to his office.

Antonio ran his hand through his hair. He looked to the two lieutenants. “Where’s Sylvie? I’d rather go talk to her first than deal with Laura right away.”

“Brett’s with Gaby in the kitchen...” Matt said. “Be careful because Gaby gave her a knife to start chopping veggies for supper.”

“Got it.” Antonio headed to the kitchen. “Where’s Laura?”

“Still in the supply closet. Cruz and Otis are guarding the door.” Severide said.

Antonio nodded. “Thanks.” He headed to go check on Sylvie before dealing with his demonic ex-wife.

“The nerve of that bitch!” Sylvie was growling as she attacked a pile of celery. “What the hell does me being blonde have to do with anything?!”

Gaby looked up as she heard the door close. “Antonio!” She ran to him. “Thank GOD! Solve this! Please?”

“I’ll do my best.” Antonio whispered. While Sylvie may not have been Dominican, she sure as hell had the temper of a Latina sometimes. He wondered if it wasn’t because she’d been Gaby’s roommate for a period of time and that she was dating him. “Sylvie...” He approached the counter with caution.

Sylvie dropped the knife to the cutting board and ran to him, throwing herself into his arms. “Thank God you’re here. Arrest her!”

“For what?”

“Slander! Assault! Being a bitch! I don’t know... just something.” She buried her head in his shoulder. “I never did anything to that woman and she just attacked me in front of everyone... including Eva and Diego... and... and...” She just began to angry cry.

Antonio looked back to Gaby. “Where are the kids?”

“Ma came to get them... she said they didn’t need to see anymore of this than they already had.”

“Good.” He kissed the top of Sylvie’s head. “Shh... babe... it’s okay... I’m here... shh...” He rubbed her back.

Sylvie looked up at him. He could see the pain and anger in her eyes. “I don’t know what her problem is with us being together. She’s dating what’s his name... you haven’t gone over to punch him because he’s dating your ex.”

“No... and I wouldn’t... I don’t care what she does as long as it doesn’t harm the kids.” Antonio kissed her. “I love you and only you.”

Sylvie sighed. “I just needed to hear that.” She sniffled. “I punched her.”

“I heard.” Antonio snickered. “Chief Boden was not impressed.”

“With her...” Gaby chimed in. “He actually applauded Brett’s boxing skills.”

“I see.” Antonio looked into Sylvie’s eyes. “I guess those lessons came in handy.”

Sylvie nodded. “Mhmm.”

“Okay... well, whatever her problem is... she can direct it to me... she comes near you or this house again, I’m getting a restraining order... and it’s not hard to get one when you work for the ASA.”

Sylvie snuggled into him. “I’m okay with that.”

“I know.” Antonio hugged her tightly. “Okay... now that I know you’re okay... I’M going to go deal with her and then you and I will have a great weekend to ourselves.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Okay!” Gaby exclaimed. “I’m leaving this love fest... I’ll be doing inventory.”

Antonio laughed as Gaby ran out of the kitchen to the ambulance bay. “She’s still not used to this.”

“Meh...” Sylvie smiled. “She will... everyone will have to get used to it.”

“Damn straight.” Antonio kissed her. “Okay... now, no more mutilating vegetables... I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Mhm.” Sylvie kissed him. “Thank you... for all this.”

“Hey.” Antonio lifted her chin. “You’re my girl... I’d move heaven and earth for you.”

“I know.” She wiped her eyes and cheeks. “Go deal with her, before I do.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Antonio winked at her before heading to find the supply closet that was serving as his ex-wife’s cell.

“Hey, Antonio!” Joe Cruz waved him over.

“Joe... Otis.” Antonio greeted them. “How’s it going?”

“Better once Dragon Lady leave.” Otis whispered. Between calling Brett a bunch of names, none of which I’m gonna be caught dead repeating... and insulting all of us, she bit Cruz.”

Cruz held up his hand. “All I tried doing was help with the nose bleed that came with the busted nose that Brett gave her.”

Antonio sighed. “Yeah, well... I’m sorry guys... she won’t be coming back here... and if she does, just hose her down... maybe she’ll cool off that way.”

“Hey, works for me.” Cruz said. “I’m gonna go check on supper.”

He and Otis left, leaving Antonio alone with the very pissed off Laura. He moved the chair from under the door knob and opened the door.

Laura stood there glaring at him, nostrils flared, almost like a cartoon bull. “You!”

“Me?” Antonio said. “I’m not the psycho who attacked a paramedic at her firehouse. Pretty sure that was all you.”

“You know damn well what I mean.” Laura stomped out of the closet. “She’s just a trashy blonde you’re fucking to spite me.”

“Laura, I’ve done a lot of questionable things in my life... but I’ve never ‘fucked’ somebody just to spite you... despite having many opportunities.” Antonio crossed his arms. He kept his legs apart in a stance that would allow him to stay upright if she attacked him.

“She’s barely a teenager! She’s barely older than Eva!”

Antonio glared at her. “Eva’s 16... Sylvie’s 27... she’s a little bit older, not that it’s any of your goddamn business anyhow!”

“Why is she picking up Diego then, huh? When it’s supposed to be YOUR responsibility?!”

“Seriously? That’s what this is about? How about the amount of times Gerald picked Eva up from Volleyball or from a friend’s house?” Antonio growled. “You’re not the perfect parent you think you are, Laura... so here’s how this is going to go... you’re going to get out of here... and never step foot near this firehouse again... you’re going to find some way to apologize to Chief Boden for the unnecessary dram YOU’VE caused today and then you will never, ever contact Sylvie again, you understand me? Cause, if you don’t... I’m slapping a restraining order on you and Gerald so fast, you’re head will spin. You moved on... well, so did I.”

Laura tried to say something but Antonio cut her off. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if she busted your nose. You attacked her and she defended herself. No one will buy your side to save their life... why? Because you’re being the jealous, spiteful ex-wife who can’t stand to see your ex-husband actually be happy again.” Antonio took a deep breath. “Now, get out, or I’ll let some of those firemen you insulted throw you out.”

Laura stormed out of the firehouse.

“Damn!” Gaby said as she walked up to Antonio. “How’d that feel?”

“Fucking amazing.” Antonio sighed. It truly felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from his chest. “I have no idea why I never told her that before.”

“You never had reason to.” Gaby put her hand on his shoulder. “Look... I know I wasn’t the most supportive you and Brett getting together, but I see how happy you two are and how you guys genuinely complete each other, I’m happy you’ve found each other.”

“Thanks, sis.” Antonio smiled. “I gotta get back to work... I’m gonna go say bye to Brett... and I’ll see you guys later.”

Since that adventure, Laura hadn’t gone near 51, but she wasn’t the most pleasant person when they went to pick up the kids or drop them off. She always got pissy if she had to come and pick them up from the house. Tonight, he wasn’t going to let anything ruin their night with the kids. They wouldn’t be able to come to Molly’s for the big reveal for obvious reasons, but they wanted to make sure they heard it from them first. He pulled up to Gaby and Matt’s and saw Sylvie sitting on the front steps with Gaby. They were laughing at Matt who was halfway up a tree trying to rescue the neighbours kitten.

Antonio got out of his truck and walked up to the tree. “Matt... isn’t this a little stereotypical?”

“Shut up.” Matt groaned. “Oreo... come here!”

Gaby laughed. “This is like the 10th time this week... I think the kitten just likes the tree.”

“Are you sure it’s the cat?” Antonio hugged her. “Pretty sure I see your neighbour eyeing your husband.”

“She can look, but she knows Matt’s married... to me.” Gaby punched his shoulder. “Sylvie’s all dolled up... you nervous?”

“No, anxious... I want the kids to know before tomorrow... and I don’t need Laura ruining it for us.”

“She doesn’t know anything, right?”

“Right, but once she finds out...”

“Hmm.” Gaby sighed. “Well, good luck... I’m gonna help get Oreo out of the tree.”

Antonio went to Sylvie. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey, yourself.” She hugged him. “Ready?”

“As ready as I can be.” He kissed her. He took her hands. “Very pretty.”

“Thank you.” She blushed. “Thanks, Gaby... it was fun.”

“No problem!” Gaby waved to them from the tree. She’d managed to lure Oreo to her with some treats. “Whatever you do... don’t get the kids a cat.” She groaned.

The other couple laughed as they headed to Antonio’s truck.

Antonio had reserved a table at a nicer family restaurant. While Sylvie had tried to convince him to let her cook, he’d finally won by reminding her that she still can’t spend extended periods of time on her leg.

“So... Dad?” Eva asked. “Why are we going out tonight?”

“Because we want to spoil you.” Antonio answered.

“That’s it?”

“Why, you don’t want to go out?” Antonio asked.

“Well, no, yes... I like going out, but you always used to save going out for special occasions.” Eva reminded him.

“Well... things are a little different now.”

“Hey, Sylvie... is your leg better?” Diego changed the subject.

“Much, thanks for asking, Diego.” Sylvie turned back and smiled. “How’s Chess Club going?”

“We got invited to this big tournament in Springfield in a couple weeks... but Mom’s not sure I can go.”

“Why not?” Antonio looked in the rearview as he turned off the engine.

“Because I’d have to stay out there and Gerald is wanting to take her on a weekend getaway to the Hamptons that weekend... and I need a parent there for supervision.”

“Well... do you want to go?” Antonio turned around.

“Yeah.”

“Then, I’ll take you. I don’t think you should be punished because ‘Gerald’ wants to take your mom to the Hamptons.”

“Cool.” Diego grinned. His mood had definitely brightened with this revelation. “Sylvie... would you come too?”

“I think I could make that work.” Sylvie smiled. She looked to Eva. “Would you be joining us?”

“Could we hit the mall when we’re there?”

“I think we can do that, right, Antonio?”

Antonio knew that Eva had struggled a little bit with the changes that came with her parents being in new relationships. “Sure... we can hit the mall too.”

“Then, I’m in.” Eva undid her seatbelt. “Do we get to pick anything on the menu?”

“As long as it’s not alcohol, yes.” Antonio laughed. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

“Me too!” Diego booked it out of the truck and up the steps of the restaurant.

Sylvie shook her head. “Way too much energy.”

“He’s always like that.” Eva whispered. She walked next to Sylvie the whole way.

“Boys.” Sylvie patted Eva’s shoulder.

They were quickly seated and went over the menu. Once they’d ordered their food, they made small talk. Sylvie looked to Antonio. He knew that look. It meant ‘Now or never’.

“So, kids... uh, how do feel about us being together... as a couple?”

“Better than mom with Gerald.” Eva hissed his name. “He treats us like we’re babies... at least Sylvie treats us like people and that we’re teens.”

“Well... it’s called respect.” Sylvie smiled. “I like you guys, and you respect me, so I return the respect.”

“So... how would you feel about us taking the next step?”

“Didn’t you guys already move in together?” Diego asked, nibbling on a breadstick.

Eva grabbed Sylvie’s left hand. “Not that step, dummy! Look!”

Diego dropped the breadstick and stared between Antonio and Sylvie. “Uh... is...”

“You asked her to marry you?!” Eva squealed.

Sylvie nodded as her cheeks filled with colour.

“That’s awesome!” Diego exclaimed. He got up and went around hugged her. “Definitely the coolest thing ever!”

Antonio looked to Eva. “What do you think?”

“Daddy... you haven’t been this happy in so long... I just want us all to be happy again.” She went to hug her father. “Sylvie’s pretty awesome, so I like the idea of having a hip step mom.” She turned to Sylvie. “Welcome to the family.”

Sylvie hugged her back. “Thank you, guys.”

“Is that why you were house hunting the other day, Dad?” Diego asked, finishing his plate.

“Uh, not really.” Antonio took a sip of his wine. “That was something else we wanted to talk to you about.”

“What?” Eva was worried.

“Well... um...” Antonio stumbled over his words.

Sylvie squeezed his hand and jumped in. “How would you guys feel about having a younger sibling?”

“Uh... are we having one?” Diego asked, dropping his fork.

“Answer the question.” Antonio said.

“Sure?” Diego didn’t know what else to say. They hadn’t been around little kids since Louie had gone to live with his biological father.

“Eva?”

“I don’t know... I...” She looked down at her plate. “Would it be more important than us?”

Sylvie knew where this was headed, so she decided to nib it in the bud. “No... no. You guys will always be as important... we... well, I know I don’t believe in having favourites.”

“So... are you guys gonna have a baby?” Eva asked hesitantly.

“We are.” Antonio answered. “It wasn’t planned... but, yes. Sylvie is pregnant... and you guys are gonna have a little brother or sister in about 6 months.”

“So that’s why you’ve been wearing baggier clothes.” Diego thought about it. “I thought it was just more comfortable for you since... ya know... you got shot.”

Sylvie chuckled. “Partially yes to both of those. We... we weren’t sure how to tell people... especially because of how we found out.”

“You didn’t suspect anything?”

Sylvie shook her head. “No... We found out after I was shot... but we want us to all be okay with this... and we know it’s going to be an adjustment.”

“Does anyone else know?” Diego asked.

“Tia Gaby and Uncle Matt... and Chief Boden... now you guys.”

“When are you telling everyone else?”

“Tomorrow night... after we drop you off with Abuela... we’ll tell her and then we’re telling everyone at Molly’s.”

“What about the engagement?”

“Same thing... well... Abuela knows about the engagement... she and Tia Gaby got told right away... and then they wanted to know when we could tell everyone.”

“So why are you waiting so long?” Eva sipped her cola. “It’s been three months.”

“We just wanted to enjoy the time together... plus, I wanted to heal before having everyone attack us.” Sylvie grinned.

“Oh, yeah. That’s probably a good idea.” Diego chuckled. “So, what does that all mean for us?”

“We’re a family, Diego. Always will be.” Antonio patted his son’s hand. “We’re just expanding by two.”

“Ma!” Antonio greeted his mother as they walked in her house.

“Antonio!” She embraced him. “How are you doing?”

“Better now that we’ll be telling everyone about the engagement.”

“It’s about time, mijo.” She pinched his cheek. “Three months is a very long time for tu madre to keep her mouth closed. Same with tu hermana.”

“Si, Mami. I know, but after tonight, it won’t matter.”

“Abuela!” The kids ran to hug their grandmother.

“Eva, Diego!” She hugged her grandchildren tightly. “Oh, how I missed you.”

“We missed you, too!” Eva kissed Camila on the cheek. She looked to her dad and mouthed. ‘Tell her, or I will.”

“Mami... before Sylvie and I go... we have something else to tell you... can we go to the kitchen... or something.” Antonio was anxious to tell her. He had been when Laura was pregnant with Eva and Diego too. He had no idea as to why, but he was always anxious to tell her that she was getting another grandchild.

“Si.” She motioned for the kids to go ahead of them into the kitchen. She hugged Sylvie. “I’m so happy you’re feeling better, mija... and that you’ll soon be part of our family, officially.”

“Gracias.” Sylvie blushed.

They sat at the island that was in the middle of Camila’s new kitchen.

“So, what’s going on?” Camila asked as she handed the kids each a beverage from the fridge. “Wine?” She asked Antonio and Sylvie.

“No, thank you.” Sylvie blushed.

Antonio shook his head. “Driving, well... that and I’m pretty sure they’re gonna be buying us lots of drinks tonight.”

“Okay, Sylvie, you sure?”

“She can’t drink.” Diego said before quickly covering his mouth, realizing what he’d just said.

“Sylvie, why can’t?” Camila’s jaw dropped. “Are you pregnant?”

“Yes.” Sylvie whispered.

“Dios mio!” She exclaimed. “Come here!” She hugged Sylvie tightly. “That’s fantastic news!”

Antonio looked to Diego. Diego shrugged. “Sorry, Dad.”

“It’s okay... it’s probably better this way.”

“How far along?” Camila asked.

“About 4 months, just about.” Sylvie said.

“When did you find out?”

“The day I got shot.” Sylvie laughed. “It made things very interesting.”

“I bet.” Camila looked to her son. “You’re happy?”

“It’s an adjustment, but si, Mami... we’re very happy.”

“Good, then so am I.” She hugged them again. “Kids, what do you think?”

“It’s going to be different.” Eva said. “But, I think it’ll be cool.”

“Then, off you go. I’ll watch these two, you two have fun.” Camila shooed them out of the kitchen and out the door. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Gracias, Ma!” Antonio blew his mother a kiss as they headed for his truck.

“So, we’re gonna be there before everyone else right?” Antonio asked Sylvie, holding her hand as they drove towards Molly’s.

“Yep. Just Gaby and Matt are there... well, and April. She volunteered to help out too, since she was there to help me kinda adjust after Connor dropped the bomb on me.”

“Hey, as long as you aren’t going to get shot anymore.”

“I highly doubt that can happen in the Dispatch offices.”

“You never know.” Antonio parked the truck. “I don’t ever want to go through that again.”

Sylvie leaned over and kissed him. “Not about to try and give you a coronary. Let’s go and get in there before everyone else arrives.”

Once inside, they finished setting up. Soon enough, there was banging on the door.

“Hey! Why’s this door locked?” Herrmann yelled. “I thought this was supposed to be a party?”

Matt looked out the window. “Looks like everyone’s here.”

“Places.” Gaby motioned to Antonio and Sylvie to stand near front of the bar.

Matt killed the lights and Gaby and April took their spots to release the confetti and balloons. Matt quickly unlocked the door.

People slowly made their way in, the room dimly light by the icicle lights that always hung from the ceiling.

They were murmuring trying to figure out why the lights were out or where everyone else was.

Once the door closed, Matt hit the lights and the girls released the confetti and balloons.

“Surprise!” They shouted.

“What the?” Came the general confusion from their friends and family.

“Welcome to our special Engagement Party/Baby announcement.” Sylvie shouted over the crowd.

Everyone stopped in their tracks.

Chief Boden walked towards the happy couple. “What did you say?”

Sylvie held up her left hand. “Antonio and I are getting married.”

“And, Sylvie and I are happy to announce that our family is growing by one in about 5 months.” Antonio added.

Their friends looked to each other before shouting. “Congratulations!” They rushed towards them to hug them and offer their well wishes.

While this was going on, Matt, April and Gaby went to the kitchen to get the food and the cake. People ate, laughed and talked about the future.

Antonio and Sylvie were busy planning a quick ceremony. They wanted the wedding before the baby was born.

“Why can’t we just do like Gaby?” Sylvie asked. “Theirs was simple.”

“And by the seat of their pants... I want it to be special for us.” Antonio took her hand.

“Marrying you is special, Antonio.” She kissed him. “I really don’t care how, or where... or when.”

“I just want you to have the best.”

“Antonio, what I want is to be your wife... without your psycho ex having a hissy fit, and preferably before this little one decides to make his appearance.”

“What if it’s a girl?” Antonio rubbed her belly. “You really should’ve let the doctor tell us.”

“I wanted a surprise.” Sylvie whispered seductively.

“Okay, not here.” Antonio whispered, trying to control the blood surging through his body. “We’re in the middle of Ikea trying to finish getting the nursery stuff because that’s what you wanted.”

Sylvie pouted. “But, we could test out one of the beds over there.”

“Sylvie, as much as I enjoy the fact that your hormones are so high... I don’t think getting arrested for public indecency and such would do too well for either of us. We can take this up again when we get home.” He kissed her. “Let’s just go pick up the crib and stuff and get out of here.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve been here for 3 hours already... I’d really rather be at home... taking care of you.” He nuzzled against her neck.

“Okay... okay.” She giggled. She pointed to a bedding set. “That one.”

“As you wish.” Antonio wrote down the last number and they headed to collect what they were buying.

“I can’t believe you guys managed to get this all together so fast.” Gaby said as she adjusted Sylvie’s veil.

“We’re cutting it a bit close, don’t you think?” Sylvie rubbed her belly. “I’m just happy I didn’t pick a fully white dress.”

“I think you look great.” Gaby grinned. “So happy you’re finally going to be my sister.”

“I thought I already was.” Sylvie teased her best friend.

“You know what I mean.” Gaby handed her a small bouquet. “You ready?”

“As ready as I can be.” Sylvie whispered. “This baby is very active right now.”

“Probably excited that mommy and daddy will finally be legally married.” Gaby poked her. “Come on... let’s go before that little one decides to make their appearance here and now.”

Sylvie and Gaby headed to the car where Stella was waiting for them.

Meanwhile...

Antonio was pacing the vestibule at the church.

“Antonio, bro... chill.” Jay laughed. “Don’t think Father will appreciate you wearing a hole in his floor.”

“Jay, Sylvie’s due any day now... I just... I’m starting to think I should’ve taken a page from my sister’s book and just marry her right then and there.” Antonio readjusted his tie for what was probably the 100th time.

“Woah.” Matt said as Antonio almost crashed into him. “Chill. Gaby called. They’re on their way.” Matt put his hands on Antonio’s shoulders. “The kids are here too.”

“Did Laura drop them off?”

“No... your mom picked them up and gave your ex a piece of his mind.” Matt chuckled. “Your mother is not someone I’d want to piss off.”

“Laura managed to do that quite often.” Antonio sighed.

“I think we should maybe forget about Laura.” Jay patted his shoulder. “You’re about to marry the woman carrying your child.”

“Yeah... yeah.” Antonio sighed. “I’m terrified.”

“Of what?” Matt asked. “Sylvie loves you... you guys are so happy together... kids seem to have adjusted well.”

“Still... I... I guess I’m just so used to waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“No one is going to dare to try and stop this wedding.” Jay laughed. “No one’s gonna get between you and Sylvie being happy.”

Antonio laughed. “With her hormones, pretty sure she’d kill anyone who’d try to stop it.”

“Another reason for us to not be late.” Matt motioned to his watch. “They’re gonna be here any minute and the priest wants us in our places before that... so...”

The trio of men headed to the back of the Church. When the kids saw Antonio, they ran to hug him.

“Hey, guys.” He held them tightly. “How was staying with Abuela?”

“If she had fed us anymore, we wouldn’t have been able to fit in our clothes.” Eva whispered.

Antonio whispered back. “Abuela just wants to make sure you had enough.”

Eva rolled her eyes. “You look nervous.”

“More like anxious.” Antonio responded. “Diego, you okay?”

Diego nodded. “Are you sure Sylvie is going to be okay... I mean... the baby will be here any day.”

“Hey, buddy... don’t jinx it.” Antonio laughed.

“Sorry.” Diego looked at his feet. “She looks really pretty by the way... we saw her on our way in.”

Antonio hugged him. “Thanks, bud.” He looked to both his kids. “You have no idea how much it means to me... to both Sylvie and I, that you guys are here.”

“There’s no place we’d rather be.” Eva squeezed his hand. “Let’s get you two married before our little brother or sister decides to make their appearance.”

“Go take your spot with Tia Gaby.” Antonio told her. He then turned to Diego. “You got the rings?”

Diego pulled out the box from his jacket pocket and opened it.

“Good.” Antonio sighed. “You ready?”

“Ready whenever you are.” Diego grinned.

Camila Dawson joined them. “You ready, hijo?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Antonio kissed his mother’s cheek.

“Good, because Father would like to start.” She pointed to the priest who was chuckling at the front.

Antonio nodded and motioned to the musicians to start playing.

Jay and Stella were the first to make their way up the aisle, followed by Matt and Gaby. Diego and Eva were next. Antonio squeezed his mother’s hand as the two of them made their way down the aisle. Once they had all taken their positions, the organist switched over to Canon In ‘D’. The back doors of the church flung open, courtesy of Cruz and Otis. Antonio had to keep his balance as Sylvie walked up the aisle on the arm of Chief Boden. Her parents hadn’t been able to come down because her father wasn’t well, so Otis was live streaming it for them.

Chief Boden took Sylvie’s hand from his arm and put it in Antonio’s. “Take care of her.”

“Always, Chief.” Antonio shook his hand. “Always.” He then led Sylvie up the last couple steps to the altar.

“Well, now that we’re all here... we can begin.” Chaplain Orlovsky chuckled. “Friends, you can be seated.” Once everyone was seated, he continued. “We are gathered here today to witness the joining of Antonio and Sylvie in Holy Matrimony.”

“It’s about time!” Capp called from one of the pews.

This was met with some chuckling from their other friends and family.

Chaplain Orlovsky waited for anyone to settled down. “Sylvie and Antonio, do you come here of your own volition? Do you wish to be joined in marriage?”

They responded. “We do.”

“Please join your right hands.” Chaplain Orlovsky then wrapped the stohl he wore around their hands. “Antonio, repeat after me: I, Antonio...”

“I, Antonio...”

“Take you, Sylvie...”

Antonio smiled. “Take you, Sylvie... to be my wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward... for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and health... as long as we both shall live.”

Chaplain Orlovsky shook his head. “Well... Sylvie?”

“I, Sylvie take you... Antonio, to be my husband... to have and to hold, from this day...” She took a deep, shaky breath. “Forward... for better or worse, richer... or poorer...”

“Sylvie, you okay?” Antonio whispered.

Sylvie nodded. “In sickness and health... as long as we both shall live.”

The Chaplain looked to Eva and Diego to join them. Diego handed Eva their father’s ring while Diego kept Sylvie’s rings. The Chaplain then blessed the rings. “The wedding ring is a symbol of eternity. It is an outward symbol of commitment which unites two hearts in endless love. Let these rings be the symbol of unity and peace in which your two lives are joined in one unbreakable circle. Wherever you go, return unto one another and to your togetherness. Heavenly Father, bless these rings. Grant that Sylvie and Antonio may wear them with deep faith in each other. May they do your will and always live together in peace, love and abiding joy. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.” He sprinkled the rings with Holy Water and made the sign of the cross over them. He took Sylvie’s rings and handed them to Antonio. “Place the rings on Sylvie’s left ring finger and repeat after me. “Sylvie, take this ring as a sign of my unending love and affection for you. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

Antonio slid the rings onto her finger repeating after the Chaplain.

Sylvie’s hand went to her stomach. “Baby is very active.”

Their family and friends chuckled. Chaplain Orlovsky handed her Antonio’s ring. She followed suit, sliding Antonio’s ring onto his finger. It was a perfect fit.

Chaplain Orlovsky smiled. “If you’ll come and light the candles.” He motioned to the three candles on the altar.

Antonio and Sylvie each took one of the tapers and together they lit their marriage candle which had 1st Corinthians inscribed on it. They placed the tapers back in their respective holders. They held hands, facing their family and friends and Chaplain Orlovsky pronounced them husband and wife. They were met with whistles, cheers and applause.

“Now, if you will come sign the register.” Chaplain Orlovsky motioned to the table that was set up. Gaby and Matt joined them to sign the registry.

As soon as the registry was signed, there was a standing ovation. Antonio kissed Sylvie deeply. They were about to start making their way back down the aisle when Sylvie doubled over, gasping in pain.

“Sylvie?” Antonio tried to help her up. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Mmmmm...” Sylvie groaned. “I... I’m in labour.”

“What?” Antonio’s eyes bulged. “Ho... How long?”

“Since... this... this morning.” Sylvie tried to breathe through the contraction.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Antonio tried to help her back up, but to no avail.

Gaby was next to them. “What’s happening?”

“She’s been in labour since this morning.” Antonio answered. “She didn’t tell anyone.”

“Sylvie!” Gaby exclaimed. “You told me it was Braxton-Hicks’.”

“I... oooooh...” Sylvie was now regretting not saying anything. “I didn’t want to push the wedding back.” She looked down between her legs. “My water just broke.”

“I think this would be a valid reason.” Gaby looked to Antonio. “The Ambo’s around the corner... we can get her to Med.”

“Let’s go.” Antonio swept his new wife into his arms. “Stella! Severide! Get 61 to the front... now!”

The kids tried to follow them, but their grandparents and Matt held them back. “Don’t worry. Sylvie will be fine.”

Kelly helped Antonio get Sylvie onto the gurney. “Need us to drive?” He asked.

“Let me check her first.” Gaby said grabbing a pair of gloves. “Antonio, sit there.” She pointed to the paramedic chair at the head of the gurney. She looked to her new sister-in-law. “Sylvie, I’ve gotta check you out.”

Sylvie shook her head. “No... Gaby... I love you, and you’re my sister... but you are not looking down th...” She cried out as another contraction hit her. “There!” She collapsed against the gurney. “No... just... drive. FUCK!”

“Sylvie... that baby is coming and whether or not you like it, the only ones here to help are me, your husband... Kidd and Severide.”

“Kelly is not looking at my wife!” Antonio barked. “Kidd!” He ordered into the front of the ambulance. “Leave Severide up there and come help Gaby...”

“Oh God!” Sylvie moaned. “This is not how I wanted to have this baby.”

“How ‘bout you try the breathing from the birthing class.” Antonio suggested, allowing for Sylvie to squeeze the life from his hand.

“I am trying it...” Sylvie huffed. “It’s not doing anything.” She moaned as another contraction washed over her. “I want an epidural.”

Gaby checked her sister-in-law. “You’re not going to make it to Med in time for an epidural.” She looked to Stella. “Get the birthing kit... we’re gonna be delivering here.”

Sylvie tried to sit up. “Nope. No way. I am not having this baby in the back of an ambulance... not happening.”

“Sylvie... that baby is coming.” Gaby said. “Now.”

“I jus... just won’t push.” Sylvie was gritting her teeth as another contraction hit her. They were about 2 minutes apart. “Severide. Drive!”

“Severide, you move this vehicle, I’ll shoot you.” Antonio growled. He leaned over Sylvie’s shoulder. “Baby, I don’t think we have another choice here.”

“Antonio... no...” Sylvie tried to argue.

“This baby is coming whether we want it to or not.” Antonio kissed her cheek. “There aren’t people in this world that I wouldn’t trust to help us deliver this baby.”

“Antonio... I swore I wasn’t... going to be that woman.”

“You were the stubborn one.” Antonio reminded her. “You were determined to push through labour for us to get married.”

“I... I wanted to this to happen the right way.”

“Well... I’d get ready to push.” Gaby said. “Baby’s crowning.” Gaby gave orders to Stella on what to hand her. “Sylvie... next contraction... push.”

Antonio helped brace Sylvie as she pushed. He held her hand. “You’re doing great, baby.”

“One more big one.” Gaby said. “Get suction ready.”

Sylvie groaned as she pushed. “I am so wishing I had drugs...”

“Stop.” Gaby said. “Head’s clear.” She cleared the baby’s nose and mouth. “One more big one and my niece or nephew will be here.”

Sylvie took a deep breath and pushed as hard as she could. She collapsed against the gurney as the most beautiful sound filled the back of Ambo 61 as their child’s cries filled the air. Sylvie reached for the screaming new born.

Gaby smiled. “It’s a girl.”

“I told you.” Antonio whispered as Sylvie pushed the top of her wedding gown down to put their daughter directly on her skin. The instant the baby was touching Sylvie, she settled.

“She’s beautiful... perfect.” Sylvie stroked her cheek.

Antonio moved to be closer to them. “She is perfect.” He kissed Sylvie’s cheek. “You did great.”

“Okay, well... let’s get you guys to Med... and then we can fawn over my new niece on the way.” Gaby grinned. She knew that Sylvie believed in delayed cord clamping so she got Stella out of the back so she could sit next to Sylvie.

Stella hopped up front with Severide. “Let’s get these guys to Med.”

“You got it.” Kelly hit the lights and sirens and pulled away from the curb.

The back doors of ambulance opened. Maggie, April, Will and Natalie greeted them.

“We hear the wedding went off without a hitch?” Maggie teased. “Congrats.”

“That was until our little one decided she needed to make her grand appearance.” Sylvie said.

“Well, you won’t forget your wedding day.” Will chuckled.

“And Antonio will never forget your anniversary.” Natalie smiled. “Let’s get you guys checked out.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, you two.” Antonio shook his head. He got out of the ambulance and followed Natalie and the two nurse who were pushing Sylvie’s gurney.

Will looked to Gaby. “Everything go okay?”

“Considering she’d been in labour all morning and pushed through the ceremony... I’m saying it went great.”

“She what?” Will’s jaw dropped. “So... they did actually get married?”

Gaby laughed. “Yep, then basically, her water broke when they were leaving the Church.”

“Well... great job delivering your niece.” Will patted her shoulder. “I’m gonna go check on your sister-in-law and niece... may have to make sure Antonio didn’t have a coronary because of all this.”

Stella and Kelly had been standing back. They looked to each other. “Someone should call the guests... tell them the bride and groom are not going to be making the reception?” Stella said.

Kelly nodded. “On it.” He grabbed his cell and went to make the call.

Gaby sighed and turned to Stella. “That was nuts.”

“That it was.” Stella hugged her. “You did great.”

“Sylvie is way braver than me... no way I’d want to be doing that.”

“I don’t think anybody wants to have their baby that way.” Stella said. “Should I go get the kids, your parents?”

“Nah... I’ll ask Matt to bring them... I can’t believe this all happened like this.”

“Just be happy Laura didn’t show up.” Stella whispered.

“Don’t jinx it, Kidd... Hurricane Laura could still show up and mess this up... she’s crazier than I thought humanly possible.”

“Hey, they’re gonna be fine.” Stella patted her shoulder. “I’m gonna take the ambo back with Severide... we’re gonna go make sure the reception happens, even if the guests of honour won’t be there.”

“Thanks.” Gaby said. “I’m gonna go check on them.”

“Well... Both of you are doing great.” Natalie smiled. “Minimal tearing and blood loss... she’s healthy as can be.” She took the baby from Maggie. “Here you go, Daddy.” She placed the baby in Antonio’s arms. “We’ll come check on you in a bit.”

“Congrats again you guys.” Will took Sylvie’s chart and followed Natalie out of the room.

“Wait.” Natalie stopped. “I forgot to ask... what’s her name?”

Sylvie and Antonio looked to each other. “We’ll have to get back to you on that.”

Will chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Soon, they were alone with their daughter.

“She’s beautiful.” Antonio gently stroked his daughter’s cheek. “Look at all that hair.”

“That’s from your side.” Sylvie whispered. “She’s dark like you.”

“Maybe she’ll keep those blue eyes.” Antonio sat on the bed next to Sylvie and placed their daughter in her arms. “You did amazingly... so strong.”

“Hey, I had to do it... for our family.”

“She needs a name... she can’t be Baby.”

“So no Dirty Dancing reference?” Sylvie snickered.

“Baby Dawson?” Antonio cringed. “No... but she does need a name.”

“And Godparents.” Sylvie kissed her daughter’s tiny hand. “I forgot how small babies are.”

“Hmm.” Antonio put his arm around Sylvie’s shoulder. “Well, I was thinking Matt and Gaby would be great godparents.”

“Glad to know we’re on the same boat for that one.” Sylvie snickered. “Mia Gabriela Dawson.”

“I like it.... are you a Mia?” Antonio gave her his pinky and she grasped it tightly.

“I think that’s a yes.” Sylvie whispered. “I knew I loved you, even before I met you.”

There was a knock at the door. April poked her head in. “Hey, you guys ready for some visitors?”

“Who’s all here?” Sylvie asked.

“Matt, Gaby, the kids and Antonio’s mom... Gaby said something about a Skype call too.”

“Sure, send them in.” Antonio nodded.

They could hear April warning their family. “Quiet and don’t tire them out... it’s been quite the day.”

The door slid open and their family poured in. Camila Dawson walked to the foot of the bed. “How are you doing, Sylvie?”

“I’m tired, but I’m doing great.” Sylvie said softly. “I’m sorry to have made such a scene.”

“I’m pretty sure that the reception is going on nonetheless.” Camilla said. “How is the little one?”

“She’s good. She’s strong.” Antonio grinned. “I think I may be in over my head... strong determined women now outnumber me.”

“Dad.” Diego said. “Not just you! Me too! And Uncle Matt.”

Matt ruffled up Diego’s hair. “True. True.”

Eva made her way to the side of the bed. “She’s so small!”

Sylvie looked up to Antonio. He nodded. Sylvie smiled. “Eva, do you want to hold your sister?”

“Can I?”

Sylvie nodded. “Here, mind her head.”

Eva cradled her sister. “Awe, she’s so cute.”

“Does she have a name?” Gaby asked. “Your parents are asking.” She turned her phone around to show Sylvie’s parents’ smiling faces.

“Mia Gabriela Dawson.” Antonio said proudly.

“That’s a beautiful name.” Sylvie’s mother exclaimed. “Gaby, could you bring the phone closer... we’d like to see her.”

Gaby obliged. Diego took the phone to help his aunt out.

“Gaby, Matt... would you two be Mia’s godparents?” Sylvie asked.

Matt put his arm around Gaby’s waist and smiled. He looked to her. “Whatta ya think?”

“We’d be honoured.” Gaby’s voice cracked. She went to hug her brother and sister-in-law.

Visiting hours were over, and after taking a bunch of pictures to show to their friends and family that were celebrating at their wedding reception, the others left Sylvie and Antonio to have time with their daughter. Eva and Diego promised to come back the next morning with their baby gift for Mia. After Will and Natalie did one last check on them for the night, Sylvie nursed their daughter before falling asleep.

Antonio sat in the rocking chair that was next to the bed and gently rocked his daughter. He looked over to Sylvie. His life couldn’t be anymore perfect. He’d gotten more time with Eva and Diego, he had the most amazing wife and brand new daughter. He looked down at her as she yawned. “Mia... you are perfect, and you have no idea how loved you are. You have brought us so much closer together...” He thought about Eva and Diego’s favourite bedtime story from when they were little. “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always... as long as I’m living... my baby you’ll be.” He kissed her cheek and just rocked back and forth, softly humming until she fell asleep.

Hey there... so I wanted to have this posted a while back... but... I had a hard time getting it done. I wanted this to be perfect... especially since I know many of you have been waiting for this...

I also had a hard time writing this last part. “Love you forever” is my favourite story of all time... I can’t read it without crying... and I holds so much more meaning to me now. It was originally written for Robert Munsch’s angel babies... and last week, I found out I lost a baby, I didn’t even know I was carrying...

I will be getting to the other requests that you’ve all been kind enough to send me as soon as I can.

Much love to you all! Nicole

#Brettonio #Brettonio4ever #Sylvie Brett #Antonio Dawson #Chicago Fire #Chicago Justice #One Chicago #love #family #baby #drama

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