#mine sort of struggles with defining himself;; how much left of him could be seen as human? can he still call himself one?

[oitommothetease]

Invisible String (13/15)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female reader (Modern AU)

Word Count: 2.2k words

Warning : angst, violence, sad reader, sad Bucky, shitty Rumlow, maybe Steve isn’t that bad, the doughnuts are back from chapter 11, did I mention angst?, angst, more angst

Everything was dark, you noticed. When you slowly returned to consciousness, you half expected to be in your bed with Bucky tangled beside you, just like in your dreams. He fit so perfectly in your bed — your life and you, as if he was a part of you, and you weren't sure where he ended and where you began. 

But when you moved to stretch your aching limbs, they moved a few inches before halting by some sort of restriction. Instantly, the bubble of your dreams burst, and everything came to your mind, and you abruptly looked around to find him. Bucky was still unconscious — tied to a chair, but instead of rope like yours, he was tied down with manacles. He had restraints on his wrists and ankles. You were sort of offended that they didn’t think you were strong enough to be captured like him. Not that you wanted those manacles anywhere near your body, but you preferred not to be treated as if you were meek.

What could be worse than getting kidnapped? It's definitely getting rekidnapped with the person who came to rescue you. Clint lied, he was working with Rumlow. His source was nothing but an ambush for Bucky. There were more than 4 of Rumlow’s men in the warehouse. Clint lied so that Bucky would come under prepared and he fell right into the trap.  

Earlier, it was just you in a room alone, but now it was you and Bucky in a dingy cell-like room with a closed door. He was still knocked out when the man known as Rumlow walked in. You recalled him from the time he came to the club, and you wanted nothing more than to run towards the safe embrace of your lover. 

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Rumlow’s steps halted when he was near your tied form. His hand came for your cheek and naturally, you recoiled away. Your rejection didn’t deter him, it only fueled his fury more as he held your chin tightly in his other hand and made you look at him. You attempted to get out of his grasp, which only angered him more, and he struck his hand to your face. It ached so much and it was so loud that it jolted Bucky up. 

“Will you look at that,” Rumlow mocked, pushing your face away from his hold. “Lover boy can feel her pain.”

It took a second for Bucky to drink in the sight and commemorate everything. Once everything came back to him, he looked at you deplorably, his eyes filled with concern and guilt as he saw the blood dripping down your face.

“Get away from her, Rumlow!” Bucky seethed when his gaze was back at the man who hurt you. Despite the warning, Rumlow moved more towards you. One hand running his knuckles on your face in an attempt to be soothing, while the other held your chin in a painful grip.

“Why do you get to keep such a pretty thing all to yourself?” Rumlow asked rhetorically. “I should get a taste too.”

Before Bucky could try to do something, a knock on the door attracted everyone’s attention. Clint came in with a look of victory on his face.

“You betraying son of a bitch,” you hissed. Unlike Bucky, you didn’t have much self-restraint or any wise escape plan cooking in your head. “Why the fuck did you do it?”

“You’re new, sweetheart,” Clint pointed out, his tone condescending. “You don't know how it works.” 

“What I know is that your wife is friends with Wanda's girlfriend,” you retorted back immediately. You were tired of being seen as weak. ”How will she feel when she finds out that you betrayed Bucky?”

A look of uncertainty came over Clint's face and you continued, “I might be new, sweetheart, but I’m not dumb.”

When Clint was astounded, Rumlow spoke up,” Ah, the power of pillow talk. You are one feisty little bitch. What else did he tell you? Did he tell you that his work is not illegal and he sells weapons to the government?”

You looked at Bucky, hoping that the man you knew and loved was nothing like this monster who assaulted you. Rumlow continued, “Barnes, Rogers and I started this whole a business together. They enjoyed the money that was brought in with our illegal escapade. He enjoyed girls like you every day. Until one day, the childhood buddies decided it was time to go clean. And they just left us in pursuit of some dream life.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just looked over at Bucky who was staring at the floor as if waiting for it to open and swallow him whole. Was he ashamed of his past? Did he think that his past would make you love him any less? If he did, then he was highly mistaken because now you didn't see James as your arrogant boss. Now you saw a young boy who made some questionable choices and, to make a better life for himself and his family, he changed his direction. Now you saw a reckless boy who did stupid shit in his past like everyone in the world and instead of letting it define him, he made a better life for himself. Now you saw a hardworking boy who worked his ass off to build an empire for himself and his loved ones. All of these versions of him existed before you, but you only saw one — the one that mattered to you at least, you just saw the love of your life, your Bucky.

The universe might have listened to your pleas because Rumlow’s phone rang and both he and Clint exited the room. You didn’t know how to start a conversation with Bucky. He didn't want to, that you were sure of. What were you supposed to say? That his hardship and past made him look hotter in your eyes? You wanted to avoid romanticizing his struggles, so you resorted to the only thing you do when you are tense.

“This is not the lunch date I had in mind,” you teased, forcefully huffing to make the situation seem less intense. When Bucky did not respond or even looked at you, you retorted to another antic. “I remember that song name, you know — Invisible String. Taylor Swift, of course. It would make an excellent bakery name. We can -”

“We can what?” Bucky finally snapped, “You want me to fire my friends and convert the most profitable club into a fucking bakery, huh?” 

“Is that what you want? A life with a man who got you involved in this shit?” you flinched at his harsh words. You knew this wasn’t your Bucky — your Bucky was all about sweet touches, teasing words and passionate kisses. No, this was the Bucky that Rumlow recognized. 

“You don’t mean that,” you whispered, your tone gentle. “I’m sorry you're stuck here because of me, but -”

He cut you off. “Doll,” he exhaled, his voice devoid of all the venom present a moment ago, It was filled with the adoration towards you that you were used to; Nonetheless, it still made you feel dizzy all the time. His face softened before saying, “This isn’t your fault. It’s mine. I got you into this mess. I should have stayed away from you.”

You opened your mouth to object. You wanted to tell him that he was being stupid — that you would get through this together, but he sustained.

“I will stay away from you,” he pondered, his eyes avoiding yours again. 

No, you wouldn't let that happen. You finally had him, and you wouldn't let Rumlow get into Bucky's head. “We’ll talk about this later, okay?”

“There is nothing to talk about,” he concluded, “When we are out of here. I will maintain my distance.”

You tried to ask him to stop saying that, but he kept ignoring your words and looked at the wall behind you for almost an hour. When it got to your nerves, and you were starting to get pissed he started whistling a song you weren’t quite familiar with. “Seriously? How old are you? Five?”

He didn’t respond. “So what? You're just gonna ignore me while we’re tied here?”

 “Hey, let's play a game,” you tried again.

Before you could lose all your patience and start yelling at him, you heard grunting sounds from behind the door. You shuddered, swallowing the lump in your throat. You didn’t want to see Rumlow again, in fact, you never wanted to see Rumlow.

Sensing your discomfort made Bucky finally speak up. “Y/N, look at me,” his voice sweet as ever, as if he hadn't been ignoring you for the past hour. You looked at him, and he held your gaze, assuring you, “I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak anything. Both of you held your breath, waiting for someone to walk in and hurt you more, but it never came. All that came was a blond man with a gun in his hand, whom you recognized instantly — Steve. You didn't like that man one bit because he clearly disliked you, but at that moment, he was your angel who came to your rescue.

Immediately, Steve ran towards his pal who nodded his head towards you, indicating his friend to let you out of the restraint first. Again, he had manacles around his wrists and limbs, and he wanted you to be free of the rope that was around you. Steve took his friend’s request and freed you of your restriction before doing the same for Bucky.

When you stood up, the world stood up with you, and you realized that you hadn’t eaten anything in more than 24 hours. You almost collapsed on the floor when two strong hands came to your relief and held you. You didn’t need to keep your eyes open to see who it was. Likewise, you knew it was Bucky — you could recognize his touch anywhere, and just liked that you passed out.

The next time you gained awareness, you were moving swiftly. It took you a few seconds to acknowledge that you were in a car. You craned your neck upward to find your head situated on a hard and firm chest, Bucky looked down at you and engulfed you tighter to his side, your legs resting on his lap while his free hand was settled on the back of your thigh, holding you closer to him. 

“Doll,” his voice was barely audible, and you wouldn't have heard it if you weren't so close to him or if he didn't whisper it in your ear. “You gotta eat something.”

Tiredly, you nodded and Bucky nudged you softly, encouraging you to straighten up a little before eating something. You straightened your back and somebody passed a box from the passenger seat. Steve, you recognized him and the person in the driver's seat — Sam. Both of them looked at you sympathetically, and you smiled at them, or at least tried to. You were so exhausted.

Bucky opened the box and took out a doughnut, which you brought for him that morning, or was it the previous morning? How long had it been since you were kidnapped?

Two doughnuts and one bottle of water later, you were back at your apartment. Bucky’s hand rested on the small of your back as Steve and Sam followed both of you. You hesitated before unlocking the door, and Bucky ran his hand on your back reassuringly as he ensured you, “I’ve got you, doll.”

Bucky said something to Sam and Steve, but you were too exhausted to listen. Once they were gone, Bucky strode towards you, cupping your face in his hands as he scanned your face for all the wounds. “How about you clean up, and I’ll get the first aid kit. Okay, doll?”

Just like the whole night or day or whatever time it was, you didn't remember most of the bath. You remembered going into the shower — you remembered water running down your body — you remembered seeing red water (probably from your bruises) seeping in the drain — you remembered seeing someone in the mirror you didn't recognize — you remembered falling to the floor and crying and most importantly you remembered calling for Bucky.

As if standing outside the door, Bucky was crouched over you instantly . He wrapped a towel around your naked form and held you on the bathroom floor while you cried and finally acknowledged the trauma that you had encountered.

Bucky held you as you continued to cry in muffled sobs against his chest. When you fell asleep, he placed you and tucked you in your bed comfortably before getting in himself. You wrapped your arms around him in your sleep and held him like the anchor he was to you. Bucky pressed a kiss in your hair and whispered his love and apologies to you for pulling you into his messed up life. You couldn't fathom a word he confessed before sleep finally engulfed you.

TAGS : @bananapipedreams​ @akkinda10​ @rivers-rambles21​ @emmabarnes​ @valsworldofcreativity​ @boofy1998 @marvel-3407​ @mybuck​ @priii​ @coffeebooksandfandom​ @ladydmalfoy​ @shaking-a-jar-of-bees @elizamalfoyy​ @maladaptivexxdaydreaming​ @sabrinathesimp

A/N - Hey, I finally made a Taglist .This was a very intense (please don’t hate me) I love you bye. Take care!

[aflyingcontradiction]

The Magnus Archives Relisten: Episode 117 - Testament

But Tim isn’t going to sit home and wait, and Elias seems pretty insistent I go along. Part of me thinks it’s just so he can see if whatever this “preparation” he’s been trying to do on me works. - Jon

I guess, yeah, that's part of it and the other part is that he wants to make absolutely sure Jon gets touched by as many powers as he possibly can and sending him right into the lion's den is a good way of doing that, I suppose.

I don’t quite get those two. I suppose what they’ve done, seeing what they’ve seen… it’s a hell of a bond. The sort of thing I’ve mostly done alone.

Ouch. That is a painful realisation right there! (The usual disclaimer of "I'm obviously not talking about the scale of cosmic horror here because duh or for that matter even the scale of massive trauma" but I actually think that realisation is on some level relatable because of the realisation I had multiple times in my life of "I don't really know what a close bond feels like because I've never actually been anywhere close to the best friend of the people I've considered my best friends." Fortunately my luck has shifted somewhat in the "close emotional bonds" department, or at least I hope I'm not kidding myself about that, but the realisation that some people have these fire-forged, ride-or-die relationships and you're just kinda doing your own thing, dipping a finger shallowly into human connection every once in a while and then watching it flow away, is a bit of a twinge.)

And… aside from some, uh, uh, office gossip which I, I’m not sure is necessary or, uh, conducive to a workplace that… hey, it, it, it’s natural it’s, it’s normal.

I love how Jon just goes from deep emotional turmoil to being a bit upset that people are gossipping about whatever may be going on in his love life. Talk about emotional roller coasters!

Oh, yeah, I found something on the other body the circus stole, this “George Icarus.” (...) Jurgen Leitner. I just can’t be rid of him.

Ah, okay, this is where we learn who George Icarus was. Also, the pseudonym is very fitting, I mean, Leitner did, in fact, fly too close to the goddamn sun and subsequently crash and burn when he decided to create a library of fear books, didn't he?

He always said, if you don’t like something, you accept it and you adapt, or you fight and you change it. Whining doesn’t help. I always tried to live like that. But I think sometimes you feel like you’re adapting, but it’s just denial. - Basira

This is definitely something I've experienced myself but it's also definitely something I've seen in some people who like to go on like Basira's dad about stiff-upper-lip-don't-whine-adapt-and-overcome to other people and shame others for expressing their emotional pain. When the cracks finally do start showing up (usually under the influence of alcohol), it's not so much a crack as a full-on explosion.

But at least Daisy’s coming. I mean, I know she’s… difficult. Everything they say about her, it’s true, it’s fair. But, she’s solid. She’s a… a fixed point, and if she’s there, I know exactly where I stand, exactly what I’m doing, relative to her.

It's tragic but also on some level a little bit heartwarming that Basira never actually stops doing things relative to Daisy, even when it takes everything out of her, even when Daisy starts destroying herself.

Still stuck, still miserable, still angry. New traumas, but they hurt just like the old ones. Elias thinks he’s got this ingenious way to hurt people, but it’s just the same old and a creepy new package. Arsehole. God, I just want to rip his – When did I start to lose the parts of me that weren’t just anger? - Melanie

I always have a soft spot for the angry ones, the ones who have to forcibly stop themselves from punching people in the teeth, who have to put every last shred of willpower into keeping a lid on the boiling, hissing, steaming pot that is their inner life. The ones whose willpower sometimes fails them and then they do end up hurting people or themselves because of their anger. And not to go all REPRESENTATION here, but I'm actually glad to see that in TMA that character archetype is basically all women, because the people exploding in violent anger or having to try so fucking hard to keep it in and occasionally failing are usually guys.

They did manifest, but they weren’t what I thought they’d be. They were fused, somehow, all mixed together, a huge angry mass of dead flesh and guns.

I'm kind of glad this isn't a fully-fledged statement because I feel like that sentence, that image, is really all I need and anything further would actually weaken rather than strengthen the horror.

Good luck, Jon. I do hope you win. But I also hope it hurts.

Damn, this episode is so good at summarising characters in a line or two, isn't it?

I, I’m scared, I guess. – no, wait. No, no, I mean, ah, I don’t want that to be my last message, the thing that defines me. “Martin Blackwood, he was always scared, then he died. The end.” I don’t want that. - Martin

I'm a very anxious person and this is INSANELY relatable, this fear that all that's going to be left of you is the things you didn't do because you were terrified. ... Martin, stop making me tear up by being too damn relatable!

I need them to be safe, I need him to be okay.

Aw, Martin!

I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be safe, like my plan’s not dangerous, but it’s, it’s mine. This last couple of years, I’ve always been running, always hiding, caught in someone else’s trap, but, but now it’s my trap, and, well, I think it’ll work. I know, I know it’s not exactly intricate, but it felt good leaving my own little web.

a) This thought process makes perfect sense. Sometimes you just need to express your goddamn agency, even if it's dangerous and even if it's bound to hurt and b) I know the podcast immediately lampshades the "web" thing, but WEB!MARTIN THOUGH! I MEAN! THINK ABOUT IT! That would've been such an amazing plot point and they had it all set up. I mean, he's got a lot of good Lonely-related shit going on later, too, but ... why not both? I do enjoy it when the powers squabble over a character!

I used to blame my brother for going off his own and poking around where he wasn’t wanted. I used to blame myself for not helping him. But now… now it doesn’t matter. I’ve read through enough of these things to know that this doesn’t matter. The only thing you need to have your life destroyed by this stuff is just bad luck. Talk to the wrong person, take the wrong train, open the wrong door, and that’s it! - Tim

I think Tim's view of this is actually very close to the way that TMA handles this. The Entities don't eat you because you deserve it. They just happen to happen to someone. And that makes the horror work so much better than if that wasn't the case. (It also feels closer to how LIFE actually works a lot of the time.) So I find it somewhat odd to see when people do read desert into it, I feel like that weakens the storytelling.

Honestly, I hope that Jon learned something from her because, because I don’t expect I’m going to be coming back from this. I don’t know if I want to. And if he needs to pull the trigger, to use me to stop it… well, he’d better have the guts to do it.

Well. Fuck!

Gerard’s page… Gerry. I-I know there’s more he could tell me – he he, wouldn’t of, of course, I, I know that but he, he… he would still be there, th-that, that knowledge, i-it would, it would still exist…(...) …y-you owe me one, Gerry. Rest in … Just rest. - Jon

Damn, seeing Jon struggle against the instinct to keep knowledge available to himself, seeing how much it literally hurts him and seeing him WIN is sure something. Also ... "Rest in ... just rest." ... make me cry, why don't you?

My impression of this episode

This is not so much horror as it is concentrated emotion and I adore it. I nearly teared up a few times on my relisten (I think I wasn't in quite the right headspace during my first time). The gut punch quotes come thick in this one. This may actually be my favourite plot development episode (as opposed to favourite statements that don't relate directly to the overall plot). The writing is just. so. good.

[gumnut-logic]

Bo

This is a repost, a fic of mine you might have seen before, but I think it bears revisiting as I am rather fond of it. A friend of mine has thrown a prompt in and chosen Bo as the character to write about. So I think this is a good a time as any to share this again.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

-o-o-o-

Title: Bo

A TAG Secret Santa fic

Author: Gumnut

15 – 18 Dec 2018

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: Virgil meets a new friend, and, damnit, Scott was going to kill him.

Word count: 6184

Spoilers & warnings: Possible bushfire/wildfire triggers in the first part. For the rest none, except for vague nudity and fluff. Christmas fic. Gen.

Timeline: Origin story

Author’s note: Okay, so this is the first time I’ve ever participated in one of these so I’m new to this.

My prompts were

1.         Virgil covered in tinsel

2.         Tracy family Christmas

3.         Christmas Rescue Miracle (with Virg please)

The first one prompted all sorts of images not suitable for a PG audience. Hubby also suggested I blow up a tinsel factory. Overall, I did attempt to include all three prompts in the one fic. I hope I have succeeded in providing some enjoyment at least.

This does not belong to either Sotto Voce or Warm Rain and is pretty canon compliant. It is currently standalone. Consider it a possible origin story, there may be more, if I can think up some new plot lines. If you have any ideas, please let me know.

Many thanks to @tagsecretsanta for all her wonderful work putting the gift exchange together, and thanks to @photowizard17 for the inspiring prompts, @i-am-chidorixblossom for cheering me on when I couldn’t post daily and obsessively like I usually do, and to @the-lady-razorsharp for giving it an American beta so I don’t trip over being Australian (though the summer Christmas certainly helped :D).

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

“It’s the last house at the end of the street, Virgil.”

“FAB, Thunderbird Five.” It was said without the usual spark. The grey of the destroyed landscape sucked everything from everything. A pall of smoke and haze, black remnants of lives, homes and the tragedy of the night before.

International Rescue had been called to a massive bushfire in the Yarra Ranges in Victoria, Australia. The CFA had had it under control the previous day, John keeping an eye on it anyway, but an unexpected change in wind direction in the evening had it jumping firebreaks and tearing through an unprotected valley and directly through a township.

With the vast tall forests of mountain ash, eucalypts full of volatile oil just waiting to burst into flame, combined with the hot and blustery northerly, not even IR could stop the firestorm from taking lives and property.

Thunderbird Two had her fire suppression equipment, but the massive plane was a speck against the wall of flame.

There were forces of nature that just couldn’t be stopped.

The Tracys dodged and nabbed trapped people. Thunderbird Two deployed a huge water cannon, sourcing water from the local reservoir, as the CFA water bombed around them, desperate to protect what lives they could. But nothing was stopping the fire.

It tore through the town leaving agony in its wake.

Dawn was grey and dismal, but it brought rain. The sky rumbled, threatening to spark more fires in the ranges, but the deluge came and dampened the remaining flame enough to once again get the front under control.

But it was too late for the town.

It was gone.

Virgil walked the length of the street, his exo-suit rubbing on aching shoulders. Burnt out cars and collapsed homes lined the road from one end to the other. The skeletons of black trees marched off into the distance behind it all.

Haze hovered above ash-clogged puddles in the pavement.

It wasn’t what Christmas morning was supposed to be.

The last house at the end of the street had fully collapsed in on itself. A burnt-out car sat in the driveway, its trunk lid and one of its doors open.

Virgil closed his eyes for a moment, knowing what that likely meant.

He steeled himself and walked past the remains he knew he was going to find in the car.

Nothing could be done.

Nothing.

He focussed on the whine of his suit as his boots stepped in wet ash and strode across the front yard to the remains of the house. He had to clear his throat to speak to John. “Tell me where, Thunderbird Five.”

“Possibly in the basement? The lifesign is below ground level.”

The house had been old, the wooden floorboards disintegrating in the heat. Virgil leapt through the remains of a wall, landing on rubble in what had likely been a wine cellar. The heat had been so intense, that glass bottles had become slag.

Glass crunched under his boots. “Right or left?”

“Eastern side, southern corner.”

There was a mass of rubble collapsed against the only standing wall of the building.

“This is International Rescue. Can anyone hear me?”

He turned up the pickups on his exterior mikes.

Nothing. It was probably a blip. How the hell could anything survive this holocaust?

His shoulders dropped.

But then...something? A whimper?

Maybe?

Virgil began digging.

It took him a good fifteen minutes of solid work to move enough burnt masonry to reach a hole in the wall at the very base of the structure. And in what appeared to be the bottom of a dumb waiter he found the lifesign.

The little puppy whimpered at him, trembling with fear.

Aw, hell.

“John, lifesign is a dog.”

“One moment, Thunderbird Two.” The puppy stared, the green, yellow and blue of Virgil’s suit reflected in its brown eyes. “There is no dog registered at that address. Deliver to the local authorities. You are needed to airlift some survivors to Melbourne. Report to Scott on the other side of town.”

“FAB, Thunderbird Five.”

Virgil slid his arms out from the suit and bent aching knees. “Hey, little one, do you want to come with me?”

The puppy shivered and looked him up and down, hesitating.

“I’m with International Rescue, we’re here to help.” He took a step closer. “It’s okay, I promise.”

Maybe it was something in his voice, his stance, or simply because the puppy had no choice, but as Virgil reached into the box it was sitting in, the puppy made no protest as he picked it up.

A quick examination for injury revealed her to be a girl. She shuddered up against Virgil’s chest. “Don’t worry, it’s all over, you’re safe.”

Sliding one arm back into his suit, he started making his way out of the ruined building, turning his back on the tiny hole that had somehow saved the little dog’s life.

-o-o-o-

Perhaps it was because she sat so quietly with him. Perhaps because it was Christmas Day. Most likely it was because Virgil had reached his limit of pain.

When he found the RSPCA tent, specially set up for lost pets, he gently handed over the little puppy. She let out a whimper and began crying.

No barking, just this godawful crying that tore at his heart.

“You will be fine here, little one.” The attendant was one of those kindly older ladies and she hugged the gangly bundle of fluff to her chest as Virgil turned to leave, Scott in his ear.

But the puppy let out such a scream of anguish, Virgil turned around without thinking. She was struggling in the volunteer’s arms and before either of them could react, she managed to wriggle free and dash over to him, her little body trembling on his left boot.

He reached down and gathered her into his arms. “You can’t come with me. I can’t-“ But she was rubbing her head up under his chin, little sounds in her throat.

And he couldn’t.

Just couldn’t.

His eyes met the eyes of the lady volunteer and she smiled. “We will keep her details if you would like to take her with you. If anyone contacts us, we can let you know.” And the volunteer was just as hopeful as the puppy in his arms. After all, there was no life at the RSPCA unless a home was found.

He looked down at her little brown eyes again.

No, he couldn’t.

Damnit, Scott was going to kill him.

Maybe for just a few days?

The excuse provided a simple solution, so he took it.

Without a word, he handed his IR contact details to the volunteer, and, puppy in hand, turned his back to the tent and strode towards the big green hulk parked in the distant haze.

“Well, little one, you have definitely made an interesting choice. Let me introduce you to my big green partner.”

-o-o-o-

It was well past Christmas lunch, or rather the lack of it, before IR was given the all clear to return to base. During the entire time, the little puppy sat beside Virgil’s pilot chair, apparently unfazed by the deep bass rumble of Thunderbird Two.

When he picked up both Gordon and Alan the dynamic changed just a little.

Gordon dragged himself onto the flight deck first, a groan in every step. “Christmas just gets more exciting every year.” It was true. Nine out of ten Christmas Days were side-swiped by a disaster, to the point that the Tracy Christmas tradition was a modular and movable celebration nowadays. No guarantees and no defined day. It happened around December twenty-fifth, there about, when they could, between call outs.

Suddenly the little puppy was in his lap.

“What is that?”

Virgil looked up. His brother was covered in soot and looked as tired as Virgil felt. “This is Bo.” And he had no idea where the name came from, it just seemed right and the moment clicked.

“Bo?”

“Yeah.” Newly christened Bo peered up at Gordon around Virgil’s arm. “She survived the fire.” A swallow. “Her family didn’t.”

“Oh.”

Alan, as always, had more energy than any of them, and showed it as he waltzed into the cabin. “So why aren’t we moving?”

Bo let off a sharp bark.

Everyone jumped.

“What the hell, Virgil?”

Bo was literally glaring at Alan.

“Hey, Bo, calm down, that’s just Alan. He’s annoying, but tolerable.” The little puppy looked up at him, her gorgeous brown eyes just melting him inside. He was so gone.

“Hey!” That from Alan.

“Scott’s going to kill you.” That from Gordon, who was approaching slowly.

“Yeah, I know.” It was a sigh.

Gordon crouched down beside Virgil’s chair. “Hey, little one, what gave you the idea to attach yourself to this big oaf?” Pulling off one of his gloves, the aquanaut reached out and offered the puppy his hand. She eyed him warily before tentatively sniffing at his fingers.

She sneezed.

Alan snorted.

Bo blinked and stared at Gordon for a moment. The aquanaut kept still and eventually she sniffed at him again, before nuzzling at his hand. He blatantly took that as permission and gently rubbed behind her ear. “You are a cute little thing, aren’t you.”

She licked his wrist.

“Oh, I can see why our heavy lifter fell for you. You’ve got it all in those brown eyes of yours, haven’t you.” Gordon shrugged. “Though I will admit they are the best colour for manipulation.”

“And he speaks from experience.” To Virgil’s surprise, Gordon actually jumped. “Did you forget I was here? Not absorbed by those brown eyes are we?” He couldn’t help but smile at his brother. At least one was as besotted as he had to admit he was.

Yes, Scott was definitely going to kill him.

“Shut up, Virgil.”

Bo backed off, once again hiding behind Virgil’s baldric.

“Hey, Gordon, watch the tone.”

“Sorry, Bo.”

“Are we actually going home at some point? I have a date with my bed.”

Gordon stood up, pulling out the co-pilot’s seat. “No rush, Allie, she’ll wait for you.”

“Augh.”

“Sit down, Alan, I’m just finishing pre-flight.” Tired and cranky could easily become nasty if not attended to.

Bo curled up, nestled against his harness, as Alan grumpily pulled out his seat.

“Virgil, where the hell are you?”

Speaking of tired and cranky... “Launching now, Thunderbird One.” As if prompted, he received clearance from Australian Air Control.

TB2 rumbled beneath as he activated VTOL, ash and dust swirling up around them. As soon as he had enough height, he engaged her rear thrusters and tore off over the Alps, across the coast and out into the Tasman.

“ETA fifteen minutes.” At least they weren’t too far from home.

Bo fell asleep in his lap.

-o-o-o-

Virgil was on the verge of joining Bo in slumber as Thunderbird Two spun slowly in her hanger, eventually coming to a final stop.

So tired.

Beside him, Alan poked Gordon awake. “Ugh, what? Oh.” You could almost hear his brain booting.

Virgil worked around Bo as he did his post-flight checks, his brothers, well, mostly Gordon, groaning as they got to their feet and waddled towards the hatch. “C’mon, Virg, Alan’s pining for his bed.”

“You two go ahead. I just need to finish post-flight.” He didn’t turn around, but he could feel Gordon’s eyes on him.

“Sure, whatever.” And he heard the hatch lower to the hangar floor.

His brothers gone, Virgil let himself relax back against his chair, his shoulders sagging. He let out a long breath. “So, Bo, how are we going to do this?”

The puppy woke as if on command and turned to stare up at him. Gently her tail began to wag.

Virgil let a tired smile cross his face.

Encouraged, Bo jumped up and put her two front paws on his chest, reaching up, trying to lick his face despite not quite being tall enough.

The smile became a grin.

“Okay, okay.” He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up as he pushed his seat backwards and stood. Immediately he was bathed in puppy drool. He couldn’t help but laugh. He surfaced above her licking and cradled her in his arms. “We need to get you some food.” His stomach rumbled ominously. “We need to get me some food.”

And a shower. A shower definitely wouldn’t hurt.

If he could hold off the sleep.

If he didn’t call it a stagger, it wasn’t a stagger, but he had obviously been sitting in his seat for far too long ferrying all those survivors to Melbourne on repeated trips. It was his turn to groan as both his back and legs complained loudly at the sudden demands for movement.

Bo started chewing on his glove.

Somehow he made it back to his rooms without encountering anyone. Shutting the door, he let Bo loose on the floor and began stripping off his uniform, hitting the buttons on his preprogrammed shower cubicle. Moments later he walked under the spray and let it wash the day from his skin.

God, that felt good.

As his muscles relaxed under the heat, sleep became more and more attractive, and by the time he stumbled out of the water, all thoughts of food had vanished.

He took the three steps across his room from the ensuite and threw himself facedown on the bed, still partly wet, still naked.

He was asleep within moments.

-o-o-o-

He was being kissed.

Her lips were warm, her tongue wet, her whiskers soft against his stubble...

Uh?

She licked his eye.

Wha-?

Virgil, always slow to respond upon waking, opened said eye only to get an eyeful of slobber. A soft paw thwapped him on the cheek. Huh? he blinked attempting to clear his eyesight, a hand coming up to defend himself.

Fortunately, his brain came online and memory kicked in. “B-Bo?”

A tongue wrapped around his nose and left it wet.

Ugh.

He wiped his face with his hand, stretching backwards on his pillow, desperate to get out of reach.

The puppy landed on his chest, her paws kneading his chest hair, her little claws completing his wake-up process rather abruptly.

Oh god.

“Bo, down, honey, down.”

He was completely ignored.

Sitting up, he attempted to grab her in his arms, but missed. The little puppy landed on things that puppies had no right to land on. Or stomp on for that matter.

He winced.

“Ooh, okay, come here.” He lifted her off his lap, holding her close, her tail pummelling his belly. “I’m awake, okay.” Again he found himself pinned by her brown eyes. “Aww, c’mon with the cute, Bo, you’re going to melt my brain.”

“Assuming you have a brain to melt.” And Scott was standing in his doorway.

Virgil glared up at him. “Don’t you knock?”

“I did. Grandma sent me to tell you that Christmas dinner is ready.”

Virgil frowned at his brother over the top of Bo’s ears, ignoring the glare the blue eyes were directing at the puppy in his arms. “I thought we’d do Christmas tomorrow.”

“We don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow. Grandma thought it would be best to sneak it in tonight, since it is Christmas Day, after all.” Scott’s lips thinned. “Where did you get that from?”

“She’s a rescue.”

“Usually we leave our rescues on the continent we find them.”

“She had no one.”

“Unfortunately, that is nothing new.” And one of his hands had moved to his hip.

Virgil sighed. “Scott, it’s fine, it’s only for a few days.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Virgil held back his retort. He knew to pick his fights and now was not the time. “Her name is Bo.”

Scott looked at him and then at Bo. “Hurry up, your dinner is getting cold.” The ghost of a smirk. “And don’t forget to wear clothes.”

“Funny, funny, ha, ha.” But his brother had left.

Virgil let his shoulders drop. “Sorry, Bo, I think you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Bo just licked him some more.

It wasn’t until he went looking for his boots that he discovered the wonderful deposits Bo had left for him on the floor.

Ugh.

And apparently one of his favourite boots had served as a meal also.

He closed his eyes and sighed again.

Half dressed, he cleaned up the mess, and five minutes later he waltzed downstairs, Bo in his arms and barefoot. Time to face the inevitable music.

-o-o-o-

A Tracy Christmas used to be snow, roast turkey, stockings by the fire, the occasional Christmas carol and family.

Since starting International Rescue it had changed.

Firstly, they were in the tropics. The only fires available in those temperatures were ones that required firefighting equipment. Having grown up with snow, it was still extremely weird. But it had its advantages. For one you could go outside in the minimum of clothing, something Gordon took advantage of every day of the year. There were no snowball fights, but these were fast replaced with water fights. There was no ice skating, but there was water skiing if anyone could get up the energy to get the boat out. And surfing, let’s not forget Scott’s attempts at that. Virgil would admit that he didn’t mind a little surfboard action himself. He wouldn’t say he was very good at it, but at least Gordon had never had to save him like he had Scott.

There were still Christmas trees and tinsel and stockings that no-one ever considered wearing hung from the nearest mantelpiece-looking piece of furniture.

There was still turkey and roast potatoes and all the yummy food crucial for a good Christmas meal, but it was often cooked outside in barbecue ovens and seafood and cold food had been added to the menu. In fact, the traditional dinner had become more of a banquet by the pool.

As Virgil walked out onto the patio, he couldn’t help but smile at the Christmas tree that had obviously been hurriedly moved out here from the comms room. It sat a little lopsided and the star on top was having a few issues with gravity. That was new, as was the liberal tinsel and Christmas lights strung from palm tree to palm tree, across the pool and back several times.

“Fifty bucks says Gordon tries to water volleyball the tinsel at least once.”

Virgil smirked as he stepped up beside his next youngest brother. “Not touching that one. I value my money.”

John was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt and had a beer in his hand. Bo was immediately interested in this new person. She strained towards John, her nose literally twitching towards the hand holding the beer.

His brother must have caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and instinctively took a step away.

“Oh, sorry, John, this is Bo.” Bo was climbing over his arm, desperate to get closer to the astronaut. Virgil held her tight, worried she would fall.

“Uh, hello.” John turned towards them, frowning. “Since when do you own a dog?”

“Since this morning.”

“Does Scott know?” They both instinctively looked over at their eldest brother who was hovering over one of the barbecues energetically discussing something with Grandma - probably how not to burn the food.

“He does.”

“And you still have it?”

“Her.”

“Her.”

“Yes.”

“Good luck with that one.” John drank his beer.

“She had no one else.”

John arched an eyebrow at him and then frowned. “Oh, Virgil.” His shoulders slumped.

“I am an adult now, John. It won’t be like last time.”

“God, I hope not.”

Virgil stared at his brother, only to see the genuine concern in his green eyes. A sigh. “It won’t happen again.”

John reached out and gently touched his shoulder. “No, it won’t, because you will remember that you have four brothers who are all here for you, won’t you.” God, that green gaze was penetrating.

“It will be fine.”

Bo yipped at John, her tail beating Virgil’s chest.

The astronaut smiled and offered the little dog his hand. She sniffed and licked him almost immediately.

“I think you have been approved.”

John smiled and Virgil couldn’t help but do the same.

“Virgil!” And Grandma was arrowing in on his position.

“Incoming.” John was smirking.

“Hey, Grandma.”

But his grandmother only had eyes for Bo. “Who is this?”

Virgil smiled again. “This is Bo. Bo, this is Grandma.”

Bo whacked him with her tail and literally leapt from his arms into his grandmother’s.

“Woah.” Suddenly with arms full of wriggling puppy enthusiastically licking her face, his grandmother was laughing. “Oh dear, you are a cutie. Let me have a look at you.” And she held Bo out at arms length, her eyes critical. “A little hard to tell at her age, but my bet says she’s of boxer stock, around three months old. Such a beautiful brindle and that face.” Virgil couldn’t help but agree. Bo looked like she had dipped her face in a pot of ink, her brown eyes surrounded by gorgeous black coat that quickly bled to brindle down her back with a spot of white on her front. “Where did you find her?”

Virgil looked at his feet, remembered why they were bare, and looked back up at his grandmother. “This morning’s rescue. She lost everything.”

Grandma turned her attention back to Bo. “Oh, honey. You survived the fire?” Bo licked her nose. “Well, you are safe here.” Grandma curled her arms around the puppy and scratched her ears. “Has Virgil fed you anything yet?” She glanced at him and he shrugged. He got frowned at for his trouble. Grandma turned away, walking towards the barbecues with Bo in her arms. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

Virgil rolled his eyes.

“Well, that didn’t take long, did it?” John was still smirking at him.

A series of barks and a yelp from Grandma, and suddenly Bo was dashing amongst legs in his direction. “Woah.” He crouched down and caught her as she leapt for him. She wriggled and licked, her little body trembling under his hands. “Hey, hey, honey, it’s okay, you’re safe.” She snuggled up under his chin. He couldn’t help but return the hug.

Grandma approached, worry on her face. “I’m sorry, Virgil, I didn’t realise.”

“It’s okay.” He reached an arm around his grandmother, bringing her into the hug. “She’s just had a scary day.” He pulled both of them close.

Scott was glaring at him from a distance.

John smiled at them and drank his beer.

Bo started chewing on his collar.

-o-o-o-

As the evening progressed, Bo slowly let herself part from Virgil as each of the members of his family, bar Alan and Scott, came to say hello or fed her from the table. There was one interesting moment when the little puppy encountered Sherbert for the first time.

Bo yipped.

Sherbert yapped.

And as the entire party fell silent, the two dogs stared each other down.

Virgil was poised for a rescue and Penelope was not far behind him, but a moment later Bo licked Sherbert across the nose, Sherbert gently butted the little puppy with his head, and from that point onwards they were best of friends, Sherbert quite proudly showing his new friend around.

But never out of sight of Virgil.

Bo and Parker had a staring moment not long after, but Sherbert barrelled on in and head butted the driver, snapping him out of it. It wasn’t long before the little puppy had him rubbing her ears as well.

Kayo stood her distance, assessing Bo as much as the puppy was assessing her. A calm arched eyebrow slowly rose as Bo tilted her head up at the security specialist. She pressed her lips together and faced Virgil. “There will be training.”

Virgil blinked and his sister turned and stalked off. Bo eyed her the entire time, only finally distracted by a yelp from Alan as Gordon threw him in the pool.

The engineer was left wondering if he should be worried or not.

The meal was delicious, of course. Scott had managed to keep Grandma away from the barbecues and MAX had been on task for a good part of the day. There was the mandatory turkey, and this year a couple of large snapper had been baked to perfection, along with some crayfish, oysters, salads and roast vegetables. This was followed by pie, oh, so much pie, Christmas cookies, and Christmas pudding with custard and the option of ice cream.

Virgil, as usual, made sure he took advantage of all the options. Consequently, post-banquet found him sprawled on a pool lounger staring up at the stars amongst the tinsel overhead. Bo, who had also eaten probably more than she should have, was curled up between his feet.

The soft sounds of quiet carols and muted conversation wafting across the water lulled him gently to sleep.

-o-o-o-

Scott felt like Scrooge. He was tired, worried and even a little angry. He was not enjoying himself, no matter how hard he tried. Grandma had cornered him at least twice, her hand on his shoulder trying to soothe his ire.

The annoying thing was that he wasn’t even sure what he was angry about. The rescue hadn’t been the best, but they had done what they could and some lives had been saved that otherwise wouldn’t have. The team had performed well, no one had been injured, they were all back home safe and sound.

And there was food, family and Christmas. There wasn’t really much more he could ask for.

His eyes settled on Virgil, asleep on one of the loungers, oblivious to the tinsel being draped across his hair by Gordon behind him.

Scott sighed.

But then a little head bobbed up between his brother’s bare feet and Bo barked at Gordon quite firmly.

Virgil was obviously far too out of it to wake, but Gordon looked appropriately abashed at the challenge.

Scott found himself smiling.

Realised he was smiling, dumped the smile and frowned.

Gordon scampered off leaving a sleeping Virgil in a crown of silver tinsel.

The little dog leapt off the lounger and chased after the aquanaut.

Okay, he had to admit the dog was adorable. He could see what had captured his brother’s eye, and Scott certainly had no objection to adding to their family.

But Virgil...when Virgil loved, he loved with his whole heart, and last time he had lost a pet, it had been bad, so bad.

They had lost so much in their lives already, why volunteer to lose more?

He sighed. It was stupid to think that way, but part of him could remember that devastated teenager, the depression and the mess that followed. Virgil had been as broken as the rest of them when their mother died, but when his dog died two years later, his reaction had been so self-destructive he had needed counselling and a therapist. Scott didn’t know if the two incidents were related or if it was how his brother connected to pets, or whatever. He only knew he never wanted to see his brother go through that again.

Their father was missing, and here was Virgil with a pet once again.

Sure, he was an adult now, and had tackled so much loss since, but...

Another sigh.

A yip and he looked down to see said dog staring up at him with a mouth full of tinsel, tail wagging.

“Gordon!”

“Yesssss, masster?” His brother sidled up with a bow.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Did you want to face your brother having to tell him that his new puppy died choking on tinsel?”

“Oh, shit.”

“Exactly.”

The aquanaut scooped up the little dog and with gentle words extricated the tinsel from her mouth.

A moment later Gordon held her up to his cheek and Scott had the experience of two sets of brown eyes staring at him adoration.

“Oh, for the love of-“

“A puppy?” Gordon grinned at him. “She is a rather cute, isn’t she?”

“Leave it, Gordon.”

His brother frowned. “What’s chewing on your underwear?”

“Gordon-“

“Hey, it was a legit question, bro. You’re a grumpy ass on Christmas Day. Where’s the merry? We have food and there will be presents. And there is a puppy. You couldn’t ask for more cuteness.” Gordon held up Bo who attempted to lick Scott’s nose.

“Gordon-‘

“Nope, so not going down with you, bro. We’ve earned some happy. We’re all here, in one piece, it’s lovely weather. Cheer up, for goodness sake.” Despite himself, Gordon frowned. “Here have some puppy love.” And suddenly Scott found himself with his arms full of wriggling Bo. Gordon turned and walked off, eventually calling out to Alan, no doubt looking for mischief.

Bo tilted her head to one side and stared up at him.

Aw, hell, weaponised cuteness.

She jumped up and licked his nose.

Scott sighed.

Voice low. “You know, you better look after my brother. He’s a good man and he does a lot of good things.” A swallow. “He’s a little prone to heroics. Perhaps we can team up in that department and help keep his butt alive.”

Her tongue lolled out one side of her mouth and she grinned.

“Maybe try that on the Hood and solve all our problems.”

He gave in and drew her close to his chest, rubbing under her chin.

“I really hope we don’t regret this.”

-o-o-o-

“PRESENTS!”

Alan’s voice cut through his slumber and shook him awake. Wha-?

“Time to wake up, sleepy head.” Scott’s voice.

A sharp little bark.

Bo.

He flung his eyes open, and immediately squinted at the fairy lights floating in the light breeze far above. A blink and to his left a shadow formed into his eldest brother. His blue eyes were smiling as he sat on the next lounge over, holding Bo, scratching her gently. She was obviously enjoying it.

Virgil frowned. “I thought you were pissed at me.”

“I was.” His brother shrugged. “I got over it.” Bo was licking Scott’s fingers.

Wow, the ability to tame the savage big brother. The little girl must be heaven-sent.

There was a whir of wheels and MAX tore out onto the patio decked out in tinsel and lugging brightly coloured presents. MiniMAX darted in behind him carrying a smaller present which was deposited carefully on the table before he disappeared inside only to return with another.

“You okay?”

“Huh?” Virgil peered up at his brother before stretching the length of the lounger. Several joints cracked and the ache across his shoulders from the morning vaguely made its presence known. A yawn. “I’m fine. Just tired. This morning sucked.”

Tinsel slid down his face. He sighed and threw it off. Gordon was getting repetitive.

Scott dipped his head, attempting to hide a smile, and looked down at Bo. “True.” He scratched her under her chin one more time before offering her to him. “Here.”

Bo didn’t bother to wait for him to sit up, she bounded out of Scott’s arms and onto Virgil’s belly. “Oof.” She then danced up and down on it.

Scott grinned at him. “She’s not going to be little when she grows up.”

“Augh, she’s not little now.” He managed to capture her enough so he could sit up, but she struggled free excitedly and dashed from his arms, jumping on the lounger, just as MiniMAX buzzed over with a small present.

Bo barked at him and MiniMAX dodged to deposit the present in Virgil’s lap. He caught it, but with his hands now occupied, he wasn’t fast enough to grab Bo before she let off another bark, jumped excitedly and latched her teeth onto the little robot.

The result was immediate.

MiniMAX shrieked, several of his legs caught in the puppy’s mouth, and with a whir of rotor blades, took off madly across the patio.

With Bo hanging on.

“Bo!” Virgil dropped the present and made a grab for the pair, but missed.

Every eye turned to see what the commotion was about. Virgil stumbled over the lounger and kicked it out of the way. He was vaguely aware of Scott doing something similar. “Brains!”

MiniMAX was obviously panicking. The little robot darted about trying to shake off his assailant. Bo was whining in her throat.

Virgil dashed after them.

Despite the puppy’s weight, MiniMAX still managed a great deal of height, Brains’ ‘build ‘em tough’ policy obviously carrying through to his robots. Despite having the strength to carry the puppy, the off-balance mass hampered MiniMAX’s navigation and they were wobbling all over the place.

All Virgil could see was a tragedy in the making. The pool, the concrete, anything horribly solid. He ran beneath them, desperately attempting to reach the now whining puppy. Family members and furniture were dodged and shoved out of the way as he clambered after them.

A chair ended up in the pool. Gordon squawked and almost joined it. Virgil leapt off an empty lounge, made a grab for them, missed and ended up in the Christmas tree.

Fake pine needles jabbed him in the face as he went down in a pile of tinsel and Christmas baubles. He swore, his clothing caught, his hair caught, and his everything tangled in tinsel, but he made it to his feet just in time to see Bo let go.

“No!”

Oblivious to everything other than the puppy falling, Virgil finally got traction under his bare feet, took a running leap and grabbed Bo from the air. He instinctively wrapped himself around her, rolling in midair, tinsel and baubles flung in all directions.

As he plummeted into the pool.

The splash took his senses, muffling exclamations, and repeated shouts of his name. There was dark blue, and wet, and, for a moment, blessed silence.

Then logic reasserted itself and he kicked for the surface.

Sound, light and cool air on his skin. He blinked water out of his eyes as he lifted Bo up so she could breathe, his legs kicking to keep them afloat.

She whined at him as if to tell him off, sneezed, and began enthusiastically licking the saltwater off his face.

He couldn’t help but grin, and he knew he wasn’t the only one as laughter drifted across the water.

“You trashed the tree, Virg.”

“I don’t think he cares, Gordon.” He looked up to see Grandma smiling at him.

And no, he didn’t. As Scott poked him with a pole to help drag him to the edge and Bo decided his ear might do for her next meal, he suddenly felt joy. It could simply have been relief, but he was going to tack it up as Christmas joy and enjoy it while he could.

-o-o-o-

“Only you, Virgil.”

“It wasn’t intentional.”

“I have no doubt of that, it never is.”

“Aw, c’mon, Scott.”

“If it was intentional then I would have to accuse you of doing it deliberately just to get out of helping with the Christmas dishes.”

“We have a dishwasher.” Bo let off a bark as MiniMAX flew past dragging a bag full of recyclable cups, plates and cutlery, giving Virgil and his dog an extremely wide berth. “And there are hardly any dishes.”

“You are still getting out of clean up.”

“C’mon, Scott, you know me better than that. Ow!”

“Sit still. I’ve almost got all of it.”

Virgil leant back against the lounge, Bo curled up in his lap. “I’m not particularly happy about this either you know.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I know that, Ow!”

“Well, if you would watch where you were going, you wouldn’t have collided with the Christmas tree. And what’s with the bare feet anyway?”

“Bo ate one of my boots.”

Scott snorted and pulled out yet another tiny piece of glass Christmas bauble from the bottom of Virgil’s left foot. “She hasn’t been here twenty-four hours yet and she has already caused havoc.”

“She’s a puppy.”

“I noticed.” Scott sighed, peering through his magnifying visor at his brother’s foot. “I think that’s all of it. Please don’t do that again. You’ll be limping for a week.”

“I’m not planning on it.”

As Scott wrapped his foot in gauze, he eyed the puppy on Virgil’s lap. “And you, young lady, I thought we had a deal.”

To Virgil’s surprise, Bo’s head bobbed up and she looked distinctly guilty.

Scott arched an eyebrow. “Hmm, don’t let it happen again.”

Bo yapped at him.

Virgil stared at both of them. “What?”

“None of your business, you just lay back and look after yourself.” And Scott was smirking.

Ooookaay.

He relaxed back against the lounge and stared up at the fairy lights above.

Bo stomped up the length of him and licked his eyeball.

He coughed up a laugh and grabbed an armful of wriggly puppy.

“I think that was a Merry Christmas, Virg.” Scott held his injured foot and grinned. “Merry Christmas.”

-o-o-o-

FIN.

[onceuponmystory]

I Have Finally Found Peace With The Rise of Skywalker

And it's all thanks to my crazy, wonderful, just-as-obsessed-with-Star-Wars-as-I-am best friends.

But before I tell you how we did it, I have to give you guys two rather important warnings concerning this post. 

First and foremost, please beware that there will be MAJOR SPOILERS for The Rise of Skywalker in this post. If you haven't seen the movie, proceed at your own risk, and don't say I didn't warn you.

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, this post is quite critical of the movie. I examine in detail everything I thought was bad about The Rise of Skywalker, and give my opinion on how it could have been done better.

But that doesn't mean this is a negative post - in fact, I hope to achieve quite the opposite. With the help of my friends, I realised that the best way to make your peace with The Rise of Skywalker is to talk through it and play Teacher With A Red Pen on the parts you didn't like.

I have to warn you that I tend to get a little carried away playing Teacher With A Red Pen. There's just so much to say about this movie... But if you're up to reading an insanely long post, I really think it'll be worth your while. 

Now, since this is a free era, we are all entitled to our own opinions, and this is mine. You are perfectly welcome to disagree with me, just please do it politely. And with that out of the way, let's jump right in, shall we? 

First Things First: Ben Solo's Death

I think one of the biggest WHY??? moments in the entire movie was Ben Solo's sacrifice and death. I'll say it now - I hated that twist, absolutely hated it. And not just because I'm a huge fan of Reylo, either. 

To start, it's predictable, the exact mirror of the Darth Vader sacrifice/death scene from Return of the Jedi. And while it worked for Darth Vader, doing it again with Ben was not only cliché and repetitive, but also a slap in the face to the character.

Because Ben Solo deserved better. He really, really did.

Kylo Ren/Ben Solo was from the start a very conflicted character - the son of two of the galaxy's greatest heroes, and the nephew of the last Jedi, manipulated from birth by Emperor Palpatine. Yes, he did terrible things, but he also had terrible things done to him. At the very least, he deserved the chance to atone for some of those terrible things.

While we're talking about slaps in the face, Ben dying made the deaths of Han, Luke and Leia mean so much less. All three of those people gave their lives so that their son (nephew, in Luke's case) would turn back to the light. Especially Leia - she literally used the last of her energy to reach out to her son and turn him back. Killing Ben off makes her sacrifice almost meaningless - didn't she die so he would be able to live a better life? 

And my last point about the Massive Unfairness of Ben's Death has to do with Rey. She and Ben love each other, don't they? They are literally described as "two of us who are one" - which is about as close as we're going to get to soulmates in Star Wars. With Ben's death, Rey lost half of who she is - not to mention the man she loved.

George Lucas once said, and I quote, that "I have always hated that in movies, when you go along and one of the main characters gets killed. This is a fairytale. You want everybody to live happily ever after and nothing bad happens to anybody."

So yes, maybe it's not the most perfect of arguments, but this is Star Wars. And after all these years of love and admiration, we all deserve that happy ending. 

And While We're At It: Ben Deserved A Proper Redemption Arc

I know I've just spent a long time ranting about why Ben deserved better, but I'm not quite done yet. Because yes, Ben absolutely deserved better - and most of all, he deserved a proper redemption.

Now, I don't know how many of you have seen Avatar The Last Airbender, but that show contains a prime example of a really good redemption arc. It's not simple, and it's not at all easy, but it's worth it.

In ATLA, Fire Prince Zuko starts off as the villain of the series, but ends up seeing that the way he was raised was wrong. He decides to make amends by joining his former enemy, Avatar Aang, and helping him save the world.

But what makes it really good is that it's not easy for Zuko. He struggles, he genuinely does, and he has to really work to earn the trust of the people who used to be his enemies. And time-consuming and difficult as it was, it ultimately ended up being worth it a thousand times over.

That, my friends, is a redemption arc. It takes time, and work, and real atonement. More than anything, I wanted to see that for Ben. I wanted him to struggle, and be distrusted, and hate himself, because that is the only way he can really redeem himself - by rising above all that and saying, "I was wrong, I'm sorry, and I'll take whatever punishment you want to give me, because I really want to change."

Death is taking the easy way out - in fact, it's lazy writing. Ben didn't have to die - his whole story, which is already so defined by struggle and conflict, would have been far more meaningful if he had had a final struggle, this time to prove that he really had changed. 

Unfortunately, the writers chose to take the cliché easy way out, killing off the character instead of giving him a much deeper, more meaningful ending.

If there was one thing - just one thing - I could change about The Rise of Skywalker, it would be that. I would give Ben the chance to properly redeem himself, because he really, truly deserves it.

Moving On: Rose Tico

With the Ben arc out of the way, I can move on to the next biggest issue I had with The Rise of Skywalker - and that's the horrible sidelining of one of my favourite characters from The Last Jedi, Rose Tico.

Now, I get that not everyone liked Rose's character - and that's fine. But there was no reason - none at all - for basically removing Rose, who played quite a significant role in The Last Jedi, from the new movie. Additionally, given all the racist and sexist harassment that Kelly Marie Tran suffered at the hands of malcontent fans, cutting Rose from the film almost seems like caving to those trolls.

And that is not acceptable. If you let a bully have his way, stopping him becomes near impossible. So even if it was just to show the trolls that bullying will not get you what you want, Rose Tico deserved a bigger role.

What bigger role, you may ask? Many people have said, and I grudgingly agree, that there wasn't really space for Rose to go along on the whole wayfinder quest. All right, fine. But sidelining her completely is not the right course of action. If you can't take her along on the main quest, then give her a significant sub-plot, for example joining Lando to call for aid for the Resistance.

Remember, Rose Tico was the person who turned Finn from an ex-stormtrooper more than ready to desert the Resistance into a loyal fighter for the cause he believes in - to such an extent that he was willing to sacrifice his own life for the survival of the Resistance. If there's anyone who could give the galaxy enough hope again to send help to the Resistance, it's Rose Tico.

Oh, and some more Finnrose would have been nice. You don't have to agree with me - I know many of you don't - but you have to admit that Finn and Rose definitely had some sort of a bond forged in The Last Jedi, even if it was just a platonic one. Basically ignoring that like they did in The Rise of Skywalker is just bad writing.

So I'm not saying that Rose needed to be the main star of the show - that would have been unrealistic, after all. But I do think, and I will stand by this opinion no matter what, that Rose deserved a lot better than what she got.

And On That Track: Jannah Was An Unnecessary Character

Don't get me wrong, I love Naomi Ackie, and I appreciate that Star Wars is trying to incorporate a more diverse cast. But despite it all, I just couldn't bring myself to like Jannah's character, or see why she was actually necessary.

See, if you take out Jannah, nothing much changes. Yes, it was nice for Finn to have someone to talk and relate to, but it wasn't necessary. We already know that Finn was a stormtrooper, just like we already know he left it behind him.

Also, Finn already had a female character he had a significant bond to - none other than Rose Tico from my previous rant. Why force in an all-new potential love interest at the last minute when you already have one with far more development? Not only could Rose have conceivably replaced Jannah in pretty much every scene, she also has a lot more development and history with Finn than Jannah does, which would have made their interactions that much more meaningful. 

And as for the attack on Pryde's Destroyer with the Orbaks (and no, I didn't know that's what those cow things were called, either, until I Googled it a few seconds ago) - that was a nice touch, but there's a simple way it could have been much better. Instead of introducing an all-new character and cow things with a name no-one knew unless they looked it up on Wookieepedia, bring back the fathiers from Canto Bight and that little Force-sensitive kid with the broom from The Last Jedi.

At this point, some of you may be wondering why I'm not attacking Zorii Bliss as well - isn't she also a brand-new character with very little real development? The answer to that is yes, she is, but she gives Poe Dameron some much-needed backstory. If you cut Zorii, Poe has no significant backstory, which means that she was actually important to the plot. (Also, Keri Russell is awesome, and has stunning eyes. Enough said.) 

So I'm sorry, Naomi Ackie, but I really wish that Jannah <i>wasn't</i> in The Rise of Skywalker. She's just there for too short to have any real development, and I'd rather use the time I gain from cutting her to focus on Rose and the actual plot.

While I'm Talking About The Plot: What On Earth Happened? Is Star Wars A Video Game, Now?

Ah, yes. Another big issue with The Rise of Skywalker is its rather disappointing lack of actual plot.

I'm sure some of you are frowning quite heavily at me right now, so let me backtrack a little and explain.

Upon first watching, The Rise of Skywalker seems like quite a good movie, really. (Except the ending, of course - but We Do Not Talk About The Ending.) It's only when you re-watch the movie that you realise that there is, in fact, very little really significant plot there.

To put it simply, a large part of the movie is a group of characters going to a Place to find a Thing that will help them find another Thing that will take them to another Place where they will save the world. Does this sound like a video game to anyone?

The thing with this kind of plot is that it works well the first time, when you don't know what's going to happen, and when the lack of plot can be hidden by dramatic explosions and cool fight scenes. Oh, and flying stormtroopers.

This is Star Wars, so there just has to be some explosions, as well as a quest of some kind. I don't deny that. But when said quest and explosions fill the story to such a degree that they become the plot, you're in cinematic trouble.

This is pretty much proven when you re-watch The Rise of Skywalker. Where the heroic quest and explosions and jetpack-sporting stormtroopers had you at the edge of your seat last time, now that you know what's coming, you start to see that very little actually happens in these scenes. Sure, they look cool, but they don't really affect the overall movement of the story in a significant way.

And that's a problem, given that most of the movie consists of scenes like these, or exposition. There are precious few scenes in which two or more characters have meaningful development in a way that will continue to affect them and the plot. This, unfortunately, means that the movie falls flat a bit when you watch it for the second time.

How would I change this?

Well, for starters, I would focus less on the actual hunt for the dagger and the wayfinder and whatever and more on the characters. How do they feel? Why do they feel it? And most importantly, how does this affect what happens to the rest of the characters and the plot?

Also, like I said before, more attention has to be given to a) Ben's redemption and b) an interesting sub-plot for Rose. And you know what? The lightsaber fight scenes could have been a lot cooler, as well.

Some More Complaining About The Plot: This Time, It's Plot Holes

Where to start, where to start. All movies have a plot hole of some kind, it's only natural, but The Rise of Skywalker is simply riddled with them.

Of course, this can be attributed to the lack of plot as explained in the previous rant. Since there is so little time spent actually developing the plot, it just stands to reason that said plot isn't the most watertight.

It's sort of spectacular, though, how quickly the first plot hole pops up. It must be just five minutes into the script - you guessed it, on Exegol.

Not only was the Emperor's resurrection never properly explained, but we also have about a thousand creepy Sith guys who are just suddenly there when needed for plot purposes. Who are they? Where did they come from? How did we not know about them before?

The Rise of Skywalker doesn't even try to answer any of these questions. It just gets glossed over in a classic example of How To Write A Glaring Plot Hole.

And while we're talking about Palpatine, let's take a look at his lackey-in-chief, Allegiant General Pryde, who oh-so-dramatically declares that he serves Palpatine "as I served you in the old wars."

Wait a minute. The old wars? As in the Return of the Jedi wars? Well then why on earth haven't we heard of Pryde before?

Sure, maybe he wasn't a major enough character to show in the original trilogy. But if he was such a faithful servant of Palpatine's, shouldn't he at least have made some kind of cameo in The Last Jedi or The Force Awakens? That would also have been some nice foreshadowing for the Emperor's return. 

Also, when and how did Rey fix Anakin's lightsaber? As I recall, at the end of The Last Jedi, it snapped in half. But when we skip to Rey in The Rise of Skywalker, it's perfectly whole again, with not a hint of explanation on the horizon.

Yes, maybe this isn't the biggest plot hole, but it's annoying. At least just have someone mention in passing "Oh well done Rey, you finished fixing the lightsaber" so it's not quite so out of the blue. 

And there's more. When Rey and Kylo have their big fight on Kef Bir, Rey quite clearly takes Kylo's TIE fighter. Since the Falcon most definitely did not stop by for him, how did Ben get off Kef Bir? 

This is never explained. He just pitches up on Exegol, and immediately starts fighting the Knights of Ren so you forget about wondering how he got there in the first place.

Can I just say the Knights of Ren were a disappointment? I was hoping for a lot more... anything, actually. They did pretty much nothing except look menacing for the entirety of the movie, unless you count getting thoroughly beaten by Ben on Exegol. 

I've probably missed another plot hole or seven, but I think I've had enough for the moment. You can only pull faces for so long, after all. I'm moving on.

  Last Thing: Too Much Fan Service

Picking up from where I left off - bad plot - I'll start by breaking a few hearts and saying that I thought Chewie should have died.

Wait, wait, don't run away screaming "Traitor!" like that! Dead Chewie would have been absolutely heart-breaking, I know, but it would have made for a really good plot point.

Rey thought she killed Chewie, and that quite understandably broke her heart. But then she finds out, oh no, wait, he's actually alive, there was another transport in the desert, ha ha, don't worry, fans. 

While that satisfies fans, looking at it critically, it would have been better to really kill Chewie. Very sad, yes, but better.

Let me explain. If Rey killed Chewie, really killed him, she would have been devastated. Being Rey, she probably would have isolated herself so she wouldn't accidentally hurt anyone else. She would have grieved, and her friends would have had to really work to comfort her and get her to trust herself again. This experience would have left Rey that much sadder and wiser, but stronger because of it.

This can be summed up quite simply: sad moments make the happy moments mean that much more.

But unfortunately for Rey's character development, Chewie is not really dead. The fans might be happy that they didn't lose a beloved character, but what they don't realise is that they lost a significant character progression instead.

And, sadly, this is not the only spot where the movie indulges its fans rather than a deeper plot.

For example, Rey buries Luke and Leia's lightsabers on Tattooine, and we fans get a warm tingly feeling in our stomachs because yay, we've come full circle.

But have we?

Tattooine holds nothing but bad memories for the Skywalker twins - Luke spent his entire life trying to get off the planet, and that homestead holds only bad memories for him. Easy as it is to forget, the last time Luke saw that homestead was when his aunt and uncle had been brutally murdered there. I somehow can't imagine that's where he would want his lightsaber buried - that's the equivalent of burying Harry Potter's wand at Number Four Privet Drive, for crying out loud. 

The same can be said for Leia. Her one experience of Tattooine was the infamous gold bikini scene with Jabba the Hutt - totally the place where she'd want to have her lightsaber, her legacy, buried, hmm?

My conclusion is that the "hopeful and uplifting" Tattooine ending scene is really only that way if you don't think too hard about it. Pure fan service, in other words.

Which is sad, if you consider the ending we could have had. We could have had Rey burying the lightsabers on Naboo, because that's where her grandfather came from, to symbolise that she really was leaving the past behind.

And if you have to be fan service-y, at least do it in the right way. Give Rey and Ben their happy ending, because as George Lucas puts it, having the boy and the girl walk into the sunset hand-in-hand adds ten million to the box office. (And a sunset across Naboo's seas would look very pretty, wouldn't it?)

In Conclusion: TROS Being So Bad Is Actually A Good Thing, Because Now We Get To Fix It The Way We Want

Take a moment to consider that. If The Rise of Skywalker was so bad that we no longer consider it canon, well, that means we can invent our own canon, doesn't it?

This is how I made my peace with The Rise of Skywalker - by accepting that the movie Disney gave us needed some severe changes, and applying them in my head. You won't believe how much better I feel now that I have "my" version of The Rise of Skywalker accepted as canon in my head.

That's my message to you all: if TROS has upset you as much as it did me, don't try to deny it to yourself. Gather a group of good friends around you and have a The Rise of Skywalker fix-it session, and talk it out until you've made the movie into what you want to see.

We are the fans, my friends, and we deserve the movie that we want to see. So get out there and make it for yourselves!

[skylar-river-blog]

Living With Wings

Growing up in an Illyrian camp isn’t easy. Constant training, flying lessons, not to mention the terrible beds. But being a woman in an Illyrian camp is a different story. After running away at a young age, River has had to survive in ways her mother and father could never imagine, even with all of the struggles her mother had to face when she first came to the camp. With the impending war with Hybern, the Illyrian forces need all of the help they can get. There’s just one problem: women aren’t allowed wings, and they sure as hell aren’t allowed on the battle field, the one place River knows she belongs.

Chapter 1

The forest is quiet. This sort of quiet is not one that is wanted. Ever. It suggests the presence of the naga or the Bogge. They haven’t been seen in these areas for a few months, this being the only reason I set up camp here. My senses are on high-alert, waiting for the smallest shift in the atmosphere, waiting for the perfect time to strike. My body is stone. Frail and thin, but stable, strong. The weapons around my waist are nothing that I would pick from a lineup, but they are the best I have: a knife I carved from a stone and a spear head taken from an arrow. Living on your own is nothing to brag about, especially when you might be devoured if you make one wrong step.

A twig snapped from a few hundred feet away, and I made my move. I ran northeast, a bit to the left from where I heard the sound. Hopefully this would give me the upper hand and a fair shot at killing it, whatever it was. Running through the trees I heard only my feet crunching leaves, reassuring my suspicion. With this I turn and run north. There is nothing within me that I fear enough for the Bogge to kill me. I have nothing to love or care for. The closer I got, the quieter it became. Almost 30 feet away, I stop, only to become aware of my surroundings, of all of my escape routes. It’s definitely quieter here. I turned in place and saw nothing. Throwing a rock at a nearby tree, I grabbed my knife and waited. For what, I didn’t know. The longer I waited the more the silence began to devour me, the more I began to lose myself.

I slowly dropped to a crouch and turned, until I came face to face with my father. I stumbled back on my knees and quickly got to my feet.

“It’s time you come home.” His voice was strong and rough.

“Why are you here? And how did you find me?”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s time you stopped playing these games of survival and came back to your mother.” Figures. He’s only here because my mother sent him.

“You couldn’t care less about me. Yet you let mother convince you to hunt me.” My father never did anything he didn’t want to. Only something valued by my father would be accepted for him to go out of his way like this. Dear Gods, what did she promise him?! “I’ll ask you again. Why are you here.”

“Your mother.” There was a kind of fear and worry as he said it. “Come home.”

“What’s wrong with mother.” A command, not a question.

“See for yourself.” Behind my father, I then realized, stood three Illyrian soldiers in their fighting leathers. My father was going to take me back, with or without a fight. I contemplated running, straight toward them, hoping to catch them off guard. Then I remembered my mother. Something must be horribly wrong if he hunted me, even after my rough departure.

I began walking east. Even after not seeing a sign of my birth camp, the location has never left. For months after I left I made the first few steps back, thinking of how much it would hurt my mother, how much easier it would be to return home and live in constant protection, even if I would be disregarded and treated as less than the ground they walked on.

Then I thought of them. I thought of all of the other women in the camp., all of the others that tried to escape and never made it. This wasn’t just for me. This was for them, too. This was for my mother. She left her camp in hopes of a new life until the my father’s captain found her. She still had hers at the time,. Until they were publicly ripped from her in the center of the camp as a lesson for anyone else who tried to run. Had my father not secretly sent that healer to her tent that night, she would have died.

I would not let this go to waste.

This is for her.

Then why am I leading my father back to the camp? Why am I reminding him that I never forgot where they were, even if he didn’t care? My mother is much stronger that that. She may have lost them, but they never left. She would have sent word herself. She would have alerted me. Somehow. This was too easy. Too simple.

He gave no details of her condition. No hint or suggestion at her well-being. This is what made me feel the unease that gripped my chest with its sharp talons.

Nevertheless I continued on.

~~~~~~

We were at the camp by sundown. I hadn’t realized how far I had traveled from the camp. It still looked the same. Even after all of these years, nothing has changed except for the youth running around with copper swords and wooden shields. We were given wooden swords.

I walked through the crowd with my head high. Everyone knew who I was and, what I’d done. I could smell their rage as I walked to my tent.

Nothing.

My mother was nowhere to be seen. I went through every room and found nothing. I couldn’t even smell her there. It felt as though she had never lived at all.

Turning around I smelled there were more soldiers in the tent.

“Where is my mother?” Their expressions hinted at nothing. I scanned the soldiers, looking each of them in the eye as I did.

And I was gone.

In a blink I was behind the line of soldiers, running towards the woods. And in a heartbeat they were in the air. Flying above me they flapped their broad, muscular wings downwards, making it harder for me to breathe. I kept running, forcing air in and out of my lungs, ignoring the burning as it entered ice cold into my fiery chest.

The soldiers began to descend, further restricting my breathing. They are taught this strategy as soon as they to learn to fly. The camp started swarming with soldiers, at least five from every angle. The ground was clear and I had one clear shot, one last chance.

I summoned them. Within seconds I was off the ground, soaring into the sky. I flapped my wings in smooth and quick repetitions, hoping to gain as much altitude as possible. The wind burned my eyes and the cold air burned my lungs. My body screamed at me to look back, to see if we were in the clear.

I didn’t dare.

The tears began to stream down my face as the rage I had bottled up escaped. How dare my father use my mother. How dare he abuse my love for her. How dare I believe him. How dare I think that he would come to me if my mother truly was in danger.

How dare I.

The tears began falling faster as I let out a scream. My wing. I tried flapping them, tried to gain altitude as my body began hurtling toward the forest below me. I looked to my left; there was an ash arrow through my wing. I looked to my right, only to find the same thing in the other. Snapping the body of the arrow, I pulled the other half from my wing, letting out a faint scream. After releasing the other arrow I tucked them in close. The last thing I would do is give them another target.

With my feet grazing the treetops, I opened my wings and glided to the ground, grunting with the pain it brought on. They had missed one of the vital veins, but it would still take time to heal. I sprinted between the trees, using their canopies as cover. When they had all flown past and there was no sign or smell of their company within a ten mile radius I walked to a stream nearby and began washing my wings in hopes of washing away any splinters from the arrows.

“And where do you think you’re goin’?” The voice was deep, commanding, but gentle. I tucked my wings in tight, turning to the man.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to stare?” I spat, not caring about the sting it may have carried.

“And didn’t anyone tell you to keep those hidden?” He motioned to my wings that were peaking out on my sides. I noticed his were dark, strong and defined. Mine were stark white, with streaks of blood running down and staining my feathers.

“Apparently I have been doing just that if I still have them.”

“And you might just as easily lose them if you aren’t careful.” The smirk that crossed his face made me want to slap it right off.

“And you might as well lose yours if you don’t watch how you talk to me.”

He chuckled before saying, “And who are you to speak to me in this way? I would think again before I opened my mouth if I were you.”

“Who are you, then? You clearly don’t look like you live in the forest.” His arms were toned, legs defined, and chest broad and muscular. Everything about him screamed High Fae. Everything about him screamed at me to run.

“I’m not High Fae, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Emissary?” He shook his head. “Commander of an army?” Shook his head again. “If you’re not High Fae, or emissary, or a commander, then who are you?”

He stood up straight, and it wasn’t until then that I had realized he was slouching. His wings must have been pure muscle if they caused him to slouch like that. “I am your greatest ally you have, at the moment. Call me Alekos, Defender of Mankind. Or faekind, in this case.” His tone of voice as he said his name was comedic, almost as though he named himself.

“Okay, Alekos, wher--”

“Alekos, Defender of Faekind.” He corrected with a smirk. He had the mannerisms of someone I knew growing up. Someone pompous, flirtatious, snarky.

“Yeah, whatever. Where are you from then?”

“I can definitely show you to my tent, if that’s what you mean,” he said with a grin. Definitely familiar.

“No, I’m fine, thank you. I’ll go back to my camp then, if that’s all the help you’re going to be,” I said with a bite, whether intentional or not, I wasn’t sure.

“You won’t get anywhere with those wings in that condition. Maybe a mile or two, but not more, and it’s my best guess to say that your camp isn’t two miles away. I have something at my camp that can help with those wounds. But that would mean following me to my tent, and I’m not sure we’re quite ready for that yet.” He finished his last sentence with a smirk, with which I replied with a mocking smile. I spread my wings, taking another look at the holes that weren’t healing.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve lived through worse.” I made to take flight before he could stop me, but the pain shooting through them and down my spine stopped me before he even had the chance. I winced, taking a step back to regain my balance.

“You won’t last a hundred yards. Let me give you something for the ashwood. Then I’ll take you back to your camp.” This time there was no smirk, no grin. A straight, serious face looked down at me. His prominent cheekbones and deep blue eyes complimented each other, while still allowing his strong, cut jawline to show his assertion.

“How far off?” I would take the help, only because I couldn’t do this alone without a salve, or anything to initiate the healing.

He gestured farther south. “Maybe three miles out. We can make it within the hour if we run, but we’ll make it within the half hour if I carry you.”

“I don’t need to be carried, I’m not lame.” My attitude was obvious. He looked me up and down. Alec assessed my body, taking the most time with my wings. I tucked them back in closer, wincing at the pain again shooting through my spine. “I can walk.”

“Then we’d better get going. Those soldiers will come looking for you soon enough.” He was right. They would look by the water, knowing I was injured and would attempt to clean my wounds. Knowing going back to my camp would be a death wish for me, I motioned him to lead the way, keeping a few paces back.

[fmdmoonjin]

Interviews. What used to be the bane of his existence as a public figure has turned into mere routine over the years, and this one isn't even live – it shouldn't be a problem, Moonjin thinks, but still doesn't like it as he takes his place admidst multiple cameras that will capture his expressions from multiple angles, so the producers can later use whatever looks most dramatic, one way or another. The squeaky white surface of the chair looks almost new, like no one had sat on it before him – an impression he knows to be an illusion; fittingly, as that is sure to be a recurring theme throughout Idolized's runtime. Illusions.

If his key value is honesty, what does it say about him that he's chosen an occupation that leaves no room for that? Moonjin refuses to ponder that question as he straightens his shoulders and plasters on a little smile, just enough to lighten up his usually too dark expression, then nods at the manager seated across from him – although no obstacles are blocking his view, he feels the line of cameras dividing them. In front of the camera, where artificial light smooths over his imperfections, he slips into a world of illusions with alarming readiness. (Is he becoming immune to the prick of lies like needles piercing his skin? Who knows – it's not his choice to make anymore.)

What is life as an idol like?  “Life as an idol,” he begins, then pauses shortly to run his tongue along his bottom lip. It isn't dry – he just needs a little time to think, as truthful thoughts drown out those he prepared beforehand, anticipating similar questions, “Is hard to explain in its entirety to people who haven't experienced it, which is, I think, where this show comes in.” A nod to underline his words conveys mild satisfaction – isn't that something the higher-ups would love to hear? Words of support he only partially stands behind, but he hasn't lied so far. “There are a lot of misconceptions about idols. It starts with this: that there seems to be a need for a general definition of 'idol life'. I'd like to place emphasis on the fact that we're all different, and thus our lives are too.” Too negative, Moonjin quickly reprimands himself – too critical. If there is one thing the public dislikes, it's usually being wrong and someone calling attention to that. “Of course some things are similar for all of us. There's the thrill of standing on stage, singing and dancing for people who wholeheartedly cheer us on – there's nothing even remotely comparable to the sound of a hundred people singing along to music you put together in the walls of a studio, unsure of whether or not anyone would even want to listen once it's done. There are strict rules for most of us, as you can find them at many workplaces – it's true that there isn't such a clear line between work and home in our job, but on the other hand, we have other liberties that certain professions may not offer. In the end, I think it's important to keep in mind that it's just that: a job. It doesn't define who I am as a person, but how I do my job just might.”

What are the hardships? Not usually much of a talker unless the situation calls for it, like when conflict arises in the dorm or anything of the sort, Moonjin finds himself exhausted of being the only one to speak after barely having answered one question, and adjusts his legs until they are in a 90 degree angle to the floor – an attempt to ground himself, perhaps, though it's mostly an excuse to move his muscles that are quickly getting stiff. “It's not always easy.” Typical – he avoids admitting that it's hard under any circumstances, in front of everyone, at all times. “Sometimes, things don't go as planned. Personally, I struggle most when I get sick or injured, which, luckily, isn't all that often – I don't want to miss schedules I was graciously invited to, and I don't ever want to let the members down. As a leader, I strive to be a support system they can fall back on whenever they need it, so when I can't do that, it's hard. It's the same for the fans too – as they're all precious to me, I'm always hoping I won't disappoint them with what I do, but sometimes, things are out of my hands. I wish they wouldn't blame themselves when we don't win first place on a music show, for example. It's not their fault for not voting enough, streaming enough, or anything – wouldn't I have to work harder instead, to put out better music next time?” A lot of things are left unmentioned: nights spent at practice rooms, dancing until his legs give out beneath him; in studios, jotting down notes until there are dents in his fingers and the shadows under his eyes are as dark as the ink on the pages. He doesn't mention the distance between him and all things not compatible with his lifestyle: former friends, his family, the vague possibility of romance, like he's forgotten those were once a part of him at all. He leaves out how odd it is to look in the mirror and not know oneself: who is he changing into, and is he still okay with it? Will he still be able to look at himself in five years, in ten? They don't know who he once was – they don't have to know.

What is rewarding?  His smile turns more genuine with that question, the thought alone enough to return a gleam of excitement to his eyes – his passion for the job prevails through all hardships they face, unbreakable, unchanged. “As I briefly touched upon earlier, the most rewarding moments are always interactions with fans. Of course I love making music, even if no one else listens to it in the end. There are a lot of songs I've written that I doubt I'll ever release, but I'm just as passionate about them as any others. It's rewarding in itself to have that final result – when a rough idea turns into a song.” Purposely looking at the camera for a brief moment, almost as if his gaze flickered over the person watching, even though no one is, yet (except for the camera crew), Moonjin pauses before elaborating. “It's always touching to meet our fans, whether it's at concerts or anywhere else – I couldn't have imagined what it feels like when they prepare events for you, if you had asked me years ago. They're usually at the end of a concert, but I end up feeling more revitalized than I could after weeks of vacation.” Only the partial truth, granted, but he is content with not having told a blatant lie so far – these are the little things he clings to, bases his integrity on. “Fan letters, too. Having our fans allow us a glance into their world and realizing that we might have impacted it in some way with what we do is still overwhelming, no matter how many I receive. A personal goal of mine, in the end, is to be someone our fans can rely on – I may not always be able to answer posts in the fancafe or anything of the sort, but I hope they know I make songs with them in mind. That I really see them when they cheer for us, and feel connected to them as people when they talk to us, whether that's through comments or in person.”

How would you feel if your future child wanted to be an idol?  Although it's not a question that surprises him, Moonjin hasn't given it much thought before, for the very simple reason that having children of his own still seems so far off, he deems it impractical to hypothesize about it. Maybe he'll never have any – then all the time spent thinking about that possible future would have been for naught. However, it's not up to him to decide this time around, so he blinks once, twice, his features impassive in their rigid politeness – untelling. “If my child ever told me they wanted to be an idol too, I think that first of all, as a father, I'd be proud to have done good enough of a job to have them wish to pursue the same career.” A light chuckle tumbles from his lips, too perfectly timed to be completely sincere, but it isn't all fake either. It's only that he has a hard time not being all too businesslike as soon as he's on his own, yet with a thousand eyes on him. “I'd want to sit them down and tell them, in detail, what being an idol entails – it's an important choice for their future, after all, so I'd want them to be a hundred percent sure about it. As a child, we often dream of paths to take that look cool in the moment, but as you grow older and think about it in greater depth, it doesn't fit your interests as much anymore. Therefore, I'd definitely want to make sure my child knows what being an idol is all about – that it's hard work too, unlike going to a karaoke room with friends once a week, if they only enjoy singing, for example. First, maybe we could reach a compromise – they could take vocal or dance lessons and start there, and if at any point they get sick of it, they can stop and do something else instead. But if they truly wish to pursue that dream in the end, knowing all about it and having gained those experiences, I'd support them wholeheartedly and proudly.” The smile that spreads across his cheeks at that is distant, his eyes slightly glazed over, as he ends up imagining the impractical anyway, despite his prior reluctance.

Do you think the words “artist” and “idol” mean the same thing? A sigh threatens to spill from his lips at that question, for he's witnessed it being discussed over and over again, and every single time anew, someone got riled up over it eventually. To Moonjin, it is but gum that has lost its taste he is told to keep chewing anyway – and chew he does, obediently, with a drawn out hum to mask his disinterest as pensiveness. “I think 'artist' and 'idol' mean very different things, honestly, but it really depends on one's definition of 'artist'. Being an idol could be seen as an art in itself, which would then make every idol an artist, but not every artist an idol.” A shrug entirely too nonchalant for so engaging a topic is habitual, yet the moment Moonjin notices his mistake, he tries to make up for it with a good-natured grin. “An idol, I think, is someone who performs on stage like we do – singing and dancing; the whole package of visual and auditory concepts, the results of weeks or months of practice. An artist, in the typical sense, is someone who writes their own music and doesn't rely on anything but their music, I suppose?” His tone of voice is questioning now, uncertain. Freedom, he wants to say – freedom's the difference between the two, but his manager's gaze is watchful and more than one pair of eyes is trained on him, so he swallows it back.

Are there sides to you your fans don’t see? “I think there are a lot of sides I didn't get the chance to show my fans yet, as I have to admit that I have a hard time focusing on anything but performing and giving them a good show when I'm on stage.” Another half-truth, at best – there are always a hundred thoughts whirling around his head at once; he simply chooses to push them aside and concentrate on what's truly important, one thing at a time, and usually, being professional is at the top of his list during public events. “Of course there are fansigns and we've been on shows before, but none quite like this, right?” Honestly, that's a mandatory comment for every show – praise it as novel, something no one had seen before, to lure in people who might not be die-hard fan enough to watch everything they're on. “Wouldn't this be the perfect chance to get to know the person 'Ahn Moonjin'? Without the spotlight and all.” Wouldn't it indeed? It's not a question he needs to answer – it won't, not really; of course it won't.

What do you hope viewers will see through the airing of this show? “Above all, I hope viewers won't see me as boring while watching this show.” Albeit he makes sure to chuckle after that sentence, it comes a second too late to hide the fact that there's genuine worry behind it – he is boring, so what is there to show? Ahn Moonjin, not moving as he sits in front of a computer in a studio for hours on end. Truly suspenseful entertainment right there. “I'd like it if they saw that I'm just human too – not just Impulse's leader, but also a fan of other artists, a friend, a family member. Those things. I believe I haven't done much of a good job of showing any of that so far.” And he never wanted to – still doesn't, quite frankly, but he doesn't know what else to name. Hope is beyond him at this point; it's going to be part of his work, this show, and one he has already accepted he won't enjoy very much, that's all there is to it. Even someone who values honesty as much as him knows he can't say that, though, so he simply nods it off and moves on.

What do you hope you’ll get out of the experience of the show? Are there any other groups or idols you hope to get the chance to meet more through the show? That one is different; mostly because he hasn't prepared himself for it and thus doesn't have an answer ready. Typical – Moonjin has always liked thinking things through before speaking, and though he's learned that that simply isn't possible at times, he takes the liberty to bide his time now, while he still can. Later, they can edit out this part and pretend it never happened. “Ideally, I'd like to think it will help me get closer to my fans by sharing my day to day life with them. Because I never remember to be as active as others on social media, I think this show is a great chance for that.” A lie, the first one he can't deny, and he feels it settling like a weight pushing down on his chest – regret is immediate and inevitable. Good. He hasn't gotten used to it yet. “There are quite a few other idols I'd be happy to meet through this show. Some of you may not know, but MARS' Rise and I are actually quite close, so wouldn't it be nice if our two groups got together at some point?” It wouldn't, not really, not with all the unknown variables a lot of the other members are, but the mention of Minseok causes Moonjin's expression to brighten yet again despite himself. “Of course I'd be honored to work with much respected seniors like Decipher, especially as I'm on good terms with both Duri and Haejun.” Whereas their friendships had initially been a farce, both of them, he supposes 'on good terms' is still fairly accurate (and vague enough). “As for groups I haven't had the chance to interact with much so far,” he begins, then trails off as his brow furrows – which group would be okay to name? No girls, no groups with a bad reputation, and none Impulse is already tied to one way or another – that doesn't leave very many options. “Dimensions Entertainment's newest addition, Jin's debut really caught my attention, so I'd be happy if I got a chance to meet him in person through the show.”

How do you feel about the upcoming Hallyu Triple Fantasy Concert in Jeju City? “I'm excited about the upcoming Hallyu Triple Fantasy Concert in Jeju City, of course.” That one, he doesn't have to think about very hard, and neither is there a need to lie. The realist in him knows that he'll be half dead after that, as he's already been working himself to the bone lately and giving him further reason to surely wasn't going to do him any good, but his survival instincts have always lost to his passion, and would continue to do so for years to come, he's sure. “It's such a big event, and I'm always humbled to get the chance to perform at such a venue alongside these amazing artists. We're diligently preparing, so please look forward to that as much as we do!” For the enthusiasm, he does have to make an effort, for that has never come naturally to him – he simply isn't very expressive; not unless one knows to pay attention to the subtleties, but most cameras fail to even catch those.

Do you have any worries about being followed by cameras for the show? “I'm not particularly worried about being followed by cameras throughout the filming period,” Moonjin says with characteristic quiet firmness, meant to leave no room for doubt where plenty of it is due. “I don't have anything to hide, so what's there to be worried about?” His eyes crease with another broader smile, though by now he himself is no longer sure if he means it. “As I mentioned earlier, I'm more worried about not having anything to show, rather than something I don't want to show.” The sad part is that that much is true – he has his secrets, but none that would be hard to keep, even with cameras following in his shadows.

The end of the interview leaves him with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach – when an illusion is lifted, it's sobering, but not always in a good way. The lines between the person he is and the role he's playing are blurring gradually, and he doubts the show is going to help with that. With a deep breath, he reminds himself of how great of an opportunity it is for Impulse to gain a little more support, solely by being themselves – hard-working and authentic –, then finally gets up and bows to all members of the staff. “You've worked hard.”

[gaysparklepires]

1. First Sight

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This was the time of day when I wished I were able to sleep.

High school.

Or was purgatory the right word? If there was any way to atone for my sins, this ought to count toward the tally in some measure. The tedium was not something I grew used to; every day seemed more impossibly monotonous than the last.

I suppose this was my form of sleep—if sleep was defined as the inert state between active periods.

I stared at the cracks running through the plaster in the far corner of the cafeteria, imagining patterns into them that were not there. It was one way to tune out the voices that babbled like the gush of a river inside my head.

Several hundred of these voices I ignored out of boredom.

When it came to the human mind, I’d heard it all before and then some. Today, all thoughts were consumed with the trivial drama of a new addition to the small student body here. It took so little to work them all up. I’d seen the new face repeated in thought after thought from every angle. Just an ordinary human boy. The excitement over his arrival was tiresomely predictable—like flashing a shiny object at a child. Half the females were already imagining themselves in love with him, just because he was something new to look at. I tried harder to tune them out.

Only four voices did I block out of courtesy rather than distaste; my family, my three brothers and one sister, who were so used to the lack of privacy in my presence that they rarely gave it a thought. I gave them what privacy I could. I tried not to listen if I could help it.

Try as I may, still… I knew.

Royal was thinking, as usual, about himself. He’d caught sight of his profile in the reflection of someone’s glasses, and he was mulling over his own perfection. Royal’s mind was a shallow pool with few surprises.

Emmett was fuming over a wrestling match he’d lost to Jasper during the night. It would take all his limited patience to make it to the end of the school day to orchestrate a rematch. I never really felt intrusive hearing Emmett’s thoughts, because he never thought one thing that he would not say aloud or put into action. Perhaps I only felt guilty reading the others’ minds because I knew there were things there that they wouldn’t want me to know. If Royal’s mind was a shallow pool, then Emmett’s was a lake with no shadows, glass clear.

And Jasper was…suffering. I suppressed a sigh.

Edward. Alice called my name in her head, and had my attention at once.

It was just the same as having my name called aloud. I was glad my given name had fallen out of style lately—it had been annoying; anytime anyone thought of any Edward, my head would turn automatically…

My head didn’t turn now. Alice and I were good at these private conversations. It was rare than anyone caught us. I kept my eyes on the lines in the plaster.

How is he holding up? She asked me.

I frowned, just a small change in the set of my mouth. Nothing that would tip the others off. I could easily be frowning out of boredom.

Alice’s mental tone was alarmed now, and I saw in her mind that she was watching Jasper in her peripheral vision.

Is there any danger? She searched ahead, into the immediate future, skimming through visions of monotony for the source behind my frown.

I turned my head slowly to the left, as if looking at the bricks of the wall, sighed, and then to the right, back to the cracks in the ceiling. Only Alice knew I was shaking my head.

She relaxed. Let me know if it gets too bad.

I moved only my eyes, up to the ceiling above, and back down.

Thanks for doing this.

I was glad I couldn’t answer her aloud. What would I say? ‘My pleasure’? It was hardly that. I didn’t enjoy listening to Jasper’s struggles. Was it really necessary to experiment like this? Wouldn’t the safer path be to just admit that he might never be able to handle the thirst the way the rest of us could, and not push his limits? Why flirt with disaster?

It had been two weeks since our last hunting trip. That was not an immensely difficult time span for the rest of us. A little uncomfortable occasionally—if a human walked too close, if the wind blew the wrong way. But humans rarely walked too close. Their instincts told them what their conscious minds would never understand; we were dangerous.

Jasper was very dangerous right now.

At that moment, a small girl paused at the end of the closest table to ours, stopping to talk to a friend. She tossed her short, sandy hair, running her fingers through it. The heaters blew her scent in our direction. I was used to the way that scent made me feel—the dry ache in my throat, the hollow yearn in my stomach, the automatic tightening of my muscles, the excess flow of venom in my mouth…

This was quite normal, usually easy to ignore. It was harder just now, with the feelings stronger, doubled, as I monitored Jasper’s reaction. Twin thirsts, rather than just mine.

Jasper was letting his imagination get away from him. He was picturing it—picturing himself getting up from his seat next to Alice and going to stand beside the little girl. Thinking of leaning down and in, as if he were going to whisper in her ear, and letting his lips touch the arch of her throat. Imagining how the hot flow of her pulse beneath the fine skin would feel under his mouth…

I kicked his chair.

He met my gaze for a minute, and then looked down. I could hear shame and rebellion war in his head.

“Sorry,” Jasper muttered.

I shrugged.

“You weren’t going to do anything,” Alice murmured to him, soothing his chagrin. “I could see that.”

I fought back the grimace that would give her lie away. We had to stick together, Alice and me. It wasn’t easy, hearing voices or seeing visions of the future. Both freaks among those who were already freaks. We protected each other’s secrets.

“It helps a little if you think of them as people,” Alice suggested, her high, musical voice too fast for human hears to understand, if any had been close enough to hear. “Her name is Whitney. She had a baby sister she adores. Her mother invited Esme to that garden party, do you remember?”

“I know who she is,” Jasper said curtly. He turned away to stare out one of the small windows that were spaced just under the eaves around the long room. His tone ended the conversation.

He would have to hunt tonight. It was ridiculous to take risks like this, trying to test his strength, to build his endurance. Jasper should just accept his limitations and work within them. His former habits were not conducive to our chosen lifestyle; he shouldn’t push himself this way.

Alice sighed silently and stood, taking her tray of food—her prop, as it were—with her and leaving him alone. She knew when he’d had enough of her encouragement. Though Royal and Emmett were more flagrant about their relationship, it was Alice and Jasper who knew each other’s every mood as well as their own. As if they could read minds, too—only just each other’s.

Edward Cullen.

Reflex reaction. I turned to the sound of my name being called, though it wasn’t being called, just thought.

My eyes locked for a small portion of a second with a pair of wide, silver-gray human eyes set in a pale, heart-shaped face. I knew the face, though I’d never seen it myself before this moment. It had been foremost in every human head today. The new student, Beauregard Swan. Son of the town’s chief of police, brought to live here by some new custody situation. Beau. He’d corrected everyone who’d used his full name…

I looked away, bored. It took me a second to realize that he had not been the one to think my name.

Not surprising he’s asking about the Cullens, I heard the first thought continue.

Now I recognized the ‘voice.’ Jessica Stanley—it had been a while since she had bothered me with her internal chatter. What a relief it had been when she’d gotten over her misplaced infatuation. It used to be nearly impossible to escape her constant, ridiculous daydreams. I’d wished, at the time, that I could explain to her exactly what would have happened if my lips, and the teeth behind them, had gotten anywhere near her. That would have silenced those annoying fantasies. The thought of her reaction almost made me smile.

     I wonder if he’s… I guess I can’t just ask him, Jessica went on. He’s really cute. I’m not surprised Erica’s been staring at him so much. He’s definitely cuter than Mike.

She winced mentally on the last name. Her new infatuation, the generically popular Mike Newton, was completely oblivious to her. However, he was not as oblivious to the new boy. Poor girl, she has no idea. Despite Jessica’s preoccupation with the Newton boy, she was animatedly speaking to the newcomer, explaining to him the commonly held knowledge about my family. The new student must have asked about us.

He’s so quiet! He’s hardly talking to anyone other than me, Jessica was thinking, maybe Mike will want to ask me what he’s li—“

I tried to block the inane chatter out of my head before the trivial mundanity could drive me mad.

“Jessica Stanley is giving the new Swan boy all the dirty laundry on the Cullen clan,” I murmured to Emmett as a distraction.

He chuckled under his breath. I hope she’s making it good, he thought.

“Rather unimaginative, actually. Just the barest hint of scandal. Not an ounce of horror. I’m a little disappointed.”

And the new boy? Is he disappointed in the gossip as well?

I listened to hear what this new boy, Beau, thought of Jessica’s story. What did he see when he looked at the strange, chalky-skinned family that was universally avoided.

It was sort of my responsibility to know his reaction. I acted as a lookout, for lack of a better word, for my family. To protect us. If anyone ever grew suspicious, I could give us an early warning and an easy retreat. It happened occasionally—some human with an active imagination would see in us the characters of a book or a movie. Usually they got it wrong, but it was better to move on somewhere new than risk scrutiny.

Very, very rarely, someone would guess right. We didn’t give them a chance to test their hypothesis. We simply disappeared, to become no more than a frightening memory…

I heard nothing, though I listened close beside where Jessica’s frivolous internal monologue continued to gush. It was as if there was no one sitting beside her. How peculiar, had the boy moved? That didn’t seem likely, as Jessica was still babbling to him. I looked up to check, feeling off-balance. Checking on what my extra ‘hearing’ couldn’t tell me—it wasn’t something I ever had to do.

Again, my gaze locked on those same wide gray eyes. He was sitting right where he had been before, and looking at us, a natural thing to be doing, I supposed, as Jessica was still regaling him with the local gossip about the Cullens.

Thinking about us, too, would be natural.

But I couldn’t hear a whisper.

Inviting warm red stained his cheeks as he looked down, away from the embarrassing gaffe of getting caught staring at a stranger. It was good that Jasper was still gazing out the window. I didn’t like to imagine what that easy pooling of blood would do to his control.

The emotions had been as clear on the new boy’s face as if they were spelled out in words across his forehead; surprise, as he unknowingly absorbed the signs of the subtle differences between his kind and mine, curiosity, as he listened to Jessica’s tale, and something more… fascination? It wouldn’t be the first time. We were beautiful to them, our intended prey. Then, finally, embarrassment as I caught him staring at me.

And yet, though his thoughts had been so clear in his odd eyes—odd, because of the warmth and softness to them; gray eyes often seemed cold and hard to me—I could hear nothing but silence from the place he was sitting. Nothing at all.

I felt a moment of unease.

This was nothing I’d ever encountered before. Was there something wrong with me? I felt exactly the same as I always did. Worried, I listened harder.

All the voices I’d been blocking were suddenly shouting in my head.

…wonder what music he likes…maybe I could mention that new CD… Mike Newton was thinking, two tables away—fixated on Beau Swan.

Look at Edward staring at him. Isn’t it enough that half the students in school are waiting for him to… Erica Yorkie was thinking sulfurous thoughts, also revolving around the boy.

…So disgusting. You’d think he was famous or something… Even Edward Cullen, staring… Logan Mallory was so jealous that his face, by all rights, should be dark jade in color. And Jessica, flaunting her new best friend. What a joke… Vitriol continued to spew from the boy’s thoughts.

…I bet everyone has asked him that. But I’d like to talk to him. I’ll think of a more original question… Lauren Mallory, Logan’s twin sister, mused.

…Maybe he’ll be in my Spanish… Ashley Dowling hoped.

…tons left to do tonight! Trig, and the English test. I hope my mom… Angela Weber, a quiet girl, whose thoughts were unusually kind, was the only one at the table who wasn’t obsessed with this Beau.

I could hear them all, hear every insignificant thing they were thinking as it passed through their minds. But nothing at all from the new student with the deceptively communicative eyes.

And, of course, I could hear what the boy said when he spoke to Jessica. I didn’t have to read minds to be able to hear his low, clear voice on the far side of the room.

“Which one is the boy with the reddish brown hair?” I heard him ask, sneaking a look at me from the corner of his eyes, only to look quickly away when he saw that I was still staring.

If I’d had time to hope that hearing the sound of his voice would help me pinpoint the tone of his thoughts, lost somewhere I couldn’t access them, I was instantly disappointed. Usually, people’s thoughts came to them in a similar pitch as their physical voices. But this quiet, shy voice was unfamiliar, not one of the hundreds of thoughts bouncing around the room, I was sure of that. Entirely new.

I knew he liked boys! Jessica thought before answering the new student’s question. “That’s Edward. He’s gorgeous, of course, but don’t waste your time. He doesn’t date. Apparently no one here is good-looking enough for him.” She sniffed.

I turned my head away to hide my smile. Jessica and her classmates had no idea how lucky they were that none of them particularly appealed to me.

Beneath the transient humor, I felt a strange impulse, one I did not clearly understand. It had something to do with the predatory nature of the thoughts swirling around this Beau Swan—so many of the students wanted to impose their way into his life. I felt the strangest urge to step in, to shield this Beau from the selfish workings of his classmates’ minds. What an odd thing to feel. Trying to ferret out the motivations behind impulse, I examined the new boy one more time.

Perhaps it was just some long buried protective instinct—the strong for the weak. This boy looked more fragile than his new classmates. His skin was so translucent it was hard to believe it offered him much defense from the outside world. I could see the rhythmic pulse of blood through his veins under the clear, pale membrane… But I should not concentrate on that. I was good at this life I’d chosen, but I was just as thirsty as Jasper and there was no point in inviting temptation.

There was a faint crease between Beau’s dark eyebrows that he seemed unaware of.

It was unbelievably frustrating! I could clearly see that it was a strain for him to sit there, to make conversation with strangers, to be the center of attention. I could sense his shyness from the way he held his shoulders, slightly hunched, as if he was expecting a rebuff at any moment. And yet I could only sense, could only see, could only imagine. There was nothing but silence from the very quiet human boy. I could hear nothing. Why?

“Shall we?” Royal murmured, interrupting my focus.

I looked away from Beau Swan with a sense of relief. I didn’t want to continue to fail at this—it irritated me. And I didn’t want to develop any interest in his hidden thoughts simply because they were hidden from me. No doubt, when I did decipher his thoughts—and I would find a way to do so—they would be just as petty and trivial as any human’s thoughts. Not worth the effort I would expend to reach them.

“So is the new one afraid of us yet?” Emmett asked, still waiting for my response to his question before.

I shrugged. He wasn’t interested enough to press for more information. Nor should I be interested.

We got up from the table and walked out of the cafeteria.

Emmett, Royal, and Jasper were pretending to be seniors; they left for their classes. I was playing a younger role than they. I headed off for my junior level biology class, preparing my mind for the tedium. It was doubtful Ms. Banner, a woman of average intelligence, would manage to pull out anything in her lecture that would surprise someone holding two graduate degrees in medicine.

In the classroom, I settled into my chair and let my books—props, again; they held nothing I didn’t already know—spill across the table. I was the only student who had a table to himself. The humans weren’t smart enough to know they feared me, but their survival instincts were enough to keep them away.

The room slowly filled as they trickled in from lunch. I leaned back in my chair and waited for the time to pass. Again, I wished I was able to sleep.

Because I’d been thinking about him, when Angela Weber escorted the new boy through the door, his name intruded on my attention.

Beau seems just as shy as me. I’ll bet today is really hard for him. I wish I could say something… but it would probably just sound stupid…

Yes! Mike Newton thought, turning in his seat to watch Angela and Beau enter.

Still, from the place where Beau Swan stood, nothing. The empty space where his thoughts should be irritated and unnerved me.

He came closer, walking down the aisle beside me to get to the teacher’s desk. Poor soul; the seat next to me was the only one available. Automatically, I cleared what would be his side of the desk, shoving my books into a pile. I doubted he would feel very comfortable there. He was in for a long semester—in this class, at least. Perhaps, though, sitting beside him, I’d be able to flush out his secrets…not that I’d ever needed close proximity before…not that I would find anything worth listening to…

Beau Swan walked into the flow of the heated hair that blew toward me from the vent.

His scent hit me like a wrecking ball, like a battering ram. There was no image violent enough to encapsulate the force of what happened to me in that moment.

In that instant, I was nothing close to the human I’d once been; no trace of the shreds of humanity I’d manage to cloak myself in remained.

I was a predator. He was my prey. There was nothing else in the whole world but that truth.

There was no room full of witnesses—they were already collateral damage in my head. The mystery of his thoughts was forgotten. His thoughts meant nothing, for he would not go on thinking them much longer.

I was a vampire, and he had the sweetest blood I’d smelled in nearly a century.

I hadn’t imagined such a scent could exist. If I’d known it did, I would have gone searching for it long ago. I would have combed the planet for him. I could imagine the taste…

Thirst burned my throat like fire. My mouth was dry and papery. The fresh flow of venom did nothing to dispel the sensation. My stomach twisted with the hunger that was an echo of the thirst. My muscles coiled to spring.

Not a full second had passed. He was still taking the same step that had put him downwind from me.

As his foot touched the ground, his eyes slid toward me, a movement he clearly meant to be stealthy. His glance met mine, and I saw myself reflected in the wide mirror of his silver eyes.

The shock of the face I saw there saved his life for a few thorny moments.

He didn’t make it easier. When he processed the expression on my face, blood flooded his cheeks again, turning his skin the most delicious color I’d ever seen. The scent was a thick haze in my brain. I could barely think through it. My thoughts raged, resisting control, incoherent.

He walked more quickly now, as if he understood the need to escape. His haste made him clumsy—he tripped and stumbled forward, almost falling into the girl seated in the front of me. Vulnerable, weak. Even more than usual for a human.

I tried to focus on the face I’d seen in his eyes, a face I recognized with revulsion. The face of the monster in me—the face I’d beaten back with decades of effort and uncompromising discipline. How easily it sprang to the surface now!

The scent swirled around me again, scattering my thoughts and nearly propelling me out of my seat.

No.

My hand gripped under the edge of the table as I tried to hold myself in my chair. The wood was not up to the task. My hand crushed through the strut and came away with a palmful of splintered pulp, leaving the shape of my fingers carved into the remaining wood.

Destroy evidence. That was a fundamental rule. I quickly pulverized the edges of the shape with my fingertips, leaving nothing but a ragged hole and a pile of shavings on the floor, which I scattered with my foot.

Destroy evidence. Collateral damage....

I knew what had to happen now. The boy would have to come sit beside me, and I would have to kill him.

The innocent bystanders in this classroom, eighteen other children and one woman, could not be allowed to leave this room, having seen what they would soon see.

I flinched at the thought of what I must do. Even at my very worst, I had never committed this kind of atrocity. I had never killed innocents, not in over nine decades. And now I planned to slaughter twenty of them at once.

The face of the monster in the mirror mocked me.

Even as part of me shuddered away from the monster, another part was planning it.

If I killed the boy first, I would have only fifteen or twenty seconds with him before the humans in the room would react. Maybe a little bit longer, if at first they did not realize what I was doing. He would not have time to scream or feel pain; I would not kill him cruelly. That much I could give this stranger with his horribly desirable blood.

But then I would have to stop them from escaping. I wouldn’t have to worry about the windows, too high up and small to provide an escape for anyone. Just the door—block that and they were trapped.

It would be slower and more difficult, trying to take them all down when they were panicked and scrambling, moving in chaos. Not impossible, but there would be much more noise. Time for lots of screaming. Someone would hear...and I’d be forced to kill even more innocents in this black hour.

And his blood would cool, while I murdered the others

The scent punished me, closing my throat with dry aching...

So the witnesses first then.

I mapped it out in my head. I was in the middle of the room, the furthest row in the back. I would take my right side first. I could snap four or five of their necks per second, I estimated. It would not be noisy. The right side would be the lucky side; they would not see me coming. Moving around the front and back up the left side, it would take me, at most, five seconds to end every life in this room.

Long enough for Beau Swan to see, briefly, what was coming for him. Long enough for him to feel fear. Long enough, maybe, if shock didn’t freeze him in place, for him to work up a scream. One soft scream that would not bring anyone running.

I took a deep breath, and the scent was a fire that raced through my veins, burning out from my chest to consume every better impulse that I was capable of.

He was just turning now. In a few seconds, he would sit down inches away from me.

The monster in my head smiled in anticipation.

Someone slammed shut a folder on my left. I didn’t look up to see which of the doomed humans it was. But the motion sent a wave of ordinary, unscented air wafting across my face.

For one short second, I was able to think clearly. In that precious second, I saw two faces in my head, side by side.

One was mine, or rather had been: the red-eyed monster that had killed so many people that I’d stop counting their numbers. Rationalized, justified murders. A killer of killers, a killer of other, less powerful monsters. It was a god complex, I acknowledged that—deciding who deserved a death sentence. It was a compromise with myself. I had fed on human blood, but only by the loosest definition. My victims were, in their various dark pastimes, barely more human than I was.

The other face was Carlisle’s.

There was no resemblance between the two faces. They were bright day and blackest night.

There was no reason for there to be a resemblance. Carlisle was not my father in the basic biological sense. We shared no common features. The similarity in our coloring was a product of what we were; every vampire had the same ice pale skin. The similarity in the color of our eyes was another matter—a reflection of a mutual choice.

And yet, though there was no basis for a resemblance, I’d imagined that my face had begun to reflect his, to an extent, in the last ninety-odd years that I had embraced his choice and followed in his steps. My features had not changed, but it seemed to me like some of his wisdom had marked my expression, that a little of his compassion could be traced in the shape of my mouth, and hints of his patience were evident on my brow.

All those tiny improvements were lost in the face of the monster. In a few moments, there would be nothing left in me that would reflect the years I’d spent with my creator, my mentor, my father in all the ways that counted. My eyes would glow red as a devil’s; all likeness would be lost forever.

In my head, Carlisle’s kind eyes did not judge me. I knew that he would forgive me for this horrible act that I would do. Because he loved me. Because he thought I was better than I was. And he would still love me, even as I now proved him wrong.

Beau Swan sat down in the chair next to me, his movements stiff and awkward— with fear?—and the scent of his blood bloomed in an inexorable cloud around me.

I would prove my father wrong about me. The misery of this fact hurt almost as much as the fire in my throat.

I leaned away from him in revulsion—revolted by the monster aching to take him.

Why did he have to come here? Why did he have to exist? Why did he have to ruin the little peace I had in this non-life of mine? Why had this aggravating human ever been born? He would ruin me.

I turned my face away from him, as a sudden fierce, unreasoning hatred washed through me.

Who was this creature? Why me, why now? Why did I have to lose everything just because he happened to choose this unlikely town to appear in?

Why had he come here!

I didn’t want to be the monster! I didn’t want to kill this room full of harmless humans! I didn’t want to lose everything I’d gained in a lifetime of sacrifice and denial!

I wouldn’t. He couldn’t make me.

The scent was the problem, the hideously appealing scent of his blood. If there was only some way to resist...if only another gust of fresh air could clear my head.

Beau Swan ran his fingers through his thick, mahogany hair.

Was he insane? It was as if he were encouraging the monster! Taunting him. There was no friendly breeze to blow the smell away from me now. All would soon be lost.

No, there was no helpful breeze. But I didn’t have to breathe.

I stopped the flow of air through my lungs; the relief was instantaneous, but incomplete. I still had the memory of the scent in my head, the taste of it on the back of my tongue. I wouldn’t be able to resist even that for long. But perhaps I could resist for an hour. One hour. Just enough time to get out of this room full of victims, victims that maybe didn’t have to be victims. If I could resist for one short hour.

It was an uncomfortable feeling, not breathing. My body did not need oxygen, but it went against my instincts. I relied on scent more than my other senses in times of stress. It led the way in the hunt, it was the first warning in case of danger. I did not often came across something as dangerous as I was, but self-preservation was just as strong in my kind as it was in the average human.

Uncomfortable, but manageable. More bearable than smelling him and not sinking my teeth through that fine, thin, pale skin to the hot, wet, pulsing—

An hour! Just one hour. I must not think of the scent, the taste.

The silent boy leaned forward, resting his head in his hand, turning his face away from me slightly. I couldn’t see his face properly, to read the emotions in his clear diamond-gray eyes. Was this why he had turned away from me? To hide those eyes from me? Out of fear? Shyness? To keep his secrets from me?

My former irritation at being stymied by his soundless thoughts was weak and pale in comparison to the need—and the hate—that possessed me now. For I hated this mysterious boy beside me, hated him with all the fervor with which I clung to my former self, my love of my family, my dreams of being something better than what I was... Hating him, hating how he made me feel—it helped a little. Yes, the irritation I’d felt before was weak, but it, too, helped a little. I clung to any emotion that distracted me from imagining what he would taste like...

Hate and irritation. Impatience. Would the hour never pass?

And when the hour ended... Then he would walk out of this room. And I would do what?

I could introduce myself. Hello, my name is Edward Cullen. May I walk you to your next class?

He would say yes. It would be the polite thing to do. Even already fearing me, as I suspected he did, he would follow convention and walk beside me. It should be easy enough to lead him in the wrong direction. A spur of the forest reached out like a finger to touch the back corner of the parking lot. I could tell him I’d forgotten a book in my car...

Would anyone notice that I was the last person he’d been seen with? It was raining, as usual; two dark raincoats heading the wrong direction wouldn’t pique too much interest, or give me away.

Except that I was not the only student who was aware of him today—though no one was as blisteringly aware as I was. Mike Newton, in particular, was conscious of every shift in his weight as he fidgeted in his chair—he was uncomfortable so close to me, just as anyone would be, just as I’d expected before his scent had destroyed all charitable concern. Mike Newton would notice if he left the classroom with me.

If I could last an hour, could I last two?

I flinched at the pain of the burning.

He would go home to an empty house. Police Chief Swan worked a full day. I knew his house, as I knew every house in the tiny town. His home was nestled right up against thick woods, with no close neighbors. Even if he had time to scream, which he would not, there would be no one to hear.

That would be the responsible way to deal with this. I’d gone eight decades without human blood. If I held my breath, I could last two hours. And when I had him alone, there would be no chance of anyone else getting hurt. And no reason to rush through the experience, the monster in my head agreed.

It was sophistry to think that by saving the nineteen humans in this room with effort and patience, I would be less a monster when I killed this innocent boy.

Though I hated him, I knew my hatred was unjust. I knew that what I really hated was myself. And I would hate us both so much more when he was dead.

I made it through the hour in this way—imagining the best ways to kill him. I tried to avoid imagining the actual act. That might be too much for me; I might lose this battle and end up killing everyone in sight. So I planned strategy, and nothing more. It carried me through the hour.

Once, toward the very end, he peeked up at me through his fingers. I could feel the unjustified hatred burning out of me as I met his gaze—see the reflection of it in his frightened eyes. Blood painted his cheeks before he could hide in his hands again, and I was nearly undone.

But the bell rang. Saved by the bell—how cliché. We were both saved. He, saved from death. I, saved for just a short time from being the nightmarish creature I feared and loathed.

I couldn’t walk as slowly as I should as I darted from the room. If anyone had been looking at me, they might have suspected that there was something not right about the way I moved. No one was paying attention to me. All human thoughts still swirled around the boy who was condemned to die in little more than an hour’s time.

I hid in my car.

I didn’t like to think of myself having to hide. How cowardly that sounded. But it was unquestionably the case now.

I didn’t have enough discipline left to be around humans now. Focusing so much of my efforts on not killing one of them left me no resources to resist the others. What a waste that would be. If I were to give in to the monster, I might as well make it worth the defeat.

I played a CD of music that usually calmed me, but it did little for me now. No, what helped most now was the cool, wet, clean air that drifted with the light rain through my open windows. Though I could remember the scent of Beau Swan’s blood with perfect clarity, inhaling the clean air was like washing out the inside of my body from its infection.

I was sane again. I could think again. And I could fight again. I could fight against what I didn’t want to be.

I didn’t have to go to his home. I didn’t have to kill him. Obviously, I was a rational, thinking creature, and I had a choice. There was always a choice.

It hadn’t felt that way in the classroom...but I was away from him now. Perhaps, if I avoided him very, very carefully, there was no need for my life to change. I had things ordered the way I liked them now. Why should I let some aggravating and delicious nobody ruin that?

I didn’t have to disappoint my father. I didn’t have to cause my mother stress, worry...pain. Yes, it would hurt my adopted mother, too. And Esme was so gentle, so tender and soft. Causing someone like Esme pain was truly inexcusable.

How ironic that I’d wanted to protect this human boy from the paltry, toothless threat of his classmates’ thoughts. I was the last person who would ever stand as a protector for Beauregard Swan. He would never need protection from anything more than he needed it from me.

Where was Alice, I suddenly wondered? Hadn’t she seen me killing the Swan boy in a multitude of ways? Why hadn’t she come to help—to stop me or help me clean up the evidence, whichever? Was she so absorbed with watching for trouble with Jasper that she’d missed this much more horrific possibility? Was I stronger than I thought? Would I really not have done anything to the boy?

No. I knew that wasn’t true. Alice must be concentrating on Jasper very hard.

I searched in the direction I knew she would be, in the small building used for English classes. It did not take me long to locate her familiar ‘voice.’ And I was right. Her every thought was turned to Jasper, watching his small choices with minute scrutiny.

I wished I could ask her advice, but at the same time, I was glad she didn’t know what I was capable of. That she was unaware of the massacre I had considered in the last hour.

I felt a new burn through my body—the burn of shame. I didn’t want any of them to know.

If I could avoid Beau Swan, if I could manage not to kill him—even as I thought that, the monster writhed and gnashed his teeth in frustration—then no one would have to know. If I could keep away from his scent...

There was no reason why I shouldn’t try, at least. Make a good choice. Try to be what Carlisle thought I was.

The last hour of school was almost over. I decided to put my new plan into action at once. Better than sitting here in the parking lot where he might pass me and ruin my attempt. Again, I felt the unjust hatred for the boy. I hated that he had this unconscious power over me. That he could make me be something I reviled.

I walked swiftly—a little too swiftly, but there were no witnesses—across the tiny campus to the office. There was no reason for Beau Swan to cross paths with me. He would be avoided like the plague he was.

The office was empty except for the secretary, the one I wanted to see.

She didn’t notice my silent entrance.

“Mrs. Cope?”

The woman with the unnaturally red hair looked up and her eyes widened. It always caught them off guard, the little markers they didn’t understand, no matter how many times they’d seen one of us before.

“Oh,” she gasped, a little flustered. She smoothed her shirt. Silly, she thought to herself. He’s almost young enough to be my son. Too young to think of that way...

“Hello, Edward. What can I do for you?” Her eyelashes fluttered behind her thick glasses.

Uncomfortable. But I knew how to be charming when I wanted to be. It was easy, since I was able to know instantly how any tone or gesture was taken.

I leaned forward, meeting her gaze as if I were staring deeply into her depthless, small brown eyes. Her thoughts were already in a flutter. This should be simple.

“I was wondering if you could help me with my schedule,” I said in the soft voice I reserved for not scaring humans.

I heard the tempo of her heart increase.

“Of course, Edward. How can I help?” Too young, too young, she chanted to herself. Wrong, of course. I was older than her grandfather. But according to my driver’s license, she was right.

“I was wondering if I could move from my biology class to a senior level science? Physics, perhaps?”

“It there a problem with Mrs. Banner, Edward?”

“Not at all, it’s just that I’ve already studied this material...”

“In that accelerated school you all went to in Alaska, right.” Her thin lips pursed as she considered this. They should all be in college. I’ve heard the teachers complain. Perfect four point ohs, never a hesitation with a response, never a wrong answer on a test—like they’ve found some way to cheat in every subject. Mr. Varner would rather believe that anyone was cheating than think a student was smarter than him... I’ll bet their mother tutors them... “Actually, Edward, physics is pretty much full right now. Mrs. Banner hates to have more than twenty-five students in a class—”

“I wouldn’t be any trouble.”

Of course not. Not a perfect Cullen. “I know that, Edward. But there just aren’t enough seats as it is...”

“Could I drop the class, then? I could use the period for independent study.”

“Drop biology?” He mouth fell open. That’s crazy. How hard is it to sit through a subject you already know? There must be a problem with Mrs. Banner. I wonder if I should talk to Betty about it? “You won’t have enough credits to graduate.”

“I’ll catch up next year.”

“Maybe you should talk to your parents about that.”

The door opened behind me, but who ever it was did not think of me, so I ignored the arrival and concentrated on Mrs. Cope. I leaned slightly closer, and held my eyes a little wider. This would work better if they were gold instead of black. The blackness frightened people, as it should.

“Please, Mrs. Cope?” I made my voice as smooth and compelling as it could be— and it could be considerably compelling. “Isn’t there some other section I could switch to? I’m sure there has to be an open slot somewhere? Sixth hour biology can’t be the only option...”

I smiled at her, careful not to flash my teeth so widely that it would scare her, letting the expression soften my face.

Her heart drummed faster. Too young, she reminded herself frantically. “Well, maybe I could talk to Betty—I mean Mrs. Banner. I could see if—”

A second was all it took to change everything: the atmosphere in the room, my mission here, the reason I leaned toward the red-haired woman... What had been for one purpose before was now for another.

A second was all it took for Samantha Wells to open the door and place a signed tardy slip in the basket by the door, and hurry out again, in a rush to be away from school. A second was all it took for the sudden gust of wind through the open door to crash into me. A second was all it took for me to realize why that first person through the door had not interrupted me with his thoughts.

I turned, though I did not need to make sure. I turned slowly, fighting to control the muscles that rebelled against me.

Beau Swan stood with his back pressed to the wall beside the door, a piece of paper clutched in his hands. His eyes were even wider than usual as he took in my ferocious, inhuman glare.

The smell of his blood saturated every particle of air in the tiny, hot room. My throat burst into flames.

The monster glared back at me from the mirror of his eyes again, a mask of evil.

My hand hesitated in the air above the counter. I would not have to look back in order to reach across it and slam Mrs. Cope’s head into her desk with enough force to kill her. Two lives, rather than twenty. A trade.

The monster waited anxiously, hungrily, for me to do it.

But there was always a choice—there had to be.

I cut off the motion of my lungs, and fixed Carlisle’s face in front of my eyes. I turned back to face Mrs. Cope, and heard her internal surprise at the change in my expression. She shrank away from me, but her fear did not form into coherent words.

Using all the control I’d mastered in my decades of self-denial, I made my voice even and smooth. There was just enough air left in my lungs to speak once more, rushing through the words.

“Never mind, then. I can see that it’s impossible. Thank you so much for your help.”

I spun and launched myself from the room, trying not to feel the warm-blooded heat of the boy’s body as I passed within inches of it.

I didn’t stop until I was in my car, moving too fast the entire way there. Most of the humans had cleared out already, so there weren’t a lot of witnesses. I heard a sophomore, D.J. Garrett, notice, and then disregard...

Where did Cullen come from—it was like he just came out of thin air... There I go, with the imagination again. Mom always says...

When I slid into my Volvo, the others were already there. I tried to control my breathing, but I was gasping at the fresh air like I’d been suffocated.

“Edward?” Alice asked, alarm in her voice.

I just shook my head at her.

“What the hell happened to you?” Emmett demanded, distracted, for the moment, from the fact that Jasper was not in the mood for his rematch. Instead of answering, I threw the car into reverse. I had to get out of this lot before Beau Swan could follow me here, too. My own person demon, haunting me... I swung the car around and accelerated. I hit forty before I was on the road. On the road, I hit seventy before I made the corner.

Without looking, I knew that Emmett, Royal and Jasper had all turned to stare at Alice. She shrugged. She couldn’t see what had passed, only what was coming.

She looked ahead for me now. We both processed what she saw in her head, and we were both surprised.

“You’re leaving?” she whispered.

The others stared at me now.

“Am I?” I hissed through my teeth.

She saw it then, as my resolve wavered and another choice spun my future in a darker direction. “Oh.”

Beau Swan, dead. My eyes, glowing crimson with fresh blood. The search that would follow. The careful time we would wait before it was safe for us to pull out and start again...

“Oh,” she said again. The picture grew more specific. I saw the inside of Chief Swan’s house for the first time, saw Beau in a small kitchen with yellow cupboards, his back to me as I stalked him from the shadows...let the scent pull me toward him...

“Stop!” I groaned, not able to bear more.

“Sorry,” she whispered, her eyes wide.

The monster rejoiced.

And the vision in her head shifted again. An empty highway at night, the trees beside it coated in snow, flashing by at almost two hundred miles per hour.

“I’ll miss you,” she said. “No matter how short a time you’re gone.”

Emmett and Royal exchanged an apprehensive glance.

We were almost to the turn off onto the long drive that led to our home.

“Drop us here,” Alice instructed. “You should tell Carlisle yourself.”

I nodded, and the car squealed to a sudden stop.

Emmett, Royal and Jasper got out in silence; they would make Alice explain when I was gone. Alice touched my shoulder.

“You will do the right thing,” she murmured. Not a vision this time—an order. “He’s Charlie Swan’s only family. It would kill him, too.”

“Yes,” I said, agreeing only with the last part.

She slid out to join the others, her eyebrows pulling together in anxiety. They melted into woods, out of sight before I could turn the car around.

I accelerated back toward town, and I knew the visions in Alice’s head would be flashing from dark to bright like a strobe light. As I sped back to Forks doing ninety, I wasn’t sure where I was going. To say goodbye to my father? Or to embrace the monster inside me?

The road flew away beneath my tires.

[fuzzballsheltiepants]

Chaol: Motivated by Loyalty? Or Fear?

WARNING: TOD spoilers.  Do NOT read if you don’t want to see anything re: Tower of Dawn!!

This was inspired by this post by @my-name-is-fireheart that gave me insight into why so many people dislike Chaol.  I’m going to start with a little review, and then I’m going to go into a long rambling dissertation.  You have been warned.

Chaol is motivated by two things in his life: his love for Dorian, and fear.  Certainly at the end of Heir of Fire, the latter emotion won.  I think that much of what we tend to interpret as rigid morality is in fact fear.  Apparent loyalty to the King when he didn’t warn Celaena about Nehemia being questioned was in fact a result of him being afraid of the King.  When the King first told hime he was going to have Nehemia questioned, he added, “‘I want six men outside the room.  Make sure there are no complications or interruptions.’  The look the king gave him suggested exactly the sort of complication he had in mind - Celaena.  Chaol knew it was risky to ask questions…”  Risky to just ask questions, let alone go against direct orders to keep quiet about it.  He then didn’t tell Dorian what it was about though Dorian asked him directly, nor did he tell Celaena, “though part of him twisted until it hurt.”  He is already beginning to struggle with the strain between what his morals told him to do (tell Celaena) and his fear of what would result (he or Celaena or both likely killed by the King).

At the end of Crown of Midnight, Chaol now knows that Celaena is part-fae and that Dorian has magic.  This could be a death sentence for both of them, and he fears both that and the magic itself.  This in turn is why he sends Celaena to Wendlyn and withdraws quite a bit from Dorian (a process begun by their respective relationships to Celaena but made much more significant by the magic revelation).  He honestly wants to protect them from the King, but he also fears what they are capable of, especially Celaena.  He’s had, after all, a life-long relationship with Dorian but has known Celaena for barely months and doesn’t really understand her and her motivations, and he has seen her mow men down with his own eyes.  Much more powerful than reading about it in a dossier.

Throughout Heir of Fire, he begins to try to find his own morality and he struggles greatly.  Up to that point, his morality had been defined by how he was raised.  He was taught from childhood to trust the King (maybe - ToD hints that perhaps Chaol’s father was not so much the loyal subject), that magic is evil, etc., etc.  It’s a beautiful parallel of people who are raised in a strict religious context, who start to get exposed to people from other religions, or atheists, or whatever, and begin to question their upbringing and try to form their own opinion about whether these “others” are good, bad, or gray.  This is a very difficult thing to do, especially when you’ve come to realize both you and the two people in the world you care the most about (both of whom fit into the “other” category) are in mortal danger.

Chaol demonstrates quite a bit of self-loathing in HoF, QoS, and ToD.  His confidence in his upbringing and moral beliefs has been shaken, and he has found himself making decisions he doesn’t understand out of fear of what will happen to him and the people he loves.  It’s a painful journey to watch, but one that so many of us have to go through.  He is basically the straight person in a supernatural comedy of errors - his experience and reactions parallel what most humans would do, if we’re being honest with ourselves.  We would be afraid of these powers, and that fear would inform our decisions, both for good and for bad.

Here’s where I’m going to go off on a bit of a tangent that I promise relates.  I’ve been a life-long horse person, and several years ago I had a catastrophic accident with a horse that were I a hair less balanced in the saddle, did I have a shade less experience, had the horse involved been an iota less athletic, would have resulted in the death of the horse, myself, or probably both.  Luckily we both survived, but I will live with the repercussions of that accident for the rest of my life as my non-dominant arm was severely injured and I have residual nerve damage and structural damage to it.  However, I still ride, even still ride the horse I had the accident on, who belongs to my very close friend.  

Working with animals ten times my size who could kill me easily either on purpose or by accident (the horse in question absolutely did not want to hurt me, he just had a panicked moment), I live in a constant dance with what I regard as a healthy fear.  A while back I read a brilliant article by a rider who stated that we should replace the word “fear” with “common sense” when talking about horses.  When I throw my leg over a 1300 lb animal who can jump a five-foot fence and run at 30 mph, it is common sense to be respectful of what that animal can do; I have to make the decision every single time to get on, to do something I love, knowing that if something goes wrong I could die.  Likewise, when Chaol is interacting with Celaena/Aelin, especially, there is a part of his mind that struggles to not remember that she was beyond deadly even without her magic, her assassin and fighting skill exceed his own, she has killed many while he has killed only one human (Cain).  He can’t forget her gutting Archer Finn because it terrified him - for good reason.  He didn’t know Archer had set up Nehemia’s death, and Celaena never tells him.  All he saw was Archer beg for his life, tell Celaena she was a “good woman,” and Celaena gut him.  It is common sense to fear someone who can do that if they won’t tell you their motivations.  

Aelin/Celaena’s biggest flaw is her unwillingness to be honest and up front about things.  Chaol is the character who calls her out on that the most, perhaps because he recognizes that same tendency in himself.  His fearful common sense reaction to her is strengthened when he realizes she can set the world on fire.  He both fears her abilitiees and wants to rely on them to save Dorian, save the world, and that’s a tough conflict to live with.  Was he unfair to her when she returned, that he had placed expectations on her that she would come back to save Dorian?  Sure - but he was also heartbroken and killing himself for having left Dorian, and had pinned his hopes onto her considerable abilities.  

Speaking of which…the biggest thing Chaol had to heal from in ToD was for walking away from Dorian when the shit went down with Sorscha and Aedion, and Dorian’s magic showed itself to spare him.  It was fear common sense that made him do so; he knew if he remained he’d be completely unable to help Dorian, while from the outside, with the rebels, he may have a chance.  Likewise it was fear common sense coupled with love that had him fight Aelin so hard when she wanted to (justifiably from her perspective) kill Dorian.  

Fear Common sense is incredibly valuable - until it is paralyzing (pun not intended).  When your fear common sense helps you in your decision-making, it’s brilliant, but when it halts it, it’s catastrophic.  Most people who suffer accidents similar to mine continue to ride at first, but find that their relationship with their horse suffers, and over time, they give up on it, or  their riding becomes much more limited than it was.  They lose the glorious sense of communion with another creature that cannot be matched by anything else; but if you ask them, they wouldn’t say they were afraid.  They often don’t even think about the accident consciously.  But the subconscious doesn’t let go, and the more you try to beat it down, the more it latches on.

Chaol actually doesn’t become overwhelmed in the moment, but over the ensuing months, his self-loathing for his decision making leads to his paralysis, both physically (because he essentially sacrifices himself so Aelin can rescue Dorian) and emotionally (leading him to cling to Nesryn despite his lack of feelings for her due to the safety she represents, leading him to be harsh to Yrene initially, etc.).  The problem he was having, though, It wasn’t until he really was being healed by Yrene that he was able to recognize the fear in himself.  

“He had been so afraid - so afraid of magic, of loss, of everything.  And that fear…it had driven him to it anyway.  It had hurried him down this path.  He had clung so hard, had fought against it, and it had cost him everything…Unmoored and raging, he had not wanted to heal.  Not really…Some part of him had whispered it was deserved.  And the soul-wound…He had been content to let it fester.  Failure and liar and oath-breaker.”

Chaol actually was far from a failure.  He succeeded in escaping sure death at the hands of the King; helped free Aedion; helped Aelin gain funds for the war (by helping with the Arobynn situation); protected Dorian from Aelin, and ultimately gave himself up to save both the magic-wielders.  Was he a liar?  Perhaps, to his father; same with the oath-breaker.  Perhaps one could argue he was to Nesryn as well, but Nesryn had in fact released him from any oath when she left with Sartaq, and he never really lied to her about his feelings.  They were consensual sex partners without commitment in QoS, but never did he really promise her anything other than that he would walk out of the castle (and that was hardly his fault).  But he couldn’t see himself as anything else until he recognized his fear, faced it, and saw it through to the other side.  Until he was able to acknowledge it, and make the conscious decision to love Dorian, love Aelin, despite the fear common sense they inspire in him.  Much as I make the conscious decision to ride my horses every day.

Essentially, Chaol’s role in this series is that of straight man to the supernatural weirdness going on around him.  He feels the same fear common sense that we would.  His responses are natural, and realistic, and human.  He represents the process of getting a moral education, a forced expansion of one’s world, that many of us go through as we mature from children to adults.  And he shows beautifully how healing occurs, both physically and emotionally.

[cecil-mudokon-defunct]

💔 - A heartbreak (anyone you want lol)

The way the day started was so ordinary. Bruno and I woke up to the sounds of nature. Light shining through the trees, and the chirping of nearby birds, all promising signs it was going to be a good one. It had become warmer. The freezing tundras being little more than a distant memory.

The two of us had been traveling together for what Bruno explained to be an entire season. The intricacies of the passing of time still perplexed me. But I trusted he knew more about it than I did. We spent most of our time walking from one destination to the next, what that destination was, neither of us were sure of. We didn’t stay in the same place for long. Not wanting to deplete an area of its resources we’d move regularly.

During one of such travels, we were walking through the lush forest looking for something to eat. As Bruno explained the differences between what he defined as mushrooms his words suddenly went silent. I can’t even begin to try wrapping my head around his sensing capabilities. But it’s clear something was getting closer, and by his expression alone I could tell it wasn’t someone friendly.

Before I could even ask what was wrong, he had grabbed my hand tightly and launched us onto a branch right above us. I tried asking again but got cut-off mid-sentence by a harsh hush.

Then I heard something. The humming sound of engines. It’s a sound I was more than familiar with, but these didn’t sound like any machine I had ever seen. Pushing me further back towards the trunk, Bruno made an attempt to shield me from whatever was approaching. The sounds becoming louder and closer, it soon mixed with the sound of voices yelling back and forth. I was told to stay quiet and to not move.

Not understanding what was going on and the lack of information scared and frustrated me at the same time. As the racket came closer, I looked in the direction it came from. Suddenly, the source showed itself, or rather themselves. A small group of outlaws on what I now know are motorcycles drove past by us. The one in the front shouting at the others to keep their eyes open. Whoever these guys were, they’re bad news.

After they passed, Bruno took the both of us down and started running in the opposite direction; his hand tightly clutching mine. I tried to ask what we were running from, if he knew those people, and why they were dangerous enough to get this kind of reaction of out of him. But none of the questions ever got answered.

I did my best to keep up, but I soon was exhausted and couldn’t handle being dragged along any longer.

I begged for Bruno to slow down, but he didn’t listen. One bad step on a stone that slid away under my foot sent me falling downward. Feeling a sharp stinging pain in my leg I looked down; seeing a rather long cut running from my thigh to past my knee. Panting heavily, Bruno told me they probably were far enough now, and that he was sorry for what he had caused. He was already talking about how he would treat the wound in detail, but I simply shook my head, saying he shouldn’t worry about a scratch. Letting his guard down, he helped me get up and let me pull him into an embrace. Catching my breath, I suddenly felt a shot of pain in my back. As a numbing sensation spread through my body, I gradually lost my strength and straddled to the ground.

Dizzy and weak I tried to ask what was happening as Bruno pulled something that looked like a syringe with a feather on the end of it out of my skin. Before he could tell me what this weird object was, he too, soon collapsed. I panicked, but I was too dazed to do anything about it.

I’m not sure of what happened then, but next thing I knew, I woke up laying on the grass with my wrists and ankles tied together by some sort of metal wire cable. Fighting to stay conscious, I strugglingly opened my eyes. Seeing little more than a collection of blurs, I could hear people talking.

“Best catch we’ve had in weeks.” “Don’t get too excited just yet. The big one’s missin’ some parts.” I then realized they were talking about me. Groaning, I tried lifting my head to look at who these captors were. “Well, good mornin’ sunshine.” I heard someone say to me before violently getting pulled up by my hair. My vision became clearer, and I was able to make out that the man holding me was the outlaw leader we saw earlier. “Where… Where is-” “Boss! Lookie here!” Before I could even finish my thought, I was cut off by the other one. A deep chuckle followed. “Son’ bitch has an id number… Betcha whoever owned this mutt would pay good moolah for gettin’ their lost pupper back.”

My tattoo… The barcode that was etched into my neck. They knew what it was and wanted to send me back! In fear, I started to struggle;  hoping to get out of their grip. The thought alone made me fear for my life. If I was returned to Lights-out, I’d be executed for sure. A strong sense of hopelessness came over me. Where was Bruno? Without making a sound I started praying that I would get out of there.

As if by magic, I then heard his voice. “Take your hands off of him…” All this time Bruno had been playing dead while freeing himself from his bondages. His eyes glowing with intense anger, he stared the two down although they were not impressed at first. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves an escape artist.” Waiting for them to let go of me, he stood there unmoved. “I will give you one last warning… Let. Him. Go.” The leader shrugged. “As you wish.” Opening his hand, I fell down, hard. Not wasting any time, Bruno lunged at them; grabbing their throats and releasing a powerful electric jolt into their bodies. I, to this day, have no idea if he killed them or not as neither of us were gonna wait around long enough to find out. Bruno picked me up and quickly made an escape by floating far away from this place.

Later we found ourselves in a denser part of the woods. By then I was fully awake but still shaken up by what happened. Bruno said nothing… He looked into the distance with that stern look he got when thinking up a plan. I sat there in silence. The rustling of leaves being the only sound there. I was getting nervous from this. I stood up and reached for Bruno’s shoulder. The reaction I got was a quick jerking motion to get away from my touch. “Bruno… What’s-” “This was too close.” He said as he interrupted me. “If they did a better job of tying me up, you’d be on the first train back to Lights-out right now!” I didn’t know what he was so mad over… “But we got away, didn’t we?” I said with a naive smile. Hoping to charm him into improving his mood. But it wasn’t working. “Barely… I-” Bruno took a deep breath as I tried to suppress the sinking feeling I had in my stomach. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this, Cecil…”

My heart sank. “Wh- what are you saying? You’re not leaving me are you?” Tears wetted my eyes, this could not be happening. I attempted to make eye contact, but he kept looking away. “Bruno?!” He sighed and nodded once. “I am…” I could feel my heart shatter. Didn’t he love me anymore? Was I really too much? Whatever made him come to this conclusion, I knew it was my fault.

“You can’t be serious… You’re lying!” I shouted in desperation. “I promise I’ll do better! I’m sorry I keep getting us into trouble. I’ll do anything! Please! you can’t leave me here!” I begged and pleaded. But Bruno gave little response. As I started crying I wrapped my arms around him. My world was falling apart. The only person who ever genuinely cared… Suddenly didn’t care anymore. Didn’t love me anymore…

He took my hands and moved them away from his neck using his powers to push me away without having to touch me. “Bruno…”

“Keep following this path… You’ll find a village of other native mudokons. It’s small, but I’m sure they’ll take you in…” I couldn’t believe my ears. He was actually instructing me to leave. I knew he wouldn’t or couldn’t come with me. But I didn’t want to go. “I promise I won’t let us get captured again! Please… Don’t do this to me… Let me stay with you.”

Bruno took some steps back. Looking at the ground he hid every emotion he might have had in that moment. “I’m sorry… I can’t!” This was the last thing I heard him say before he sped off.

I sank to my knees and bawled. Not even caring if anyone heard me or not. I might as well have been dead at that point. I rather would have stayed a victim to the slave catchers and dragged back, never knowing what happened to Bruno at all, than getting rejected like this. By the time the sun had started to set, I still hadn’t left. A tree behind me supporting my back. My puffy bloodshot eyes hurt by the tears, my throat felt sore and raw, even my nostrils stung.

For hours I kept wishing for him to come back. But he never did. I had sat there waiting like an idiot for hours. Cried for hours. Until I ran out of tears. Slowly I began winding down. I closed my eyes and went back into my memories. Back to the cave of snow I took shelter in after I was banished. I tried to reconnect with how I felt then. Lonely, scared, cold. But not only that, there was also a great sense of hope and determination. I had to figure out to do now what I did then. This wasn’t the end, it shouldn’t be the end. A setback, maybe. Tragic and heartbreaking for sure. But not the end. I got back to my feet and glanced at the path Bruno had taken before staring in the direction I would go. With wonky feet and fighting my own body to make it move, I began walking away. “Goodbye, Bruno…”

[1d20ocs]

Backstory: Shyntaghar “Shy” Ranyine

Wordcount: 1,251

CW for implied sexual abuse

Shyntaghar was a disappointment to his family. His household, a commoner’s abode barely more than a cave, held five generations of tailors from great-great-grandmother to a middle sister. The eldest and youngest sisters were in the priestesshood, one already under Lolth and one with much training to go, and Shyntaghar also had an older brother who had been sent off to the military. His father, who his mother had discarded her last husband for, was a wizard with useful but unremarkable talents chosen to round out her children’s prospects. But as Shyntaghar grew to an age where he should have shown potential, he was found weak in both the arcane and martial arts. It was bad enough that he was a boy, albeit healthy for his small size and as receptive to the teachings of Lolth as any decent drow should be, but his lack of talent was almost enough to make him more valuable to his family as a sacrifice offered to Her.

What kept him alive was dumb luck and his matron’s cleverness. By some quirk of genetics, not seen elsewhere in his family lines, he was beautiful in face and body; a look that some noble families bred for, though he certainly wouldn’t make good breeding stock. But with the right turn of phrase, his uselessness in combat became a reassurance of good behavior, and his common blood just meant that he was much more accessible than those from noble houses. Spinning such words around like spider-silk, his mother had found a use for him after all. While he had a childhood interest in tinkering, vague aspirations of being an artisan when he grew up, his family instead tailored him to entertain. He could sing, dance, and play music by the time he was old enough to apprentice; but more than that he had learned well to submit, almost completely lacking the natural superiority drow believed in, with no skill for manipulation like his mother’s.

He fetched a decent price the moment he hit puberty, and his family profited while he was sold to more fitting operations than a clothing shop. The art of seduction was added to his talents, learning how to say yes or say nothing. He learned his place from nobles who paid his mistresses for a turn torturing him in the many ways drow women knew, though only his owners made permanent alterations to his body - any damage from clients was eventually healed to keep him cute. As one of the lowest rungs of society, he was sometimes left with non-drow slaves, the only thing marginally less respected than he was; he learned from them, too, about life outside. His world expanded from one drow city into the vastness of the Middledark, the Upperdark, and even the Surface above. The word for what he felt was not quite hope, but it urged him on.

Shyntaghar grew quite good at his so-called occupation, numb enough to it for his mind to be on other things. A constant as slaves were moved in and out, he was able to work secretly to further bigger plans than he or they could have alone. The god Vhaeraun was certainly with him and his prayers to do better than a male in bondage, and the cult of the goddess Eillistraee sought to save them all. Many of the slaves had partial plans for escape, and Shyntaghar helped enough pieces come together to become a viable whole.

No one would expect a servant to pretend to be a slave, and that was how he had made it out with a few others. To farmland outside of the city’s walls and then the untamed Underdark, the ex-slaves found allies who understood their plight and led them towards the surface, using any help they could get as well as their own skills to survive.

-

Driders had been a worry as they first escaped the drow. Aberrations soon became a bigger concern, with Shyntaghar in particular learning to fear mind-flayers from what he was told of their powers to remove people’s free will; mimics were a nuisance with supplies so scarce. Those that started the journey with strong morals found them weaker.

A dwarf among them spoke of Shar, who was turned to in the dark and despair usually only known to dwarven-kind during long nights spent mining, and from these slaves this Lady of Loss won several converts; though many found hope in Eillistraee instead, and still others held stubbornly to their gods who had given no divine rescue from their enslavement. Shyntaghar did not voice his interest in Shar, but he quietly accepted She whose interests aligned much with his own, better than his similar options of Lolth’s too-same son or too-different daughter.

A human made friends with Shyntaghar, who he nicknamed Shy due to a difficulty with elvish. This ranger wanted to make use of Shy’s sole magical ability, dancing lights, to combat his lack of darkvision. It became a sort of rushed apprenticeship, as Shy was taught to make bows and arrows from scrap and they exchanged tips on staying hidden and doing whatever it took to survive. Shy learned that their tolerance of each other, outside of necessity, was because the ranger had a young orc woman waiting for him. She’d taught him race did not define people. Shy watched him die, a death that was arguably Shy’s fault; a death he tried to think of as more arrows for himself, struggling not to let himself be distracted as he took over as their only far-ranged attacker.

Eventually, the surviving half of them made it to the Upperdark. Though the rest sought to continue to the surface, either to their homes or to meet their goddess in the moonlight and find a new home there, Shy looked towards the drow merchant houses. He parted from the party on good terms, though he had not been very close with any of them, and turned to his childhood dream of living as an artisan of the Underdark. He had not gotten much better at tinkering on the long, long trek, having more important things to have worried about, but those dangers were finally over.

-

The dangers of the Upperdark markets were surprisingly similar to what Shy had experienced before them. He had no delusions that they would be free of cruelty or slavery, but had underestimated the similarities between a drow merchant and drow noble. He was stronger now, honed enough not to be at risk of simply being tossed back into servitude like an unresisting ragdoll. He actually took well to the organized crime family of affiliated merchants. But the cutthroat infighting, and his inability to find any guide to fix his inexperience, made him soon regret losing contact with the assortment of people he’d bonded with in the Middledark. When word circulated that his slaver would pay for the return of her property, it was merely the final straw rather than a devastating change.

As he left for the surface, he stole a magical item, knowing it would make little difference if more people wanted to hunt him down. As a drow, he hated the very idea of the surface and its sun, but as someone running from the drow it stung like a life-saving medicine. He hoped that Shar might protect him, as he sought to empower himself and so live freely, whether it was to be below or above. Moving forward, Shy cast Disguise Self.

[seriouslyhooked]

Steal My Girl (The CS Mixtape) Part 149/?

Series of CS oneshots inspired by music. Collection on FF Here.

A/N: Reader requested drabble featuring a jealous Killian. I never turn down the chance to write a little of that, and this time I’m making it an AU scene where Emma and Killian are celebrating their anniversary. They’ve been together ten years and they’re meeting at a bar (recreating the first night they met if you will), but when Killian gets there, there’s another guy hitting on his wife. You can all probably guess what happens from there. Coupled with the song ‘Steal My Girl’ by One Direction.

Walking into the sleek yet inviting Boston Grand Hotel that lay at the heart of the city after a long day at work, Killian Jones had to admit that he was restless. All day he’d been waiting for this moment, and finally, mercifully it was here. He was at last where he most wanted to be, about to be reunited with the best part of his whole world.

Ten years married today, that was what he and Emma had achieved. It was, to many people, a real accomplishment, and when he mentioned it to his peers at work or friends who hadn’t known him before he met Emma, they were always awed by the continued ties that remained between Killian and his wife. But Killian wasn’t at all surprised. Since the moment they’d met, Killian knew there was only one woman in the world for him and he was just the lucky bastard that managed to get his ring on her finger and live his life at her side.

In ten years they’d taken a young, fresh love and grown it into so much more. Not every day was easy, and of course hard times came for them just as they did in the lives of everyone else, but the magic of Emma and Killian’s relationship was their constant faith in each other. In times of struggle they didn’t run or evade, they leaned on the other and battled the storms until bright days came once more. And because of that, the good moments so vastly outnumbered the bad. They chose happiness each and every day, and they fought for the good for both themselves and for the family they cherished so dearly.

“Good evening, sir. Can I help you with something?” The hostess at the front of the hotel bar asked politely and Killian shook his head, only offering her the briefest look. He hadn’t any need or desire to interact with anyone aside from Emma, but then he thought the better of his flat out refusal. Maybe this woman could get him to Emma sooner, and that would be a great help indeed.

“I’m meeting someone, actually. My wife, Emma Jones, is she here yet?”

Damn it felt good to say his last name as hers. Even if it had been a decade since she was legally Emma Swan, Killian loved that they were bound together in every way. It meant more than he could say that he was the person Emma had chosen, and that after years of a life where she hadn’t any one or any place to call her own, that she’d found home and connection with him.

“Oh she’s here alright, and I think you’ll be very glad to see her.”

I always am, Killian thought to himself as he grinned, unable to contain his joy that the wait was nearly over. Then he took his leave and returned to his vigilant search for Emma once more.

It took a minute for Killian to get oriented to the crowd here tonight, but soon enough he spotted the object of his affection. There, across the bar and bathed in warm yellow light was a vision in red – the single most beautiful woman Killian had ever seen – and the one he had the right to call his own. His Emma was effortless in how stunning she was, commanding attention from every corner of the room without any sort of care or mind. Instead of flaunting her desirability, she sat there without expectation or pretense, perched on a bar stool with her fingertip drawing easy lines atop her glass. God she was gorgeous, and tonight (and every night) she was all his.

Killian made no attempt as he moved through the crowd of people to shield his gaze from the picture Emma made for. He took in the cascading curls of her shining blonde hair and the slight upturn of her lips in a good-natured smile. His eyes lingered over the sensual curve of her body, and Killian’s hands itched to hold her and then strip away that damned enticing garment she called a dress. It was a scrap of material, nothing more, but bloody hell if it didn’t fit her stunning figure to perfection. Not that the outfit made much difference – whatever Emma wore, Killian was always attuned to her and her alone, and ten years had done nothing to dilute his desire for her in any way.

As if the woman who owned him body and soul could sense his silent appraisal, Emma chose that moment to look his way, and in the instant that their gazes met, Killian saw the promise of everything he wanted from this life and everything Emma had already granted him. She was the key to everything he’d ever dreamed possible and so much more. She was his partner, his lover, his wife, the mother of his children, and to top it all off she was the most beautiful, stubborn, undeniably brilliant person he’d ever met.

It was because of Emma that they were here tonight. When he’d asked her what she wanted to do for their anniversary this year she’d been specific in her desire for three things: She wanted to go back to the place where it all began (thus their meeting tonight after work in the hotel bar where they’d first met), to have dinner at her favorite restaurant, and then to spend all night just the two of them. That last part was the trickier of the three (seeing as they had three little ones at home to be cared for), but thanks to some full on bribery, Killian had managed to convince his brother Liam to take them on, granting Killian and Emma one night away. Any more and the two of them would both miss the life they’d created for themselves too much, but as it was tonight would be damn near perfect, a series of stolen moments that Killian had been waiting for a very long time.

The need that clung to Killian as he moved across the room was growing exponentially, and when that sweet smile of Emma’s turned playful and flirtatious, he felt he had to get to her and close this distance of space between them. His wife was simply too great a temptation, and Killian would not rest easy until he had her in his arms and away from the watchful eyes that surrounded them in this public space. But then interruption came from an unexpected place: another man approached Emma and tore her attention from him.

“That’s not bloody happening,” Killian muttered to himself angrily as he moved faster to get to his Swan. She was attempting to let the man down with a cool sense of indifference, but whether the interloper was drunk, delusional or both he wasn’t taking Emma’s signals. Instead he decided to push his luck and make a physical move on a woman who clearly did not want any part of it.

Before the slime ball could lay a hand on Emma, Killian grabbed the man’s wrist and didn’t bother to hide the hostility that wracked his body. He was furious, seeing red in a way that spoke only of danger for this piece of shit who wanted to make a move on his wife, and the tone of Killian’s voice when he finally found the words was a mix of ice and venom.

“If you want to keep that hand, mate, you’re going to stay the hell away from my wife.”

“Wife?” The guy asked, looking at Emma accusingly, as if she were the one at fault here. “I didn’t see no ring.”

He wants a ring? He’ll damned well feel mine when I punch his face in! Yet before Killian could do something drastic like drag the sorry excuse for a man outside, Emma’s hand came to Killian’s chest, pulling him back from his anger and calming him instantly.

“That’s because you didn’t look,” Emma said in a feigned sense of sweetness as she showed her left hand. There, sitting in their usual place were her engagement ring and wedding band. The sight of them alone helped Killian feel better, and he hummed out a sense of approval.

Take that jack ass – she’s taken, and she’ll never want another as long as I live, Killian thought to himself as he pulled Emma closer, the need to stake his claim still strong despite Emma’s deescalating the situation. Without any hesitations, Emma melted into his embrace, smirking up at him as she not so subtly dismissed the intruder.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Emma said, her eyes never straying from Killian’s and the man behind them mumbled something incoherent before scurrying off with his tail between his legs. Killian, meanwhile, was focused solely on Emma, surrounding himself in her presence in the best way he could. Seconds ago he’d been infuriated, but the longer he spent in her direct company, the saner her became. It was startling just how much control over him this woman had, but Killian wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I’m sorry, love,” Killian said and Emma tilted her head, seemingly confused. “Not for setting that miscreant straight, but for getting our evening off to a less than smooth sail.”

Now Emma smiled in full, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to his lips and taunting him with just the smallest taste of rum and the sweetness only Emma could bring. He was desperate to follow her lips and claim them in something more defined and unbridled, but he wanted to be sure she was okay after everything first.

“Can I tell you something?” Emma asked and Killian nodded, informing her that anything she had to share he wanted to hear. “I kind of liked it.”

“You did?” Killian asked, surprised for the briefest moment before heat ran through his veins and understanding dawned on him. Emma appreciated that display of protectiveness and possession. Good to know.

“Mhmm. It’s pretty hot to watch your husband go all caveman over you. Ten years and you’ve still got a thing for me,” Emma teased as her fingers came to toy with his tie and trace down to the suit vest he was wearing.

“It’s more than a mere thing, love, as you well know,” Killian ground out, making Emma laugh with his gruffness. He wasn’t at all angry with her, but damn if she wasn’t tempting him into a frenzy. They were supposed to be sharing a drink and then heading to dinner, but much more of this kind of attention and Killian would call the whole night off and drag Emma up to the suite they had this evening and remind her just how much more remained between them.

“I know, I know. You love me and I love you and we’re that totally cheesy couple they put on the ads for true love and happily ever afters,” Emma quipped, making Killian smile too as his hand came to cup her cheek and his thumb ran across the corner of her smile. “It’s just kind of funny that you seem to think I’m going anywhere when you’re the only one I want.”

Hearing that easy profession of Emma’s enduring love shouldn’t have packed the punch that it did since he was fortunate enough to hear such assurances all the time, but Killian couldn’t help it. After all this time is still felt like the greatest gift to know that Emma was just as deeply in this as he was, and that as happy as he was, she felt just as whole and completely and excited for all that they had together.

“I’ve never once doubted your intentions, my love. You are everything that is good and kind and honorable,” Killian whispered, making Emma’s eyes soften and her body move ever so much closer to his. “But I think a good many people would like the chance to steal my girl, and when such opponents present themselves, I will always remind them that you’re already spoken for.”

“You’re a regular knight in shining armor,” Emma mused, the mirth in her tone returning as Killian shook his head.

“I’ll be whatever you want, Emma. Just say the word and it’s yours.”

“So if I said that we should skip dinner and go upstairs right now…?” Emma trailed off, purposefully licking her lips and causing Killian to groan aloud again.

“I’d be completely beholden to your every desire. And I’d note that room service never sounded so bloody good.”

And with his wife’s laughter playing at his ears and her assurance that this was in fact the course that she wanted, Killian swept his Emma away to an evening filled with love and lust and the distinct source of happy that was unique to them and to the magic they’d found together.

………………

She been my queen Since we were sixteen We want the same things We dream the same dreams Alright (alright)

I got it all 'Cause she is the one Her mum calls me 'love' Her dad calls me 'son' Alright (alright)

I know, I know, I know for sure

Everybody wanna steal my girl Everybody wanna take her heart away Couple billion in the whole wide world Find another one 'cause she belongs to me

Everybody wanna steal my girl Everybody wanna take her heart away Couple billion in the whole wide world Find another one 'cause she belongs to me

Na na na na na na (oh, yeah) Na na na na na na (alright) Na na na na na na Na na

She belongs to me

Kisses like cream, Her walk is so mean And every jaw drop When she's in those jeans Alright (alright)

I don't exist If I don't have her The sun doesn't shine The world doesn't turn Alright (alright)

But I know, I know, I know for sure

Everybody wanna steal my girl Everybody wanna take her heart away Couple billion in the whole wide world Find another one 'cause she belongs to me

Everybody wanna steal my girl Everybody wanna take her heart away Couple billion in the whole wide world Find another one 'cause she belongs to me

Na na na na na na (oh, yeah) Na na na na na na (alright) Na na na na na na Na na na na na na

She knows, she knows That I've never let her down before She knows, she knows That I'm never gonna let another take her love from me now

Everybody wanna steal my girl Everybody wanna take her heart away Couple billion in the whole wide world Find another one 'cause she belongs to me

Everybody wanna steal my girl Everybody wanna take her heart away Couple billion in the whole wide world Find another one 'cause she belongs to me

Na na na na na na (oh, yeah, alright, yeah) Na na na na na na (alright) Na na na na na na Na na

She belongs to me

Na na na na na na (oh, yeah) (She belongs to me, yeah) Na na na na na na (alright) Na na na na na na

She belongs to me

Post-Note: So I know this was a short chapter, but I think it still packed that same sense of CS fluff I usually go for. Thank you so much to the reader who requested this song. I know it was a long time ago, but I never forgot, and today finally felt like the day to sit down and write it. Also thank you to all of you for reading, and I hope you have a great rest of your day!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,Part 11, Part 12,Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22, Part 23, Part 24, Part 25, Part 26, Part 27, Part 28, Part 29, Part 30, Part 31, Part 32, Part 33, Part 34, Part 35, Part 36, Part 37, Part 38, Part 39, Part 40, Part 41, Part 42, Part 43, Part 44, Part 45, Part 46, Part 47, Part 48, Part 49, Part 50, Part 51, Part 52, Part 53, Part 54, Part 55, Part 56, Part 57, Part 58, Part 59, Part 60, Part 61, Part 62, Part 63, Part 64, Part 65, Part 66, Part 67, Part 68, Part 69, Part 70, Part 71, Part 72, Part 73, Part 74, Part 75, Part 76, Part 77, Part 78, Part 79, Part 80, Part 81, Part 82, Part 83, Part 84, Part 85, Part 86, Part 87, Part 88, Part 89, Part 90, Part 91, Part 92, Part 93, Part 94, Part 95, Part 96, Part 97, Part 98, Part 99, Part 100, Part 101, Part 102, Part 103, Part 104, Part 105, Part 106, Part 107,Part 108, Part 109, Part 110,Part 111, Part 112, Part 113, Part 114, Part 115,Part 116, Part 117, Part 118, Part 119,Part 120, Part 121, Part 122, Part 123,Part 124, Part 125, Part 126, Part 127, Part 128,Part 129,Part 130, Part 131,Part 132, Part 133, Part 134, Part 135, Part 136, Part 137, Part 138, Part 139,Part 140, Part 141, Part 142, Part 143, Part 144, Part 145, Part 146, Part 147, Part 148

[dork-empress]

Because I’m procrastinating, I want to write a post about why I sort Voltron characters (and other characters) into hogwarts houses the way I do. 

For reference, I sort the main seven voltron characters like so: Allura, Shiro, Keith=Gryffindor, Hunk (and maybe Shay)= Hufflepuff, Coran, Pidge (and probably Sam and Matt)=Ravenclaw, Lance=Slytherin. That last one is most controversial, that I’ve seen. 

There are any number of ways to sort people and characters on the internet, from the books, pottermore, etc. I’ve seen some sorting methods that mine is...similar to, I think. Maybe its exact and I’m just re-stating something thats already out there, but again, procrastinating. To me, it comes down to two factors, motivation and methods. 

The motivations, or driving actions for the 4 main houses as I see them: Gryffindor=The Greater Good(tm), justice, glory, etc. Ravenclaw=the pursuit of knowledge, Hufflepuff=helping others, Slytherin=Ambition and self interest. 

I WANT IT CLEAR NOW THAT AMBITION IS NOT A NEGATIVE THING.

The METHODS of the 4 main houses as I see them: Gryffindor=brute strength (ish) essentially meaning taking the most obvious and clear solution. Ravenclaw=puzzle-solving, working THROUGH the issue to find the answer. Hufflepuff=team cooperation, trust, asking for help. Slytherin=cunning, getting around the problem. 

Anyway, for our Gryffindors, we have the self-sacrificial trio, Allura, Shiro, and Keith. These three are all about doing things ‘for the greater good,’ especially Allura and Shiro. 

Allura tries to sacrifice herself to save the planet Balmera. Then she lets herself get captured to save Shiro. THEN she runs off (with Keith) to potentially save the other paladins when she thinks Zarkon is finding them through her. THEN she nearly dies like, what 3 times in the final battle of season 2? Like...Sit down, girl. Take a spa day, jeebus. Her methods aren’t quite as ‘Imma fight it’ as Keith, but she does take the direct route sometimes, (running up to fight Zarkon when imprisoned comes to mind. Now, some of her self-sacrifice can be seen as Hufflepuff-y and if she couldn’t be in Gryffindor, then Hufflepuff would be her secondary, but I think its more about saving the universe as a whole than specific people, like Hunk. 

Shiro is the most subtle of Gryffindors. I like to think he was more gryffindor-y before his run as Champion, but his ability to fight his way through that trial is a part of the proof, I think. Now, he REFUSES to get help for his virulent PTSD (grumble grumble someone get this boy therapy). But he ‘works through it’ in order to help the universe. He knows he has to be a bit of a strategist as leader of Voltron, but lets be a little honest, some his strategies feel a bit like they came from TV shows. Like, chipping away, saving planets one by one. Not that its a BAD strategy, but...I think we forget that Shiro’s damn young too. He wasn’t trained for this saving-the-universe crap. He’s trying, is what I’m saying. He joins Allura for having Hufflepuff as secondary house.  

Keith’s methods are more of what makes me think him a Gryffindor, though he does tend to throw himself into challenges, echoing Shiro and Allura’s self sacrifice. The best evidence I think is the Blade of Malmora test. You hear Shiro talking to the head...guy...I’m sure he has a name, about how the tests will keep going until Keith decides to stop, and my first thought is “oh god, he’s gonna die.” Because Keith is many things, but he doesn’t stop. But if you put say, any of the other paladins, with the exception of Shiro, I don’t think it would take as long to figure out the riddle of ‘you were not meant to go through that door.’ He, meanwhile, takes it as a challenge, and fights through until he basically can’t fight anymore. Now, as for his motivations, I can actually see a split for him in this episode as well, the choice of finding out about his own past (self-interest) or continuing to fight with voltron (greater good). He eventually chooses the Gryffindor motivation, but I would put his secondary as Slytherin.

MOVING ONTO HUFFLEPUFF

Hunk is the one person that has the least controversy on his house. Not only is he a great supporter of people, but he’s even defined by the color yellow, for goodness sake. But to further drive the nail in the coffin, his character arc on the Balmera was about how seeing Shay and her people and coming to care for them suddenly made the struggle of the war PERSONAL to him, thus driving him onward. This is different from say, Allura’s caring about EVERYONE, even when its too much for her. Not to say Hunk doesn’t want to help everyone, but he’s way more about personal loyalties than the trademark Greater Good. However, lets not forget his engineering expertise, please, which I do believe is what motivated him to be an engineer in the first place, even when he doesn’t like space travel. It doesn’t motivate a LOT of his actions, like it does for Pidge, but I would put him in Ravenclaw as a secondary house.

(Shay also puts aside her own interests to save Hunk, which is why I put her here)

RAVENCLAW

I have seen, and like, slytherin pidge headcanons, but a lot of the time, Pidge likes to know things. She figures out Altean machines, and is fascinated by alien robots and wants to know about things in general. However, her primary motivation is finding her family, to the point she nearly left the team. I suppose thats sorta hufflepuff, but that felt a little like self interest to me. She chose staying with Voltron too, though. More than that, she uses ingenuity to get through problems, which is obvious to see with her holograms and hacking and strategy, etc. It’s a closer call than I might have thought of at first, but I still think she is primarily Ravenclaw. 

(we haven’t seen enough of Sam and Matt, but with their fascination about ‘the possibility of alien life’ in the opening, I’d put them in Ravenclaw too)

SLYTHERIN

Here is my tricky, tricky child. Here’s the thing, I CAN see arguments for putting Lance in basically any of the houses. He sacrificed himself for Coran, showing personal loyalty like a hufflepuff. He uses strategies, a bit like a Ravenclaw. He really likes Glory, like a gryffindor. I think, for sure, if he were to sort HIMSELF he’d be put into Gryffindor (I know, I know, choice is a big thing, but this sorting hat (me) doesn’t care about that.) 

What wins it for me is his ambition. Lance wants to be the best pilot. Keith, the actual best pilot, doesn’t care all that much. Lance wants everyone to look at him and think ‘wow how cool is he?’ He wants a parade in his honor, and at his lowest moment? His most insecure? He wants a place in the team. He wants a special ‘thing’ to call his own. He wants HIS family. I don’t mean any of this in a negative light, its just. Dude has a lot of ambition. 

Also, his strategies, which I could see being Ravenclaw-ish, are also that cunning slytherin-avoid-the-problem. like, locking all the Sentries in instead of fighting them like Keith wants. That’s a pretty good plan. 

Anyway, that is my defense of my sortings. thank you for reading!

[anavoliselenu]

Stepping stone chapter 4

Stunned by Justin's statement and his erratic behavior, I pulled my hand from his face and slowly backed away from him.

 I told him that I wasn't going anywhere until I heard his story, but every bone in my body was telling me to run. I should have booked out of there the minute Justin released his grip from my neck. But for some reason, I could not will myself to actually leave. Instead, I found myself softening, unable to bare the look of pain and guilt on his face.

 This can’t be happening. He choked me! Why wouldn’t he concede to never doing it again? What did he mean when he said that he can’t?

 A nervous pit began to grow in my stomach.

 I should go.

 I glanced around, looking for the closest escape route from the boat. I tried to remember how we had come to be in the kitchen, but I wasn't paying attention along the way.

 “Go out to the dining room and make a left,” Justin said quietly.

 “What?”

 “You want to run. I can tell that you do. You have that fight or flight look. I certainly can't blame you.”

 My middle name should be Captain Obvious.

 “No. I'm fine,” I denied stubbornly. To prove my point, I turned back to preparing our food.

 I’m not going to run again. I can do this. I can do this.

 I repeated the line in my head over and over again as I vigorously mixed up a tuna salad.

 He said that it’s time. Time for what? His story? Round two of Strangle-the-Girlfriend?

 But I’m not his girlfriend, am I?

 I looked down at the bowl in front of me. The salad would soon be a puree if I continued mixing it to death. I stopped the assault on our food, took a deep breath and tried to gather my thoughts. I couldn’t get lost in my head. Not now. It was better for me to remain focused on the task at hand, even if it was something as trivial as preparing a simple meal.

 Plates. We need plates to eat. And forks.

 I poked around in the cabinets of the galley style kitchen in search of plates and utensils. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Justin coming towards me. Reflex caused me to flinch without meaning to.

 I’m stronger than that! Acting like a scared wallflower is just plain asinine.

 “I – I was just looking for plates,” I sputtered out, trying to cover up for the way I cringed upon his approach.

 However, it was apparent that he saw my instinctive reaction. When I looked at him, the guilt in his eyes spoke volumes.

 “I'll get them,” he muttered.

 Slowly reaching above my head, he pulled down two plates from the overhead cabinet. His movements were cautious, almost as if he thought that moving too quickly would scare me.

 Together, we walked out of the kitchen and into the dining area. Without uttering a word, Justin set the table and retrieved us a couple of bottled waters. I opened a box of crackers. The crinkling of the packaging was almost deafening and it drew attention to how awkwardly quiet we were. The room was wrought with tension of the worst kind, making the difficult silence absolutely brutal to endure.

 He simply lost his temper. That’s all. We can get past this.

 I tried to convince myself of that as I wracked my brain to figure out what to do. Having never seen Justin truly lose his cool the way that he did, I was coming up short on ideas. I just knew that I had to say something – anything to somehow cut through the anxiety in the air.

 “I'm not sure if you’re a fan of tuna salad. I just assumed that you were since you had most of the ingredients handy,” I began tentatively.

 “This is fine with me.”

 His tone was strained. I watched his brow furrow in concentration as he added a couple of spoonful’s to my plate before filling his own.

 “I thought that maybe we could spread it on the crackers,” I added, annoyed that my voice wavered slightly.

 My nerves are shot. I need to get a grip.

 He set the bowl of tuna down and looked at me.

 “You're fidgeting,” he pointed out with an ominous expression. “I'm sorry, angel. I don't want you to feel nervous or afraid.”

 “Oh, no! I'm just...it's okay. Really,” I tried to assure, even though I wasn't. I didn't know what to say or how to react to him, as I was still torn between drilling him for answers about his behavior and running out the door. My naturally quick wit was failing me.

 Instead of babbling further, I went to work on the salad and crackers so that my hands could keep busy. Just as I took my first bite, Justin spoke again.

 “Who told you that my mother was still alive?”

 I nearly spit out my food in order to prevent choking from the shock of him jumping right in without any preamble. Death by white albacore tuna was not the way that I planned to go.

 “Excuse me,” I said and took a swig from a water bottle. “Sorry. I know that your story is the entire purpose of this little impromptu trip to your boat, but you kind of caught me off guard. You’re normally so tight lipped about your past. I half expected to have to drag any sort of answer out of you.”

 “Cards on the table. All of them. That’s what I promised you, didn’t I? So, tell me. How did you obtain information about my mother?”

 “That day I went to The Mandarin with Ally,” I told him cautiously. “Your sister was there. I over heard her talking to the person she was with.”

 “I had a feeling that was where you heard it. Justine needs to be more careful,” he said and pursed his lips to show his displeasure. “I'm not sure how much or how little you heard, but the fact of the matter is that neither Justine nor I know if my mother is alive. We haven't seen or heard from her in over twenty years. She left when I was ten. When I told you that my mother was dead, it wasn't necessarily a lie. To me, she is dead.”

 I froze, unable to find words. To think that he had spent all those years not knowing if his mother was alive or dead was inconceivable.

 “She just abandoned you and –,”

 He held up his hand to silence me.

 “You have to simply listen and take it all in first, Selena. I know that you've had many questions and I realize that it was upsetting to you when I shut you down. But knowing you, once I start telling you everything, you're going to have a thousand more questions to ask. I need you to hold onto them for the time being so that I am not interrupted every two minutes. Can you do that for me?”

 “Yeah, sure. I can do that,” I easily agreed. But secretly, I doubted my ability to bite my tongue. I was too revved up from the evening’s whirlwind of events.

 “What I am about to tell you, you can’t tell another living soul. Do you understand?”

 I paused then, alarmed by the grave tone in which he spoke. His eyes bore into mine and his face was set firm.

 “I understand,” I acknowledged with a slow nod of my head.

 Justin stared at me for a moment longer, almost as if he was trying to assess my trustworthiness, and I could see the internal struggle that he was having with himself. Eventually, he leaned back in the dining chair and folded his arms. It was a defensive gesture, but his face looked thoughtful, as he appeared to be contemplating his choice of words.

 “I guess I should start with where I grew up. If I recall, I once mentioned to you that we lived in the Bronx. Specifically, it was a housing project with stereotypical cinderblock buildings, foul odors that never seemed to dissipate, and bars on the windows. The area was riddled with crime and drugs, where gun deaths and overdoses happened almost daily. Perhaps that's why I don't see New York the way that you do. You see the charm, whereas I've seen the worst of the worst that the city has to offer.”

 “I’ve never been to the Bronx,” I admitted.

 “It’s not all dire, but many areas leave much to be desired. The people who lived around us had very little in terms of material possessions. That was the norm. My family did not own a car and we couldn’t afford cable. Our phone was without service more often than not because of overdue bills. It was a struggle to make ends meet and my mother learned early on how to stretch a dollar just so that we could have a decent meal.

 “My father worked, but never in one place for very long. He always had an excuse for his shortcomings as an employee, and someone else was always to blame whenever he got fired from a job. I began to value the importance of money at a very young age. Our bedtime stories were never storybook fairytales, but about the life that my mother wanted us to live once we broke free from the wretchedness that surrounded us. I don't remember how old I was, but at one point I decided that I was going to be rich. I didn't know how I was going to do that; I only knew that I wanted the life that my mother crafted for us in her stories. I never wanted to worry about having enough to eat or whether my shoes fit properly.”

 “Well, I think you've managed to do that,” I joked lightly, trying to understand what it was like to live in squalor with only the dream of a better day. My mother and I had our fair share of struggles, but never to the extent that he was describing. It was hard to imagine Justin without the wealth that surrounded him.

 “My father was angry all the time for one reason or another,” he continued. “He was the worst sort of man that you could imagine. He defined the meaning of the word misogynist, and that’s putting it mildly. He was emotionally and physically abusive towards my mother. Me too, for that matter. But for some reason, only my mother's beatings are the ones that really stick out in my mind. She got the worst of it.”

 His tone was completely detached, as if he were speaking about someone else’s life and not his own. However, I did notice that he had barely eaten a thing. If talking about this bothered him, his lack of appetite was the only sign that he gave. It was either that, or he really didn’t like tuna salad.

 As if noticing that I was looking at his uneaten food, Justin picked up a cracker to nibble on before continuing.

 “Her first trip to the hospital was when I was seven years old. I returned from school one day to find her beaten to a bloody pulp. She couldn’t even stand. I remember being scared half to death," he said. His voice was full of contempt and he shook his head. "She begged me not to call 911, so I called my grandparents instead.”

 “The grandparents that you used to live with?”

 As soon as the question came out, I wanted to slap my hand over my mouth for interrupting him.

 Well, I guess I should be proud that I lasted this long without a question.

 I was so engrossed in what he was saying that I didn't think twice about it. However, despite the fact that he asked me not to pose questions, he took this one in stride.

 “Yes. My mother’s parents. I never knew my paternal grandparents – they died long before I was born. From what I've been told, my paternal grandfather was very much like my father,” he scowled and his voice turned bitter. “The apple never really falls far from the tree, does it?"

 “Justin,” I began. I intended to offer words of reassurance, but his resolute expression made the words fade from my lips. Eventually, he rubbed his hands over his face as if he were trying to collect himself. When he spoke again, his tone was once again detached.

 “My grandfather took her to the hospital. My grandmother brought my sister and I back to their house. We stayed there for a few days while my mother recovered. We made the most of our time there, as it was the only reprieve we ever had from the chaos that was our life.”

 He paused and I decided to chance another question.

 “Where was your father during all of this?”

 “Most likely on a bender trying to drown out his guilt. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but he would drink himself into a stupor for days after beating up on my mother,” Justin added, his voice revealing a slight hint of resentment. “My mother was released from the hospital a few days later. Stiches. A broken arm. I don’t recall the extent of her injuries. But after that day, my mother changed. She became quieter, mousey almost. She never laughed anymore, too terrified of setting him off. There was a time when she’d try to stop him from coming after me, but that ended too. It was like she was dead inside.”

 “Justin, I’m so sorry. It had to be awful.”

 He frowned at my offering of sympathy.

 “Don’t pity me Selena.”

 “I’m not, I’m just –.”

 “You are, but I guess that’s human nature. Well, for most people it is,” he sardonically added.

 My heart broke for him. I was saddened by the resignation that I heard in his voice. I hurt for the poor little boy who could not count on his mother to help him against a tyrant of a father. I saw the way he tried to act unaffected, but his eyes were beginning to betray him. I could see the pain in them. I didn't want him to have to relive it all just to appease my need for answers.

 “You don’t have to tell me every detail of what happened,” I offered sincerely.

 “I appreciate your understanding, but much of what happened during that time is irrelevant to the story anyway. I only mentioned portions so that you could understand the endless cycle in which we lived. I'll fast forward to three years later, right after my tenth birthday. That was the major turning point,” he paused again, long enough for me to see anger flash hot in his eyes.

 “What happened?”

 “My father went after Justine. He had never touched her before. I don't even remember what she did to upset him. I only remember how small she was at the time. Slight in build. Just past six years old. She was defenseless to stop him. I just stood there, too afraid to do anything but watch. And I... I didn't protect her like I should have.”

 Justin's voice wavered over the last line, showing true emotion for the first time since he began speaking about his past. I was reminded of the way I heard him talk of his sister, and about the way I had once seen them embrace from a distance. Although I had never formally met his sister, I knew that they shared a special connection. But now I realized that their bond stemmed from their need to survive.

 Seconds ticked by, perhaps minutes, while Justin remained adrift in a memory.

 “Justin…” I trailed off, hoping that the warning tone of my voice was enough to stop him from going further.

 I wanted to cry for him. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes and I shook my head in disbelief. The man that I knew to be so confident and self-assured suddenly looked vulnerable. I looked into his eyes and all I could see was a ten-year-old boy staring back at me. He was the child version of Justin Stone, riddled with guilt over not protecting his baby sister.

 “I know what you’re thinking, but it was my job to protect her. I was the only person she could count on. I should have done something to help her.”

 “Justin, you were only a child,” I tried to assure.

 “Perhaps,” he mused. “My lack of response on that day may or may not have changed the outcome, but the violence towards Justine did result in sparking a bit of life back into my mother. For the first time in years, she fought back. It didn’t end well. She only succeeded in landing herself another hospital stay. A day or two later, she was released and we went back home. The house was empty, and none of us expected to see my father for a few days. But even without him there, the air was tense. We all dreaded the sound of the front door opening.”

 “That's a horrific way to live. The constant fear –,” I stopped short, unable to find the right words of comfort. He didn't need me to reiterate what it must have felt like. He lived through it.

 “I never did end up hearing the front door open,” Justin continued, but this time his voice was flat and completely devoid of all emotion. “He came back when I was at school. I found him that day. Dead. Laying in a pool of his own blood.”

I could still smell it even after all this time – the metallic scent of blood mixed with urine. I fought back the bile that welled in the back of my throat.

 “Oh my god!” Selena exclaimed. Her hand clasped over her mouth and she wore a look of complete horror. “You found him?”

 I closed my eyes, hoping and praying that the truth would present itself – the truth that I had been in search of for as long as I could remember. But as usual, I came up blank. I grappled with trying to find the right words to explain the events from that day.

 “He was laying on the family room rug. Shot in the abdomen. The blood,” I said, seeing it like it was yesterday. “It was everywhere. Justine was there. I found her hiding behind the sofa. She didn't go to school that day. Sick with a head cold as I recall. But she has no memory of how he was shot.”

 I squeezed my eyes shut tight and tried to will away the images of Justine sitting on the floor, her tattered pink shirt splattered with blood. She had been crying and holding our father’s Glock pistol in her hand.

 Fuck, I wish I could just forget about this.

 But no matter how hard I tried to forget, those few moments in time would never be erased from my mind.

   "Justine! What happened?"

 "I don't know," she says through her sobs.

 "Why do you have dad's gun?"

 "Mommy's going to be so mad. I ruined my shirt!"

 I shake her.

 "How did this happen?" I ask her again.

 Her face goes blank and she looks strangely at me through vacant eyes.

 "Justin, do you know where my blue dress is? The pretty one with the flowers. Mommy likes when I wear it."

 "Justine!"

 I shake her again, but it's like she can't hear me. I follow her to the bedroom that we share and listen to her hum as she changes her clothes. I shout at her again, but she doesn't respond.

 Fear spreads through my veins. I feel like I am suffocating.

 I walk back out to the family room and pick up the gun.

   A warm hand covered mine, ripping me away from a dark time and back to the present. I looked down at the slender fingers, up the arm, until my sight landed on the face of an angel. Selena stared back with eyes full of concern.

 “Justin, it was a long time ago,” she said softly.

 My throat clogged with emotion and I tore my gaze from hers.

 God, I feel like shit.

 I felt unsettled. Vulnerable. Like every protective barrier that I built to protect the past had violently come crashing down.

 I pulled my hand from hers and looked out the boat cabin window. The sky was dark and bleak, matching my current mood. A part of me couldn't believe that I was actually speaking about my past out loud. It has always been private. Even Justine and I never spoke specifics to each other anymore. It was better off buried. But now that I had started, I knew that I had to finish. There was still so much more to tell.

 “Angel, if you're through eating, what do you say we take a break and head up to the main deck? I could use a soak in the hot tub and a stiff drink.”

 “Well, I ah... I suppose we could do that,” she stumbled, sounding slightly shocked at the change of course. “Did Hale think to pack me a bathing suit?”

 “Hale is extremely thorough. I'm sure that he did. But it's a fairly dark night. You won’t need one.”

 She smirked at me.

 “I suspect that we won't finish talking if we're naked. Just saying.”

 She laughed lightly and I could tell that she was trying to lighten the mood. I returned her smile, although I wasn't really feeling it. I stood and went over to the minibar to mix us a couple of Winston Cocktails. I knew that she preferred wine, but the pickings on the boat were slim. I made a mental note to keep a decent stock of whites come the spring.

 “I can't believe that I'm going to say this, but you can relax,” I assured her as I mixed a dash of Grand Marnier with cognac. “For once, sex with you is not on my radar at the moment. Talking about all of this shit is kind of a total mood killer.”

 I tried to come off as nonchalant, but she wasn't buying it. She still had a worried expression and stayed quiet for a time. I hated that I was the reason for her concern.

 It made me feel weak.

 “If you say so, then lead the way,” she eventually agreed.

 Leaving the remains of our makeshift dinner on the dining room table, I handed her the mixed drink and led her to the spiral staircase that would bring us up to the main deck. Once we were outside, I took a deep breath. The night air was cold in my lungs. The crispness felt good and helped to clear my head. It made me realize how stifling the air had become when we were in the dining room.

 I looked around. There didn't appear to be a soul in sight. It was dark, despite the moonbeams that would peek out occasionally from a passing cloud. However, moon or no moon, the location of the hot tub afforded enough privacy that Selena didn't need to worry about being seen by a distant passerby, and I could rest assured that we wouldn't be overheard.

 Moving to the hot tub control panel, I pressed the buttons that would raise the cover and start the jets. The water bubbled, crystal clear and inviting. I quickly stripped and climbed in. Almost instantly, the piping-hot water helped wash away some of my anxiety and unease.

 Selena followed suit, and even though I said that I was in no mood for it, I couldn't help but admire her naked flesh as she slithered into the tub across from me.

 She reached up to tie her hair into a haphazard knot on top of her head. With her arms raised, her lush breasts glowed in the moonlight as her nipples peeked out to bob above the water line. Another day, I may have been instantly turned on. But today, her simple movements had a calming effect on me.

 She leaned back to slide further under the water. She caught my stare and afforded me a small smile. In that instant, I was completely lost in her. I returned her smile and silently wondered what it was that I did to deserve this angel that had come into my life.

 We both quietly sipped our cocktails for a time, the bubbling of the jets and the billowing steam creating an almost hypnotic atmosphere. Selena had settled back and her eyes were closed. However, her brow furrowed on occasion. I could almost see the mouse spinning the wheel in her head.

 “What are you thinking?” I asked.

 She peered open one eye to look at me.

 “Honestly, I'm wondering if it's okay to ask questions now.”

 “Fire away,” I offered, although somewhat apprehensively.

 “Where was your mother on the day that your father was killed?”

 “My mother," I spat out bitterly. The mere mention of her grated on my nerves and instantly broke the tranquil atmosphere in the hot tub. “The last I saw her was that morning before school. She made oatmeal for my breakfast, kissed me on the cheek, and told me to have a good day. I haven’t seen her since.”

 And I haven't been able to eat oatmeal since that day either.

 Selena sat there shaking her head in disbelief.

 Yes, angel. Believe it. She abandoned us.

 “Since your mother was no where to be found, what did you do?”

 I knew she would ask, but I hesitated.

 Trust her. She deserves to know it all.

 “Even though I was only ten years old, I knew enough to understand the severity of the situation. My father was shot dead and I found my sister with the gun. I could only draw one conclusion at that time. I was also still filled with guilt over not protecting Justine from my father’s abuse. I thought that maybe, just maybe, this was fates way of giving me a second chance. I reacted without thinking.”

 “Reacted how?”

 "Justine was acting strange. Looking back, I realize now that it was her mind’s way of protecting her from a traumatic experience. However, I didn't know that at the time. I only knew that I had to help her somehow. So, I went back into the living room and retrieved the gun. I put it in my school bag and left the house, leaving her alone with my father's dead body. I headed towards the nearest subway station. I rode the train for a while, trying to decide what I should do. Eventually, I ended up at the Harlem River.”

 I stopped, afraid to tell Selena the rest. She sat there wide-eyed with her glass frozen midway to her lips, waiting for me to continue.

 “The Harlem River?” she coaxed.

 “The police never found the gun that shot my father. I threw it in the river, effectively destroying all evidence that would lead to the truth.”

 Her brow furrowed in confusion.

 “Are you saying that you still don't know who shot your father?”

 “There are theories. Some by the police, others belong to Justine or myself. My mother’s disappearance, of course, made her suspect number one for the police. But they didn't know her like I did. My mother was terrified of guns, and I'm not convinced that she had it in her to pull the trigger.”

 “Who then? Was it Justine like you originally thought? She was practically a baby!”

 “I don't know. She says that she still has no memory of that day or the next few days that followed. Posttraumatic stress,” I added and shook my head. “It's frustrating that she can't remember. She only knows what I told her about that time.”

 Selena crossed the hot tub and sat next to me. Water lapped around us as I wrapped my arm around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

 “What did you do after you threw away the gun?” she asked quietly.

 “I went home. My mother wasn't there. For some reason, I knew that she wasn't going to come back, so I made sandwiches for our dinner. It's funny how the mind works,” I added as an afterthought. “Through all of it, I never once thought to call anyone about the dead body that was in the family room. It was by pure happenstance that Hale came by two days later.”

 Selena jerked back, her expression one of incredulous disbelief.

 “Wait. You and your sister lived with a dead body for two days?”

 The memory of my father’s disgusting corpse was singed into my brain. The long-term damage that it had inflicted on Justine caused more guilt to tear at my gut.

 I should have known better. I should have called someone.

 “My grandmother had asked Hale to drop off a loaf of banana bread that she made for us. The rest of that day was downright chaos and the details are hazy, but I do remember eating the banana bread,” I added sardonically.

 “Justin, I know that you'll think that this is pity, but I really am terribly sorry for all that you went through. And I'm sorry that I compared you to your father. I never would have said that had I known everything.”

 But you were right. I am like him.

 “It is what it is, angel,” I tried to shrug off instead.

 “You are not like him.”

 It was as if she read my mind.

 “Aren't I though? Come on, Selena,” I said bitterly. “I get off on hitting women.”

 “No. Not that way,” she insisted and shook her head vehemently. “It's different and you know it. You don't like to hit women the way that he did.”

 “It doesn't matter. I am who I am. I just channel it differently. BDSM is my chosen outlet, but it’s why I say that I’m not good for you. I lose control of my emotions at times with you. You’d be wise to be leery of that.”

 “That's a load of bullshit, Justin. I’ll say it again. You are not like him.”

 I wanted to believe her when she said that I wasn't like my father. But she didn't know everything, and she certainly didn't know me like she thought she did. Even now, her chocolate brown eyes swirled with conflicted emotions as she studied me. I was sure that she was questioning her own words, but willing herself to believe them at the same time.

 “A load of bullshit, huh? You don't look so sure that it is.”

 She sat quiet for a long while. When she finally spoke, it was apparent that she was choosing her words carefully.

 “I do not want to downplay anything that you have told me tonight. You had a terrible childhood. I get why all of this is painful to talk about. But I'm having trouble seeing why this is such a big secret to you. I don't understand why you couldn't tell me all of this before.”

 “What do you mean that you don't see why it's a secret? First of all, I am now a man of considerable means. I’m no longer a piss broke child living in the slums that nobody gives a rat’s ass about. The press would have a field day with this story. Justine would never survive it. I have to protect her from that. Secondly, I'm an accomplice to murder. I threw the evidence in the river. The only other person that knows that I did that is Justine. And then...”

 ...my dreams.

 I shook my head, unable to finish the sentence. My dreams were my innermost secret; something that I never spoke of before to anyone. They were one of the reasons why I was so hell bent on understanding the human mind.

 There was a method to my madness when I decided on psychology as my major in college. I had hoped that it would help me to understand posttraumatic stress disorder enough to unlock Justine's memory and learn the truth about what happened to my father.

 I needed that truth to discredit the theory about who might have killed him, a theory that was based around my own memories that would only resurface in my dreams. I wanted to quell the nightmares that haunted my childhood; visions that made me see the possibility of another reality that I didn't want to believe. However, education didn't get me anywhere and I still didn't have any answers.

 Selena reached up and cupped my face in her hands. Her eyes were soft and comforting.

 What would she think if I told her about the dreams?

 However, I immediately dismissed the idea. If the dreams rattled me, they would be sure to terrify Selena – especially after the way I had squeezed her neck just a few short hours ago.

 The shameful memory of my horrendous behavior made me cringe.

 “Justin, I can see how conflicted you are over this. We don't have to talk anymore about it tonight.”

 Grateful that she was giving me a reprieve for the time being, I pulled her tight to me and buried my face in her hair. I was emotionally spent, yet I also felt like I could finally breathe.

 It was then that I realized how much of a struggle my days were, and how exhausting it was to maintain order in all things that surrounded me. It was as if each day I was climbing a mountain, hand over hand up an endless rope to a peak that I could never quite reach.

 With Selena, there were times when I felt like I was free falling into an abyss. However, there where also moments when I felt that I didn't have to worry about the rope breaking or that I'd hit rock bottom. As unbalanced as I sometimes felt with her, she somehow had the ability to keep me grounded.

 Fuck the psycho-bullshit that I've read. I do love her.

 A feeling of melancholy settled over me. I knew that loving Selena came with consequences, as I couldn’t tell her my deepest concerns about what might have happened all those years ago. I could only give her the truth as I knew it to be.

 In a perfect world, we could complete each other. And as I held her close, I silently wished that could be our reality. She merited nothing short of perfection and deserved so much more than I could give her.

d ��P>S�