#my fics went without a proper input for too long

[measurelessdreamer]

I’m back to writing finally after months of being able to write only few (and very bad) sentences a month at best and it’s making me so happy!!!

[buckyownsmylife]

daddy issues - chapter xv

The one where Ransom doesn’t feel ready to become a father, but he should have thought about it before sleeping with a complete stranger.

When Ransom’s latest one night stand lets him know that he’s going to become a father, he finds himself looking for the qualities he never believed to have so he can become the parent he never got to witness as a child.

for general warnings and author’s notes, please go to the fic’s masterlist.

A/N for this chapter: this is 3.2k of unedited drama and I am so fucking proud of it. I wrote this entire thing today, and it’s easily one of the pieces I’m most proud of. So I haven’t been able to fit a proper conversation between the reader and Harlan - I couldn’t make the scene justified if his presence was there, since he does seem to be the one thing that keeps the family on the line - but that means I had some ideas of how I can make up for it in the future! Extra chapter? Perhaps. We are approaching the end though. I only have two more chapter planned for this fic and an epilogue. We’ll see how that goes!

Y/N’s P.O.V.

“Hey!” I got into the car excited to see him again, but I tried to reason with myself that it was all because of his visit to his grandfather’s publishing company, of course. I wanted to know how that went and I was curious as to what Harlan’s plans were, that was mostly it.

The fact that I had genuinely missed the man by my side after spending just four hours away from him had very little to do with it, or so I tried to tell myself. I didn’t know how to deal with depending so much on someone yet.

But I was trying to.

Ransom’s silence alerted me that something was different. I stopped trying to fix myself to look to the side and find him staring out the window, face expressionless and eyes void of any sentiment.

“Ransom, what’s wrong?” Reaching over, I squeezed his thigh to get his attention, and he jerked as if he was genuinely surprise by my presence in the small vehicle. “You look stressed,” I clarified, eyebrows furrowed in worry as I reached over to push away a strand of hair that had fallen out of place.

He just stared at me for a while and still I couldn’t read what he was thinking. Was he mad at me? Had I done something wrong? After what felt like eternity, he sighed, gripping the steering wheel as he looked on his lap and admitted, “I’m gonna have to go to this family dinner on Friday.”

Immediately, I breathed deeply in relief, suddenly realizing just how worried I actually was that his mood had something to do with me. But then I was reminded of the little that Ransom had told me about this family - even that little felt like too much.

I could only imagine the anxiety he was feeling, and my heart ached to soothe him as best as I could. “Do you want me to go with you?” I asked, running my digits over his nape calmly, keeping my voice as soft as possible to help him relax.

Still, his head snapped up so he could meet my eyes, his wide as two saucers as he struggled to process what I’d said. “… You’d do that?” He sounded so surprised, so genuinely shocked by my offer, that I couldn’t stop myself from giggling, taking both of his hands on mine and squeezing them gently.

“Of course I would, honey.” Ransom’s eyes were so soft as they stared into mine, even as my heart doubled its size in its effort to reach out for his, I found myself justifying, “You went with me to see my parents!”

The way his smile dropped at my explanation had me feeling cold and empty, desperate to see him look at me the same way he was doing only seconds ago.

“Besides,” I forced myself to admit it, trying not to sound as breathless as I felt while I opened my heart to him. “I-I don’t want you to go through that alone. I wanna be there for you, like you were for me.”

Immediately, I felt rewarded on my effort to open up by the smile he gave me. “Thank you, baby.” He squeezed my hand this time, and when he leaned over and connected our lips on a quick peck, my heart skipped a beat.

I was in love with this man.

Ransom’s P.O.V.

I sighed as we stood in front of my grandfather’s front door, trying to adjust my sweater that suddenly felt uncomfortable. Beside me, she seemed to be doing the exact same thing, fingers pulling on the end of the dress she was wearing, making me smile.

The dress highlighted her bump - it was now undeniable that she was pregnant and even if I’d never been particularly attracted to women in this stage of life, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her now.

It was like she shined from within. Her beauty amazed me, and so when she noticed me staring and stopped fiddling with her clothes, straightening herself up to ask, “Do I look okay?” I had to stop myself from laughing.

“Yes.” More than okay. “But are you sure you won’t be cold?” We’d gone through this argument before leaving the house, so I was prepared to see her rolling her eyes as she reached out to take my hand in hers.

“Unless your family has the habit of dining outdoors regardless of the weather, I think we’ll be alright.” I chuckled, rubbing my thumb on the back of her hand, but it sounded nervous even to my own ears. It didn’t surprise me that she noticed it. “Are you ready?” She questioned, voice in that soothing tone she used whenever she noticed my stress.

“Not at all,” I admitted, but in all honesty, the prospect of joining my family for dinner didn’t seem as bad as it usually did. Not with her by my side.

“I’m here for you.” Hearing her say those words meant more to me than I was able to properly express at that moment so I just stared at her, taking in the fact that this incredible person actually cared about me.

“Just�� don’t leave me alone, okay?” Her immediate nod had me smiling. It prompted me to once again lean over and connect our lips, only this time, when I tried to pull away, she kept me close with her hand on the back of my neck.

Who knows where this kiss might have led us if the door hadn’t open right at that moment, revealing my lousy uncle who stared from me to her with wide eyes?

“… She’s pregnant? With your baby?” A groan was all I could muster as a response, tugging her into the house with me. “When were you going to tell your family?”

“For fuck’s sake,” I cursed, looking around the living room for the bar. “Where’s the goddamn alcohol?” There was no way I’d be able to survive this night without it, as much as I wanted to be supportive of Y/N.

“I think that’s a bottle of scotch,” I heard her whispering next to me, pointing towards a corner of the room, and I sighed in relief at her understanding.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Y/N’s P.O.V.

An hour into the evening and I had already understood why Ransom was the way that he was - and why he liked his grandfather so much, despite how he felt about the rest of the family.

Harlan was gentle where all of his children were… prickly. In fact, he was the only one who addressed me at all, but I found myself feeling grateful for it, since when the dinner actually started, I wanted the rest of the family to forget about me completely.

“I am so sorry,” Harlan apologized, rubbing his hands nervously as he stared at the rest of the family who was walking towards the dining room. “I sleep early, everyone knows that, but this is the only time they could all gather and since they didn’t know you were coming…”

I waved away his apologies, offering him a hug as I wished him good night. “Just as long as you’ve had your dinner, Harlan. Thanks for welcoming me into your home.”

He accepted my embrace easily, taking advantage of the proximity to whisper in my ear, “Just hang on to him, dear. I promise it’ll be worth it.” I smiled when we parted, nodding in confirmation to his words.

“It already is,” I assured him, but he only sighed.

“Make sure to remember that during dinner…” Now I understood why. It started with a simple question, one of the maids offered me some meat, and when I hesitated to answer…

“God, are you daft, girl? Have you never eaten lamb?” My eyes widened in surprise, but before Ransom could have the chance to throw himself at his mother, I just squeezed his thigh.

“I was going to ask her if there was any oregano in the sauce. It’s been making me feel sick.” I didn’t need to add why - the reminder of my situation, of what led me to be there with them in this dining room was very clear in me.

And still, that didn’t stop them.

“That’s a pretty necklace…” Ransom’s father commented before we could even grab a bite. I chuckled to myself, immediately catching onto what he wasn’t saying.

“Thanks, I got it at a little boutique back home. It was a gift for myself after I got my first paycheck.” I could feel Ransom’s gaze on me, the waves of pride rolling from him in waves. It made me smile, but it was just the calm before the storm.

“Ransom, have you contacted a lawyer?”  This question came from his uncle’s wife, Donna - I think that’s what she was called. Not that she tried to introduce herself to me or anything, but Harlan made sure I knew everyone’s name as soon as I stepped inside the house.

“Why?” Ransom’s tone was vicious and his squinted eyes alerted everyone that he was prepared for a strike, but the fact that he still hadn’t anticipated what was coming almost made me laugh.

Even Donna herself hesitated, unbelieving that he was going to make her say it. “There’s no way you’re that stupid.” And just like that, the doors to hell were opened up.

Ransom’s P.O.V.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but then again, was I really surprised?

“You should make sure to draw a prenup,” Donna insisted, while the rest of the family pretended not to hear, undoubtedly coming up with their own ways to insult Y/N. “Something that will assure only your kid has access to your money.”

I could hear Y/N quietly laughing to herself next to me, but while she was able to find the irony in the situation amusing, all I felt was blinding rage.

“God, do you even hear the shit you say? I never asked for your input, this, right here, is precisely why I didn’t tell any of you all about my baby.” I saw Y/N flinch from the corner of my eyes before I heard my mother’s fork drop against the precious porcelain dish she was pretending to eat from. I knew this was the sorest topic of discussion for her. I knew this was why she had been pretending Y/N wasn’t even there, hadn’t even been invited to dinner with me.

“Fair enough,” she spoke, lying back against her chair as she finally raised her eyes to meet mine. “I don’t know if we even should learn anything about this child, considering it most likely isn’t even yours.”

It was like someone had thrown a bucket of ice over me. Y/N was oddly quiet now, seemingly as frozen as me - and when I realized that, my anger returned with twice its power.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” I warned, just as my mother retorted, “Don’t you talk like that to me.” I didn’t even have the chance to talk back when she stroke again. “You fuck so many ransom desperate chicks, I’m surprised this is the first you knocked up.”

This was as insulting to her as it was to me, and it also struck a chord in me because of how I feared this was just reinforcing Y/N’s views of me. “Don’t say shit like that,” I threatened, to no avail. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Ransom…” Her sweet voice tried to intervene, but I was too far gone to hold myself back now. I couldn’t stand the thought that I was hurting her because I was the reason she was here in the first place.

“You know nothing about her, and yet you feel comfortable judging her,” I continued, ignoring her completely. “She’s a lawyer, actually. You would know it if you had even bothered to talk to her. If there was ever the need for a prenup, I’d have her draw it.”

Maybe they thought I’d stop at that - I thought so myself, until I realized there was still so much I wanted to get out, and I was going to do that now.

“And you know what? I trust her more than I trust you, and I came out of you. So maybe you should consider that before you attack the one person I try to introduce to my family.” I hated everything about this. I hated how they still managed to get to me, how the fact that my own mother, who I didn’t even respect, still managed to make me feel inadequate about the one thing in my life that made me excited.

I knew I’d always lose with them. They just had this way of inciting the beast in me - they brought out the worst in me, and I felt helpless to fight it.

“Okay, so she’s not some random skank,” my uncle oh-so-helplessly interrupted, immediately making me want to punch him in his stupid face. “But this just means she’s the one playing you.”

“Oh, shut up!” I threw my hands up, pushing my chair away from the table, fully intended to storm out of the room until Meg was the one who stopped me dead in my tracks.

“Did you even get a paternity test, Ransom?” She seemed almost uncomfortable to voice it, eyes darting from me to Y/N, but I could read her apologetic smile perfectly.

She just didn’t want someone else to get Harlan’s attention and interest because that would potentially mean less money to each and everyone of the people in this room, as he’d add one more person to his aid list.

My father took advantage of what Meg said, waving in her direction. “Don’t you know how important this family is? How quickly she could rise in any job because of a connection to us?”

My mother scoffed, finally ready to interfere again. “Knowing she’s actually smart leaves me even more surprised that you’ve relented and decided to become someone’s little plaything until this baby pops out. I’m assuming a few months with a screaming kid and you’re just gonna abandon her anyway. Which is fine by me, I won’t have to pretend to be a grandmother for long.”

Y/N’s P.O.V.

All I could think was how grateful I was that I had accompanied him to this dinner tonight. As I watched his chest heaving with fury, I could not imagine how he would have felt having to deal with all of this on his own.

“Ransom,” I tried to catch his attention, pulling him back to his seat. “Ransom, it’s okay,” I tried to appease him, but he was too fucking gone to care.

“No, it’s not okay, he pushed my hand away, getting up from his chair to lean over the table, both hands on top of it as he stared at his mother.  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He yelled, making me flinch, although Linda hardly seemed bothered by it.

Then, much to my surprise, Ransom straightened up, running a hand through his hair as an emotionless chuckle escaped him. “No, you know what? You’re right. You’re not gonna be a grandmother. I’m gonna be a father, Harlan’s gonna be a great-grandfather, but that’s it. I’m not gonna keep taking your shit anymore, Linda, you know why? Even if this child wasn’t mine, I’d still want her and this kid.”

My heartbeat pumped out of control as he continued, “She’s not just someone who’s carrying my child. I care about her. And if you can’t respect her, than I guess I was right in keeping this pregnancy from you.”

I held my breath as Ransom apparently caught his, my head swirling with the different emotions running through me - my infatuation for this man, who had so fiercely defended me from his entire family, the adrenaline from witnessing such a vicious argument.

I truly believed this would be the end of it. I didn’t know where they could go from here - that was, of course, until Linda decided to attack him.

“Oh, and you think you’re going to be so great with it?” My blood boiled when her words turned against her own son so easily. Attack me and my dignity? That was okay, these people didn’t know me.

But seeing her attack Ransom was just too much for me.

“Do you think she’ll want to keep you around once she realizes she’ll be raising two children with you to weigh her down?” Ransom visibly faltered, like she had slapped him, and that’s when I had enough. “You’ll never be able to give her the emotional support that she needs and you know that.”

I rose to my feet at that, holding onto my lower back as I softly slapped Ransom’s back in an attempt to calm him down. “I got this, babe.” He was so surprised - and still so hurt by his mother’s statements - that he didn’t even try to stop me. In fact, I think he didn’t even realize what was going on until I turned to Linda and started talking.

“Do you really think that poorly of your son that you can’t believe he has anything to offer in a relationship?” Now she was the one who looked up at me with an expression that looked like I had physically hurt her.

“Is it that unbelievable to you, that someone would be able to like him for him?” She didn’t seem to be able to find anything to answer to me, and when I turned to Richard, I was also met with silence.

Ransom’s P.O.V.

“Well, I do,” she announced, like it was the single most obvious thing, the simplest fact to deduce in the world, while I stood back watching her with my mouth hanging open. “I like him enough to be willing to open up to him even if one day he might leave me because to me, he is worth any possibility of future pain.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I’d never had anyone defend me like this, not even Harlan - not even my parents, when I was a kid and the bigger children decided to bully me.

No, back then all I got was a talk about how “real men don’t cry” and if my father ever caught me cowering from someone else again he’d give me a real reason to be afraid.

“And I do say possibility,” she continued, not having raised her voice for even a second and still to effortlessly able to catch the attention of everyone in the room, assure herself the ground to speak her mind without the fear of interruptions. “Because Ransom’s actions have never given me any reason to think that outcome is even remotely probable.”

“So maybe you think about your own opinions of your son’s character and see if they don’t reflect your own more than they reflect his actions.” She turned around after that, tiny hand encircling my wrist as she began to yank me in the direction of the front door.

“Let’s go.”

[vrishchikawrites]

About YZY leaving YMJ/JFM with her kids Post-WWX Arrival

Dear Dee, feel free to delete or ignore this or post it, whatever floats your boat. This just stuck in my head after those posts and I had to blurt it all to someone. Thanks for taking the time to read my word vomit.

So I had to do this instead of an ask because it got long and I wasn't sure how many asks it'd need or how short I could cut it down without losing parts of the argument. And then other things came up as I was writing and, well.  Well..... >_>;;;; 

But you know, after that post/ask you had about YZY fics saying 'Fuck U' to YMJ/JFM & leaving both with her kids, I had a sarcastic 'yeah right' attitude about it. Mainly due to a lot of negation emotions to such an abusive (and delusional) bitch, partly due to how she wouldn't do that since it doesn't seem to be something her sort of character would consider either because she'd think of it as 'losing' (losing what, IDK, it's why I consider her type of person crazy) or she legit wouldn't think about such a viable action.

But then later, in the shower, I seriously went 'Wait, she can't fucking do that' and it wouldn't be about how MXTX uses her as a part of the narrative but entirely about the/their culture in the novel; the actions that have and would be taken in response; and her entire toxic personality as well.

1) We already know that the sects and the cultivation world in general is sexist, elitist and so Capital T 'Traditional' to the point that it's starting to petrify and any deviancy from this is an exception rather than the norm. YZY might be a madame of a great sect (for what that's worth considering how shit of a madame she's been and the titles she's chosen for herself) but she's still a woman even with her high rank and the things she's personally accomplished.

Even if she was in her rights to leave a 'bad' marriage, she'd be the one who'd get scolded more instead of JFM by her natal family, her former husband's family and by their entire society at large even if she had a few singular supporters. Because That's Not How Things Are Done in their society and I do believe that such a thing was rare even when it was accepted method by the upper echelons. Especially since it would have to be done by more than YZY simply deciding that She Wants Out and just- goes and Gets Out. With no serious allegations that would allow her to divorce or separate from YMJ/JFM without the input from her family, JFM's family and, I think, possibly some measure of compensation as well. And no, having or bringing in a 'bastard child' is not a serious enough offence for such a humongous decision. I think something more along the lines of treason or crimes against multiple, high-ranking parties would be more along the lines. Maybe.

And even if she does this, she'd be considered 'Used Goods' (such a terrible comment) and there'd be no other good/proper marriage prospects for a divorced woman with children let alone a woman like YZY with her entire abrasive personality and attitude put off even easy-going JFM.

(If she'd been widowed then it'd be more forgiven but I consider that a Real Bad End since, IMO, it would lead to the sudden and inevitable decline of YMJ either via mass exodus of disciples and/or residents of LP; being merged with another sect due to it's unstable leadership; or create an internal political war 'cause I bet you anything that the YMJ Elders/relatives (if they have any) Would Not Want YZY in charge of YMJ when she's already proven herself such a shit betrothed let alone madame.)

2) Speaking of families, while YMJ/JFM/LP as a whole might be glad to see YZY's back, I don't think her natal sect, MSY, will be glad to see her come storming back after all the effort they put into getting that particular marriage alliance with YMJ. And if she brings her children with her? Oh man, oh boy- mother or not, that could be considered as kidnapping or line theft (is that a thing?) especially if YZY is also seriously considering divorce proceedings and raising them as Yu and not Jiang. That could give leave to, for anyone more unforgiving and maybe JFM if he's pushed enough, disown both JYL and JWY from the Jiangs through no fault of their own (though I'm sure YZY would make it so as well as blame JFM for her own decisions and mistakes).

Therefore, any inheritance or benefits they might gain for being legitimised children of a great sect are forfeited. JYL will likely lose that betrothal with JZX because JGS will drop it like a hot potato and JWY won't be a sect heir because YZY literally decided to remove that by deciding to raise JWY as a Yu, no matter their blood relation to JFM. They leave him, they leave YMJ and everything attached with it. Which is if YMJ/JFM doesn't demand MSY to give back their heir/ess and to punish YZY for her actions. Or send all three of them back for the appropriate reactions/decisions.

Their society would demand no less in reaction because, to them, it would seem like YZY had gone mad and JFM would look weak (or weaker) and imply that YMJ is vulnerable and exploitable if JFM doesn't do something in response to her actions. That's not even getting into what the other smaller sects may try to do in an attempt to curry favour with YMJ or what LLJ or QSW would try in order to destroy or diminish YMJ. And whether JFM chooses to demand his children back or not, it may not change the fact that this may give him reason enough to choose a nephew or niece to be the new sect heir especially if, even after getting rid of YZY's poisonous influence, JWY grows up to be his mother's child more than his father's or even his own person.

Either way, such a thing would bring great backlash on YZY, and MSY as well as the collateral. No one would want to give face to her or her children because it would bring up some very uncomfortable questions and scenarios to the other sects- specifically, what would happen if the female members of their clans/sets decided to follow the footsteps of YZY and leave with their children and heirs. Especially if they use it as an excuse to leave for their own comfort and whims and not some legitimate wrongs and dangers. That would create some more restrictions on women thanks to YZY

3) And lastly, if any one of those idiot YZY stans think that she'd ever give up the status of being a madame of a great sect they'd be as crazy or crazier than her. YZY is all about status and power and face. Specifically, her status, power and face and how people in her reach reflect her or 'insult' her. She is a selfish, terrible, abusive and toxic person and can only see people in regards to how they would benefit her and the elevation of her and in no other way. Especially her family. They cannot be their own person, they can only be an extension of her and gods forbid they go against her.

We can see this in how she treats the people she supposedly loves. JFM? Arguments day in, day out along with accusations and slander of cheating, having one(1) supposed 'bastard' and being 'in love' with CSSR. Which all seems sus as hell. And that's when she's actually there and not out 'night hunting'. Even her 'training' seems to border on unhelpful rather then helpful if my vague recollections of juniors fainting from exhaustion can be relied upon (please call me out if they're not or find proof).

JYL? Berated by not being 'strong' but not helped at all to be 'strong'. It doesn't help that YZY seems to believe in the same standards strength in their society- that is, of martial masculine strength which does not and should not apply to JYL who has been said to be sickly. Which means h should have been learning a different way of cultivation/fighting anyway.  If that was something she wanted and had been offered in the first place- which I doubt. That isn't even getting into her repeated generational trauma mess of a betrothal which was decided only by those 'sworn sisters', accepted by her as a way out of her terrible home life and puts her squarely within reach of JGS who we know to be a womaniser, rapist, predator and a possible ephebophile considering we don't know the exact age of his youngest 'conquest' or the age of MZY's mother when they met which could be anywhere from 14 to 21.

JWY? Gods, so much meta on him and his(non-) relationships with his parents that I don't think I can contribute more to it. It's been all said and done. Unless people want me to stir the pot by saying that, maybe, just maybe, YZY resents JWY as much as she 'loves' him.Either because he's her son and yet never manages to 'accomplish as much' as WWX or because he's a boy and therefore, more benefits and allowances than a girl/woman- more than anything that YZY ever got without either a fight or screaming at someone about. *shrug*

So, in conclusion to this sudden an unexpected essay that I wrote(I'm so sorry about that, I thought it would be shorter -.-;;;;), YZY leaving YMJ/JFM with her kids? Impossible. Not without some sort of personality transplant or a complete AU. She's too prideful, too bitter, too angry, too everything negative and little positive. She's a resentful product of the values and restraints of her society taken to the extreme negative with a willingness to inflict her pain on others to an abusive degree. But she's also too obsessed and reliant on those same values and restraints to keep up the image of her status. So her? Giving those up? You'd be more likely to see WRH as a doting grandfather than that.

---

Dee - All of this is true and yes YZY leaving YMJ is highly unlikely. While there will be consequences if she decides to leave, she does canonically lives separately from her husband. They seem to be in a situation where they are married but living separately, which was a common way to end a marriage (at least in spirit) back then. She essentially had all the perks of being Madam Jiang but fulfilled none of the responsibilities.

Afaik, her training the Jiang disciples is a donghua thing? I may be wrong but I recall she spent most of her time nighthunting.

As for taking her children along with her- that's completely impossible. At that point, children were the property of the father. She could leave but she would've never been allowed to take JC.

[dragynkeep]

Hi there, ironpines! (Love the name btw, I read a really good fic about ironwood being a father-figure to Oscar when RWBY and co. get to Atlas).

So this is probably going to be very long but I’ve really gotta vent about some stuff.

(Also, first ask. I honestly didn’t know how to do this for the longest time. Just got back into tumblr a bit ago).

1. I hate Jaune Arc (a lot of people do), but I want to know why. Do you think/believe he’s an author’s pet? Also, why the HELL did he kill Penny in the first place?!? Why not Winter, Nora, or Ruby? Why did he have to go to the island? Just- WHY?

2. In the first three volumes I really liked Team RWBY, but now….how did they get so skewed? What went wrong? How can Ruby be THAT arrogant that she point-blank says to Qrow: “we never needed an adult’s help.” Like- yes you did! If not for Qrow killing the Grimm in v4 they would have been continuously fighting Grimm. I’m the fight against Tyrian (one of my favorite characters and favorite fights) if not for Ruby getting in the way Qrow wouldn’t have been POISONED!

3. (This is the one I’m going to get cyber-ly killed for). (I also had just started RWBY when volume 5 was airing weekly.) The beginning of Volume 5, in my opinion was good. I liked the first five-six chapters, but when AU watched ‘Rest and Resolutions’ V5C7, I was so angry! Everything about the conversation between Ruby, Weiss, and Yang felt so out of character and out of place. It was so bad and the next episodes following that were not good either (only the raven v cinder fight was any good). The battle of Haven was a train wreck that I honestly have no idea how I even retained braincells after that. Like- why KEEP teasing Weiss v emerald if you aren’t going to do anything with it. Why tease Mercury v Yang if you’re not going to do anything new and interesting with the two (Mercury isn’t even a character anymore!)

4. I wish we got good rep. I really wish we didn’t get confirmation on LGBTQ+ characters from supplemental material (that’s not even canon). And I’ve gotta ask, why do you consider cannon? Cuz for me, the only things I consider actually CANNON to the storyline are the Red, White, Black, Yellow Trailers and the show itself (Grimm Eclipse just for the sake of more cool lore about Mountain Glenn and the fact of mutant Grimm). That’s it. I don’t consider the World of Remnants, manga (DC or otherwise, those were HORRIBLE!), anthologies, and the DISGUSTING novels.

(This is the last thing, I promise!)

5. I’m working on a quasi-rewrite RWBY fic and I didn’t know whether or not I should post the first chapter on my page or not. I just really don’t want the simps to come for my head (though it might happen anyway). But I’ve been writing this for about a year and a half now and I really want to post it but I’m so nervous about the reception and backlash. What do you think?

Thanks for answering me and indulging the fact that it’s okay to like something and still want it to be better (critics/the Rwde tag is my favorite because I can read opinions that I mused share but are too scared to put as a post).

Thanks, we picked Ironpines because we loved Ironwood and Oscar, and then our friends, being the good friends they are, immediately told us it was the ship name for them so now we can't have anything nice.

1) First off, yes, we absolutely think Jaune is an author's pet. We don't really go for self-insert anymore since everyone in RWBY was a self-insert, Monty clearly based them off his friends. But now, Jaune is absolutely an author's pet and has been since the start of the show.

Just look at Volume 1. Jaune literally had more of a storyline than Yang, one of the girls in the title. He then went on to have a dumb love triangle in V2, only to resolve it with Neptune without any input from Weiss, because why not, and then V3 was Jaune finally taking more of a step back for Pyrrha, who was long over due some character.

Until V4 where, rather than everyone mourning Pyrrha, we focused on Jaune mourning her instead. Nevermind that Pyrrha was Ren and Nora's teammate too, probably their only family since they're orphans, or how Ruby literally watched Pyrrha die in front of her. Nope, gotta focus on Jaune. Add that it stretches into V5 also, adding another storyline about his Semblance while Ren, Nora, and Ruby have to stand in the background and wait their turn, while Weiss literally loses all her braincells so she's injured for Jaune's development, how the confrontation with Cinder doesn't go to Ruby, the main protagonist, but Jaune.

Then we get that stupid statue scene in V6 that took over Oscar finally getting some development of his own. It's not even the whole team, because it's only Jaune that gets to meet the lady who totally isn't Pyrrha's mother, it's Jaune that gets the big teary moment, and how Ren and Nora have to stop and comfort Jaune because of course they have to.

I was glad that Jaune finally took a backseat in V7. I actually started to like him again, because he wasn't sucking screentime away from those who need it. But then V8 happened and now I want him dead.

I've said it countless times before so I don't wanna repeat myself, but Jaune is one of the last people that should've killed Penny. He shouldn't have killed her, he shouldn't have had the big tearful scene because another redhead died, he shouldn't have fallen into the void to join Team RWBY, but he did. Now there's no doubt in my mind that Jaune is a fucking author's pet, because the writers won't let him go into the background where he belongs.

2) There's not much to say about Team RWBY. They just suck now.

3) After watching V8, V5 is no longer my least favourite volume. That's how bad it was.

4) Yeah, RWBY's rep is absolute trash and it's because they keep putting it in supplemental material, and also because they look at the LGBT and only see L. The only MLM we have is Scarlet, and he's a catty fae gay stereotype that is so unlikeable and voiced by a creep. Nevermind the whole Fairgame queerbait controversy because this company can't stop themselves for five minutes.

5) I always say that, when you post work on the internet, whether its art of writing, you have to understand that you will get criticism back. It'll suck, especially when you've put so much time and effort into something, but that's the risk you have to take as a content creator.

The good thing is that AO3 has features that let you manage what you see properly. If people just want to hate without giving proper criticism, you can always remove it and ignore it, but I personally believe that people aren't entitled to criticism when it's only said nicely. Sometimes, people will get annoyed and say it in a meaner way, but that doesn't make the criticism any less valid.

Either way, decide based on how you think you'll react to it. If you don't want the stress of criticism, be careful, but if you think you can handle it? Then go for it, the world's your oyster.

[bedlamsbard]

Part two of the Caleb and Loth-wolf concept!  I am tentatively planning for this to be a five things fic, but I am absolutely unwilling to commit to that at the moment.  This follows part one; technically it’s backstory for The Starry Crown, but its relevance there isn’t in any of the posted chapters and it stands on its own.

About 4.7K below the break.

***

When Caleb had a question about anything, which was often, because he didn’t like not knowing things and he liked the satisfaction of having a proper explanation to fill empty spaces in his knowledge of the universe, his preferred method was to pester the crèche masters until he was satisfied by their responses.  But this time he didn’t want to let Master Krell know about Rroshaal, since if Rroshaal had wanted Krell to know about him he would have stayed with Caleb instead of disappearing.

So instead, Caleb went to the library.

Caleb liked the library. It was quiet and while sometimes the Knights and older padawans working there looked askance at his presence, no one had ever kicked him out, though he had on occasion been steered away from some of the more restricted sections.  Master Nu, upon once finding him struggling to fetch out a holodisk shelved out of his reach because he was intrigued by the symbols on the spine, had shown him how to use the computers to search the Temple databases.  Caleb’s log-in was keyed to his DNA and he hadn’t yet figured out how to get around that, so his access was fairly restricted compared to what even an initiate or older youngling might have gotten, but it was better than not having it at all, and he could lose hours scrolling through seemingly endless amounts of information.  Sometimes he didn’t even recognize the redactions where information that wasn’t appropriate for his level had been hidden.

He waited impatiently through his last few lessons for the day, which he normally liked but wasn’t in the mood for, then practically ran out of the classroom and towards the library. Caleb made his way through the mazelike corridors of the Jedi Temple with the ease of long practice.  He could have done it blindfolded; younglings trained and played that way, placing their trust in the Force and their other senses so that they didn’t become overly reliant on their eyes.  This time he didn’t bother.

It was late enough in the day that most of the diurnal species in the Temple – the majority of them – had gone to dinner, either to eat in their rooms or the crèche or one of the big public halls or the gardens.  Caleb bounced excitedly into the library and looked around for a free computer.  The few Jedi still there looked around at his entrance, indulgently amused at his arrival. Caleb waved at them cheerfully and went over to the nearest computer, raising the seat up until he could see the screen clearly.  He poked at the keyboard with his index fingers, trying to think of what the best search terms for Rroshaal’s species were.

Half an hour later, he had found all sorts of canines and felines and other mammals which varied from adorable to terrifying, but nothing that matched his memory of Rroshaal. They varied on the sentience scale, and if Caleb hadn’t been so focused on finding Rroshaal’s species he might have dropped everything to go beg the crèche masters for a miniature hamerlok puppy, but as it was he filed that away to think about later.

Caleb ended up in the library often enough that he knew better than to waste time searching for something when he didn’t know the best way to do so or didn’t have the necessary access.  He looked around for one of the librarians and saw Master Nu coming towards him; she had found him on one of his research spirals a dozen times before and knew his pattern.  He waved at her and she smiled at him.

“What are you looking for, Caleb?” she asked, resting a hand on the back of his chair.

Trying to sound as grown-up as possible, Caleb turned towards her and said, “I’m trying to identify another species, but I haven’t been able to find him – them.”

“A sentient species?”

He nodded. “But not a humanoid.”

“Someone you saw here in the Temple?”

Caleb bit his lip. Technically he had seen Rroshaal in the Temple, but he didn’t want to admit to Master Nu that he had been in the underlevels, and that wasn’t what she meant anyway.  She was asking if he was talking about another Jedi, or maybe one of the civilians who were in the Temple sometimes. “I had a vision?” he said tentatively. It was partially true, after all; Rroshaal had shown him his species through the Force, and that was sort of like a vision.  And he had seen Rroshaal with his own eyes, which was technically vision even if it wasn’t a vision. “I read a holobook,” he added, almost immediately afterwards.  He read lots of holobooks.

Master Nu looked amused, but didn’t comment on the two contradictory explanations.  “Do you know what this other species of yours looks like?”

Caleb nodded firmly. “Big. Furry.  Sort of like canines – maybe like lupines.  I don’t understand the difference,” he admitted.  He pointed at the screen, which was still open on the image of the miniature hamerlok, which was a domesticated subspecies of an Alderaanian predator.  It looked a little like Rroshaal had, except much smaller and less fluffy, and the wrong color, though the entry said they came in lots of colors.  “Like that.  But not. And they can use the Force.  And they live in grasslands.”

“Hmm,” Master Nu said. She thought for a moment, then leaned over his shoulder.  “Has anyone shown you how to use species identification software?”

Caleb perked up. “That exists?”

“It’s often used by law enforcement, but many Jedi find it useful for other purposes as well,” Master Nu explained.  “Most Jedi don’t have to use it until they’re padawans.”

Caleb bounced excitedly at this new information, moving his chair to the side so that she could bring up the program.  She had to enter her own ID and log-in information, then adjust the access levels so that Caleb would be able to use it without having someone else log him in. He watched excitedly as she showed him how to cycle through different physical traits, slowly building an image on the screen of Rroshaal as Caleb remembered him.  When he was finished, the program offered him a list of possible species that matched the criteria Caleb had inputted.

“Do any of these look right?” Master Nu asked. “From your holobook?”

Caleb shrugged. “No, Master. Can we look at all of them?” There were fewer than a dozen, ranked in order of most to least likely.

“That’s usually the best way to do it.”

Caleb carefully put his finger to the first option, which read TUK’ATA/SITH HOUND (MORABAND).  As soon as the new window opened, he shook his head, but read the entry anyway, fascinated, then looked up at Master Nu. “They can’t really all be evil, can they?  I mean, if you got a pup and raised it here in the Temple – or away from the Sith worlds, anyway –”

“I can’t recall whether anyone has ever attempted it, but looking up their history might be a good research project for you,” Master Nu said, bemused. “It does seem like the sort of thing someone would have tried, especially during the aftermath of the Sith Wars.”

“I want to try,” Caleb declared.

“That is the sort of experiment that will have to wait until you’re at least a padawan,” Master Nu told him firmly. “Since you would have to go to Moraband to find one – every attempt to traffic them offworld has failed.  That’s something else you could look up another time.”

Caleb nodded and closed the window.  He touched the next item in the list, LOTH-WOLF (LOTHAL), and as soon as it opened, said delightedly, “That’s him!  But they’re not extinct?” he added, seeing the first line of the entry.

“Why do you think that?”

“I saw him.  I talked to him.”  Caleb remembered abruptly that he didn’t want to explain how he had done so and said quickly, “In my vision.”

Master Nu quirked an eyebrow at him. “Do you want to tell me about your vision?” she asked. “Or perhaps talk to one of the masters who specializes in seeing?”

Caleb shook his head so rapidly that his learner’s braid hit him in the nose. “I have to figure it out on my own,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster when he was lying through his teeth.  He copied the information carefully to his data storage account, then went back to get the tuk’ata information too while Master Nu went to find him some more books on Loth-wolves, after first making him promise that if he had another vision he would bring it to her or one of the other masters.  Since if he ever actually did have a vision that was more than the flashes of precognition that gave Jedi their reflexes he was planning to tell everyone he knew, Caleb promised this solemnly.

Master Nu came back a few minutes later with a stack of holobooks for him – one a survey on Force-sensitive semi-sentient creatures and non-humanoids, one a travelogue from a Jedi Master who had mapped out many of the known Force-strong worlds, and one a history about Force-users who partnered with non-humanoids or semi-sentients. Caleb quietly thought that both “semi-sentient” and “non-humanoid” didn’t describe Rroshaal at all, but he wasn’t about to tell Master Nu that.  Well, the non-humanoid part was true, but it didn’t really sum up what Rroshaal was.

He put the books carefully in his bag, noting that the history book was past his usual access level and wondering why, thanked Master Nu, and hurried off to the nearest dining hall. Dinner was still being served; even if he had missed it there was always food available somewhere in the Temple, though sometimes you had to do a bit more searching to find it.  He wrapped a dozen meat pasties in a napkin along with two pieces of his favorite spice cake, then wrapped them in another napkin before putting them in his bag and making sure his water bottle was still mostly full.  No one paid him any attention – he had found one of the dining halls that was mostly used by Knights and masters, a few of whom he knew, but everyone in the Temple was used to everyone else occasionally doing odd things.  He waved at a Kiffar Knight who was one of his teachers in staff-fighting and left, grabbing a jogan fruit from a bowl as he did so.

He had to pause outside the hall and think about the best way to get down to the underlevels, since he wasn’t supposed to go there.  After getting caught down there the previous day he probably really wasn’t supposed to go there, but it wasn’t like every youngling didn’t do it at one point or another.  Like almost everything else in the Temple, there were lots of ways to get there, but Caleb thought that it was probably best if he chose one of the entrances closest to where Rroshaal had left him.  He wanted Rroshaal to be able to find him again, but he didn’t want to get caught by Master Krell or any of the other crèche masters, either.

Decision made, he went trotting off.  It took him longer to reach the underlevels than he had expected, since he was coming by a different route, but eventually he reached the bottom of the last staircase and hesitated, looking around.  He had taken care to bring a glowstone with him this time so he wouldn’t get caught in the dark again, even if he couldn’t shake the feeling that it felt a little like cheating.  What Caleb should have had was a lightsaber, but he wouldn’t have a lightsaber until after he had had his Gathering, and his cohort wouldn’t go on their Gathering for at least another two years, maybe even three or four.

“Rroshaal?” he called into the quiet, waiting dark of the underlevels.  From here it just seemed like empty, unused space, but Caleb knew that it wasn’t.  Further away – and further down – the underlevels deteriorated into a series of mazes, layers and layers of ancient temples built on top of each other.  He’d read a book on it – well, he had run across it in a history, but when he went looking for more books he had found that they were beyond his access level, and Master Nu couldn’t be convinced to give them to him anyway.  Caleb thought he might ask again, now that he had the excuse of having been caught down in the underlevels.  He might as well use it for something.  Maybe he could convince Master Krell and Master Nu that having to write a report on the history of the underlevels was an appropriate punishment.

“Rroshaal?” he called again. “It’s Caleb Dume.  Rroshaal?”

There was no response. Caleb hesitated, wondering if he ought to go further in and away from the stairs.  Maybe Rroshaal wouldn’t want to come this close to the entrance to the rest of the Temple, even though he had brought Caleb back yesterday.

He stood there for a few minutes, calling occasionally and hoping both that there weren’t security cams down here and that no one could hear him from the next level up.

There was no response.

Caleb stood there on the last step, feeling heat gather in his cheeks from embarrassment.  He’d thought that Rroshaal had liked him.  He was on the verge of going back to the crèche to palm off all the pasties on his crèche-mates when he thought suddenly, no.  He had been acting like Rroshaal was a dumb animal, like the charhound pup one of the older initiates was fostering.  Not that the charhound wasn’t very intelligent, but it wasn’t exactly a person, and Rroshaal was.

He reached with the Force, concentrating on his memory of Rroshaal’s strong sense of personality, and let his mind sink down into the vergence the Temple was built on.  He knew that he wasn’t supposed to do that because vergences were dangerous – even Knights and masters weren’t supposed to do that – but Caleb thought that because he more or less knew what he was doing with it that he probably wouldn’t lose himself in the Force.  He remembered what Rroshaal had told him yesterday, about the vergence where he lived and being able to move between that vergence and the one under the Temple.  In a way, every vergence in the Force was one.  They were unique – but at the same time they were also one.

Rroshaal? he thought, layering his memory of Rroshaal’s strong personality onto it.  With rare exception, Jedi weren’t telepaths, but for their first few years in the crèche they didn’t have to speak to each other with words, either; they had the Force for that.  Rroshaal, it’s Caleb Dume.  He added his own mental signature to that, the emotional overtones in the Force that would tell another Force-user that it was him, Caleb Dume, and not someone else.

He could feel the weight of the Force as he opened himself to it.  It was like the lake that he had seen on Alderaan when his cohort had visited the planet the previous year, the deep lake that was actually a rift in the planet’s surface and was more than ten kilometers deep.  It pulled at him, at the surface of his mind; Caleb was aware of it – of it fluttering at the edges of his consciousness, bits and pieces of things that had happened in the past, that could have happened in the past, that were yet to come, of people who were long dead or were yet to be born or might never be born, of his people and the enemy of his people and all of those who touched the Force in their own way, whether they were Jedi or not.

He had never gone that deep into the Force before.  He hadn’t meant to do so now.

He fought aside his instinctive panic, knowing that, like the lake, if he panicked he would drown. Caleb concentrated hard on his memory of Rroshaal, forcing himself to ignore the insistent whispers of almost-sound and the flickering almost-sight at the edges of his mind.  Jedi were will.  He wouldn’t let himself be swayed from his intention, now that he had set himself upon it.

Jedi were the Force.  Whatever it was trying to show him, he already knew – he already was, or would be, or could be.  All things were true at once in the Force.

Not trying to show him, he thought, a little dizzy.  Do or do not.  There is no try.

Caleb stopped fighting the almost-visions and let them pass through them instead, still keeping his mind on Rroshaal.  He felt – bigger, somehow, older, as if his body no longer quite fit him in his dim awareness of his own physical form.  But it wasn’t not his body, either; there was nothing unfamiliar about it. Caleb accepted that and let his call to Rroshaal roll out again, noting absently that there were layers in his mental signature that he had never been consciously aware of before.  But they had always been there, of course.

He felt an instant of sleepy surprise, then acknowledgment.

They came from outside himself and were accompanied by a strong sense of place; Caleb tasted prairie winds and the rock-smell of an unfamiliar world, the warmth of lazing in a sun he had never stood under.

Certain that he had been heard, Caleb dragged himself uncertainly out of his trance.  Reality fluttered around him; Caleb could feel it flexing, as if someone had shaken out a sheet and each fold held a different possibility, a different time, a different place.  Then, before he had time to panic, it settled again, leaving him gasping in the dim light of the underlevels.

He sat down heavily on the steps.

After a moment he dug in his bag and came up with the jogan he had grabbed in the dining hall, which he ate slowly.  One of the earliest things that younglings were taught was to eat or drink something after an intense meditation session, because it reminded them that while they might be the Force and full of light, they still had physical bodies.  Caleb ate the jogan in small, neat bites, concentrating on its taste and how it felt in his mouth, and eventually got out of his datapad to read the database entry about Loth-wolves that he had gotten from the library computers.  He had finished both and set the datapad aside so that he could wrap up the jogan pips to throw away later when he heard the soft click…click… of approaching claws on the marble floor.

He saw Rroshaal’s glowing eyes first, coming out of the darkness of the underlevels.

Caleb stood up to greet him, momentarily startled by how big Rroshaal was – he’d somehow forgotten. Rroshaal came up to him and ducked his head to nuzzle thoughtfully at Caleb’s hair, then licked Caleb’s face in a greeting.

“Hello!” Caleb said happily. “You came!”

Rroshaal licked his face again.  He had been napping, he told Caleb; it was the middle of the day on his homeworld, and most of his people slept then.  Caleb got the brief impression of windswept grasslands, too hot under the summer sun for Rroshaal to want to be out in.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he said. “It’s dinner time here. I’ve got dinner,” he added. “If you want?”

Rroshaal made an inquisitive sound and lay down as Caleb dug in his bag for the pasties.  He laid most of them down on the cloth for Rroshaal to sniff at, but kept two for himself, watching Rroshaal eat each one in two bites. Interesting, was his observation when he was finished.

“It’s ronto, I think,” Caleb said; he was only halfway through his first one by the time Rroshaal had finished.  “Do you have rontos on your world?  They’re saurians, they live on desert worlds mostly, and a lot of ranchers breed them for meat.”  He pictured the holos he had seen; he hadn’t seen one in person yet.

Rroshaal’s response was in the negative.  Hoppers, he replied to Caleb, along with a strong sense of a big four-legged mammal that moved by leaping from its hindmost feet; it used its front legs more like arms and Rroshaal had a strong, vivid memory of being punched in the nose by one during his last hunt.  The memory was accompanied by a strong, gamey taste of raw meat that made Caleb blink, a little startled.  Lopers.  This seemed to encompass several different kinds of hooved herbivores, some of which were nearly as big as Rroshaal and some of which were much smaller.  They moved in herds and ran fast, leaping across the grasslands when the pack hunted them.  Horrible birds.  These were flightless birds two or three times as tall as Caleb, taller than Rroshaal, with toothed beaks and talon-like feet; Rroshaal showed him the scars another Loth-wolf had from being attacked by one some years earlier, but added that they were tasty after you brought them down.  Others.  He got a flickering sense of what his instructors would have called “a healthy ecosystem,” and recognized a few species he had seen in holos before.  Or relatives, anyway, but you saw convergent evolution on many worlds, and colony worlds especially.

Rroshaal sensed the thought and made a little whuff in the negative.  Too much prey, he told Caleb.  Horrible birds kill some, but only on one continent.  Used to be more hunters.  Caleb got a hazy impression of several kinds of big felines and avians; the haziness was because they were extinct and Rroshaal had never seen them himself, only through the passed-down memories of other members of his pack.

“Colonists killed them?” Caleb asked, remembering one of his classes.  It happened a lot.

Rroshaal made an affirmative sound.  Others, he said again, showing Caleb several animals he recognized.

“Those are nerfs,” Caleb said. “They’re all over the galaxy.  People breed them for meat and fur.  And the little saurians are nunas.  They’re meat animals too.  I can’t remember what the fluffy ones are, but I’ve seen holos of them before.”

Tasty, Rroshaal observed, licking his lips.  Then he laid his chin down on his paws and added sadly, Not enough pups.

That reminded Caleb. “I read about you!” he said.  “I looked you up in the library.  You’re a Loth-wolf.”

Rroshaal flicked an ear, bemused by the name.  The People, he said instead.

“I know, but most species call themselves something like that.  I’m a human.”

Rroshaal raised his head and snuffled thoughtfully at Caleb’s knees for a moment before saying doubtfully, You’re People.  You feel like People, even if you don’t smell like People.

Caleb put his hands out for Rroshaal to sniff, then lick clean of lingering crumbs.  “I’m a Force-user – a Jedi.  Maybe that’s it.”

Rroshaal whuffed again, dubious.

“You’re supposed to be extinct,” Caleb said, then hesitated, unsure if he had hurt Rroshaal’s feelings. Instead he just felt the Loth-wolf’s resigned weariness.

Not enough pups, he said again.  It took Caleb a few moments to sort through the flurry of information that accompanied the words; Rroshaal had been the only pup in his pack to live more than a year in the last decade.  Pups had been born dead or had gotten sick and died soon afterwards.  He had heard that other packs were just as badly off.

Caleb said shyly, “We – the Jedi – are having problems too.  I heard the crèche masters talking about it with Master Windu and Master Yoda once.  There used to be thousands more Jedi than there are now – there are whole sections of the Temple that are shut up – and the cohorts keep getting smaller and smaller. Even two hundred years ago you’d have cohorts of dozens, but mine is only three people, and the ones after me are the same.  About twenty or thirty years ago all of a sudden the Temple started getting large cohorts again – large by current standards – and that lasted for about twenty years before they suddenly started dropping off in size.  The senior padawans now are from the last few large cohorts.  The masters don’t know if not as many Force-sensitive younglings are being born or if they’re just not being found.”

Rroshaal made an inquisitive noise.

“I don’t know all of it,” Caleb admitted. “When babies are born in Republic medcenters, they’re required to have a lot of tests run, and one of those is for midichlorian count. That gets passed onto the Order if the parents consent, and if it’s high enough then someone – usually the Sector Watchman – will check on them regularly.  Just because you have a high midichlorian count doesn’t mean you can be a Jedi, though, so the Watchmen have to keep checking, and of course if the families refuse then they won’t.  Outside the medcenters it’s mostly just the will of the Force.”  He stared longingly at Rroshaal’s soft-looking ears, wondering how rude it would be to ask Rroshaal if he could pet them.  “I was born in the Temple.”

Rroshaal’s ears flicked forward, interested.

“It’s not usual,” Caleb admitted. “It happens once or twice a generation, but usually even if one or both parents is a Jedi then the baby won’t be strong enough to be one too.  I was.  That’s not rare, but it’s not common, either.”  He shrugged in response to Rroshaal’s question.  “I don’t know.  It doesn’t really matter who they are.  If I hadn’t been strong enough in the Force to be a Jedi I would have gone to one of their birth-families if they wanted.”  He hesitated, then admitted, “I heard once that one of them is an old military family on Coruscant, but I don’t know if that’s true or not.  And it doesn’t matter anyway since I’m a Jedi.”

People, Rroshaal insisted.

Caleb spread his hands for Rroshaal to see. “Not People, not like yours,” he said.  Then he got the cake out of his bag and offered one piece to Rroshaal, who sniffed it with interest, then sneezed.  “It’s spice cake,” he explained. “It’s my favorite.”

Rroshaal ate it out of his palm in several delicate bites, then lay licking his teeth thoughtfully as Caleb ate his own piece of spice cake.  Good, he decided finally, then gave Caleb a grin, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Different.

He licked Caleb’s hands clean when Caleb held them out again, then flicked one ear back as if he had heard someone calling him.  I have to go, he said regretfully.  My mother wants me.

Caleb had the brief impression of a bigger version of Rroshaal, brown and with a scarred ear, whom Rroshaal regarded with occasionally frustrated adoration.  He said wistfully, “Can I see you tomorrow?”

We’ll be away, Rroshaal said, and Caleb could tell that he genuinely regretted it.  Embassy to another pack.  He thought, then said, Nine days?

“How long are your days?” Caleb asked, then realized that Rroshaal probably didn’t count time in hours. “I’ll look it up.”  He hesitated, then added, “Can I hug you?”

At the affirmative response, they both stood up, and Caleb carefully put his arms around as much of Rroshaal’s furry front as he could manage.  He was just as soft as Caleb remembered from the previous day and smelled of clean fur and unknown winds, a little musky.  Rroshaal tucked his muzzle down against Caleb’s back, then licked his face after Caleb released him.  Caleb curved the backs of his knuckles against Rroshaal’s cheek, carefully stroking the short fur there, then giggled as Rroshaal rubbed his cheek against Caleb’s smooth one.

Soon, he promised, then, Bring more of the cake-thing.

“I will,” Caleb said.

Rroshaal licked his nose, then backed away.  Caleb must have blinked, because one moment Rroshaal was there, then the next he had vanished into the shadows of the underlevels.

Caleb sighed regretfully and rubbed the back of his hand over his nose, the scooped up the discarded cloths and stuffed them into his bag.  He had a lot of reading he wanted to do before he saw Rroshaal again.

[barkkletshunt]

Those Worth Fighting For Part four

Have you ever seen a fic update so fast? Four updates in two days?

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part five 

Part six

Part seven

Part eight 

“While I like the idea of them having a red, green, and gold colour scheme going on, don’t you think it would have too much of a christmas theme and take away from the magic of their wedding?” Marinette sat on the same couch as Felix did, across from Kagami and Adrien who, despite their careful appearances, looked frazzled. 

“But those are our favourite colours,” Adrien tried, but Felix held his hand up to stop his cousin.

“Your wedding is in late spring, if you think for a moment that christmas colours are appropriate for that time of year then you need to hand over your fathers fashion industry to me right now.” Felix sipped at his now cold cup of coffee. “If anything, we could do red and gold and have green accents if we used things like leaves and give it a more rustic feel.”

“But that wouldn’t go well with their general aesthetic. They need to look like a king and queen, not a cottagecore couple.” Marinette countered. “I think we could go with a green, gold, and cream theme. That way they both get one of their favourites while keeping with the posh style. Either way, no matter what gold has to be a part of it. That I will not budge on.”

“If we made Adrien’s tie green it would bring out his eyes more.” Felix hummed, looking over at his co-planner. “You have good tastes, Marinette.”

“Why thank you, Felix, your tastes aren’t so bad yourself.” She said back. 

The two planners had successfully gotten their way with the wedding with everything they had put forth. Marinette’s ideas were either on point with Felix’s or close to it so the planning was going a lot easier than either of them had expected. Both had spent enough time with the bride and groom to know their likes and dislikes and due to their fashion background they knew what they were doing. 

They were unstoppable, not that Kagami and Adrien even tried. They saw the fire that was lit behind their companions' eyes and knew better, and it wasn’t like they didn’t like anything their friends had said. In fact, the more the two spoke the more excited Kagami and Adrien felt about the upcoming event. 

“Why don’t we make the groomsmen wear gold ties, just so that Adriens tie doesn’t fade in with the rest of them.” Marinette rambled, showing Felix the designs she had tucked away in her portfolio that she refused to show Kagami. “If you wear green too your eyes will stand out and Adrien is supposed to be the one people are paying attention to.”

“Should the bridesmaids wear green then? If that dress design is anything to go by we don’t want Kagami to blend in with the other girls.” Felix hummed, sliding closer to Marinette without thinking about it. “Can’t have you stealing the show from the bride, you know.”

Marinette’s face grew warm at the compliment, even if it did match her unintentional flirting moments earlier. The added proximity didn’t help, but she could pull herself together. This was Felix, after all, and despite how nice he had been that evening she still needed to see more of him before passing a proper judgement on him. 

The two planners missed the looks between the future Mr. and Mrs Agreste. 

“Well, after the akuma attack today I feel exhausted. I think I shall turn in tonight, since the two of you have it covered.” Kagami said as she stood from her seat. 

“Did you want me to make you a coffee?” Adrien asked innocently enough, but was immediately shut down.

“No, if I have a coffee now I won’t sleep.” Kagami raised her brow at her fiance, wondering if he had caught her drift yet. “And you have business to take care of in the morning. Let’s leave the planning to these two, shall we?”

The blonde man abruptly stood up, realizing what she was getting at. “Oh, oh! Yeah! Of course! They don’t really need our input for any of this stuff anyways, and I’m definitely beat after that sentimonster. We should go to bed.”

The owners of the house bid their goodnights and quickly escaped from the room, leaving Marinette and Felix sitting there dumbfounded. 

“Have, have they always been that obvious in their plans?” Felix finally asked, breaking the silence that had stretched on after their friend's departure. 

Marinette shook her head, “I have only seen them like that once when they were trying to plan a surprise birthday party for me.”

“And how well did that go for them?”

“Adrien ordered the cake from my parents bakery over the phone, but didn’t realize that I was the one taking his order.” Marinette recalled the look of horror on Adrien’s face when he had come to pick the cake up the day prior, and had begged Marinette not to tell Kagami he blew it. “For someone so smart he can be really oblivious, you know.”

“I did live with him for two years, I am well aware of how he can be.” Felix snorted. He shifted positions so he was facing towards Marinette. “I think it actually turned me into a better person, to be honest.”

“What do you mean?” Marinette mirrored his position on the couch. Adrien was an open book to her, she could ask him anything about himself and he’d answer her, and when she asked about his time in England he never said much about it. She couldn’t miss hearing about it from a second party, though. Especially when her friend was the cause of someone becoming a better person.

“Well, as I’m sure you are aware I was a terrible teenager.” Felix started.

“What? You? The man who deleted my love confession and mocked our friends?” Marinette jokingly pushed his shoulder. “I don’t believe it.”

Felix grinned, “I know, I know. I’m such a saint now. I wasn’t sure if you had even recognized me at first.”

“It was a bit difficult without those devil horns you used to wear.”

“Oh those? Those were natural. Grew them myself. Kind of miss them, actually.” 

The two laughed for a moment, enjoying their friendly banter that seemed to come so easily to them. 

“Okay,” Marinette giggled, “tell me how our sweet sunshine child managed to change the demon known as Felix.”

“Well, when he first moved in I was sent into a whirlwind of emotion.” Felix started, “I was still angry that Adrien had abandoned me when my father had died because his father wouldn’t let him call or text us, but I also knew how terrible it was to lose a father even if it was only to a lifetime imprisonment. I had so much baggage that I took it out on him. I think I made the first few weeks of his stay with us hell.”

The blonde man shifted, no longer wanting to look her in the eye as he confessed to his crimes. It didn’t take a trained psychoanalyst to see the regret he felt coming out and causing him to fidget. 

“It was when he transferred into my school and started to get bullied that I changed my tune.” Marinette was shocked. Adrien was so loveable and kind, how could anyone have bullied him? Then it donned on her. He was a terrorist's son. “People would shove notes in his locker with butterflies on it, or draw on his desk, and he’d just smile and say that they must have been doing it because of his fathers fashion symbol being a butterfly. Perhaps he wasn’t oblivious to it, but purposefully ignorant. No one would want to believe their father was the supervillian of Paris after all.”

“It was then that I decided to switch my targets from my cousin to those bullying him, and oh was I ever brutal. I had a few of them expelled for harassment, some I actually got physical with since they assumed I was Adrien. Either way, it was my school and I wasn’t going to let anyone insult my cousin. That was my job.” Felix’s brows pulled together. “It was the fights that got Adrien to step in. He reminded me that the emotions of people were complicated things, and that they were acting out more out of fear than actual hatred towards him. He told me what he actually needed wasn’t another bodyguard, but someone to lead his PR campaign.” 

Marinette remembered when Adrien’s image in the media had changed the first time, when he went from brilliant model to the heir to Hawkmoth's legacy. It had taken almost another full year of Adrien working harder than he ever had before to show the world that he wasn’t a monster, and it still took a live interview from Ladybug herself to convince the rest of the public that there was no way Adrien was involved in any of his fathers crimes nor was he a holder of a miraculous. It had been a wild ride from start to finish, but all considering it only took two whole years to get Adrien back in the world's good graces when the sunshine boy didn’t think he’d ever be able to live it down. 

“I spearheaded Adrien’s redemption. We donated to so many relief funds, I used our similar appearances to go onto talk shows to give a more calculated interviews. I did everything in my power to make people realize how inherently good Adrien is, and it worked.” Felix let out a long breath before turning a kind smile towards her. “But by the time all of that was done I had changed. I had become a person Adrien was proud of, and now I am here planning his wedding with his best friend. Whom, might I add, he talked about almost as much as he did his own girlfriend.”

“Now if you could have told me that, say, five years ago I would have been ecstatic.” Marinette set her portfolio down on the coffee table as she remembered how intense her crush for Adrien used to be. “But I am long over my crush on Adrien.”

“I am sorry about that, by the way.”

“Hm?” Marinette tilted her head to the side, not sure what he was talking about.

“Deleting your confession.” He explained. “It was wrong of me. I was jealous and petty and I’m sorry.”

Marinette wasn’t angry anymore, even if she wanted to be. Felix wasn’t the same as he was all those years ago and neither was she. It was silly for her to hold onto all that anger when he had changed himself so completely. 

“I am, however, not sorry you didn’t end up with my cousin.” He grinned. “Now I might have a chance.”

Maybe not so completely.

“In your dreams, devil boy!”

[kindiekritz]

Get Some Rest, Samurai...

Via Anon Ask; “because im also a sap for Johnny and V- How do you think Johnny would help V cope with a panic attack? Especially when its likely something he's feeling laggy echoes of himself if he's in her head during it? (hurt/comfort is a FAVE of mine and i have anxiety, can ya' tell?)”

B ro,, don’t worry anon bc same here, we are anxiety homies together 👏😔 - This is my first time writing for Johnny Silverhand! Trying to get back on the writing boat, (haven't forgotten my previous fic!) and there's nothing like simping for video game characters to get that inspiration flowing. Do let me know what you think! Johnny may be a bit too OOC in this, I may have gone a little bit overboard with the soft? Ah well, I hope someone will enjoy it regardless :P

Here is the Ao3 Link! :D

V’s time was running out. 

Every time the relic in their head would malfunction, every time they went into a coughing fit and the disgusting taste of metallic blood would fill their mouth, every time he would manifest himself in her head and V would catch a glimpse of his stupid fucking face…

V was reminded of the fact that their time was running out, and fast.

And despite the fact that they were doing everything in their power to stop the construct in her mind from completely destroying her from the inside out, that didn’t stop the fact that she still had to pay the rent. 

In fact, it wasn’t cheap coughing up the eddies to pay Rouge for her services, or having to pay for bigger and better gear that would keep her alive when dealing with Arasaka guards, hell, it wasn’t cheap to keep purchasing more and more bottles of Omega Blockers, the pills were the only thing that kept him from completely taking control. 

She found herself taking more and more gigs, trying to simply keep up with the extra costs of having a completely second personality living rent-free in her mind. But even then… she couldn’t find it in herself to reject or turn away people who needed her help, even if they had little to nothing to offer in return. 

It seemed as if her phone was constantly buzzing with calls and texts of people who wanted and needed her help. No matter where she went or what she did, people needed her services, people needed her time.

And yet, time was something that she had very little left of.

V was exhausted. The bags under her eyes revealed that she hadn’t slept in days, and she couldn’t remember when she last had a proper meal.

She was always on the go, she didn’t have time to take care of herself.

But as she groggily opened the door to her apartment, she thought to herself that… maybe, just maybe… she would finally let herself take a nice, long warm shower.

V was too exhausted to care about the possibility of Johnny potentially staring at her nude form as she stood under the running water. Hell, let him stare for all she cared! The thought of warm water running over her exhausted muscles, washing away the dirt and grime of the city… it was too appealing at that moment. 

She removed her weapon slung across her back, letting her beloved leather Samurai jacket slip off her shoulders and onto the ground, too exhausted to care about putting it away properly. 

The weight of the gun in her hands was normally a welcome and grounding presence for V when she was on a mission, the weapon in her hands keeping her safe from those who wished to do her harm. But now? It felt too heavy, unbearably so, as if the weight would make her topple over onto the floor below. The muscles in her arms were exhausted and spent. As she rotated her shoulder she heard the joints audibly pop. The consequences of pushing her body too far.

She would do anything for the physical ache to go away. 

As she stepped through the door to her armory and switched on the fluorescent lights of the room, her gaze fell upon someone already there, casually lounging atop her workbench and raising a cigarette to his mouth, pausing to speak before inhaling a deep puff of smoke.

“Damn V. You look like shit.”

She rolled her eyes at his comment, and made her way to her weapon locker instead, trying to ignore the weight of his gaze on the nape of her neck.

V fiddled with the combination, her foggy mind struggling to remember the correct numbers and the correct order, her fingers felt clumsy and uncoordinated as she inputs each digit. V cursed herself for making it so damn difficult, but eventually, she finally managed to swing the metal door open, proceeding to put her gun away amongst her collection of stored weapons. 

Johnny hopped off of the workbench, stepping towards V as she organized her storage, resting his metal arm against the locker, using his height to his advantage as he towered over her and confronted her. “No, seriously V, you look like shit. When was the last time you slept?”

“Fuck— Johnny, I dunno… A few days I guess?” V slammed the door of the locker using more force than necessary, Johnny already starting to get on her nerves, the last thing she needed was Johnny Fucking Silverhand following her around like a worried mother hen. V pouted and huffed, blowing away a stubborn strand of hair that had fallen across her face, then turning to meet his gaze, hidden behind wine-colored lenses, and asked, “Why do you care anyway?”

“You’ve been on edge all day, I can feel it. You’re like a string that’s been strung too strongly. I feel like you’re ready to snap at any fuckn’ moment, V.” 

She could feel his stare on her body and the tension in the room was beginning to suffocate her. He was poking at a sensitive topic for her, and he knew it. 

V stuttered, trying to find the right words to say as she couldn't bring herself to look at him in the eye anymore, instead choosing to halfheartedly push him aside and walk away, “Johnny… I’m fine. Really. I just�� I just need a shower and a nap, that’s all.”

As V stepped out of the room, the weight on her chest seemed to grow heavier with each step. 

She wanted to crumble, she wanted to cry. 

She just wanted to wrap up herself in a bundle of blankets and cry into an order of takeout. One of those ugly cries that made snot dribble from your nose and your cheeks flushed and red.

She wanted— no, V needed to let everything out.

But… she couldn’t. She didn’t have the time for it, she needed to get back to work soon. Here were people that needed her help and there were eddies to be made. She would let herself rest when she’d gotten that damned biochip out of her head.

It was at that moment when V’s phone began to ring, the sound interrupting her thoughts and causing her to pause in her step.

Almost as if on reflex, she quickly reached into her pocket and withdrew the device, not even bothering to check the caller ID before answering, “V speaking, what do you want?”

“V, it’s Regina. I’ve got another report of a cyberpsycho attack…”

V stopped listening to the voice on her phone, too distracted by the crushing pressure on her chest and the fact that she had begun to tremble and shake like a leaf.

All she had wanted was a hot shower and a night in, was that too much to ask?

After weeks of dodging blades and bullets, running meaningless errands and tasks for just a few eddies in return, spending sleepless nights that left dark circles under her eyes, and going days on end without even seeing her fucking apartment, all she wanted was a night in.

Was that too much to fucking ask?

She could faintly register Johnny’s voice coming from behind her, an uncharacteristically concerned tone in his voice as he asked, “...V? What’s wrong?”

The pressure in her chest grew heavier by the second, her breaths becoming strained and labored as the increasing fear and dread overwhelmed her body. She gripped her phone tightly in her hand, glaring at the device with tears prickling the corners of her eyes.

“V? Are you listening? I said that there’s another report of a cyberpsycho near your current position, are you still—“

With a press of a button, she hung up the phone.

Johnny watched V, her form trembling and shoulders tensed.

In all of their weeks stuck together, he’d never seen his little merc look so small. A real juxtaposition when compared to her usual self; a real fucking hardass, she was the only other person Johnny had ever met that was just as bullheaded and stubborn as himself. 

As much as he teased her about it, Johnny knew one thing for certain. V was strong, V was determined. A damned force of nature and he pitied the bastards that stood in her way.

But despite the cybernetics in her body and the chip in her mind… V was human. V had her limits.

The facade she’d built up for herself couldn’t last forever, and Johnny knew it. He’d sensed the cracks in her resolve grow larger and larger with each sleepless night and after every exhausting gig.

But for a brief second, a thought crossed Johnny’s mind; 

V was fractured… V was broken… V was weak.

And with that thought, V finally snapped.

“I AM NOT FUCKING WEAK!”

V cried out, lobbing her phone at him. It phased right through him, instead hitting against the wall, shattering the screen, and sending the device flying into some unknown corner of the room. 

She froze, her eyes widening in shock, almost as if she couldn’t believe what she had done. The realization slowly setting in after the result of her outburst.

V’s vision blurred as tears welled in the corners of her eyes, she slowly fell to the cold floor, cradling her knees up to her chest and muffling her sobs in her arms.

Johnny watched as she sat in the middle of the room and sobbed. 

She didn’t let herself cry when Jackie had died, she didn’t let herself cry when Vic told her that she was practically dying. V didn’t cry as she carried Evalyn’s bloodied body, and V didn’t cry late at night when she was alone, and her chest felt tight and her throat choked up.

He knew it was coming, he could feel V’s emotions as they bubbled up and reached their boiling point. 

But what truly surprised him, was just how much it hurt him to see his little merc cry.

“Shit— V…” he nervously swallowed his throat, but try as he might, for once in his goddamn existence, he couldn’t find the right words to say.

Johnny didn’t like the way he felt. 

Johnny didn’t like the way she made him feel at that moment.

He didn’t like the way his chest tightened at the sound of each of her sobs. The way he felt so restless as he could only watch her curl onto herself for comfort. He couldn’t stop himself from pacing back and forth across the room, unsure if it was her anxiety or his that was setting him off. 

Johnny could almost feel V’s heart racing in her chest, the adrenaline flooding her veins, adrenaline meant to stimulate a fight or flight reaction. But when the pain and panic swelled from within her own chest, there was nowhere V could run, nobody she could physically fight.

All she could do was sob into her knees, desperately trying to hide her sobs and cries from him, but her own cries easily overpowered her. 

And because of him, she didn’t even feel like she had the ability to freely have a goddamn mental breakdown in her own apartment, even as she choked and sobbed, she tried to grasp onto the shattered remains of her facade. Was it for her sake, or for his?

At that point… neither of them knew.

V couldn’t stop her body from trembling. She tightly gripped onto herself until her knuckles turned white. But V didn’t notice. It didn’t even register in her mind.

She didn’t register the hot tears as they streamed down her face, the shuddering cries that caused her lip to quiver with each breath. She couldn’t recognize that no matter how hard she tried, her frantic breaths caused her lungs to feel as if they were on fire, incapable of delivering oxygen to her body.

V’s mind didn’t even register the fact that Johnny had stopped pacing back and forth.

Her mind cursed at her to get her shit together. V needed to wipe away those tears and she needed to get back on the streets. A moment of weakness could’ve gotten her killed in her past, and now was no different. 

But… the thought of standing up and leaving her apartment caused another fresh wave of sobs to rattle her body.

She was tired… she was so goddamn exhausted… 

“V…”

All she wanted was a night in. Was that too much to ask? After all of her hard work and effort, hadn’t she earned it?

“V, listen to me.”

Clearly, she hadn’t done enough if people were still calling, still demanding her presence. Clearly she—

V felt something warm touch her cheek.

Someone was there. 

Although her mind had stopped temporarily spiraling, she felt the wet salty tears dripping down her face, her vision was still blurry, and her cheeks were incredibly flushed. She must’ve looked… pathetic she thought. But regardless, she allowed herself to look up at the person who had reached out to her.

The cold of his metal rings juxtaposed the warmth of his hand, and as her eyes trailed up towards his arms, she caught sight of his familiar tattoos, but also an unfamiliar detail as she reached his face.

Instead of seeing her reflection in the lenses of his glasses, she was surprised to see his eyes staring into hers. Gone was any trace of malice or cruelty, instead his brown eyes reflected nothing but concern… an emotion she’d never expected to see from him.

Johnny. 

As her tearful eyes met his, he could’ve almost sworn that he felt his engram heart stop beating for a second. The tears rolling down her cheeks, the way her lip trembled with each breath. He didn’t know why the sight of V feeling so upset affected him so, he blamed her emotions, her hormones, whatever came into his mind. He hated the way she made him feel, he hated that she had this much power over him. 

But most of all, he hated the fact that he felt so powerless to stop it.

He would’ve gladly taken V cussing him out, he would’ve taken V nagging at him and complaining about the smell as he smoked in her apartment. He would’ve even happily taken V as she sang along to the car radio, something she’d originally done to get onto his nerves, but now it has become a sound he’s grown… to tolerate. Even sometimes… appreciate it. 

He wasn’t the type to comfort people like this, he was the type to leave as soon as emotions came into play, the countless amount of hearts that he’d broken in the past were evidence enough. Fuck, he didn’t know how to deal with his own goddamn emotions, blowing up Arasaka tower as revenge to deal with his grief, that’s what got him into this mess.

But as he wiped away a tear from her soft cheek with his calloused thumb… he wasn’t going to just sit there and let his little merc cry.

“V. You’ve done more than enough for this city than it deserves. You’re always running back and forth, trying to make this shithole a better place… all while trying to keep yourself alive.” He wanted to tell her that this damned city didn’t deserve her generosity, it didn’t deserve her hard work, fuck, this city didn’t deserve her.  

He didn’t deserve her.

And she didn’t deserve what he was doing to her.

“You keep spreading yourself too thin, you keep wanting to do shit for others, you keep wanting to help. But then you add the cherry on top — the fact that there’s a chip in your head slowly killin’ ya… You’ve got enough on your plate. You’ve earned a few nights of rest.”

V sniffled and tried to wipe away tears, her voice wavering as she spoke, “I-If I don’t keep goin’ if I don’t keep looking for a solution— I’m gonna die. Johnny, I don’t want to die—“

“V, you’re gonna end up dead long before the chip has an opportunity to kill you if you keep pushing yourself like this… You need to get some rest.”

He was right. As much as she fucking hated it… he was right.

She felt his metal hand cup her other cheek, the cool metal refreshing against the flushed skin, wiping away tears as he continued to speak.

“You’ve proven yourself enough to this city. You’ve proven yourself enough to me. But running yourself to the bone is not worth it in order to prove it to yourself. And you’re not alone V… as much as they get on my fuckn’ nerves, you’ve got chooms lookin’ out for ya, even if one of them is a fuckn’ cop—“

Through tears, V chuckled and playfully chided him, “Johnny…”

There it was… that little chuckle of hers that he was looking for. He wouldn’t admit it to others, he wouldn’t even admit it to himself, but V’s laughter never failed to make him feel something funny in his chest… it wasn’t like the high of drugs or liquor, but it felt just as addictive. It wasn’t like the adrenaline rush of a firefight or the rush during a show, but it made him feel just as excited and lightheaded.

He cleared his throat, trying to get his mind off of that feeling, and spoke, “Listen… all I’m saying… is that you’re not alone V. And although I don’t have much of a choice, whenever you need me…” he playfully smiled as his eyes met hers, “I’m always here for ya V.”

And that’s all it took.

In one moment to another, V wrapped her arms around his waist, knocking him on his ass from his previous kneeling position, and burying her head against his chest.

Despite sharing a head and body, somehow, someway, V always found a way to surprise him.

He groaned, the deep rumbles from his chest as he spoke making V settle in closer, anchoring herself to his presence.

“Fuck, V, a little warning next time would be nice.”

But even as he whined… he wasn’t complaining. Not when her sobs were beginning to fade, and she was instead chuckling at his expense in his arms. 

He ignored that funny feeling in his chest as his organic arm wraps itself against her body, his calloused hand rubbing circles against the small of her back, feeling her trembling begin to slow under his soft touch. Over time, her breathing began to even, and soon enough she was taking deep breaths as she recovered. 

Without even consciously doing so, Johnny’s metal hand found itself entwined with the strands of her hair, softly caressing as V’s eyes began to droop, and exhaustion began to overtake her body.

“V… it’s time for you to go to bed.”

“I’m fine Johnny, I’m—“ a yawn interrupted her mid-sentence, “I’m not even tired.”

“And I’m not buying it.” He chuckled as his arm wrapped around her midsection.

“W-wait Johnny what are you— Johnny!” In an instant, V was thrown over his shoulder as he stood from the ground, and she gripped onto him in order to avoid falling to the floor.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking you to bed.” He chuckled as he felt her hand playfully slap against his shoulder.

“Fucking hell Johnny, a warning would be nice!” He could almost imagine her expression as he walked across the apartment, the way she would pout in exasperation.

“Just repaying the favor, that’s all.” He smirked as he reached her bed. Slowly setting her down from his shoulder onto the mattress below. 

“There. It’s time that you allowed yourself to get some rest, and not that weird shit you do where you sleep across the bed huddled in a little ball, but some actual sleep, under the covers and all.” 

“Fine, fine…” V slipped into a pair of nightclothes as Johnny had the decency to look away, and then slipped under the blankets, making herself comfortable. But before she drifted off to sleep, she called out, “Johnny?”

“... yeah?”

“I just— I just wanted to say thanks. Y’know, for tonight and all.”

“‘Course…” he stepped towards the bed once more as he spoke, “I mean, if I’m the one telling you that you need some rest, you probably fucked up somewhere along the way.”

“That’s true… judging from your memories, you’re terrible at following your own advice, Johnny.” She smiled at him, uncertain if the lack of sleep had made her delirious or if perhaps she was feeling particularly honest that night, but she spoke, “Y’know, if fucking up this badly was the catalyst for us to meet… I would do it all over again.”

He smiled sadly in return, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, his cold metal hand brushing her cheek as he did so. An action to acknowledge the words between them were best left unspoken and unsaid— at least, for now.

“...Goodnight V.” He tore his gaze from her as he turned to walk away.

“Wait— Johnny!”

She grasped his metallic hand before he had the opportunity to pull away.

“... stay with me? Just for tonight?”

With her eyes looking up at him, her smaller hand clinging onto his, causing his breath to hitch and his heart to race—

How could he say no?

“Fine, but just for tonight. I can’t have you thinkin’ I’m goin’ soft or something.”

Johnny slipped under the covers, and without even needing to be asked, he wrapped his arms around V, and she rested her head against his chest in return.

“Get some rest, samurai… the city will still be there waiting for us when you awake.”

-

Thank ya kindly for reading! I'm always down for some constructive criticism and I love to read any lovely comments about my fics. Do let me know if there are any mistakes, I don't have a beta reader for Cyberpunk just yet, so a few mistakes may have gotten away from me!

And feel free to send in asks/requests! I'm so in love with Johnny and V and I can spend hours thinking and talking about them aaaaa

[kittybellestark]

Hi ! I don't know if this is where you send requests, but maybe a fic where peter gets all jealous of Morgan and Harley, and its fathers day, but he feels like he shouldn't be there and stays in the room the Stark's have for him- (Tony lives) OH! and maybe Mays dead idk whatever ya want thank you ! <3 Oh! and can I be on the taglist?

hi milove sorry for taking literal months to do your request i recognize you requesting this on nov 18th and it is now February so i hope this is smth that was worth the wait !! 

So I played with the timelines a lil bit bc i suck and i also just kinda took this to a place i don’t think you were asking me to do whoops, it’s not just some cute sibling jealously

also not very irondad based, like sprinkle amounts. also no comfort. my bad 

Post-endgame, Tony lives, Harley & Peter are the same age, Peter got snapped Harley didn’t 

TW: Grief, implication of suicide(minor character), suicidal thoughts,  

-

There wasn’t many things Peter liked. He remembers liking a lot of things, life, school, home, himself. But that was years ago, and yet it was only a few months for Peter. The world was different now, older.

Those who survived held grief in their eyes, they moved slow and while they have grown since the loss of their world, they also had survived the return. They mourned and grew older, making new family and friends. But some who survived couldn’t hold the weight of their loss, and in the 5 years their family was gone, they went to be with them.

The returned came back, and lived in denial. Their eyes were empty, and every movement was carefully thought through. They were left behind, monuments in their place. Those who returned saw how the survived struggled to cope, and in turn they struggled as well. There was no place for them anymore. Especially when they didn’t have a family to go to.

Like Peter.

Peter returned to the world five years later to find May was gone. She was one of those who survived the initial snap, only to not be able to carry the grief. He hated that he came back to life and had no home, no family. Peter was alone.

Tony was nice enough to offer Peter a place to live with his own family. But they couldn’t relate to him, they didn’t know what it felt like to be left behind like this, to be dropped in the future and expected to be okay. Tony had a family now. A child born in an empty world, and another kid, Harley. He was barely a teenager before the snap and now he was 17, just as old as Peter.

He couldn’t help but hate living with them. Harley’s family had returned, but he wasn’t going home. Morgan was a child who was scared by Peter. Tony and Pepper sometimes forgot Peter was there, after spending so long without him they would act as if they’ve seen a ghost when Peter rounds the corner and into whatever room they’re occupying.

Peter missed May. He wished that he could still be in Queens, living in their apartment. Peter missed Ben and he missed the idea of his parents. He should have never returned. There’s no room for him in this world.

He hated how Harley took advantage of their situation. He hated that Harley had a family, a mother and a sister who returned and are alone and he didn’t go back to them. His family returned to him and yet he’s here with Tony. And he hated how Morgan took her family- her full, completed family for granted.

If Peter’s family came back to life there wouldn’t be anything stopping him from being with them. He would cherish every single nano-second if they were alive again.

And yet they all expected Peter to be okay. Adapted. Used to the future like he didn’t just blink and find himself lost and alone. He brings up that he misses May and someone frowns and tells him how long ago she died. How was that supposed to help him? No one even brought him to the cemetery. How is Peter meant to move on from a life that was stolen from him?

It’s not like any of them were okay. Tony and Pepper and Harley all crumbled as whenever there was a reminder of everything that they lost. Peter, unfortunately happened to be one of those reminders.

Tony and Pepper tried their best. They involved Peter in family bonding time and they tried their best not to flinch when Peter is unexpectedly there. Because they survived, they didn’t understand and talking to them led to dead ends.

He tried communicating with them. Cried over May’s death, had been confused about these new things that are actually years old. For them it was so long ago, a literal lifetime ago, so they never really saw the point in talking about these things. It wasn’t that they thought Peter would figure this out, they just assumed he already knew.

Talking to Harley didn’t really work that well either. He didn’t want to talk about the things Peter missed out on and when asked about his family he would shrug and say that he’s moved on.

And, well, Morgan was a kid. She was born in an empty world, told stories of people that she never should have met and now faced with the world doubling and not understanding any of it. Peter Parker was just a character is bedtime stories and now he’s a ghost who wants her home. She used to cry whenever Peter is around and still tries to hide behind people’s legs. 

God, he hated being this kid. Never wanted to be the one who envied others. Before- when it was still just May and Peter, he didn’t feel this gnawing inside him, while they didn’t have much Peter still had someone who fit all the rolls he needed. He hated being jealous, he didn’t feel this when he used to look at anyone who had two living parents.

He shouldn’t be here. Not in this room, which came decorated with everything Peter had loved before he died- and not alive. He didn’t fit. Not into this family who struggles with the idea he’s alive and not on this planet where the world is still mourning the people who came back. 

“Are you coming downstairs?” Harley asked.

Peter can’t be here. He had no right.

“I have a taxi coming to get me.” 

That wasn’t a lie. Something he scheduled last night at some point, between the tears and holding his breath. Peter didn’t think anyone would be awake at this time, Sunday’s were always the day that everyone slept in and Peter could just be alone outside of his room.  Sometimes he would just sit in the living room and other times he’d wander around the property, often ending up by the lake. By the time everyone would start waking up Peter would be back in his room with some breakfast and try not to bother anyone. 

“Okay, well it’s fathers day, so I think they might be expecting your presence in some form. We have plans and all that.” 

Of course they do. They always make plans where Peter only finds out the day before or day of. Maybe Peter has plans. They could consider that. Okay, maybe Peter never really has any plans, nothing more than trying to understand this new world. And maybe he didn’t make the active effort to find where he fit in this home, but he is the child and it shouldn’t really be up to him. Harley probably didn’t have to engage with the adults first. Tony and Pepper more than likely got input from Harley on their plans. 

With a sigh Peter nodded. “I’ll cancel the taxi.”

“Cool! I’ll tell everyone you’ll be down soon.”

Harley made sure to give a big smile, before heading downstairs, a bounce in each step he took. Peter really hated Harley for his happiness. 

Taking a moment after canceling the taxi, Peter tried to pull himself together. He forced a smile and pulled his shoulders back. All that needs to be done is sit and nod, occasionally laugh. Pay no mind to the way Morgan looks at him in fear, and don’t see the look of mourning on Tony and Pepper’s face. He needs to not remember Harley’s family alone in Tennessee. 

He went down the stairs and followed the noise to the kitchen. There was laughter and the sounds of dishes clinking against one another. It smelt of pancakes and cinnamon and hash browns and coffee. Standing here Peter could close his eyes and pretend this was seven years in the past, with him and May and Ben. He could imagine Ben making the food and singing along to the radio with May dancing along as she sets the table. But this wasn’t 2016, this was 2023. Instead it was a finished family forced to bring him in, a harsh reminder that he doesn’t belong.

Peter stepped into the kitchen, Pepper was just finishing up breakfast and Harley was setting the table. Morgan was sitting on Tony’s lap whispering into her fathers ear. Food was laid out ready to be served, with orange juice, iced tea and coffee all in their own pitchers waiting to be poured. He moved through the room, trying to not to intrude before sitting down at the table. It didn’t take much longer for Pepper and Harley to sit down as well, Tony moving Morgan into her proper chair. 

Everyone around Peter fell into easy conversation while he stayed silent, trying to focus on his food instead of the way Morgan was starring daggers at him. They talked about their favourite family vacations and laughed at their own jokes. Peter couldn’t help but feel like he was actually sitting out on the porch. This family had five years together, five years of memories and laughter, of love and pain, and Peter wasn’t apart of any of it. He wasn’t a part of any family, his own buried and far too dead.

“Peter, what about you? Did you have any Father’s Day traditions?” 

Hearing Harley address Peter pulled him back to this world, and welcomed in his deep rooted desire to have his family back. Harley had two families now and he left one completely. Abandoned them when they came back to life. And Morgan was sitting here glaring at Peter completely oblivious to the fact that she has her entire family and how privileged she was for it.

“Well I don’t have any memories of my parents, so I don’t think there were any traditions with them. The only people I could ask about that are now dead. Unless you consider going to the cemetery to go visit your dead father you can’t remember a father’s day tradition, then no.”

The entire table stopped eating, all sounds coming to a complete end. Everyone stayed still as if Peter was some volatile bomb that would explode if anyone nearby breathed too hard. He could feel his jaw clench, as he tried to breathe in and out. It wasn’t working.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I not bring up my very dead family? Was that inappropriate to say that my father is dead I have no memories? My absolute bad! Next time I’ll consider how uncomfortable it makes everyone here. I mean jeez, Harley has a whole family in Tennessee he hasn’t seen since they reappeared. You’ve got two whole families to choose from, Harls! What an accomplishment. And Morgan, well she’s older than I was when my parents died, so she’s definitely on the right track. And wow, I got a whole second set of parents out of May and Ben. Which was great until I watched Ben die. Until I die and find out while my death was temporary, May’s wasn’t. Whenever I want to be with my family I have to go all the way back to Queens and visit the cemetery. But you all just live in the same house. So genuinely, I’m sorry for not considering your emotions about my dead family.”

“Peter...” Tony whispered, reaching his one hand out to Peter.

Peter shook his head, pulling away, he didn’t want to see the empty eyes starring back at him. He didn’t want to acknowledge the way Tony looks at him with regret and how Pepper looks at him like he’s lost. He didn’t want to see how the three that lived through both snaps always held pain in their eyes. And Peter most certainly didn’t want to see Morgan, who had no idea how lucky she is, that she was born never knowing loss.

Peter didn’t want to see a family who was pulled together in a time of pain. He wanted to see his family. Peter wanted to look across the table and see Ben and May throwing little balls of napkins at each other. He wanted to be Harley and be able to go home and see his family whenever he wants. He wanted to be Morgan and do science experiments with his parents. Peter wanted the one thing he didn’t have, something that Harley and Morgan had an abundance of.

“I don’t have a family anymore. I never got to say goodbye to May. I would give up the rest of my life to see them again. And you guys just can’t understand that. You have you family. You get to see them whenever you want. I can’t ever see mine again. I can never go home. They’re gone.”

After all, Peter was just a ghost, another person who returned, who had been dead for too long. He didn’t belong in a world of survivors. Peter was just another person long gone who no longer fits into the world around him.

-

Taglist: Ask/DM to be added

@peter-is-a-bean @jean-and-diet-coke @dead-inside-pt2 @they-were-cloudsinmycoffee @parkersjiggle @7peternotparker7 @thatonecrackheadshipper @kevinthewoman @faline4you @lynxshinon @narutoyaoifan @pastelwheeler @thecrazymarvelfan @bonjour-gays @thebestqueenoftheworld

[burnedbyshoto]

Hi, can you write a headcanon or a scenario about Todoroki Shouto having a girlfriend and he introduced her to his parents. Like how would Endeavor react to know that his beloved son already has a girlfriend. Thank you so much 😊😘

todoroki shouto x fem!reader

warnings: endeavor LOL, fluff?, shouto and reader are like 25 btwwwww

word count: 1,882

a/n: so this is probably going to be my last fic for this week… i dont know, im moving back up to college and i was lazy and didnt get the number of requests needed done before hand… anyways anon, i really appreciated this ask it was super fun and interesting to write about because it really depended on my viewpoint of endeavor and shoutos future relationship. anyways so sorry this is late!!!! I had to go to the hospital because I had an allergic reaction to something LOL

“Are you sure this dress is appropriate? I don’t want to feel overdressed!” 

You were studying at yourself in the mirror with the tenth outfit you had tried on today. Shouto, who had approved of your summer floral dress, was taking you to introduce you to his family–well, his parents as you already met his siblings–after a bit over a year of dating. You sighed as Shouto called out his admiration of your outfit and carried that you had to be leaving soon if you didn’t want to be late.

You knew that Shouto was nervous to be on time because his mother was going to be there. Todoroki Rei had been released from the psychiatric hospital a few months ago and was settling back into the world. Had it been just Endeavor, well you weren’t sure if Shouto would have even agreed to go. Their relationship had definitely matured since Endeavor retired from being a Pro-Hero, but Shouto has still not forgiven him for anything.

Mumbling curses about your indecisiveness, you slipped on a pair of white wedges and stared at your reflection. Your makeup was done, minimalistic jewelry in place, hair was styled in your favorite semi-formal way, and your outfit was cute. Smiling to your reflection, you grabbed your purse and walked off to where Shouto was waiting for you. 

Shouto stood leaning on the hallway’s wall wearing black pants that accented his long legs, a coffee-colored blazer that made you want him to wear the color more often, and a plain copper-colored t-shirt under the blazer. “Mm,” Shouto approved happily as you gave a quick twirl, “You look stunning.”

“You don’t look too shabby either,” You respond as Shouto twirls you into his chest, his lips immediately connecting with yours and you smiled into the kiss. Feeling Shouto’s fingers tangling into your locks. 

“Don’t you dare.” You warn as Shouto’s mouth trails down your neck, you did not need any hickies appearing moments before meeting Rei and Endeavor.

“Fine,” Shouto relents as he pushes you away from his body, a smirk on his face as he stares at you. “You have got to wear this dress for a date next time.”

“I’ll think about it.” You reply as you clutch your boyfriend’s hand with yours leading him out of the apartment and to whatever restaurant everyone had agreed to meet up at.

⋆✭⋆✭⋆⋆✭⋆✭⋆

You were smiling way too much. 

Not in a good way either, but a bad way. This dinner outing was terribly awkward.

Endeavor–Todoroki-san–was sitting directly across from you at the end of the table, Fuyumi next to him with her girlfriend sitting next to her. Natsuo was the furthest away from Todoroki-san and had even placed his girlfriend directly across from him. You glanced over at Shouto who was talking with his mother, Rei, who sat next to him since you felt awkward taking the spot you knew Shouto wanted more.

So there you sat in a cute floral summer dress in shocking juxtaposition to the very formal looking Todoroki family, hell even Natsuo’s girlfriend was more formal appearing and she was wearing a club outfit. But there you sat smiling away whenever Todoroki-san’s eyes met yours.

God was he intimidating even without the flames coming out of his hair and beard.

“So, y/l/n, Shouto tells me that you’re not a Pro-Hero.” Todoroki-san finally states after the Todoroki siblings momentarily paused in their feuding over what was the worst way anyone of them was teased for their white hair.

Your head snapped over to Todoroki-san, your voice suddenly carrying no sound as you attempted to explain what it is that you did for a living. “I’m a, uh, I’m a–” You said attempting to find the words you were seeking, and you felt Shouto’s hand lay reassuringly onto your lap. “I’m a lawyer over at Deku’s Pro-Hero Agency.”

It was a job you were mighty damn proud of, your boss, being Midoriya Izuku was a total sweetheart and was an impressive client with cases that hardly needed you to have excruciating amounts of evidence for. 

“And what might your quirk be?”

“Endeavor–” Shouto snapped, absolutely not okay with this questionnaire, it was a family dinner, not an interrogation on you after all.

“Recall.” You answer back suddenly not nervous, easing yourself with your nerves of steel to take on your boyfriend’s unyielding father. “I can recall anything and everything I’ve experienced with 100-percent-perfection, and can, in fact, present them to other individuals. It makes me an amazing asset to have, because most Pro-Heroes, as you may recall, deal with cases caused by altered communication.” You paused grabbing Shouto’s hand from your lap and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Having me as the head lawyer makes people completely honest unless they are not aware of my quirk because as Deku-san’s lawyer they can not lie to us, as I can always bring up said events in court.”

Todoroki-san pulls away from his intense stare at you and does what you believe to see as a nod. But this small interaction caused Shouto to immediately switch seats with you, letting you sit next to Rei who gladly struck up a conversation with you that lasted through the entire night with dexterity.

At the end of the dinner, you actually were smiling out of joy. You really did enjoy Shouto’s sibling’s interactions, there hardly was a dull moment. Rei had been lovely to speak to, and being able to talk to the women Shouto loved more than anyone in the world was something that made you genuinely delighted. Things were going great.

The eight of you at the table eventually finished up dinner and were getting ready to retreat home, you went around and hugged everyone at the table, except Todoroki-san, and was delighted to have Rei hug you tightly.

“Take care of my baby boy, will you?” She whispered as she held you close, and you wordlessly nodded. “My biggest mistake in life was not being strong enough for him, but I think you are more than plenty strong.”

You felt your heart skip a painful beat as you pulled away, but there was still a joyful smile on Rei’s face as she went to hug Shouto. As Shouto placed a hand on your lower back ready to walk off with you into the night, someone called out for you.

“Y/l/n-san,” Todoroki-san spoke, and you turn your head to look at the head male of the family who seemed to be wearing a different expression then the cold look he seemed to adorn the entire evening. “Would you accompany me for a walk before you leave with my son.”

The entire group seems focused on your response, and you felt Shouto rearing to tell his father off and say you didn’t have to accompany you anywhere. Only you placed a hand on Shouto’s stomach and smiled up at your boyfriend who did not think well of his father’s invitation before he could react. “I would like that.”

You give a quick kiss to Shouto as you followed Todoroki-san out the door and into the night.

⋆✭⋆✭⋆⋆✭⋆✭⋆

The two of you walked in eery silence for a long time, your hands fastened in front of your body, ready for any question coming your way.

“If Shouto had introduced a girl like you to me years ago, I probably would have flipped,” Todoroki-san spoke finally, and you glanced up to see your boyfriend’s father staring up into the sky. “I’m well aware you know about what type of childhood Shouto lived, and your opinion on me as his father.”

“You don’t know my opinion.” You say in response, unsure of what he meant by that phrase, but it was something you did not wish to have put into your mouth.

“It’s the same as Midoriya-san’s, Yaoyorozu-san’s, Iida-san’s…” He paused probably only having remembered three of the influential friends that Shouto had, and you laughed softly knowing that you did, for the most part, agree with those three’s opinion on Todoroki Enji, but where they wanted Shouto to forgive and move on, you wanted Shouto to do what he felt was best. Sometimes those Pro-Heroes were a bit too selfless.

“I am a bit different from them,” You say honestly, meeting Todoroki-san’s gaze as you nod your head, “Whereas Shouto’s friends believe he should forgive you, I think that Shouto should choose whatever he feels like doing. Be it one day he hates you, or the next he doesn’t, I will support him regardless of my personal opinions towards you.”

He lets out a dry chuckle that held zero amusement to it.

“That is fair.” He agrees.

“I know it is.” You respond.

“I know you may not believe me, and I don’t blame you if you don’t, but I am trying hard to make things work.” He says gently, as if not to alarm you.

“By hosting dinner with your children’s significant others, and going as far as worrying the entire table when you asked questions that most people at the very least wait until after a proper conversation to have?” You inputted and Todoroki rolled his eyes, and you could not help but feel the same energy you got when Shouto got annoyed being replicated by his father.

“I’m sorry about that, it’s hard to turn the switch off sometimes.”

“And again, my opinion doesn’t matter,” You repeat, “I will abide by Shouto’s feelings and opinions, not my own when it comes to you.”

You can now see the Todoroki clan waiting for the two of you by the restaurant’s entrance as you have circled back.

The two of you walk in silence as you near closer and closer.

Moments before the two of you are in speaking distance to the group, Todoroki mutters something to you that you can’t help but take as a win.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad my son found someone like you,” Todoroki grumbles at you, “You make him happy, even I can tell that, even if your quirks are highly incompatible. Please keep him happy and love him, for both Rei and I.”

You stopped walking as Todoroki continued on, and you watched as Shouto walked over to you, his eyes darting back to his father’s retreating body as his sister, her girlfriend, and her mother. Natsuo and his girlfriend crossing the street and disappearing into the night.

You smiled warmly at Shouto who grabbed your arms, quickly studying your form as he checked for any and all signs of fighting or annoyance. “What did he say to you?”

You don’t respond as you go instead for a bold kiss, your arms snaking around his neck as he kisses you back. You sigh contently into Shouto’s mouth as he presses you softly onto his body. Your head tilts to the side as you deepen the kiss for mere moments before breaking apart with a rosy-cheeked grin.

Looking at him, you Recalled the memory, or at the very least the end part.

“Please keep him happy and love him, for both Rei and I.” Todoroki’s voice echoed in the memory you presented to Shouto and despite any harboring negative feelings Shouto may have had he smiles fondly.

“You do that perfectly already.”

i know i am typically really critical of endeavor because,,, yes, but i decided while i kept my criticalness of his character, I chose another route besides his typical: “fuck your girlfriend shouto! reproduce asexually please” because if shouto is introducing someone to his fam they are perfect, sorry but i dont make the rules

bonus!

“What would you have done in the worst case scenario of Endeavor not liking me?” You asked Shouto as the two of you were getting ready for bed.

“Probably would have told him off among other things.” Shouto admitted with a shrug as he wrapped his arms around your waist and placed his chin on your shoulder.

“Telling him off and other things?” You question not all that sure what exactly your boyfriend meant by other things.

Shouto nodded pulling you in closer to his body as he chuckled, “My father is traditional, what better way of showing him that no amount of disapproval towards you will ever make me want you any less.” His lips gently touched the side of your neck with every word causing you to laugh.

“You spicy little rebel you.” You tease as Shouto smirks.

“Would you let this spicy little rebel show you to bed?”

“I approve of said action.”

And with that, he whisked you away.

[avecorviidae]

Fic: nor any more youth or age than there is now

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Rating: T Relationship(s): Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims Word Count: 6512

Ao3 Link

The rumour started with Mary Fleming, who volunteered with her son’s Primary five class every Tuesday, and who had become close enough with most of the P5 teachers that she was considered a mostly reputable source, as far as these things were concerned. She had mentioned it to Katy Hooper over tea, who had texted it to her playdate group, who had repeated it in scandalized whispers and concerned murmurings and oh-have-you-heard phone calls until the news had thoroughly saturated the entire village:

Mrs. Cunningham, the stern older woman who had taught Primary two for as long as most people could remember, had quite suddenly and without warning or reason, retired and left town. Being the only Primary two teacher at the school, this was something of a concern.

For a few days, the Primary two class was shuffled awkwardly between other classrooms, taken largely by whoever had enough empty chairs or floorspace to accommodate them. On Wednesday, they sat cross-legged on the colourful carpet of the nursery room, the sudden shock of being absent a teacher and the abounding well-my-maw-said rumours being quite enough to keep them occupied and mostly out of trouble.  By Thursday, the children had realized that they were free of the bounds of formal education, and attempted to turn poor Mr. Bone’s Primary one classroom into a Lord of the Flies recreation, leading to a few pupils being sent home early with a stern warning. On Friday, they were firmly instructed to sit quietly with the Primary sevens, who were watching a documentary that day. During said documentary, a wolf killed and ate a deer, causing Molly Brown to become inconsolably upset.

The situation was clearly becoming desperate.

In this part of the country, formally trained teachers were in short supply, and for the most part, it was a life term. A post was vacated when the individual retired, or, well, retired.

On Monday morning, the parents of the Primary two class were invited with a strained enthusiasm to join their pupils in the classroom to meet Mr. Sims, who had apparently agreed to take the job on extremely short notice, and who would be teaching the P2s for the rest of the year, or until the school could track down a more suitable, more permanent replacement.

Mr. Sims, perched delicately on an office chair at the front of the classroom, put one to mind of a particularly bedraggled crow. Small frame, narrow face, narrow shoulders, scar-riddled skin, and he peered at the gaggle of children in front of him with flat black eyes, long fingers fretting at a crease in his trousers. His hair, dark as the rest of him, hung in a limp ponytail at his neck, and was streaked through with grey that didn’t quite match the cowed, nervous youth of his face. There was a trepidation to the way he was braced, to the way he glanced, quick and furtive around the room, and it was reflected back in the way the parents watched him carefully, fingers twitching, ready to snatch away their offspring at the first sign of trouble from the odd, scarred little man. The children were immediately fascinated, to the point of being entirely enamoured, having never seen a grown-up quite so openly strange.

The head mistress was stood at his side, waiting with a mild impatience for the chatter to settle. The crease of concern on her forehead had, sometime over the weekend, started to become a permanent wrinkle.

She made brusque introductions, stiffly thanked Mr. Sims for stepping into the role, made some half-hearted assurances to the parents about an environment of stability, an attempt to smooth over the frazzled discontent that hummed through the room.

Mr. Sims coughed, blinked in surprise when he seemed to realise that the head mistress was done with platitudes, that he was, presumably, expected to speak for himself.

“Ah, right,” he mumbled, and pushed his glasses up his nose with two fingers. He cleared his throat, addressed the room at large, though his eyes were skittish, seemed to avoid lingering in one place for long. “As Mrs. McMillan said, my name is Jonathan Sims – though, I suppose Mr. Sims will do, for the classroom. My training is primarily based in academic research, not, ah, education, and while I will be unable to provide the proper curriculum and teaching that experience and time would have afforded my predecessor, I can assure you that I will attempt to fill this role to the best of my ability, and would welcome any input you may have over the rest of the year.”

Mr. Sims turned his attention to the circle of cross-legged little gawkers at his feet, then, and his voice gentled a touch when he addressed them, a rueful smile on his face.

“I know it must be strange to have a new teacher so suddenly, in the middle of the year. And I may not be very good at this. So I do hope you’ll all tell me if I do anything wrong.”

Directly under his nose, Finlay Robinson’s hand shot up into the air.

Mr. Sims blinked. “Yes?”

“Do you know the Queen?”

Another blink. “I- No?”

Finlay’s hand remained up. Mr. Sims nodded for him to continue. “Then why do you sound so posh?”

In one of the chairs at the back of the room, Mrs. Robinson went rather red. Mr. Sims just laughed quietly to himself, however, and replied, “Ah, I suppose that would be because of my grandmother.”

Molly Brown’s hand went tentatively upwards.

Mr. Sims looked at her with a slight apprehension. “Yes?”

“Is your Gran the Queen?”

<0>

Heather tended to get nervous, at the end of the day.

The playground was just – big. Not big the way it was during break, when her and Molly would chase each other laughing and squealing across the pavement like little wild things, but big in a way where the iron bars of the fence around the school loomed horribly, and as her class was slowly picked up by their mums and dads and teachers stalked around like wolves looking for straying soft things to hunt, Heather always became certain that she had to stand very—

very—

still.

Or else it would see her. And if it saw her, it would get her.

Last year, Mr. Bone had held her hand, at the end of every day, had let her stand close to his comforting largeness until Dad waved at her from the gates, and she could run the short and awful distance to his arms. Mr. Bone was bald, and very tall, and outdoors his head always looked very shiny, and she had been sure that as long as she was stood beside him, his big fingers tight around hers, it wouldn’t be able to see her.

Mrs. Cunningham had been smaller, hunched and unassuming, but Heather had thought that it might not be able to see through the drab brown folds of her skirts. But Mrs. Cunningham had told her not to be silly, to go and play with the rest of the class until she was picked up, to grow up and behave like a big girl. And the Primary ones got out an hour before the Primary twos, so she couldn’t hide at the side of Mr. Bone anymore, so it was going to see her. So she had gotten very good at walking to a spot beside the bins, trying to keep her footsteps soft, quiet, and holding herself in their shallow shadows, and keeping very, very still.

Mr. Sims was not too much like Mrs. Cunningham. He did not snap at them for talking a little during individual work time, and hadn’t even told off Logan for getting up to sharpen his pencil, even though he hadn’t raised his hand to ask, and didn’t hold a ruler to his open palm like a threat, like he was looking for any excuse to use it. But when he’d read them a story, Heather had watched him frown, mutter to himself that Bea and Arthur were silly for going exploring without telling their parents, and by the time the last bell rang, Heather was quite sure that if she asked to hold Mr. Sims’ hand, he would frown at her, and think she was being silly, and tell her that she was too big to need to hold hands in the playground.

The class lined up at the big front doors to go outside, and Heather stood at the very back. If everyone else went outside first, it would watch them, and might not notice her as she went to her spot by the bins.

Mr. Sims was waiting for her when she finally reached the doorway. She had been thinking about how she was going to walk, looking at her feet and practicing making them be quiet, so she almost bumped right into his legs. He was frowning, and she felt her lip wobble, a little. She didn’t want to cry, even if he called her silly. She was too grown-up for that.

“Miss Lewis?” he said. It was odd, to be called that. Last year, there had been another Heather in her P1 class, so she had been Heather L, and the other one had been Heather M, but Miss Lewis made her feel grown up, and she smoothed her palms down the front of her pinafore, suddenly embarrassed of the holes in the knees of her tights and the scuffs on the toes of her shoes.

She looked up at him. He wasn’t as tall as Mr. Bone, and he was leaning down towards her, peering at her over his thin glasses. She didn’t want to start crying. She didn’t want him to think she was silly.

“May I ask who’s coming to pick you up?” Mr. Sims asked softly, just like how the pupils were supposed to ask, like Miss may I go to the bathroom—

“My dad,” she said, softly, back. Out in the playground, she heard someone squeal. She didn’t look over Mr. Sims’ shoulder, sure she’d see it looking for her, even though she’d never seen it before. Mr. Sims wasn’t as big as Mr. Bone, no, but his jacket was big and thick and rough, with soft leather patches at the elbows, and all of him looked there enough that she thought it might not be able to see her hiding behind him.

“Your dad,” he said, and it sounded different the way he said it, fancy. Like the Queen. “Well, Miss Lewis. Would you—do you need to—Damn, how to… Would you prefer to wait with me outside, until your dad gets here?”

Heather realised quite suddenly that Mr. Sims knew about it too. Knew that it was going to get her, that it couldn’t see her when he was there. She nodded, and gripped the leg of his trousers as tight as she could, and felt all shaky in the knees with fear and relief as she walked outside with Mr. Sims, his hand near her shoulder, not quite brushing her jumper.

She looked up at him, and he was watching the playground, frowning, but not angry. Not afraid, either. So she copied him a little, since it couldn’t see her if she looked for it now, and looked around at the big game of tig that always went running around at the end of the day, and at Stuart and Duncan wrestling by the big wall, even though Mrs. Cunningham used to shout at them for getting their uniforms dirty, and at Molly, who was skipping at her mum’s side, skirt and pigtails bouncing, and at Tom Mackenzie, who was picking grass out of where it sometimes grew up from between cracks in the pavement, looking up now and again at the big front doors, waiting for the S3 class to be let out so his older sister could walk him home. And it—

wasn’t—

there?

She looked up at Mr. Sims, suddenly, not sure why. He looked back down at her, and smiled, then. “Better to be a watcher, than the watched, I suppose,” he said, very quietly, and she wasn’t sure he was speaking to her, not like he was when he then told her, very firmly—

“It doesn’t like to be seen. And I can see it. You’re safe, while I’m here, Miss Lewis.”

And she had the funniest feeling that she’d known that was true, even before he said it.

She felt his hand nudge her shoulder lightly, and he nodded towards the gate. “I believe that’s your father, now.”

Dad was there, smiling broadly and waving like he did every day, and she smiled back at him, even though she was still feeling a little wobbly, because otherwise he’d worry, and think she’d had a bad day, and try to take her for ice cream, and she would feel bad, because she’d had a good day, she was just scared. He held out his arms, open and waiting for her, because she always ran right into him, running quick enough until she was safe with him, until it couldn’t get her anymore. But if Mr. Sims was watching—

She let go of Mr. Sims’ trousers, and took two careful, tentative steps forward. Still, it wasn’t there. She looked back over her shoulder at Mr. Sims’, and he was still watching her, still there. “Have a good afternoon, Miss Lewis,” he said, mildly, but he was smiling a little, still, and she smiled back, and turned around and skipped into Dad’s arms.

<0>

Underneath the desk, Robbie pressed his knee to Emma’s. He felt her press back, and she smiled at him, but it was strained, nervous.

“It’ll be fine,” he told her, with a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt. “Your wee brother has Sims, right?”

Emma shrugged, nodded. “Yeah, likes him well enough. Better than that hag Cunningham, anyways. But that doesn’t mean he’s—”

Sims shouldered into the room just then, arms full, and Emma’s mouth snapped shut. He was smaller than Robbie expected, honestly. Then again, he’d only really seen him in the hallways, trailed by twenty tiny wee five-year-olds, so he had probably looked tall just by comparison. Between the tweed and the glasses and the greyish hair, he had a bit of a librarian vibe, but up close, he could see all of the scars that Emma’s mum had been talking about, after all the P2 parents got to sit in and meet him. You could just about write off all the pockmarks on his face and arms as some properly rough acne, if you were ignoring how big they were, but one of his hands was a shiny pink mess of skin, like one big blister scar.

He was probably in a nasty accident a long time ago, Mrs. Mackenzie had said to Tom during tea, after the third or fourth question about his new teacher. It’s not polite to stare at that sort of thing. Just you act like he looks completely normal, alright?

Emma’s mum was a practical lady, and Robbie quite liked her. It was good advice, and he should probably take it to heart. Or at the very least, he wasn’t planning on being too obvious about trying to get a better look at Sims’ hand.

Sims tossed a glance at the room as he set his things down on the desk. “Sorry, everyone,” he said, with a tight smile. “Short notice, I know, but apparently Mrs. Sinclair has come down with something, and my class is on a field trip, so I was the only one available. I have some, er, notes for your class – apparently you’re working on a midterm project?”

The class made some unenthusiastic assenting sounds, which Sims took as confirmation. “Well, very good. I’ll just leave you to work on that, then, once I’ve taken attendance.”

Robbie felt Emma go stiff at his side. He hated this, properly hated this, the resigned dread on her face as she prepared herself to be embarrassed. He remembered how often she’d looked like that last year, when they were still sneaking around with it, him helping her change into a pinafore in the toilets in the mornings, trying to ignore it when her dad and Mrs. Sinclair and that fucking hag Cunningham had tried to suggest that she get a haircut, the way she winced every time someone called her the wrong name.

Sims went down the attendance sheet with clipped professionalism, quick and brusque, and Robbie was so nervous on Emma’s behalf that he almost forgot to say anything when his name was called. They got to the Ms, and Robbie found Emma’s hand under the desk. Her palm was a little sweaty, and so was his, but she grabbed on tight and squeezed, and Robbie wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to that, to her soft fingers between his.

It was Andrew Macintyre right before her on the sheet. Sims nodded at him when he called out a here, looked back down. “Ti—Hm.” Robbie watched Sims frown, cut himself off. Robbie wasn’t exactly sure what happened, what changed about Sims’ expression, except that his eyes seemed to go a little unfocused for a few seconds, before he blinked, in a properly weird way. “No, I don’t believe that’s correct.” He looked up and around the class. “Miss Mackenzie?”

Emma went a little pale, her fingers flexing in Robbie’s, but after a few seconds, she quietly said, “Here, Mr. Sims.”

Sims looked over at her, nodded, businesslike. “Right. And your name was…?”

“Emma,” she answered faintly. Sims just nodded again, checked her off on the sheet, moved on with the list, calling out for Toby MacLeod.

It felt like him and Emma must’ve let out a breath at the same time, slumping back into their chairs, her hand still in his. All that worry for a few seconds’ worth of talking. What a nightmare.

“Tom must’ve told him,” Robbie whispered to her. “Mentioned that he had a big sister, or something.”

“Don’t know why he would’ve,” Emma whispered back, but she was smiling, all faint giddy relief. “I don’t really care, yeah?”

Robbie smiled, squeezed her hand, smiled some more when she squeezed back. “Yeah. Miss Mackenzie.”

“Oh, shut up, Rob.”

<0>

Jen always went to the Co-op after Molly’s swimming lessons on Saturday, even though it was always pushing seven by the time they finally got home and started making tea. Easier to take care of the shopping while they were already out, rather than make another trip into town.

Molly had wandered off to pick her crisps for next week’s lunch, so Jen was alone when she saw the man by the dairy, squinting at a tub of butter, and it took her a moment to place him as Molly’s new teacher. She didn’t think she could be blamed for not recognising him at first; whenever she picked Molly up from school, he always looked much the same as he had during the parent meeting, put-together and buttoned up. He clearly hadn’t put quite as much effort into dressing to go to the shops, his hair pulled up in an untidy bun, neat jacket replaced with a faded sweatshirt that seemed to be about five sizes too big for him.

Ah, she thought, a moment later. Of course. The true owner of the sweatshirt seemed to have made an appearance in the form of a blond man, taller and more broadly built than Molly’s teacher, walking up behind him and pressing himself close against his side, poking at the butter in his hands. It looked rather a lot like a golden retriever bothering a magpie.

Jen had been ready to leave well enough alone, but that was the moment that Molly came skipping up behind her, already calling out. “Mr. Sims!”

Both men startled, but the teacher – Mr. Sims – seemed to recover quickly when he caught sight of Molly, bending down a little towards her. “Ah, hello Miss Brown. How are you?”

Molly beamed. “Good! We just went swimming at the baths. I’m doing back stroke now, and the teacher says I’m pretty fast.”

Mr. Sims nodded along well enough, seemed genuinely interested in Molly’s little story, but Jen noticed he was shooting quick, nervous looks between the three of them, seemed caught between stepping closer to the man standing beside him, or pulling away.

It was a fair enough worry, and maybe ten, even five years ago, he would have been right to have it. The village had been a different place, back then. But these days, just about everyone knew that Helen and Mary up the road had been waiting out their husbands so that they could spend their widowed years together, and Jen had her suspicions about Hugh from the corner store, and frankly after everything with the Mackenzies’ oldest, everyone had become a good deal more comfortable with quite a lot, lately.

So Jen put a hand on Molly’s shoulder, held the other one out to him, smiled warmly. “Mr. Sims, right? Jennifer Brown, I’m Molly’s mum.”

Sims took her hand firmly, handshake as brief and professional as his strained smile. The feeling of it lingered on Jen’s palm, though, the slick-smooth of scar tissue, and the distinct impression that her fingers had slid into the grooves of his marred hand perfectly, like a key slotting into a lock.

“Jon, please,” he said, “at least outside of the classroom. Good to properly meet you, Ms. Brown. We won’t keep the two of you, though. It is rather getting on.” It was a clear dismissal, as bluntly polite as the English ever managed to be, and Jen didn’t take particular offence to it. It was, after all, getting on, and chatting with her daughter’s primary teacher and his mystery man in a Co-op was not her idea of an ideal Saturday night.

“Of course. Goodnight, Jon,” she said, hand on Molly’s shoulder already gently nudging her towards the tills. “Come on, Molls.”

“Good evening, ladies,” Sims said, and nodded primly down at Molly. “See you on Monday, Miss Brown.”

Jen supposed she understood, now, why the class was so taken with the man. She had no fondness for poshness and stuffiness, but Sims wasn’t necessarily posh in that way that demanded poshness in return, and sniffed up its nose at you if you dared not to have an Oxbridge degree and speak in perfect RP. It was more a quiet, self-imposed dignity that reminded Jen of her own grandmother, like the way that he held himself, conducted himself, was important to him, and it made you think just a bit about how you were holding yourself, made you want to rise to meet it. Molly’s shoulders straightened a little under Mr. Sims’ attention, and she walked to the tills with a look on her face like she felt like a well-mannered wee lass, like a proper Miss Brown, and Jen snorted to herself quietly, glanced over her shoulder at the man himself.

His boy was saying something close to his ear, smiling, and he was softer-spoken than Jen might’ve expected for being the size he was, just the sound of his voice carrying a bit, a hint of a tease in his tone.

Sims’ laugh carried far more, deep and full, and he pushed the man’s shoulder gently, a gentleness that kept in his voice when he said, “Oh hush, Martin.”

“Mum,” Molly said, tugging at the trolley insistently. The limits of her put-upon properness had apparently been pushed by her appetite, and she kicked her heels and whinged. “Come on. What’s for dinner?”

<0>

Contrary to what some of his mates might have attested after seeing him a few pints in down at the local, Colin did, in fact, possess a sense of shame. So it was red-faced and sheepishly that he ducked back into the Primary two classroom after his fourth or fifth failed attempt at putting Ally down for a nap.

Maybe it had been overambitious of him and Vera, to assume they’d be able to both go to the kids’ sports day, hand off the babe and the nappy bag throughout the day depending on whether it was Cath with the P7s or Stuart with the P2s who had a race next, no need to pay one of the neighborhood girls to nanny, with the added bonus of getting wee Ally used to being around a lot of strange people. Not that Ally was a pet that needed to be socialized; Vera liked to tease him for that, the way he sometimes talked about her like she was a feral kitten that needed accustomed to handling. But the point still stood.

After Stuart’s class had finished with their last egg and spoon race, the teacher – Sims? – had herded them all, sweaty and exhausted, back into the classroom, and they were all sat around chattering and playing in informal groups, working their way through the impressive pile of snacks that the volunteer parents had brought in. He’d told them to do as they liked when one of them asked if they had to still sit in their usual seats, so a few of them were in wee clusters on the floor, half-watching the film that one of the other parents had managed to set up on the old projector. Colin appreciated Sims’ attitude, overall. Not that a good work ethic and a bit of discipline weren’t a good thing to have, but kids that age weren’t really made for sitting still and working quietly, he didn’t think, and the wee ones seemed quite happy amongst themselves. Unfortunately, it meant that they were making far too much noise for him to be able to get Ally to sleep.

Fool that he was, he’d sent Vera off to Cath’s relay race alone, having thought that when the afternoon rolled around and Ally started to yawn and scrub at her eyes with chubby wee fists, Colin would be able to give her a naptime bottle, bounce her on his shoulder for a bit, and she’d drop off straight away, just like at home. Instead, she had gurned and whined around her bottle, cried and wriggled when he tried to rock her down, and for the last hour, she’d quite solidly refused to close her eyes for longer than it took her to blink, and she seemed properly angry about needing to do even that much. It seemed like every time he got her to relax for a few minutes, someone in the class laughed a bit too loudly, made her startle and blink and try to wriggle out of his lap to go see what all the fuss was about. So he’d kept trying to bring her outside and walk her up and down the hallway where it was quieter, but it was chillier out there, and his footsteps echoed strangely, so she hadn’t much liked that either.

Sims glanced up at him as the door clicked shut behind him, and Colin gave him an apologetic grimace. Sims hadn’t complained or shot him any dirty looks yet, but Colin couldn’t imagine that anyone much enjoyed having a fussy baby in their room.

To his surprise, Sims stood from his desk, shooting him a sympathetic smile. “Want to hand her off for a bit?” he offered quietly, nodding to where Ally was still squirming, propped on his hip. “She might need a change of pace, to help settle her down.”

Colin wasn’t the sort to hand his baby off to just anyone, really, he wasn’t, but Ally was exhausted, and it was making him exhausted, which she was feeding off of, and all in all, he was desperate enough that he all but dumped her into Sims’ arms.

He took hold of her a little awkwardly, jostling and shifting her with the bewildered caution of a man clearly unfamiliar with the weight of a moving, heavy baby, and Colin hovered anxiously, waiting to catch her if Sims—dropped her? Turned her upside down? He wasn’t sure what his worry was, exactly, just that he was worried.

Sims got her settled eventually, though, one hand propped under her bum and the other resting on her back, and he murmured, “All right, hello, little one. Let’s see if we can’t give Dad a break, hm?”

Sims lowered himself carefully into his desk chair, shifting Ally on his lap, and she stared at him, momentarily distracted from her awful mood by the new man with the funny voice. Sims kept a steadying hand on her wee back as he leaned forward, fussing with some of the papers on his desk. Colin watched as he nudged aside a stack of worksheets covered in scrawling crayon, and plucked out a manila folder, stuffed with papers and pockmarked along the top with paperclips and binder clips. “I think this one is relatively tame,” he said, rather matter-of-factly, presumably to Ally. Ally, by all appearances, was listening to him very intently.

Ally only started to fuss a bit when Sims leaned back in his office chair, the open folder propped up on his knee in one hand, and Ally shifting to tuck close against his chest under the other. She made a small, angry noise as he tried to coax her to lie down, and he tutted, said with a stern, gentle firmness, “Yes, I’m aware I won’t be quite as comfortable as Mum, but do try to sit still. I prefer not to be interrupted, once I’ve got going, and it doesn’t take kindly to interference after the introduction.”

To Colin’s great and unending shock, Ally settled with a little huff, her cheek resting on Sims’ brown jumper, one little fist coming up to clutch at the collar of his shirt, poking out from the neck of it. Sims patted her back primly, said, “There we go, thank you.”

Colin was always one to admit when he was outclassed, and was quite willing to go find himself a seat and defer to Sims’ apparent magic touch with the wee ones, but then Sims cleared his throat, and began to speak.

“Statement of Callum Thompson, regarding an uninvited party guest. Original statement given February twenty-first, 2001. Record recalled by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, retired. Statement begins:

I didn’t invite her. I’m sure of that. I know my mates, and I know my mates’ mates, and all their birds and sisters and that, and I didn’t know this bird, so she weren’t invited, right?”

Sims… told a story. Colin didn’t really know how else to describe it. Put on a proper voice and all, this Callum character speaking high and thready, Sims’ crisp, proper public-school accent giving way to something a lot harsher, more “street”.

It was about some girl that showed up to the kid’s house party uninvited, acted a little strangely while she was there, and for all that he talked about her, the odd twist of her joints, the stare that set his teeth on-edge, he never seemed to actually getting around to describing what she looked like. It was like, anything properly tangible about her, her hair, her eyes, her clothes, just slipped off the mind, oil-on-water. It gave Colin the proper shivers, the way a good Steven King used to when he was younger, and he blinked himself out of a daze when Sims stopped, coughed lightly, said, “Statement ends.”

Ally was fast asleep against his chest, and Sims had one hand stroking absently down her back, eyes still skimming the folder in front of him. “Poor girl,” he murmured into Ally’s wispy hair. She didn’t stir from her doze. “She must have been quite lonely. Still, no harm done to anyone, it seems, and nearly two decades on and outside the purview of the Institute’s resources, there’s not much to be done, hm?”

Quite suddenly, and all at once, Sims seemed to remember that the rest of the world existed, and he blinked owlishly up at Colin. “Ah, seems as though she finally wore herself out. Did you want to-?”

Colin couldn’t help it—he laughed, just a bit, at how sheepish the guy had gone, now that he’d snapped out of his wee trance, and that he was trying to hand off the little one, even as he was still patting her back, curled around her protectively, sitting carefully still so as not to jostle her.

“Nah, she’s all yours, pal,” Colin said, grinning. “Just you get comfortable, and I’ll come save you when she starts crying, alright?”

Sims sighed, smiling back. “Doesn’t seem that I have much choice in the matter. Do try and make sure the class doesn’t stage a mutiny while I’m incapacitated, Mr. Ferguson?”

“Deal, Sims.”

<0>

Jon didn’t take nicely to Walt Whitman, liked to say that if Martin was going to subject him to the nineteenth century Americans, he could at least have the decency to make it Dickinson. Martin would then usually make a case for Emerson, which would make Jon recoil in only partially-feigned offence, and in the ensuing rant about the damned transcendentalists, the argument would usually be dropped.

Privately, though, despite the somewhat overenthusiastic patriotism of the man, Martin had a soft spot for Whitman, for the loping rhythm of his words, for the way he talked about people, about love, almost as a thing that he was, rather than just a thing that he felt. And it was always Whitman he thought about when he saw Jon, these days, Whitman’s insistent and unapologetic love springing to mind when he caught sight of him amongst the sea of bright blue uniforms as Martin slipped into the playground. He was stood by the school doors as he usually was, Heather Lewis tucked close to his side, holding his hand. It was Whitman that best put words to this nurturing thing that had taken root in Jon, turned him soft and watchful over his little brood, and Martin smiled softly to himself, heard the quiet click of a tape recorder in the back of his mind. Maybe he would remember to write that down, but no harm done if he didn’t. It was enough to watch, he rather thought.

He remembered, all of a sudden, one of the first times he’d ever properly seen Jon, storming through the research bullpen in the Institute, crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off the sharp lines of his forearms, his wrists. His hair had been shorter, then, slicked back away from his forehead, tucked no-nonsense behind his ears. He’d been all angles and scowls, the kind of look that had barely brokered a friendly tap on the shoulder from a colleague, let alone any kind of gentleness towards a child.

Here, though—

Well, Jon had changed, had let himself be changed. Everything about him was soft-touch, these days, the gentle maroon of the cashmere jumper, and the loose hairs that strayed from his braid and fell around his face, and the easy delight of his smile as he caught sight of Martin. So much about him was gentled, yielding to the herd of little ones that tended to crowd around his legs, yielding to Martin as he stepped into Jon’s space, head tilted back to kiss him with a murmured, “Oh, hello, you.”

“Hello, yourself,” Martin said, pulling back just enough to take hold of Jon’s other hand, the one not already occupied with Heather.

“Hello, Mr. Blackwood,” she said, quite politely, considering she’d just had to watch her teacher snogging someone, and he smiled, inclined his head to her. Jon had been grumbling the other night about the trials of persuading the little ones to zip up properly when they went out to the playground, but Heather, at least, was quite solidly bundled up, wearing a puffy anorak over her uniform and wool tights underneath it, topped off with a cozy hat that had a rather silly pompom on the top. It had been getting chillier, Martin supposed, though he was less inclined to notice the cold until his fingertips went numb, so he had just taken to keeping his hands in his pockets – or Jon’s, as it were.

Jon, too, was bundling up a little more, and he grinned when he saw that he was wearing the scarf Martin had finished knitting last month. It was an awful, hideous thing, knobbly garter with more than a few holes where Martin had dropped a stitch or two, only actually making it to completion under the careful eye of Mrs. Robinson, who had sewn in all his ends and frogged back a few of his particularly egregious mistakes. Nonetheless, Jon had it wrapped snugly into the collar of his peacoat, mouth and windburnt pink nose tucked into the chunky wool, away from the worst of the wind. Mrs. Robinson had given him a pattern for some matching fingerless gloves, and judging by his progress so far, they would be equally as ugly, and Jon would quite as equally insist on wearing them.

Jon’s class drifted off piecemeal, calling out to him as they went. There was a steady stream of, “Bye, Mr. Sims,” “See you tomorrow, Mr. Sims,” as they trailed off out of the front gates, holding hands with parents and grandparents and each other, rucksacks and lunchboxes swinging, and Jon called back to them, wished them a good night, reminded them about spelling lists and worksheets and whatever whatnots they had been working on that day. As the older forms were released, one of Jon’s went off swinging between two of the older teenagers, and all three of them cheerfully and dutifully chorused, “Good afternoon, Mr. Sims,” as they wandered by.

“Robert, Emma, Tom,” Jon recited, nodding to the three of them. Heather went next, skipping off towards her father, waving at Jon and Martin from the gate, and Jon waved back, with a smile that was all fondness.

Mrs. Robinson had been… unsubtle, with her knitting lessons. He always seemed to find himself with skeins of big, chunky, soft wool, and when she went digging in her folders upon folders of ancient, yellowed patterns, the ones that found themselves spread on the coffee table for Martin’s perusal had a bit of a theme. Garter stitch booties, baubled newborn hats, lap blankets.

Urge and urge and urge, he thought, a touch wistfully. Always the procreant urge of the world. Maybe Whitman had had a point.

Still, it wasn’t a question he’d asked, yet. Not a question he knew how to ask, of himself, really, let alone of Jon. For now, he rather thought he was content to wait. Content to be content, to help watch over Jon’s little flock until they were bundled up and sent home safe, and after, to find their own way up the winding road home.

[goodluckdetective]

Fic: smile, you’re trending

Ship: Jon/Martin

A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567242

Warnings: Canon typical violence, alluded past child neglect, alluded past police brutality, horror, off screen gore, brief mention of body horror, mentioned past character death

Tags: Angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt comfort, protective Martin, Lonely!Martin, one shot, character study

Characters: Jon, Basira, Martin

Rating: PG-13

Length: 9K

Summary:

Post 179 but not episode centric

During an encounter with another Avatar of the Eye, Jon faces his past, Martin takes a turn at playing Kill Bill and Basira has a second look at the monster she’s determined to see.  

For three people associated with the Eye, they could all use some perspective.

Author’s Note:

Formally “a matter of perspective” and then I realized that was an episode title and felt very silly. This is the tumblr version because I forgot to post a version here, I only posted the link, whoops.

Big thanks to Impatiens_capensis on AO3 and lamella who served as editors to this piece so it can beheld without taking psychic damage. Their input was a massive help and I cannot thank them enough for their time. Big thanks to namiofthesea as well for advising me on the small details of beauty youtube. Your cursed info was essential.

Fic below the cut:

Jon knew they couldn’t die in this new world they inhabited, but he wasn’t quite sure about the specifics when it came to being harmed.

His new powers were useful despite being unwanted, but they had their limits. Hypotheticals were the biggest one. He could tell what path was safer to take, but not if an Avatar might change their mind to follow them. He knew Basira’s gun would always have bullets in it, but he didn’t know if that would apply to any other weapon she picked up, or if her gun would always work against what chased them. And he knew they could not die, at least not yet, but he didn’t know what would happen if someone tried to kill them.

“So if I shot you,” Basira said as they took a brief rest to light a fire between a domain of the Stranger and the Vast. She’d met up with them just outside of London after their brief split with a few new scars and a heavy tread to each step. But she was alive and that was something to celebrate. “Your wound would just heal?”

They made camp in a domain of the End, a giant graveyard that while unpleasant, wasn’t the worst place to rest. There was a fallen tree that made a good enough bench to sit on for Martin and Jon, and Basira sat across from them on a rather large boulder.

“Given past experience, that seems the most likely,” Jon replied, ignoring the look Martin gave him at the comment. They had discussed his attempts to make an anchor before he went to Jared, and Martin turned out to be fond of all ten of his fingers. After the incident with Daisy, Martin fussed for a full day as it healed up, even offering to carry him across a few domains. Across from them, Basira looked nonplussed. “The best guess I can go on is my leg and that managed to heal up within the day. But I can’t be sure if that will be the case everywhere.”

Basira scowled at the mention of his leg. It was a painful reminder for the both of them. Jon’s pant leg was still stained with blood and rips from the incident. “Because it’s a hypothetical?”

“Something like that. That or the Eye thinks Knowing will take away all my fear of it and doesn’t want to spoil the fun.”

“It’s spoiled enough fun already if you ask me,” Martin said, just under his breath. Jon allowed himself to smile and reached over to squeeze Martin’s knee in response. They weren’t big into public displays of affection as it was, but with Basira around they’ve tried to keep snogging to a minimum. It might be the apocalypse, but awkwardness apparently lived on.

Basira ran her thumb across her chin, deep in thought. She was less outright hostile to them after they met back up in London , but there was an edge to her that told Jon she still wondered if he was worth trusting. “And we can’t die either?”

“No, at least not for good. At least not now.” Jon paused after that and closed his eyes. Since Daisy, he knew more about the laws of this new world, how it shaped and bent around emotional logic. The specifics on how that logic changed from place to place was what he struggled with. He tried to Know the specifics, reaching out for that endless pool of knowledge but he came back empty handed with the taste of battery acid on his tongue. “I don’t know anything more than that.”

“Another hypothetical?”

Jon looked up at the sky. “I think more trying to keep the fear of not knowing fresh.”

He explained what he meant by that later, when Basira was asleep and he felt less watched despite the thousands of eyes in the sky. Martin was a good listener and patient when Jon struggled for the right words. After being a mouthpiece to others’ horrors Jon still found it difficult to voice his own.

“You think after everything, I wouldn’t be able to feel fear anymore but… I can,” Jon said, lying on his back with his eyes closed. He could still see the eyes in the sky, he could see everything around them, but if he focused very hard on a domain of the Vast, he could sometimes pretend the stars from that sector were the ones actually in front of him. Back before Basira joined them, he would sometimes list the constellations to Martin who in turn would tell him the mythological stories behind each one. “I still do. I don’t think I’d be able to be the Archivist if I couldn’t.”

Martin was next to him, side to side, his hand holding Jon’s tight, thumb brushing across his knuckles. Somehow he managed to remember how to be gentle despite everything. “You don’t seem scared.”

Jon turned to him, opening one eye to look at him properly. Martin looked tired, bags under his eyes from lack of restful sleep, but he watched Jon with rapt attention. It was calming, seeing those brown eyes focused and fully present. One of Jon’s worst memories of the Lonely was Martin staring at him with pale empty blue irises that looked so close to that of Peter Lukas.

Jon forced a wry smile on his face. “Would you believe I’ve become a fantastic actor?”

The raise of one eyebrow that Martin gave him in response was easy to interpret without Knowing. Jon sighed, and closed his eyes again, rolling closer towards Martin. Martin’s arm reached around his side in a loose embrace and Jon made a mental note to move within 10 minutes or his arm would fall asleep.

“Fair enough,” Jon said, voice somewhat muffled by Martin’s shirt. “I suppose it’s that a big part of fear is the unknown. I am scared of the pain fire can cause, but the fear of dying from it or being burnt by it permanently: that’s gone now.”

That was true. The entire time Jon faced down Jude Perry, the fear in his bones was only that of pain, not what might come after. It was such a contrast to the fear he’d first felt facing Jude, that he’d been almost power drunk on it, reveling  in the fear coming off of her in waves that Jon himself no longer felt.

Jon didn’t want to ever admit it out loud, but sometimes it was intoxicating to be the predator instead of the prey.

“That takes some of the edge off, knowing what is coming, at least for me. No, it’s the fear of what I don’t know that is still sharp. And that’s what the Eye wants, I think. The fear of what comes next when all you know is that there will be a next.”

“After all this, it’s still feeding on you,” Martin said, rubbing Jon’s back with the hand under Jon’s side.

“I don’t think it ever intends to stop.”

Martin was quiet before he pulled Jon in closer for a proper embrace, resting his chin on the top of Jon’s head. It reminded Jon of lazy mornings in the cabin, back when they thought things might actually be alright. Comfort might no longer exist in the world, but if there was anything close to it left, the sensation of being loved and protected was the next best thing.

“Think if we find a domain of the Desolation, we can dig up a rocket big enough to fire into one of those pupils?” Martin mused, his hand still rubbing Jon’s back.

“It wouldn’t-“

“I know it wouldn’t do anything, Jon; I mean solely for the satisfaction.”

Jon did consider it and he couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. He Knew the eyes in the sky wouldn’t even blink if they tried it, but picturing it anyway was indeed satisfying. “I’ve never lit fireworks before.”

“Neither have I.”

“I don’t know if the Eye will allow me knowledge on how to prank it.”

“Good thing we’re likely clever enough to figure it out ourselves. And if not, Basira can probably put it together. She might even like it.”

“Maybe she will,” Jon tried to picture Basira smiling under a display of fireworks. She hadn’t smiled since Daisy and Jon found he missed it. Despite their current antagonism, Jon never wanted her miserable.

Daisy wouldn’t have wanted that either. She told Jon once that Basira and her would go for pubs on weekends. Instead of drinking, they would play trivia and laugh whenever they got an answer horrendously wrong. Jon Knows what that was like, he can even tell you the smell of the peanuts on the floor mixed with spilled beer, but he wished he could have seen that laughter for himself.

“You aren’t responsible for the world, Jon.” Martin whispered into his hair.

“Are you sure you're not an Avatar of the Eye with that insight?”

“No. I don’t know everything. I just know you.”

Jon opened his eyes and looked at Martin before craning his neck up for a brief kiss. It hurt his neck to do it for too long, but the kiss was sweet and reassuring. He moved Martin’s arm so he was no longer lying on top of it and smoothed his hair back.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Martin did. As he rested, twitching with nightmares he never remembered, Jon thought about what he was still scared of. The Web for sure, the strings he couldn’t see. Jonah, for what he did to him and what he could still do. He feared for Melanie and Georgie’s safety and if they hated him as much as he thought they should. He worried if Basira would ever be okay again, if he ruined everything he touched, if she was right to sometimes look at him like he was something dangerous.

And Martin. He feared Martin’s devastated expression if they killed Jonah and this hell still stood. He feared the Lonely, coming back and telling Martin that being alone was better than being with a monster. He feared losing Martin’s hand in his, the sound of a soft snore at night, and the whistling as they walked when the landscape was particularly horrendous and they needed a distraction.

Love was the only thing that could prompt such overwhelming fear, Jon thought. That was why it was so powerful a feeling: no one would dare to risk that horror of loss otherwise.

No, Jon Sims was still scared of so much. It was hard to quantify all that fear: Jon sometimes felt he could drown in it. Martin helped keep him afloat and in turn Jon kept him from being lost in his own quest devastation. They were each other’s safe harbor.

“Lord, I’m becoming a poet,”Jon said to himself, amused. He glanced at Martin who began to mumble under his breath about the cold. Carefully, as if not to disturb him, Jon grabbed his discarded jacket from next to them and laid it over Martin. It didn’t stop the muttering but there was less of it than before. Small miracles. “I suppose there are worse fates.”

With that, Jon began his watch as his comrades slept on.

______________________________________________________________________

The thing was, Jon never considered what would happen if he ran into another Eye Avatar.

The domain they walked into was one Jon chose as the most safe. When it came to domains, the Desolation and the Corruption were best avoided, so when Jon found himself picking between the two and then the Eye, he went for the Eye. It was a smaller domain, a former multimedia office turned into multiple hallways and rooms of endless monitors. It seemed the Eye had a fondness for the digital age.

The domain belonged to a former internet influencer by the name of Irene Hatchette. In her mid-twenties with a relatively popular makeup series, she fed on the fear of exposure. Her relationship with the Eye began as a child by tattling on her step-sister before the took the same scheme to school where she would steal her classmates cell phones and told everyone what she found, while implying even more to let people come to their own worst conclusions. In university, she learned to make fake accounts and emails to lure people into sending her things she could publish widely out of context, and as an internet star, those fake identities triples as she used each to speak to her rivals, invade their fan groups and personal pages for information she could sell to gossip magazines or twist for her own use. Once, she had to spend months pretending to be a therapist to get scoop on someone’s past hospitalization involving horrendous burns, which she dug up medical photos of by calling the right stupid hospital tech about changing “his corrupted password.” Once she published the pictures all across the internet, well, the rival stopped being a problem. It was business, sure, but there was a thrill to it too, much like pinning a still living butterfly to a corkboard to put on display.

Before the Change, she found rivals would now just tell her things behind her new identity of the week, their greatest insecurities without months and months of building a fake persona. It was like they wanted her to know, like they wanted her to tell everyone about how little they deserved what they had, and she took full advantage. It was a minor power, but a useful one for her line of work. She’d started going after just regular people before everything started, wrecking them with perfect pieces of information when she found someone who deeply feared being seen. Now her entire domain was dedicated to the practice, a full multimedia center for her to broadcast whatever she wanted.

The statement Jon gave after he walked in followed the format of an online video tutorial script. When Jon told them this was a domain of the Eye, Basira decided to stay behind to listen to the statement. Martin plugged his ears and hummed a song Elias used to complain about them playing in the Archives. When the statement was done Basira stared at him, looking like she smelled something rotten.

“What?”

“I may have nightmares of you saying “remember to like and subscribe” in that tone.”

Jon couldn’t blame her. The instructions to “make sure to peel away the skin so you can expose their heart to the viewer! It’s important to be authentic: well it’s important for them to be authentic. Your job is just to watch ,” was particularly vivid. He was glad he never got into social media with all the mess happening in the Archives if this was even a little what it was like.

The dozens of television monitors and screens around them show a different person’s secrets, twisted into a show.  The man who edited his photos to hide his ache scraped of his skin with a rusty razor on one screen. A woman who claimed she lived in luxury was buried by her piles of bills in her crumbling apartment. On a monitor right behind Basira, another man removed each tooth from his mouth by hand. The like counter in the corner shot up with every howl of pain he made.

“Another Eye Avatar?” Martin asked them after Basira gave him a recap of the statement.

“Yes,” Jon said, pulling his gaze from the screens.

“You know, it’s surprising we haven’t run into one before now,” Martin said. “Unless you’ve been keeping us away from them?”

“I haven’t.” That was something worth considering later, Jon thought. Martin was right: it was unusual this was their first one.

“So this domain is what?” Basira asked as they headed down the halls and through a room full of even more televisions. They had to walk slow from the hundreds of cords and wires that littered the floor. “The fear of being exposed?”

“Something like that,” Jon said. “Imposter syndrome too. It doesn’t have to be a real secret to be preyed upon.”

“And the Avatar?”

“In the media room. She shouldn’t be a problem: she’s setting up a new stream,” Jon said, glancing at one of the monitors in the room that had a countdown on it. He didn’t envy the poor soul who was about to grace the captive audience.

Most of the walk through the domain was quiet, nothing but the hum of technology and the noises coming from each screen. It was a small place, just hallways of computer monitors cataloguing fear to a delighted audience. If they hadn’t been interrupted, they wouldn’t have been there for more than an hour relatively speaking.

Later, Jon would suspect Jonah to be behind what followed. Or perhaps the Eye was his blind spot, the one place where he couldn’t quite see. Regardless, he only knew the Avatar was coming right when she appeared at the end of the hallway, phone in one hand, headset around her neck. She was small, smaller than the three of them, with pale skin and a slender build. She looked mostly human. Only two things were off: there was an artificial light to her, almost like that of an edited photo. That and her eyes were a brilliant bright green.

“So you’re the Archivist,” she said. She had an American accent (came over for Uni for a degree in business, able to afford cost of London with her parent’s income, learned secrets were the best weapon for attention by ratting out her step-sister and- focus, Jon, not now ), blonde hair curled up into ringlets and nails sharpened to pointed tips. When she spoke, there was a sneer to it that reminded Jon of his wealthier classmates at Oxford who wanted everyone to know how many zeros graced their bank accounts. “I was expecting someone… older.”

Jon heard the tape recorder in his backpack click on. He could tell Basira and Martin heard it too by the way they stiffened. Something was going to happen here and the Eye wanted to watch.

“We are just passing through,” Jon said. He knew what she wanted now, and he cursed himself for not figuring it out sooner. He should have known an Avatar obsessed with her self importance would take offense to anyone she deemed ‘competition.’ “I’m not here to intrude on your ‘production’ here.”

“Then why walk in like you own the place? She said. “And what’s with the extra luggage?”

“Luggage?” Martin scoffed. “That’s the best you could do, really?”

She ignored him. “I’m just saying, walking in without an introduction is rude. I mean, don’t you know who I am ? You know who everyone is.”

“I know who you are,” Jon said. “And I swear we are just walking through.”

“And if I don’t let you through?” The Avatar took a step closer. Basira pulled out her gun, aiming straight ahead.

“Don’t move.”

The Avatar didn’t look phased. She tilted her head to the side, curious. “Or what you’re going to put my down like your Partner?”

Static grew in Jon’s ears. He turned to Basira. “She’s baiting you.”

“I know that,” Basira snapped, through gritted teeth. The Avatar didn’t move, staring at them with bright green eyes. It wasn’t the same effect as being stared at by Magnus but it was similar, an itch under the skin of being terribly seen.

“Does he know that you thought about shooting him instead for a second?” The Avatar said. “You thought he could be lying, about not being able to bring her back. Maybe killing him would have fixed this. But you picked his word in the end. Sided with the other monster—”

“If you think you can pick me apart, you thought wrong,” Basira’s aim was steady, but Jon could tell she was tense by the grit to her jaw. “I’ve already lost everything. There’s nothing left for you to put on your screen.”

“Jon, I know we’re trying to move away from Kill Bill but we might have to this time,” Martin whispered, his hand on Jon’s shoulder. Jon nodded watching as the Avatar took another step towards them.

“I know.”

A shot rang out as the Avatar took another step in their direction. Jon watched as it passed through the Avatar, the image of the creature only glitching from the attack. Basira shot again and the second bullet was just as ineffective as the first.

“Shit,” Basira said, jumping back. Looking down, Jon saw the cords that lined the hallways twist up and reach for Basira’s ankles, wrapping around one with a tight grip. She yanked her foot loose with another pull but he could see the other wires begin to writhe beneath them like maggots feasting upon a corpse. Some of the cords plugged into monitors disconnected from their respective screens and rose up coiled like snakes. Electric sparks spit from the plugs, more dangerous than any venom.

Jon watched the Avatar take another step, the gaze in her eyes one he’d seen in Elias’ and on his own when he passed reflective surfaces. She was hungry.

Martin and Basira would look like the perfect meal for the Eye.

Jon straightened his shoulder, grabbing his tape recorder which was still recording, focused on the static in his ears and the endless gaze of the eyes above that were watching, always watching. He stared at her, drinking in all the information he could, about where she came from, what she feared, what she had done. The tape recorded whined. “ Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon —”

The Avatar paused mid step. Jon could see some strain to her face as the Eye looked down at her. But unlike the other Avatar’s he’d done this too, the strain looked like an annoyance rather than imbolizing. It didn’t make any sense: she wasn’t stronger than the others he’d faced so far. Then how—

Then he Knew. This Avatar was of the Eye, Jon destroyed the rest by using the power of the Eye against them but in this space that power was hers as well. How could you destroy someone with the power of Knowing when they were already known?

“Jon? What’s wrong?” Martin asked. The Avatar’s smile grew wide, all teeth as she stared at Basira. Basira who was not entirely steady with how her hands shook.

“Run,” Jon said, grabbing both of their hands and taking down a hallway at the same moment the Avatar ran at them at full speed.

It was a short chase. The many cables made navigation difficult when walking, let alone running. As the Avatar passed a monitor, she stuck her hand in it, pulling out a large piece of glass with a very sharp end. Perfect, Jon thought, for gouging out his eyes.

“See that guy: I heard even his mother didn’t like him. I mean, how shitty of a person to you have to be for that to happen? You know there has to be a reason behind it, right?” The Avatar’s voice was different then earlier, an airy sort of tone to her voice was layered with false concern.The monitors chimed in unison, showing a picture of a woman who had Martin’s eyes but none of the warmth of his expression. Comments with wild speculation ( he’s a liar, no he’s a fraud did you see his CV, no it’s because he’s petty about the smallest things it’s so annoying, or maybe he’s just stupid he never even finished university, I can’t believe he put his own mother in a home and barely visited how heartless-)  popped up beneath it, blocking the image except for the woman’s empty eyes.  “I could never do something like that to my Mom.”

Chirping noises of notifications and comments rang from the monitors covering the walls, high and shrill as more responses rang in. The noise consumed the hallway, painful in volume and pitch. Jon looked to Martin who was keeping his gaze away from the screens and focusing on the floor.

“And her-” The Avatar continued. “I feel so bad for people who have to work with her, it has to be so hard. I mean, she just strikes me as so self righteous. Look at me, I’m the law, I know best for the whole world. I mean, maybe she’s just trying to help, but like, she’s also such a hypocrite, you feel me? I mean, did you see what she said back there? If that’s how she greets her allies, I’d hate to be her enemy.”

The monitors changed again to that of Basira, pointing her gun at Jon in the forest as another loud shriek of chimes came from the monitors. Another round of comments appeared (she was just in it for the power anyone can see that, no loyalty whatsoever too did you hear what happened to her partner, I bet she’ll find someone new to blame next time she always does nothing can ever be her fault) . Basira turned around and fired another shot, this one going through the Avatar and hitting one of the monitors behind her.

“Keep running, a left and a right and we’ll hit the exit-” Jon said. He lagged behind the other two; his running abilities still the worst of the three. All seeing Eye powers did not provide sudden physical fitness. That wouldn’t matter once they were out. Outside her domain, she wouldn’t have the advantage. They were so close.

"Hello Jon.”

That voice from the monitors, in just the right intonation and tone that Jon heard from his own mouth on the worst day of his life, caused him to misstep. He tripped over a bundle of cords, falling down with a loud thunk. They wrapped around his legs as he fell, securing him to the floor.

“Jon!” He heard Martin shout from ahead of him. He began to struggle to his feat but before he could, the other Avatar was upon him, the glass shard held high right above his face.

“What makes you the king of this new world?” the Avatar growled, her image flickering like that of a hologram, each pixel looking to be made up of a different colored eye. The concerned tone she had from earlier was gone, envy dripping from every syllable. “You don’t even want the power. It’s wasted on you!” She stabbed down and Jon barely dodged the attack by craning his neck to the left. A cord came up from the ground and wrapped around Jons’ neck, not tight enough to choke him but tight enough to hold him still.

“You weren’t qualified for the job you had, you never were and now we’re supposed to lay our hands off because you were the key to the door? That’s all you are: a shitty old key. A piece of metal! He made you that way, made sure every scar and mark was another notch in your useless body to force open a door.  Why do you get to be in charge when all you do is open people up to their own nightmares?”

The fog consumed the hallway before she could finish her sentence. A small wave rushed in across the tiled floor under Jon’s hands, replacing the endless path of wires and cords. The taste of sea salt coated his tongue, and when he waved his hand in front of him, the Avatar was gone. All that remained was mist and empty space.

Jon’s stomach dropped and the chill that entered his body wasn’t just from the cold. He stumbled to his feet and looked around. All he could see was Basira, running towards him in a full sprint.

“Jon, are you hurt?” She reached out as if to inspect his neck but he turned away. Now wasn’t the time.

“Basira, have you seen Martin?”

She shook her head. “No. Last I saw he was running at you. What happened?”

“I think Martin did.”

Basira frowned. “He’s still tied to it.”

“He always will be. That’s how it works: the trauma doesn’t just leave you. It just gets quieter.”

“This isn’t quiet, Jon.”

“No, it’s not. Can you see enough to not get lost here?”

She nodded. Jon turned to head into the fog.

“I’m going to find Martin.”

He didn’t stay long enough to hear her reply.

______________________________________________________________________

It took around five minutes of searching to find another figure in the Lonely. He could see them just barely at first, a lone person curled up on their side in the endless mists, but as he gets closer he can make out a better shape.

The figure in the shallows isn’t Martin. It’s the eye Avatar. Her makeup is gone, washed off her face from the waves and she sits curled into a ball expression blank. Around her the fog curls up into figures of people Jon has never met, staring down at her with a blank expression. With each roll of the tide she fades more and more.

“This is my apology video,” the Avatar said, voice so soft it was barely audible. “I’m not actually sorry, no one is when they make these, but this is what people want me to be sorry for so I have to pretend to be. That’s all my life is, pretending. It’s probably the thing I’m best at.”

Jon tried to take a step away but he found himself frozen. This statement was different from her first one and the Eye wanted to drink it in.

“I don’t know who my real father is: Mom always told me it was a famous celebrity or something but I’m pretty sure that’s a lie. She’s the one who taught me how to lie; she was the best at it. Before she married my Step-Dad, she talked so much about how she always wanted to be a step-mother and how happy she was that I’d have a sister. I knew she was lying; she never wanted me, and she didn’t want Odessa. But she wanted my Step-Dad and that’s what mattered—”

Jon watched as she continued to speak, the fog around her shifting and forming into rooms and people she once knew. He listened as she talked about how lonely she was in the big house they moved into, how her stepsister helped but never replaced that void of parental attention she craved. She talked about how when she was ten she realized confessing to her mother how Odessa broke a treasured vase made her mother shower her in praise for being a good for, how joyed her mother was to tell her stepfather how much his daughter was a liar. Her voice began to echo as she recalled how she began to tell her stepmother every secret Odessa trusted her with for those scraps of praise, how it made her feel terrible but not as much as it made her feel adored. How when her stepsister found out and stopped talking to her, she was forced to read her diary for scraps of intel.

“Mom convinced my step-dad to send her to a boarding school for troubled kids when we were fifteen.” the woman who was once Irene Hatchette said as her story wound to a close. “And then I had no secrets left to steal. So I watched the housekeepers and my classmates and my teachers and then my competition because nothing was worse than being ignored. And now everyone can see me on their screen except they don’t see me at all, not really. That’s fitting I guess. I can see everything but no one can see me. Isn’t that funny, guys? I think it’s funny.”

Another wave washed over the ground and the Avatar vanished leaving nothing but an imprint of her silhouette in the sand behind her. That would soon be gone with every wave that passes. No record that she ever existed would remain.

“God,” Jon said. Statements of Avatars always got to him. They were always the strangest mix of evil and pathetic.

It scared him to think that his would likely be the same.

He didn’t have time to dwell on that thought. Instead he looked around, really looked, and Martin was there, only a few meters away looking down at the space the Eye Avatar once occupied with a blank expression. The fog swirled around his feet like a cat, cozy and content, not feeding at him but waiting at his beck and call. It made Jon’s stomach turn.

“Martin.”

Martin looked up. His eyes were a glassy white blue, the color of sea foam. Jon was beginning to hate that color. “Jon.”

Jon walked towards him stopping right in front of Martin. He reached out for him on reflex and then pulled his hands back as one passed through Martin’s side. “Time to stop this. She’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?” Martin’s voice had an edge to it that told Jon that he knew exactly what Jon was talking about. Like he was making a wry joke. Martin had always been petty and snarky but in the Lonely those twisted again in the mists to make him cruel.

“... fair enough. But time to let the Lonely go. This isn’t—”

Jon cut off. This isn’t you, that was what he wanted to say. But that wasn’t quite true. Martin had such an affinity to the Lonely because it was a part of him, just like Jon’s thirst for knowledge had always made him a part of the Eye. Martin would always find himself feeling alone in a crowd, Martin would always have a bitter edge that came with years of cold air for comfort. To deny that would be wrong.

But Martin’s loneliness had also encouraged his depth of empathy, his unwavering compassion and his helping nature. It was the reason he reached out to others who looked lost, and the reason he brought a fresh cup of tea to his grumpy boss each morning because he always seemed so isolated. Martin would always be tied to the Lonely, yes, but it didn’t have to be who he was.

Jon reached up a hand to cup Martin’s face. He was cold to the touch, eyes the same pale empty blue that reminded Jon far too much of Peter.

“This isn’t who you have to be,” Jon said, swiping his thumb across Martin’s cheek. Then, stronger. “This isn’t who you want to be.”

For a moment, nothing changed. The fog lingered, swirling at their waists and there was no sound but the rush of an empty ocean and a ticking clock. Then Martin closed his eyes and the fog receded, blown away by a gust of wind. The ocean smell faded, the sound of the ticking clock was replaced by the hum of multiple monitors.

When Martin opened his eyes in the monitor filled hallway, they were brown once more.

______________________________________________________________________

They fled the domain quickly after that, spending little time after finding Basira to  escape. When they made it outside, they all stopped to catch their breath, a wheeze coming from Jon who was still no good at running.

“Are you alright, Basira?” Jon said between gasping breaths.

“I’m fine. What the fuck was that?“ Basira gestured to Martin. Fog still clung to his ankles and he exhaled more every breath. While now solid, the edges of him blurred like a mirage. He was glaring at Basira, that cold edge to him still apparent in his expression.

“Me, saving our skins.”

“By summoning the Lonely?”

“It was the best idea I had. She was hurting Jon! Not that you’d care about that.”

“That’s not—” Basira cut off shaking her head. “Since when could you do that anyway?”

“Basira—” Jon started but was soon cut off by Martin.

“I don’t know, I’d never tried it before!”

“Martin—” Jon didn’t get to say anything more than that before Basira responded.

“Do you even know how it works? What if it just consumed you instead? Or Jon?”

All hopes Jon had for this conversation ending civilly died with that question.

“I would never hurt Jon. Not like you planned to. We all heard what it said back there.” Martin almost growled. When he spoke next, his voice echoed. “Why are you looking at me like that, Basira? Thinking you put down the wrong monster again?”

“Enough!” Jon’s shout was enough for Basira and Martin to both take a large step backwards. “Martin that was uncalled for—” Jon kept talking as Martin began to argue. “And Basira, I’d appreciate it if your first reaction to Martin saving our lives wasn’t outright suspicion. We’re all tense with what happened. We need to cool off.”

Basira turned away first, walking towards the street where some burned out cars were. Martin watched as she went and ran his hand down his face.

“Shit,” he said, the echo in his voice still present but not quite as obvious. “You should probably go talk to her. I’ll go sit over there and check our supplies.”

Jon grabbed his wrist as he began to walk away. Thankfully despite the blurring edges to Martin’s form, he was still solid enough to touch. “Do you need me to come with you?”

Martin shook his head. “No. I just need a bit of time to… think.” His eyes were still brown, and Jon felt his pressing concern fade. “I’ll keep in sight just in case. Deal with Basira first. I don’t want her splitting off again: it’s too dangerous. Even if I’m pissed with her.”

“Okay,” Jon said before pressing a kiss to Martin’s cheek, just to feel the cold skin warm a degree. He was worried, but he also trusted him. With that, he let go of Martin’s wrist and walked over towards Basira who was glaring at what was once a car.

“What Martin said  was uncalled for.”

Basira nodded. “It was.” She brushed some dirt off her pants before turning to look at Jon. “But I get why he’s pissed. Given what she said back there.”

Right, that. Jon hadn’t forgotten what the Avatar said about Basira’s opinion on him. “So it’s true then?”

“Don’t you know that already?”

“I told you I wasn’t looking,” Jon said, irritation bubbling over. He’d assumed as much, he wasn’t oblivious, but he’d never looked to know for sure. Having it confirmed wasn’t a surprise but hearing that Basira assumed he was looking stung more than he cared to admit. He couldn’t do this right now, he thought, and turned on his heel to go after Martin.

“Wait, no, Jon—shit this is not how I wanted this to go.“

Jon stopped at the tone in her voice: still stern but not hostile. Instead he waited, still staring back at the empty building where they came from. Did Basira look at him and just see a monster just like the Avatar they had escaped from? A man obsessed with information that he could wield like a knife and rip people open?

Did Basira see him and just see another Elias?

“You don’t talk about yourself much,” Basira said.

“Neither do you.”

“No, I don’t.” Basira was quiet for a moment before she spoke again. “What that woman said—about you being a key to a door—true?”

Jon clenched his bad hand, thumb brushing over the burn scar there. A key notch, that was what the Avatar compared it to. He hated how right the comparison felt. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried,” Jon snapped, curt. “You didn’t listen.”

He was surprised by how angry he sounded. He thought he was used to this by now, resigned to not being listened to. Basira wasn’t the only one who did it: she was just another person in a long line who decided Jon was better worth blaming than hearing out. And to be fair, she had plenty of reason to, after some of the things he did. She had more reason than most.

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

“I’m listening now,” Basira said, her voice sure and steady. Jon took a deep breath through his nose, burying down the anger under layers of guilt that left it at bay. He turned to look at her. She hadn’t moved any closer or farther away. Her hands were at her sides, open palms facing her knees.

“And why is that?” Jon’s voice was quiet. Basira was silent for a few moments and when she spoke next, it was with a hesitance Jon rarely heard from her.

“You said with… Daisy… it was the first time Jon heard her say Daisy’s name since everything happened. A pang of grief and hurt washed through him as he remembered two versions of the same woman: the one who held a knife to his throat with hungry eyes and the one who sat with him in his old office and taught him exercises to stop the phantom pain in his bad hand.

He missed the friend he had and he feared the monster who hunted him. Neither canceled out the other.

“You said that I couldn’t hunt a monster I refused to see.” Basira said, drawing him out of the memory. “I think the same might apply in reverse.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t find a human when I’m determined to see a monster. So I’m listening. If you want to give it a try.”

She looked sincere. Part of Jon was afraid this would go like it always did, that he would finish this story to be told he only had himself to blame. Yet, the opportunity of a different ending is enough of a temptation to give it a try. So he does.

He explained Elias’ plan and how he fit into it, the ways he was kept in the dark, the marks he needed to have the perfect notches for the door Elias wanted to open. When she asked about the marks he goes over each, some quicker than the others, sparing the least amount of time for the boy and the book. It wasn’t like a statement, he didn't linger in the emotion of it, but it bleed through in his tone when he wasn’t careful. The whole explanation couldn’t have taken more than 15 minutes but it felt like hours.

When he finished his story, Basira spoke first.

“So you were 8 then? When it started?”

Jon’s voice was not steady when he answered.“If you consider the first mark the start then yes.” For a second he could feel the smooth paper of the book under his hands, and the gasp of breath as he ran away from the house that would haunt his memories well into adulthood. All of his past traumas are like that now, as an archive he feels each memory as vividly as it first occurred, but the Web remains the worst one to revisit.

“Daisy was 11,” Basira said.

“What?”

“She didn’t talk about it much,” Basira continued. “I don’t know the details, just that she was young.”

Jon instantly Knew without trying. He saw the creature on the top of the stairs, he felt the fence dig into his back and leave a scar there that will become Daisy’s nickname, he tasted the fear she felt seeing every new report of Calvin’s escalating violence. All the trauma flooded his head in a matter of seconds.

“Oh,” Jon said, when it was over. “I didn’t know.”

“She didn’t like to talk about it,” Basira shrugged. “I assume she didn’t know about you and the Web either.”

“No. I—”Jon’s mouth felt oddly dry. “I...I hadn’t told anyone until a few months ago. Unless you count the tapes.”

Jon didn’t count the tapes. They listened but they never responded, an impassive audience. Not like Martin who upon finding Jon frozen in front of a spider web outside their cabin, pulled him gently inside, made him a cup of tea just warm enough to drink without burning him and said “It’s not your fault what happened. I promise, it’s not your fault.”

“I don’t hate you, Jonathan Sims,” Barisa said. Jon turned his gaze down to his shoes. The blood on his pant leg from Daisy’s attack makes his stomach twist.

“You should.” He thought about the Avatar back in the building, how she’d peeled open his biggest regrets and laid them out for display. How pathetic he was, to have ruined everything so badly.

Basira took a step closer, still far enough away to give Jon space but close enough that Jon could see the mud and tar caking her shoes.

“I think I’m the one who gets to decide that,.” she said. “I am angry; Ithink I might always be. You dragged me into your mess and you’ve hurt innocent people. That doesn’t just go away.” She took another step forward, close enough to reach out if she wanted. “But it doesn’t make you a monster either.”

“What does it make me then?”

“What I wish Daisy got a chance to be; someone who decided to make a different choice before it was too late.”

“Who says it isn’t too late for me?” Jon looked up at Basira. She raised her hand up over Jon’s shoulder but didn’t touch, waiting for a sign the gesture was welcome. Jon gave a slight nod, and she held his shoulder gently and gave it a light squeeze.

“It might be. But I’d like to think you’re the one who gets to decide that.” She removed her grip from Jon’s shoulder and took a step back, giving him space once more. “You should probably talk to Martin: I doubt either of us is feeling friendly right now.”

“I’m sorry for what he said,” Jon said.

“You still apologize too much,” Basira said and a small hint of a smile passed her face. “I’m going to do a weapons check. I’ll join you after.”

Jon watched as she got down on her knees and began to open her pack. In another life, he thought, they could have been friends, joined by their mutual love of books and mysteries. He didn’t think that was a possibility now, after everything that happened. This world was not conducive for new friendships.

After this conversation, however, maybe they might find something close to it. Not quite friendship, but understanding at least.

With that thought in mind, Jon went to follow Martin.

______________________________________________________________________

He found Martin sitting on the ground next to a half-rusted bike and a few empty plastic bottles. He looked less faint around the edges, more solid than when they left, but when Jon got closer he could feel the chill that still wrapped around him like a blanket.

“Martin,” Jon said, sitting down next to him. Martin’s gaze was fixed on his shoes but when he spoke there was no echo to his voice. That was good.

“Jon. How’s Basira?”

“Pissed at you but otherwise better than expected. We had a talk.”

The chill intensified, just a fraction. Jon Restrained the urge to shiver. “What kind of talk?”

“The good kind. I think we’ve reached an understanding, if that makes any sense.”

Martin nodded and the chill went back to how it was when Jon first arrived: enough to be noticed but not enough to demand a jacket. They were silent for a while, Jon making sure he was close enough that their arms were touching. Just enough to provide a weight of presence.

“I’m sorry. About Kill Bill.”

“What?”

Martin still didn’t look at him, twisting his fingers together. He did that when he was nervous, one of the gestures Jon could now read without any supernatural knowhow. Normally he would reach out and with slow movements, drag one of those hands free for a kiss. Martin looked too upset for Jon to try it now.

“For trying to encourage you to go all avenging angel. Back when we first left the cabin and all. I’m sorry.”

Jon was rarely shocked by anything these days, but this threw him off guard. He thought they covered this a long time ago. “Martin you don’t—”

“No, no, I—” Martin breathed in deep and Jon was elated that he couldn’t see the other man’s breath. Back when Martin first escaped the Lonely, a winter fog followed every inhale for at least a few days. It made it hard for Jon to take his eyes off him, so scared he was that he might disappear.  “Back then, I thought it would be good to get rid of them—”

“I know—”

“Let me finish.” Martin untangled his fingers to hold up his pointer finger. Jon stopped speaking at the gesture. “I thought it was good to get rid of them, that we could maybe help people or something.” His shoulders slumped, and Jon could read shame in the slant to them. “But I also thought it would feel good, for the both of us. To not be chased around for once by things we can’t stop, to finally turn the tables on the things giving us nightmares for years. Let them know what it’s like. And when I wasn’t the one doing it, it kind of was. Not entirely, but just enough to feel right.” He kicked one of the empty plastic water bottles forward. “But back there… When I did it myself, I just felt—”

He finally looked up at Jon and Jon’s heart twisted to see the stricken expression on his face. “I just felt terrible Jon. That woman was objectively evil: she used people’s darkest secrets against them for clicks on the internet and her own amusement. The fact that her childhood was shitty doesn’t change that. But when I was there making her feel just as lonely and isolated as she deserved to be, all I could think about was how I sounded exactly like… exactly like… him.”

Jon didn’t have to ask who Martin was talking about. Instead he reached forward and placed his hand in Martin’s squeezing tight. A reminder that Jon was there, that Jon was listening, that Martin was not alone, not anymore.

Martin kept talking, squeezing Jon’s hand back, “I’m not saying we’re the same: Peter threw people in the Lonely for tribute and I only did it to save you. Our reasoning was entirely different even if the end result was the same. I’m not Peter Lukas because of that.” He said that with more confidence, the tremor from earlier gone. “But I think doing that, while it doesn’t make me more like him, it doesn’t make me better either. It makes me—”

“Feel worse?’

Martin leaned against Jon, resting his head on Jon’s shoulder. It was awkward with how much taller Martin was, but not unpleasant. “Yeah. So I’m sorry, for not getting it.”

Jon thought back to the power he had with Jude and with Jared. How the rush of finally being in control would fade to a rush of shame. “It’s hard to understand.”

“That doesn’t mean I couldn’t have tried sooner.”

“You’re not like Peter, you know,” Jon said. “Not even close. Not now, not then.”

“Thank you.”

They sat there for a few moments, quiet in each other’s company. Martin still ran cold, but he warmed up with the contact. Jon listened to his heartbeat, the reminder the Martin was still alive, that he still had a heart, that he hadn’t lost him to death or the Lonely’s endless waves. Jon was not a lucky man but for as long as he lived, he would be thankful he had just enough luck to have this, even if  just for a little while.

“So you’re not going to cast Elias into the Lonely then?” Jon asked after a period of quiet. Martin shrugged, the gesture causing his hair to brush against Jon’s chin.

“I don’t even know if it would work; I think he’s too self absorbed to be lonely properly.. If your thing doesn’t work and I have no other choice I’ll give it a go, but otherwise I’m thinking the traditional route might be best.”

“Oh?”

“I have two hands and the institute probably has some loose pipes in it still. I was thinking I could take a page from his book.”

Jon snorted. His worries about his powers not working on Elias faded to the back of his mind, a matter of concern he could examine later. There would be time to think about the implications of what happened with the Eye Avatar. For now, some banter would suffice.

“How’s your swing?”

“Not bad but I’ll make sure to practice on the way there. I can see how I do against some stop signs.”

“The domain of traffic laws won’t see you coming.”

They both laughed, quiet but strong. When Basira came over to join them, Martin stiffened but with a look from Jon he kept his mouth shut. Knowing the pair of them, Jon thought, they would respectively apologize to the other soon enough. All it would take was some time.

He wasn’t sure how much time they had left, with Elias waiting for them at the end of it. The Eye could only tell him so much and it had no intention to tell him how this would all end. If the world could be saved, if they could survive this ordeal would remain unknown until it happened, leaving Jon to marinate in the fear of what could be.

For now, Jon was content to stay in the dark, the man he loved humming an old song with his head on his shoulder and Basira quietly watching them with something that was close to fondness. The man who understood him best and the woman who was making an effort to try. It wasn’t the worst moment to be in, at the end of the world.

It was something almost like peace.

[todisturbtheuniverse]

FIC: Set All Trappings Aside [2/8]

Rating: T Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Pairing: f!Adaar/Josephine Montilyet Tags: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Class Differences Word Count: 3500 (this chapter) Summary: After months of flirtation, a contract on Josephine’s life brings Adaar’s feelings for her closer to the surface than ever. It highlights, too, all of their differences, all of the reasons a relationship between them would not last. But Adaar is a hopeful woman at heart; if Josephine can set all trappings aside, then so can she. Also on AO3. Notes: While the context for this story is the Of Somewhat Fallen Fortune questline, some of the conversations within it didn’t quite fit for this Inquisitor. The resulting fic is a twist on the canon romance. This Adaar and Josephine have featured in other fics, so you may miss a little context if you haven’t read Promising or Truth-Telling, which both come before this one.

Chapter 1 here.

Once they'd crossed the Waking Sea by ship, Adaar convinced Josephine to ride in the wagon with Vivienne—who could both entertain her and protect her, should it come to that—and rode slightly behind their little party on horseback, watching the open plains around her with unease. She'd never been wound so tight in her entire damn life. Which was saying something, after the last several months.

It was just...she had been the target then. Her, and all the idiots who tagged along with her, who had magic or steel to protect them.

Not Josephine. Josephine was supposed to be safe. Tucked away in their lofty mountain fortress, where the worst that could happen to her was a particularly annoying noble with an axe to grind.

But who knew, with the House of Repose, if even Skyhold would be safe? It was a sleepless thought, one that had kept Adaar awake every night since they'd left Val Royeaux.

Cassandra appeared ahead, guiding her horse around the wagon. "Nothing," she said in response to Adaar's raised eyebrow. "It's not a good location for an ambush, Inquisitor. The House of Repose surely knows better."

Despite that, she rode with only one hand on the reins, the other resting on the grip of her sword. Her shield hung ready from the saddle. Not one to be caught by surprise, Cassandra. Adaar had always appreciated that about her.

"They will wait until we're in the mountain pass, if they plan to attack at all," Cassandra continued.

Usually, Adaar appreciated Cassandra's pragmatism, too. Right now, however, it was about as welcome as a kick in the stomach.

"If," she repeated, holding desperately onto hope. She wondered if she could convince Josephine to lie down under one of the wagon benches the entire way up the mountain. "You don't think they will?"

Cassandra hesitated. "I do not know. I believe Josephine knows better than us, but I also believe that her judgment is clouded. I will feel more certain once we have Leliana's input, but by then, the mountain will be behind us."

"So prepare for the worst, then?"

"It has not failed me as a strategy so far."

Perhaps Adaar could persuade Josephine to put on a spare set of armor. Anything that might prevent an arrow from piercing the oilcloth covering on the wagon and driving straight through her chest.

"Forgive me for prying," Cassandra said, interrupting Adaar's catastrophizing, "but I do not think I have ever seen you this agitated. You always make light of danger."

And Cassandra hated it. In the beginning, she'd usually had a choice word or two about how Adaar ought to take all this more seriously. The comments had eventually tapered off as Adaar did her job and did it well, despite her habit of taunting demons, rogue templars, ancient magisters, and whatever else had ears.

"That's when the danger is coming for me," Adaar said, "not someone…" I care about, she thought, but decided against it. "...else," she finished.

Cassandra shifted a little in her saddle. "Have you…" she began, then paused, mulling over her words the way only Cassandra could. She didn't mull, actually; she deliberated.

"Have I what?" Adaar prompted.

Cassandra shook her head. "Never mind. It is none of my business."

"No, no, go on," Adaar said. Cassandra could hardly make things worse at this point, after all. "I've certainly badgered you enough with my invasive questions. It's only fair."

"When you put it like that." Cassandra wore a trace of a smile now. "You are...fond of her."

Adaar pulled a face. "Yes," she said, which had the merit of being both true and not incriminating.

Cassandra snorted. "I would never have suspected that you could be as recalcitrant as me," she said, very dryly.

"Every day is an opportunity to learn new things," Adaar told her, grinning.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "Very well. Are the two of you involved?" Before Adaar could recover from Cassandra's bluntness—really, she ought to have braced for it—she went on. "I feel as if Leliana would have complained of it to me if you were, but perhaps there are things in this world she doesn't know."

Adaar laughed. "First of all, no, there aren't. And second of all—no. We aren't."

"I see. My mistake—it seemed very much as if…"

Adaar cleared her throat. "I don't really think it would be proper, would it?"

A crease appeared between Cassandra's brows. "Because you are the Inquisitor? I didn't imagine you thought yourself that far above us."

"No, no, not that." Adaar fiddled with the hilt of her belt knife. "She's a noble. Until all this...business...I was a mercenary. We just don't fit."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cassandra's frown deepen. "Does she think so?"

Adaar recognized the early signs of Cassandra's stubbornness, and dug in her own heels, too. "Don't know. Haven't asked."

"Then how do you know that you don't fit?"

"Call it an educated guess," Adaar said, exasperated.

"If you are a simple mercenary, then it would hardly be an educated guess."

Despite her annoyance, Adaar chuckled. Cassandra's frown twitched toward a smile again. They rode on in companionable silence for a moment as Adaar considered.

"Even if she does feel the same," she ventured, "could her...society...ever accept me? Nobles strike me as snooty." It was the most toothless word she could think of. Nothing compared to how they really were. How she knew some of them to be.

"You aren't without rank," Cassandra pointed out. "It's unusual—"

"Savior to some, damned heretic to others, yes."

"But it affords you some status," Cassandra pressed. "Besides, the Montilyets are minor nobles at best, given their troubles."

"Someday—and I hope it is soon—the Inquisition will not be necessary any longer, and then I will be what I always was. And once this is all done, she will only have risen." 

Adaar could see Cassandra marshaling her arguments. Bless her. They had become friends, despite all the business at the beginning, and Cassandra was loyal to her friends.

But Adaar didn't want to argue, not about this. She didn't want to get her hopes up. She got them up every time Josephine looked at her, anyway; she didn't need more encouragement.

She didn't need hope to turn into expectation. She'd really be in trouble then.

Luckily, because they were friends, she knew exactly how to put Cassandra off the topic entirely. She sighed, adopting a mopey, lovelorn air. "It's no good, Cassandra, though I appreciate your optimism. It just isn't meant to be."

Cassandra gave an indignant huff, exactly as expected. "Long though I have loved silly romance novels, I have always thought that they were unrealistic. I see that you are determined to live one out page by page, however."

"It's a good story, isn't it?" Adaar said, shooting a smile sideways at her. "A quick, loveable rogue—nice woman, really, despite her spotted history—pining after a lady of means. Her feelings all the more pure for knowing they can never be returned—"

"I think you are determined to be star-crossed," Cassandra continued, radiating disapproval.

"Is that so?"

"It is," Cassandra said. "I'll leave you to your pining."

Adaar laughed; Cassandra dug in her heels and sent her horse back to the front of the wagon, leaving Adaar alone.

It was sort of funny, when she was bantering about it with Cassandra—laying it on real thick, too—but as the quiet grew around her, the humor faded. She had hoped, long and hard, that this infatuation would simply melt away, that she would someday cross Josephine's path without light and warmth filling her up inside and spilling over, but by all indications, she was more deeply entrenched than ever.

A pity, and a shame, that it had taken her near thirty years to find someone she liked as much as she liked Josephine. Given the state of the world, she doubted she had another thirty years in which to find someone else.

She rode up behind the wagon and dismounted. A few quick steps closed the gap again; she left her reins loosely looped around the back post, then heaved herself up and through into the covered compartment, a welcome stillness after the gusting winds of the plains.

Vivienne looked up with a smile. "Good of you to join us, my dear. I'm sure Cassandra can handle the watch."

"Actually," Adaar said, though it was always daunting to order Vivienne around, "would you mind taking the rear? I just need a bit of a rest, then I'll head back out."

If Vivienne thought this unnecessary, she didn't voice it; she simply inclined her head with a duchess's worth of grace and brushed past, out into the cold, leaving the wagon empty except for Adaar and Josephine.

"Inquisitor," Josephine said in greeting, with a dip of her head.

"Ambassador."

For a moment, an uncomfortable silence held. Adaar sat opposite Josephine, moving with the rattle of the wagon. Astonishing how little room there was for her legs in a space like this. Josephine didn't look uncomfortable in the least, one ankle tucked behind the other, small book open on her lap, dark blue skirts perfectly arranged. It was a simple dress, comfortable for travel, paired with boots rather than slippers.

Simplicity suited her. Finery suited her. What didn't suit her?

Oblivious to her internal dramatics, Josephine asked, "Is everything all right?"

"Fine," Adaar said, automatic. "Doubt they're going to come out of the fields and try anything in broad daylight."

She shut her book. "I meant...is everything all right, between us?"

Adaar cast her a puzzled look. "Of course."

Josephine let out a relieved breath. "I'm glad to hear it. I did not like arguing with you, and we have not spoken much since…"

Adaar cleared her throat, rubbed the back of her neck. "Sorry. I've been preoccupied."

"Yes. With protecting me." Her eyes were very soft, warmed by her small smile. "Thank you."

"Of course," Adaar said again. All the other words seemed to have flown out of her head. All those reminders not to turn hope to expectation had fled with them.

"I have devised a plan," Josephine said, straightening up a little. "The du Paraquettes cannot overturn the contract at present, lacking status as they are, but if we can raise them to nobility again…"

"Would they agree to that, do you think?"

"Let us hope I can convince them. But if we could restore their status, I imagine that they would agree. It seems a fair trade."

For a moment, Adaar's hopes lifted. If these people could just be given status like handing out candy, then maybe… 

"Didn't realize you could elevate people just like that," she commented, in what she hoped was a casual manner.

"Certainly not just like that." Josephine toyed with one frayed corner of her book, frowning, eyes a little unfocused. "I will need to offer someone...maybe several someones...a few favors. But it can be done."

Adaar could imagine how much more costly the favors would be for a Vashoth. She set the idea aside. "I don't love the sound of that."

Josephine waved this away. "No different than the capital I've traded for the Inquisition. Simpler, even. It will only cost time."

"I guess you would know. I personally don't have much experience trading in these intangible debts."

"Do not sell yourself short," Josephine chastised. "You've brokered many deals for the Inquisition."

"With much smarter people pointing the way."

"You forget that I stand at the war table with you," Josephine said, lips quirking in a smile. "I know what cleverness you are capable of, whatever modesty you hide behind."

The praise warmed her a little. "Still, I know nothing about turning ordinary folk into nobles. I'm afraid your cleverness will have to suffice for this one."

Her head tilted, hazel eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Perhaps. But turning ordinary folk into legends? You know something about that. Surely that is the greater challenge."

She really knew how to cut through all of Adaar's admonishments to herself. A handful of words in Josephine's mouth was as deadly as one of Adaar's knives.

"I would hate to always be the target of your honeyed tongue," she said, with a slightly helpless grin; she hoped it looked careless rather than besotted. It was the best she could manage. Truth, disguised as jest. "My insides are all a-flutter."

For a moment, it looked as if Josephine might press the topic further; then she sat back, a more somber set to her mouth. "It will not be easy," she said. "But it can be done. Despite the arguments I imagine Leliana will make."

"Well, tiebreaker," Adaar sighed, some of the tightness in her chest easing. "I outrank her."

Josephine inclined her head. "Thank you." 

Her fingers ran down the edges of the book's cover again, and Adaar noticed the feather charm dangling from the marked page. She remembered the letter she'd sent with it from the Hinterlands, the bruised wrist she'd nursed while she'd written it. She could hardly believe such a paltry little thing had made it out of Haven when they'd fled.

But Josephine had rescued it, somehow, for some reason.

It was a small space, easy to reach across and touch the dangling feather. Josephine's fingers paused in their tracing.

"You don't have to…" Adaar paused, tried to get her words in order. "I know these are useless trinkets."

Josephine looked up, eyes meeting Adaar's. "I happen to like them. Besides, it makes a pretty bookmark, doesn't it? Hardly useless."

They were treading dangerous territory. Adaar should not have leaned forward. It would be so easy to close the remaining distance, touch her fingers to Josephine's cheek, tip her chin up…

There had been other moments like this, and every one of them, Adaar could have sworn that Josephine was expecting just that. Waiting, her lips slightly parted, her eyes focused so intently on Adaar's. Hoping.

But she shouldn't. Couldn't.

She sat back. "Well, then," she said. If her voice was too loud for the space, if it pushed out all chance of intimacy, that was for the best. "I won't question your tastes, which I know to be very fine." 

She told herself that she was imagining the flicker of disappointment in Josephine's face. Easy to do; whatever Adaar thought she had seen one moment was gone the next, as if it had never existed.

"You have a knack for finding pretty things," Josephine said. "And in the strangest places."

"Maybe it's hereditary. My dad was the same way. By the time my parents made it to the Free Marches, he'd picked up all sorts of things on the road. Cleaned up some of them to sell, but kept a fair amount of the rest." She managed a chuckle. "Drove my ma up the wall, the way she told it, but I liked the things he found. He always remembered exactly where he'd picked it up. Or he was a convincing storyteller, I suppose."

"Another inherited trait, I believe," Josephine said with a smile. "What happened to it all when you left the farm?"

"I left it with Jana—the neighbor I told you about, the one looking after the place. It's probably all still sitting in a crate in the corner of the root cellar. I took one thing with me, but in the interest of not jingling with every step…"

Josephine smothered a laugh with her hand, as if the idea delighted her. "A different combat strategy, certainly. What did you take with you?"

Adaar reached into her coat and pulled a tiny journal from one of the interior pockets. She flipped to the center and retrieved a folded piece of paper, then unfolded it and handed it to Josephine.

It was a drawing. A sketch, really, of a miniature hourglass, a chain threaded through one end. Not the original sketch; no, she didn't dare carry that out into this dangerous world with her, not after what had happened to the object itself.

"It's pretty," Josephine said, "though I admit, not what I expected."

"It's just a stand-in, unfortunately. I lost the hourglass at the Conclave." She cast a miserable look at the paper in Josephine's hands. "Dad had it made from little pieces and materials he'd picked up on the way south. Sand from the shores of Par Vollen. Wood from a tree he liked as they passed through Antiva. A little gold embellishment from the melted-down remnants of the first gold coin he ever scraped together."

Josephine's face had fallen. "I'm so sorry."

Adaar shrugged one shoulder. "He wouldn't hold it against me, but...I kept it safe through so many jobs. Guess the Fade was just too much for it. Still feels weird, not wearing it."

Josephine looked to the paper again, her eyes moving from one detail to the next. "Why an hourglass?"

"My name means time, in Qunlat."

"Adaar? I thought that meant cannon."

"No, my given name—Herah."

"Herah," Josephine mused. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken Adaar's given name; her heart lurched to hear it in Josephine's voice.

"Because I ran out their time under the Qun," Adaar explained. "But gave them more time, somewhere...else. Somewhere free, in their opinion. The sand ran out, but then the hourglass turned."

Josephine was smiling, widely and warmly, as though truly touched. "That's a lovely sentiment."

"Yeah," Adaar said, but her agreement felt a little hollow. She accepted the paper back from Josephine. "What does it mean when the hourglass breaks, though?"

Josephine pondered that for a moment. The wagon rocked, and Adaar listened for any indication of a disturbance, but there was only the wind, rustling past; the horses, their steps heavy; Cassandra's muttering up ahead, if she wasn't mistaken.

"Perhaps it is as your parents said," Josephine said at last. "Your time with the Valo-kas ran out, but your time elsewhere began."

"That's a nice way of looking at it."

Adaar tucked the paper away again, safe in her coat. The original sketch—the one with her dad's notes, written in Qunlat before the painstaking translation—was safe in her Skyhold loft, hidden away.

If Skyhold fell, after all, she had probably fallen with it.

"Speaking of Jana," Josephine said, "have you heard from her recently? I know that you were concerned about Duskfield."

"I got a letter from her just before we left Skyhold. Seems as if all is well there, for now."

Josephine's lips pursed in thought. "If you'd still like to check in on them, I'm sure I can find some business in the area—an excuse to make the trip."

"I would, but...when this business with the House of Repose is done, maybe. So that you're free to—well. If you still wanted to come with."

The offer hadn't been made so long ago, but it had been made without any firm plans. They'd both been low at the time, vulnerable. Maybe Josephine hadn't been serious, or had thought better of it since. But she smiled, and the strength of it creased the corners of her eyes.

"Of course. I would love to see where you grew up." She tapped a finger against her lips. "It is a little hard to imagine you tending a farm, though it sounds like a peaceful life."

"It was," Adaar sighed. "I might even go back to it someday."

Josephine cast her a surprised look. "Really?"

Adaar shrugged. "Assuming I survive all this, then...why not? Settling down never held much appeal to me before, but after the last few months, I think it would be a relief. The mercenary life would seem like a demotion after the Inquisition, and it's probably best for everyone if I fade into obscurity, anyway."

Josephine chuckled. "Well, when you put it like that. So long as you promise to visit me in Antiva during your retirement. The Montilyet vineyards are renowned, you know."

"I suppose I could crawl out of my hermitage for that," Adaar said, grinning. "Assuming this wine is as good as you say."

Josephine raised one eyebrow, as if challenging her. It was hard not to lean in again. There was so little space in this cursed wagon, and they were already too close.

"There is plenty of it to sample at Skyhold," she said. "And we have other business to handle when we return, aside from my personal affairs. A working dinner may be in order."

Well, at least there would be a pile of convoluted requests to keep Adaar's head on straight. And a table between them, for good measure. "By all means," she replied. "You have full reign over my calendar. Pick a day, and I will be there."

"Perfect," Josephine declared, like she'd won something. Adaar wished she knew what.

Go to Chapter 3 -->

[liw-the-melancholic-apple]

How it may have gone - Humble Beginnings

A fic taking place in the marauders era. While the political climate seems to head to a conflict, James, Sirius, Remus and Peter are still just teenagers. Dealing with typical teenage problems.

But this year their little group grows. Who would have known that more prefects would be a good thing?

Masterlist

Nine: A hard night's day II

The common room slowly came to live and I vaguely answered the question as to where I’d been that night a couple of times but mostly ignored what happened around me. Until all four girls stood in front of me and ordered me to breakfast.

“Let me get dressed. I probably look like I feel. I’ll meet you in five minutes.”

“You promise?”

“I’d take an oath.” They left and I went upstairs. Looking at my closet I landed on black Jeans, a black and grey flannel and a black cardigan. I redid my hair into the topbun and put on some make-up after brushing my teeth. Just to cheer me up a bit I popped on my favourite ring.

I didn’t quite make my five minute promise but I got up to the Great Hall as quickly as possible. When I entered, though, I considered turning back around and asking Mimi for that toast and jam she had mentioned. They all sat at our table. Milla next to Remus and Peter, who bumped elbows with Nica. Nica talked to Blair who sat across from her and in between Chloe and James who stole some bacon from Sirius’ plate. Why?

I sighed internally and very slowly walked towards the Hufflepuffs. Maybe if I walked slowly enough they’d be done eating and I could not feel that badly. But since I didn’t move at the speed of a flubberworm, I arrived at the table before Peter had started his second course. I sat down next to Mag and across from Toby, keeping some distance between me and the Potter-posse and Crick.

“Morning, you look terrible!”, Magnus greeted me and won a slap against the shoulder.

“Charming.” He grinned at me and handed me a cup and the pot of coffee. “Thanks.”

I mindlessly grabbed a raisin roll and a chocolate muffin and started plucking them apart without really eating.

Nica waved at me.

“Huh?”

“Ugh, if you’re sure you don’t want to come to Hogwarts and spy on those two lovebirds?”

“I am. Got homework and detention.”

“Right! What d'you get?”

“Caring for the plans in the greenhouses one hour a day. Not too bad, actually.”

“You could do both tonight, you know”, Peter said trying not to spit out his sausage and fried egg.

“Not if I want to sleep at some point.”

“Sleep is for the weak! Live a little, Goods! So what if you don’t have all your homework? Nobody will die from it.” Hoarse voice, cheery tone, friendly, casual, not a trace of hostility. Was he kidding?

“Consider me weak then.” I pushed an enormous piece of muffin in my mouth and nearly suffocated.

“It will be so much fun though, shopping and following them around just the right amount”, Blair tried to change my mind.

“I hope you’ll have much fun. But I’ll sit this one out.”

“You’ve sat everything out, since the year started, Tea!”

“Was I talking to you?”

“No, but since we’re friends again, I reckon I can take an interest in your wellbeing again. You’ve spent five weeks in isolation, Black’s right, you should live a little.”

“Thanks for the input.”

“Have I done something?”

“No Crick, course not, sorry. I snuck off to the kitchens yesterday and fell asleep there, I’m just grumpy. Which is another good reason to stay here, by the way. Get some decent sleep.”

“No changing your mind?”

“None.”

The group went back to loudly planning how to spy on Remus and Milla which had those two groan, roll their eyes and giggle. I stayed out of most conversations and focussed on the destruction of yet another raisin roll. My untouched coffee had gone cold by the time the others got up.

“Coming?”, James held out his hand to help me off the bench.

“Sure”, I sighed and took his hand.

He held me back from the others a bit.

“You should have come with the others last night.”

“I was making up with Crick.”

“Before that I mean. You should’ve come outside with them.”

“To do what exactly?”

“Listen to Sirius explain.” I didn’t answer.

“He did explain all of it. Granted, it took him forever which is way too long, but he did. And I think you should have heard it. Maybe even before the others.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m glad he feels… Forget it. It’s fine.”

We arrived outside and pulled out our cigarettes while Milla and Remus waved and made their way to the village.

“This is going to be great!”, Sirius triumphed.

“It better be. We’d have one hell of a mess on our hands, if it isn’t”, Blair answered.

“Don’t be a spoilsport. It will be great, they will come back coupled up and we won’t have to listen to Remus whine about her anymore.”

“Does he do that?”

“What? No, of course not, never, don’t know why I said that”, he recovered very unconvincingly.

I took a last puff, threw the fag on the ground and went back to the foyer.

“Where do you think you’re going?”, Nica shouted.

“To bed! You are off in a minute anyways, aren’t you?”

“We’re giving them an hour head-start. Come back!”

“I’m knackered Chloe, I’ll have a lie-down.” Spoken and disappeared.

“All is not well with you.” Crick had waited for me.

“I’m really tired. Maybe some other time?”

“If you want to talk, I’m here, yeah? Even if some idiot breaks your heart.”

“Noone did. And I wouldn’t come to you with that. I’m not a sadist.”

“You could, though.” I hugged him a little longer than usual trying to express my gratefulness, appreciation and how bad I still felt, then I left him standing in the foyer and went to bed.

Felix had come up to the dorm and woken me up with a weird expression on his face, informing me that Sirius stood in the corridor waiting for me, bothering everyone who went in or out, asking them to get me for him. Groaning I got up and dressed again. I reckoned that I didn’t have a choice to avoid talking to him. After all I had just accused him of ignoring me for no apparent reason, it would be childish to do the same to him.

Breathing in and out two or three times I stood in the common room before opening the door and stepping onto the corridor.

“Goods, hey.”

“Hi.”

“You seemed…discontent this morning.”

“How late is it?”

“Just about lunch time.”

“Bloody hell, I slept for a while, then”

“Yeah, you did. I’ve been here four hours and most of your hosuemates proper hate me by now. Felix was really annoyed when I asked him to get you.”

“He’s thirteen, he’s always annoyed.” I tried a smile. It felt weird.

“Listen, you want to grab a bite and have a chat? I reckon I owe you one.”

“I’d rather not, Sirius. I’m pretty sure I know all I need to know. It’s fine. Kind of.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, yesterday cleared a couple of things up.”

“It did?”

“Yes. Just leave it, yeah?” I turned to either climb back into bed or confront my mountain of homework.

“Goods, I want to talk to you, hold up!”

“You want to talk to me? You want to talk to me? I’ve wanted to talk to you for five bloody weeks. And I’ve tried and sensationally failed, haven’t I? Can’t always get you want.”

I knocked against the barrel.

“Goo…Jette! I’m an idiot, okay? I know. But you deserve a conversation.”

“Damn right! I deserved one first day back from Christmas. Or the day after that. But I didn’t get one. I got death stares and ignorance like I had bloody murdered someone.” I stepped back from the door and lowered my voice again as more and more of my housemates went to lunch.

“I’m sorry”, Sirius hissed. “Which is why I’d like to explain it to you.

“What’s there to explain?”

“All of it!”

“You okay?” Felix and Marvin had just climbed out on the corridor.

“Sure”, I answered.

“You don’t look it.” He turned to Sirius. “She hasn’t had an easy couple of weeks, right? And she’s not good with waking up. Don’t upset her anymore, mate.” He looked into Sirius’ face all earnest and protective and I didn’t think I either ever respected or loved him as much as in that moment.

“I really don’t intend to upset her. I’m trying to apologise and make things right.” What I saw of Sirius’ expression was melancholic.

“You’re a stellar brother, Felix, you know that? She’s lucky to have you.”

“She really is”, I agreed kissing Felix on the cheek and sending him away.

“He’s looking out for you”, Sirius sadly smiled.

“He better be. I’ve done enough of that for him for years. Should’ve seen him in his first year. Lost little idiot.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. Same thing with Reg…” The smile vanished from his face.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. But I am. So, please have lunch with me?” I sighed deeply. I contemplated for a moment. I walked towards the stairs.

“Thanks, Goods. I appreciate it.”

“Hang on! Should you not be in Hogsmeade spying on Remus?”, I suddenly asked when it occurred to me that he had so looked forward to that little mission.

“Oh, the rest are covering that. Thought this was more important.”

We went up in silence, both wondering where this talk would actually leave us. Sirius pulled me to the very empty Gryffindor table. It was the emptiest of all four of them, only first and second years, Sirius and I. My own table next to it was a little more populated. Obviously the snow and cold kept some people form the village. Most Slytherins were apparently battling the weather and most Ravenclaws had decided to stay in.

Staring at the bowls and plates in front of me I realised I still wasn’t hungry although I barely touched my breakfast apart from brutally mutilating it. Unwillingly I piled some salad on my plate and decorated it with a bit of chicken breast. Sirius took half the total amount of chicken wings and drowned them in ketchup. I waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. He thoroughly enjoyed his food and I forced myself to finish mine. When a third of his plate was cleared he looked up from it and turned to his left, facing me. His face was covered in ketchup, he didn’t care or didn’t notice. I handed him a napkin.

“What did you mean when you said that yesterday cleared up things? I mean it might have for the others because they didn’t know what you knew, but what on earth did it clear up for you?”

I bit my lip and hesitated. He jumped his shadow, I should, too.

“The girls said some things, when they wanted to come pick me up to go upstairs that just…made me understand things better. No need for you to repeat it.”

“Come again?”

“They said that you had told them all about it because there was no need to keep it a secret from your friends.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s that, then.”

“What?”

“Well, I took the hint. That’s why I didn’t join you guys.”

“What hint?”

“Are you serious?”

“Always.” I couldn’t help but chuckle. Should’ve known better than to use that word.

“The way they found out is identical to the way I found out. Not asking for it but hearing it anyway. And you tell them all about it because they’re your friends.”

“Right…”

“Well, that told me all I needed to know.”

“I’m clearly missing something. Mind just telling me what you know.”

“Ugh…” I pushed my plate away and rubbed my hand over my face probably messing up my make-up.

“Do I have to?”

“Please. You seem to think that that means more than it does and I’d like to understand that.”

“It’s not that difficult: They are your friends, so you tell them what’s up when they hear about your housing situation. I’m not your friend, so you don’t tell me. I get that. So,I guess I can go?”

I got up and walked outside to the courtyard. Sirius caught up with me at the first of the icy steps.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“What else should I believe? When I found I seized existing for weeks.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“But what. Look, it’s fine, really. I don’t fully understand what I’ve done wrong but nobody can be liked by everybody and you don’t have to be friends with me to be friends with them. You just have to accept my presence. As long as you can do that…”

“Will you shut up?”, Sirius interrupted my babbling. “That is not true. None of that is true, yeah? You are my friend. I took a bloody punch for you. By a guy who’s built like a small mountain troll. I do not do that for people I dislike.”

“But…why… how…what?”

“I would have talked to you last night anyways, Goods. James, Remus and Peter set me straight. They were furious. Don’t ever doubt their friendship; I think they were ready to drop me for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Maybe not dropped me completely. The point is that I’m an idiot and you’re my friend. If you still want to be. Seeing how I’m an idiot…”

“Yeah, I want to be your friend, why d’you think I blew up at you.”

“Fine. Friends. Good Merlin. Thought that was obvious after we rescued you from Cricket…”

“So, did I but then you ignored me…”

“Said I’m sorry, haven’t I? Can you just let me explain?”

“Only if we go back inside, I’m freezing.”

He smiled and led me back into the castle and the prefect lounge. We didn’t talk on the way up. I didn’t know what to say anyways, I was rather confused.

In the lounge Sirius ignited the logs in the fireplace and I found some left over bottles of butterbeer.

“Nice!”

“I’m all ears”, I said after the first sip and gave Sirius my undivided attention.

“Right. Okay. Where do I start?”

“Where did you start yesterday?”

“Answering all the question the girls had”, he laughed.

“I have a question but I don’t know whether I want it answered.”

“Go for it.”

“When I realised you lived with James although your parents are alive and well I kind of assumed they… chased you out of their house. That right?”

“Sort of. I mean, you could say that. Look, I’ll go a bit far back in the story to answer that, yeah? That might be easiest.” I nodded.

“Here we go: My parents are pathetic, vile, racist people who love their so called blood purity and hate everything that isn’t a pureblood wizard or witch. I didn’t get that when I was young and I don’t get it now. And I’ve always let them know that I neither understand nor agree. When I was younger they didn’t make a big deal out of it, kept repeating their credo to me and hoped with all the traditional pureblood education I’d get the hang of it in time.

That changed when I started Hogwarts, got sorted into Gryffindor and befriended James, Peter and Remus. A bloodtraitor and two halfbloods were not who my parents wanted me to spend my time with. When I came home for Christmas they told me they were disappointed and expected me to use my position in Gryffindor House to spy on all those unworthy of magic so they could use that information in the Ministry to get unpure blood banned from Hogwarts. I refused. I told them I liked the blood traitors and halfbloods I knew and stuff like that. That’s when it started.” He paused and took a sip of his drink. He didn’t start talking again.

“The violence?”, I asked in a whisper. Truly, I wanted him to say no.

“Yeah”, he answered just as quiet. He took another sip of his bottle. “At first it was just a well-placed slap across the face and some yelling about how I was not serving my name. But the more they forced their views on me, the more I rebelled against them. Didn’t help that James and his family are normal purebloods who showed me how it could and should be done right. That made me even angrier at their ideals and twisted darkness. So, basically I escalated the rebellion and they escalated the repercussions. Slaps became punches, one became five and then ten and then don’t ask me how many, telling me I wasn’t serving my name turned into calling me a disappointment, a disgrace, a waste of space. You know…”

“I knew I didn’t want an answer to that question.” I felt a lump build in my throat and my eyes water. I usually wasn’t such a cry-baby.

“Oh, it’s no big deal…

“Yeah, it is! How could you even say that? It’s the biggest deal! They are your parents, they’re supposed to protect you and love you and tell you everything’s gonna be alright and be proud of you and support you. They’re not supposed to harm you, Sirius! Or break you down mentally. It is a huge deal.” While I spoke the lump in my throat grew and got audible, my voice cracked a bit. Sirius looked up at the sound of that.

“Woah, no crying! It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright! It’s amazing you’re not some whimp or an elitist arsehole or the worst person ever, fucking miracle that! You deserve so much better! Don’t tell me it’s alright! It’s not. Not even a bit.” By now tears were streaming down my face, clearly alarming Sirius.

“Goods… I don’t know what to do, now. The other girls didn’t cry. What do I do?”

I didn’t answer but leaned over and hugged him tightly. Sobbing like a toddler at the idea of the terror that he’d been through for the past five years. After a moment or two he hugged me back, rubbing my back, going “shhhhh” all the time.

“You know it’s not alright, yeah?”, I asked when I had calmed down enough.

“I know it’s not normal. And I know they’re wrong. But I am alright. Because I’m with the Potters now, and I got a family that actually functions and very good but sobby friends. So, please don’t feel sorry for me.”

“Of course I feel sorry for you!” Sirius let me go and pushed me away, his eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. I was confused. What had I done now?

“I knew it! This is exactly what I told them and they all went ‘no, she’s not like that, she won’t look down on you.’ And I believed it! I don’t need your pity!”

“I don’t pity you”, I forced myself to sound calm and neither shocked nor offended. “I am sorry for you.”

“Same bloody thing!”

“Not at all. You are my friend. I respect you and I care about you. That means I want you to be happy. I want you to be well. I want you to be unharmed. I want you to be as whole as possible. So, when you’re not happy, when you’re not well, when you are harmed, when you’re being broken, I feel sorry for that. Not because I look down on you but because I’m hurt on your account. You honestly think, I’d cry for you if I didn’t respect you? If I didn’t care?” I still forced myself to remain calm but it took all I had.

“You don’t think I’m a pathetic loser?”

“Sirius, why would I?”

“Cause you have such a perfect family. All of you. You all managed to be yourselves and believe in the right thing and make your parents proud. Why would you not think I’m an utter failure?”

“They are the failure! They failed you! And if you think any of us would judge you for what you’ve been through, then we have, too. But not you. Not you.” I closed the distance between us and forced him to look at me by pulling up his face with both my hands.

“You have done nothing wrong. And we all know that. You’ve stood up for what you believe in to terrible and horrifying people and you’ve come out a strong and kind person. We know that and we see that and we respect that, so much. But we still hurt for you. We’re still sorry you had to go through it. You got that?”

“I got that.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” I let go of him and returned to where he’d pushed me.

“Is that why you didn’t talk to me. Because you thought I’d judge you, I’d laugh at you?”

“Honestly, after that speech I’d rather not say…”

“As long as you don’t think it anymore.” He gave me a weak smile.

“Not anymore.”

“Good.”

“Want to hear the rest of it?”

“The rest of it?”

“Like how I ended up at James’.”

“Yes and no.”

“So, my parents had a dinner discussion about werewolves, one night. It was during the summer holidays and there had just been an article in the Prophet about how there is a German organisation that has set up a full-moon-camp for werewolves. If you’re affected you sign up and then they take care of you over the full moon. The idea is for families to not be as affected or whatever. Great initiative. Obviously my parents hated it.

They told each other how it would be a great idea to set the whole camp on fire on a full moon night just to ‘end that pest’. Now, I don’t know what you think of werewolves but I tend to think they shouldn’t be liquidiated for existence.”

“Agreed. Most days they are just normal people and when they turn, they’re not themselves anymore. I’ll be honest: I do not need to run into a werewolf during a full moon. There’s a reason they are classified as one of the most dangerous creatures, but I’m mainly sad for them. The people I mean.”

“Well, my parents would hate you. Even more. Anyways, I told them pretty much what you just said. Which… didn’t fly with them. And because they had spent the entire time I was with them by screaming at me and using me as their personal punching ball – don’t look like that! – they decided I would be given one more chance to return to their noble and ancient ideals. So, they made me. Literally. They made me do what they wanted me to do. Brought in a stray mixed blood dog and had me kick it.”

“When you say made me…”

“Imperius.” I had to find every last bit of strength to not cry again. There was a very good reason that curse was an unforgivable one.

“And when that didn’t have the desired effect they rounded the evening out with a Cruciatus. I was knock-out for about half a day, then I wrote to James and flooed over there. Never looked back.”

“Thank God for Euphemia and Fleamont. I’m glad you’re out of there.”

“So am I.”

We drank up our butterbeers without another word and silently agreed to go back out to the courtyard after a while. Before we opened the door of the prefects’ lounge I hugged him again. Practically buried my face in his neck, one arm around it, one around his waist. I didn’t cry, I didn’t say anything. I just stood there wrapped around him, trying to stop his hands from shaking, which hadn’t been still since he told me about his sorting. I hoped he’d understand what I was trying to convey.

“You smell like something very familiar but I can’t put my finger on it”, Sirius said after half an eternity. Difficult to say if I had succeeded in my mission.

“Coconut”, I answered.

“I like it.”

“Thanks.”

“You can let go now, Jette. I’m good. We’re good.” I let go and smiled at him. He opened the door and we left.

[falsehoodsanders]

Slipping

A/N: this is the first fic I wrote for the Sanders Sides fandom. Originally it was a prompt for @@something-sanders for the ts fic exchange organized by @the-prince-and-the-emo , however, I’m being re-assigned on my main so I thought I’d post it here! 

Ship: Romantic LAMP/CALM

TW: ANGSTY, eating disorders, self harm, suicidal thoughts, self hatred. You asked for angst so I brought angst. I’m sorry...

WC: 2236 (whoops) 

validate me ok bye

~River xx

Slipping

That was the only word that came to mind when he thought of himself. His entire existence at present was a metaphorical landslide, and he was slipping into the valley below with no way to make his way back up to the peak of the mountain. He knew he was needed, physically. He knew he was valued by the others and the Fanders. If he ducked out, there was no way Thomas could function without him. But what was there for him to help with aside from being necessary to his host’s physical well-being? He didn’t offer anything of value, not like the others did. The others gave thoughtful input into things Thomas should do. They helped him attain the goals he set for himself. They helped him see the good in the world, despite all of the negative things happening just outside his door. He couldn’t do any of that. Aside from being a “main side”, he wasn’t helpful. Wasn’t necessary. Wasn’t worth it.

He loved the other three with his entire being. He didn’t know he could love another as much as he loved them. When they first started their relationship, he fell hard and fast. It was bumpy but they managed to ride the storm until they found calmer waters. He could tell you a million different things he loved about each of them, but he didn’t know what they saw in him. There was something awe-spiring in the way their eyes sparkled when they spoke of something that they took pride in, or the way each of them had their own way of being intimate with one another, or the way they could communicate with each other with a simple gesture, like leaving sticky notes around the Mindscape, or having made a thoughtful breakfast to make the others feel loved. Loved. He felt loved. He was constantly reminded that he was, in fact, loved. But did he deserve it?

He knew what depression was. He saw the warning signs long ago. He knew he was just getting worse… but were the voices in his head really that wrong? They pointed out the flaws in his reflection, offering a not so gentle suggestion that he add a bit more makeup to his routine than before. He listened, but it wasn’t enough. They pointed out the weight he had gained and how overweight his attire made him appear. He had cut down his eating habits, tracking his calorie and carb intake as to not make the situation worse. He had lost a few pounds, but it still wasn’t enough. They whispered threats when he was forced to eat something with too many calories, saying he wasn’t trying hard enough to make himself perfect for his loves. He then ate what he was given by his beloved boyfriends, and once it was acceptable to leave the table, he rushed off to his bathroom and forced it all back up. He focused on the numbers, limiting himself to 500 calories a day, but it still just wasn’t enough. Soon the excess fat was gone, but the voices found more to critique. They pointed out that he needed to be more toned, to have a slimmer waist and more muscle to ensure that the others saw him as an appealing partner. So he went on long runs and took to the gym, weighing himself every morning and every evening to see the progress he had made, but it wasn’t enough. The voices wore him down, made him tired and weak, which then only fuelled them to keep pushing him to be stronger, more toned, skinnier, prettier… better.

He knew what an eating disorder was… he wasn’t stupid. But as he fell deeper into the hole he a dug himself, it soon became a routine. Wake up at 5am sharp. Go for a run around the Imagination until breakfast at 8. Eat breakfast with his boyfriends. Help with clearing the table and washing the dishes. Make it to his bathroom and force up the meal he just ate. Brush his teeth, drink some water and then eat a healthy snack of under 150 calories to replace the food that he brought back up. Spend time with his boyfriends in the commons until 11:30 where he would excuse himself to go workout, saying he had packed a lunch (a lie) and promised to stay hydrated (another lie) so he didn’t have to join them for lunch. Finish working out at 2:30, pushing himself to his absolute limits to make sure he burned more calories than he consumed. He would then shower for about 30 minutes and then stand in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection in disgust and making note of where he still needed to improve. Repeat breakfast scenario at dinner, which was at 6:30 on the dot, but allowing himself 200 calories for his replacement meal to hopefully keep his energy up to avoid suspicion from the others. Spend an hour with his boyfriends for “family bonding time” until retiring to his room at 8, claiming he was tired from his day and needed some sleep. He would stay awake until around 2am, trying to find new ways to make himself better for the loves of his life. They deserved the universe and more, and he would try his damnest to give them just that.

The voices never quieted down, always repeating harsh remarks towards him, until one struck a chord with him. He was reading a post about how to make his progress matter when he stumbled on a blog on tumblr. It soon became his favourite site to visit. He created his own account, followed this blog religiously and even put on notifications to see when they’d post their next thinspo picture. The more he scrolled, the more he found different ways of taking out his hatred on himself. The voices still weren’t happy with him, so he took to self harming. He knew it was dangerous. He knew it was an addiction. He knew that once he started it would be near impossible to stop, but the second the cool metal blade hit his inner wrist, he craved the sensation. So one cut became two, and two became four, and soon enough, he moved to his thighs and stomach because both arms were littered with scars; new ones that still stung, old ones that had faded to white until he reopened them again to see the crimson bubble on his skin before rolling down to hit the tile beneath him. He no longer wore sleeveless tops or shorts. He couldn’t risk his secret being found by the others.

“Roman?” a soft voice came from his door. Patton. Of course it was. Sweet, wonderful, compassionate Patton.

“Yes my love?” Roman replied, mustering all of his energy to sound as he should: regal, proper, confident… worthy.

“Can we come in?” Patton asked, “We need to talk to you.”

Of course. They were here to break up with him. They must have finally come to their senses.

Unlocking the door, he braced himself for what was to come with a solemn “Yes.”

Patton came in first, followed by Logan and Virgil, who all had a hesitant and almost sad look on their face. Their eyes scanned the royal side’s room, finding paper scattered across the floor, each with red X through whatever idea he had written down and words such as “stupid” or “insufficient” or “failure.”  His sword lay on the seat of the vanity, completely covered in blood stains that weren’t even attempted to be cleaned. The ever-growing collection of makeup and photos of the flawless, photoshopped models from the internet covered the vanity itself, along with notes on scraps of paper stuck to the mirror with more red coloured words like “worthless” and “ugly.” His Disney posters had been ripped off the walls and his curtains were shredded from the times he had taken his sword to them in a fit of rage. The scale placed in front of the mirror was surrounded by shattered glass, obviously from a previous mirror that Roman had punched in fear of his own reflection. And Roman himself. He sat on the floor in front of his bed. His eyes were red and puffy, his hair was sticking up in all different directions, he sat in his boxers, leaving his scars visible and a clear view of his ribs poking out from under his skin.

It took everything in the three to not freak out over what they saw. It would make the situation worse.

“I suppose you’ve come to your senses, then?” Roman asked, no longer trying to keep up his facade. His voice croaked from crying for days on end, never knowing when, or if, they’d stop.

“I’m not sure what you mean, my prince.” Logan spoke softly, almost as if not to upset Roman. It would have been endearing if Roman didn’t know what was going on.

“You’re here to break up with me, right? To tell me I’m useless, worthless? That all I do is drag you down and make your lives miserable? I’ve been expecting it for a while so you might as well just get it over with.”

Shock was evident on the other’s faces. They had no idea that this was how their Prince was feeling.

“Roman… we’re not here to do any of that.” Virgil whispered, worried that he would end up scaring him away.

Roman scoffed, “Well then what are you here for? I don’t know what else it could be. I don’t see why you care.”

Patton took Roman’s hand and squeezed lightly, “Roman, we’re here because we’ve been worried about you.”

“What for? I’m not worth the hassle.” Roman muttered, looking down at the ground to avoid the disgust he’d see on their faces.

The three looked at each other, making silent decisions on what to do next. Virgil made his way to the bathroom to get a soft cloth to clean his cuts.

“Roman, you are worth so much. You are irreplaceable. We are nothing without you.” Logan murmured, kneeling down to Roman’s height. He gently tilted his lover’s head up to look at him. All Roman saw was the tears in Logan’s eyes and the sadness that was evident across his face.

“You’re lying.”

Virgil returned with a damp cloth, carefully placing it on the thigh with blood dripping on the floor, “Ro, love. Why would we be lying?”

“I’m not good enough for you! That’s why!” Roman exclaimed, “You’re all perfect and wonderful and I don’t deserve you. You all have a purpose. Logan contributes his knowledge and passion for learning new things. Patton gives him emotions and helps him make strong bonds between him and his friends and family. Virge, babe… you keep Thomas cautious in the world we live in. You might work overtime a lot, but you’ve only tried to protect him. All I’m here for is to come up with ideas and I can’t even do that right. Plus, I hurt you without intending to and I can never forgive myself. Vee, I treated you like a villain for a long time and I hurt you in the process. I constantly patronize Pat without realizing it and I see the hurt in your eyes long after it happens. I fight with Logan all the time and make fun of him when he has a difficult time processing emotions. You’re all breathtaking too, and here I am; a fat, ugly, good for nothing side that has now hurt the three most important things in his life because he’s pathetic.”

There was a pause while they took in what Roman had just said, until Virgil broke the silence, “Roman. Look at me please.”

He does so, and he immediately regrets it. There are obvious tears streaking down his cheeks, messing up the eyeshadow beneath his eyes. Yet he still offers a small smile, comforting and warm.

“Roman. You have always been beautiful. Inside and out. You are… well… were so full of life. You cheer us up when we’re down, singing silly songs or making us waltz around the living room. When you sing Disney at the top of your lungs, it comforts us, knowing that you’re feeling happy, and sometimes we sing along. You may have done some not so nice things in the past, yes, but you’ve grown. We have seen you trying so hard to accept us and love us as we are.”

Tears threatened to fall down Roman’s face, but he wouldn’t let them. He couldn’t show them how weak he was.

“It’s okay to cry, Ro.” Patton spoke, “You encourage me to express all of my emotions, not just the happy ones. It’s time I repay you for that. Let it go.”

And so Roman did. He let all of his fears and worries and insecurities go as he sobbed in their arms. They all held him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. It wasn’t perfect. It was far from perfect, but this was the beginning. The beginning of learning to love himself again, of recovering. It was a long road ahead, but the voices of his boyfriends drowned out the ones in his head. He felt safe. He felt wanted. He felt loved. And yes, he did deserve it.

[venacoeurva]

Aftermath, Chapter 10: A Familiar Coldness

You can read this on AO3 here.

If you are new to this fic, you can start from chapter 1 here. And PLEASE read the tags and the notes at the start of each chapter for content warnings, I am not responsible for your mental health, you are.

This chapter is rated: T (mostly for language)

Terra considers the main personal topics of the month, Isa is angry and kind of a mess(again), Lea is disappointed in Isa (again), and night lights are an important part to a home. This isn't a very action-packed chapter, mostly fleshing out a pathway to future events and to get some of Terra's perspective and concerns before more Isa perspective-centric chapters.

No trigger warnings for this one unless you don't like someone having a panic attack, otherwise it's fairly mild.

            The clouds began to cover the world in a blanket of snow, sky a dark gray and quiet as everyone went to their homes.

           There were a few persistent things on Terra’s mind as he power-walked back home, them being what Xemnas was up to, was Vanitas acclimating to not having to fight all the time, and if Isa was fine with being called Isa now or if he was just running with it because everyone called him that. It seemed like he’d ask at least him and Lea to call him something else if he wasn’t for being called that, though. He’d have to ask.

           Vanitas was still very much a work in progress, as much as any teenager who was originally existing only to become a weapon and was beaten in combat every day. The pain he felt with every Unversed’s demise only made it harder on him. He still mostly avoided everyone sans Ventus, who he was very clingy toward despite proclaiming how annoying he was. His days still comprised of trailing warily after Ven while holding on to some article of clothing which was usually a sleeve or wristband, being angry, and having panic attacks before going to his room for hours. He was very sensitive to being seen crying. So yeah, he had a while and needed to work on a lot to even be remotely functional.

           If he was mature enough and comfortable, he could sit down with Isa and discuss their abusive upbringings and find solidarity, but Vanitas definitely wasn’t at the point of discussing that. It wasn’t like Isa was open to just telling anyone about his childhood, either; he’d probably just shut off his feelings again and Saïx-mode would activate.

           Speaking of, Saïx mode hadn’t been seen in quite a while. Maybe he was coping with emotions better now, or just better at suppressing them to the point where it wasn't like there was an on-off switch on him.

           And then there was Xemnas. It also wasn’t hard to tell he did not like Xemnas—he represented the darkest point of Terra’s existence. He was his own body moving and doing without much of his input, and now he was basically a copy of him with a different personality that budded within his body prior! Xemnas was a walking effigy of trauma for him.

           Now, he could sympathize with Isa as to why he was apparently somewhat fond of him, though. What he did not understand was how those feelings coexisted so easily with his plans to casually murder him. Saïx was an enigma, and he would use the useful and discard the impractical if the situation called for it—that was about the best reasoning he could come up with. Also, abandonment issues and patricide.

           As time went on, more memories from his time as Xemnas and Xemnas as a separate entity came back to him, and the more he began to comprehend their interactions as well as the thoughts and feelings of the people within his body at the time. He could see the branching off as their heart recovered and Xemnas gained his own sense of self. It seemed only natural for him to do so while his heart formed even if he was going to be strong-armed as a vessel if he didn’t want to comply. Whether he was reluctant or not was debatable, but he has his own motives outside of that whole issue.

           Some information was helpful socially, like he remembered that Isa couldn’t lay on his stomach and feel something on his back or else he’d panic and get violent and he had always hated people touching him before he could see them. In retrospect, that made a lot of sense why when he was affectionate he’d be consistently looking at whoever the recipient was or initiated it himself. Prior to remembering this, Terra wasn’t sure if Isa disliked the latter purely because of his jumpiness after moving into the apartment—partially because of what he went through and because his mental breakdown put him in a pretty bad place. That was an easy assumption to make, to be fair.

           Other things he could recall were that Braig was very picky with what brushes he could use to tame his hair (no wonder it always looked so silky and free of snarls), Lea would drink basically anything caffeinated but really liked macchiatos and energy drinks that should probably be banned and he was double-jointed, and Vexen could reach incredibly high octaves if you scared him badly enough. The man could be an opera singer or could join a choir.

           Regardless, it would be so strange to see Xemnas separate from him, to see someone who was basically an exact clone going about completely independently from him and Xehanort. This wasn’t to say Terra anticipated seeing him; he would greatly prefer he instead melt back into nothingness and everyone could just move on like before he made his not-so-grand return. It wasn’t like he could state this out loud, as it was fairly harsh, but he knew that sentiment could be read from him enough already. Maybe that’s why Isa felt so distant on a personal level; he didn’t feel like he could talk about any of it with him, now. Too much bias and Isa got a sense that discussing him was basically taboo. That kind of hurt.

           He knew Isa was in a strange place emotionally, he was showing signs of slipping into a depressive episode again, and he remembered now that Xemnas…well. He knew Isa couldn’t know that—not now. It wasn’t even his place to say it, it was Xemnas’, but he felt responsible in keeping it from him as long as he could if he didn’t already know. There was no benefit for anyone, it would just cause more problems.

           He had to wonder if that would bite him in the ass later.

           The fluffy snow bounced off him as he continued on and wished the climate was a bit more tropical or arid. At least a hot shower would feel wondrous. Then he’d make dinner after that—it was his turn—and take a nice nap.

           He unlocked the door and stepped in, slipping his shoes off by the mat. He heard Lea in the kitchen, voice low. Freezing where he stood, he listened in.

           “…I mean, I’m glad you’re doing better but I don’t think you should act like here is the perfect place to cap your recovery off.” Lea sighed.

           “How am I doing that?” Isa asked, irritated, “And do you even know what the full extent of what I need to recover from is?”

           “Just—why? You were doing so well and getting used to people and all that then you start cutting other people off again!”

           “Any improvement from being an antisocial hermit seems like a big one, Lea. It’s plateauing right now since I can function for the most part but I still have incredibly low energy and my depressive symptoms aren’t as manageable knowing I can feel. There’s a burnout in improvement once it’s survivable, and mine happens to be a long but not intense one.”

           Isa sighed and continued. “Just because there’s still feelings, too, it doesn’t mean I’m going ahead with it. There’s no guaranteed chance of that. It’s not like he’s the only one, either, and you know that. We simply grew up too much for our relationship to stay romantic and functional, so can you stop blaming this for the reason why I’m not dating you again?”

           “How am I using that as an excuse?” Lea sputtered. “I mean, duh, I’m a bit salty he’s an option for you and not me, but that’s not…”

           “Why can’t we hold a conversation without this happening?” Isa hissed, half at Lea and half at himself. “Why do you come over like you’re not going to let your jealousy turn into an argument?”

           “It’s not jealousy! I’m just worried because, y’know, maybe developing feelings for your former superior who is also kind of nuts is a bad thing.”

           “You have some gall to act innocent when you’re part of the reason that’s even an issue now.”

           Lea growled, "Seriously?"

           Isa stood up, hands slamming hard on the table. “It was your idea to go into that castle, dumbass! And then after that horror show and we were proper traumatized, you just decide to fuck off and abandon me!”

           “Your interests weren’t for the better good, by that point, and they weren’t just about getting out! You were emotionally torturing these kids because you saw them as weapons and the fact I was friends with them when we thought we couldn't feel anything. And—and don’t act like I never went back for you! I care about you, but not enough to jeopardize other people I care about.” Lea snarled.

           “Well too bad you didn’t stay and we would have gotten the job done before any of that would have happened!” Isa roared, a familiar vibration in his voice that signaled that maybe it was time to step in.

           Terra loudly closed the door and could hear them turn in their seats.

           “Just me.” He called.

           “Ah, hey, dude.” Lea grunted as he casually got out of his seat and walked into the living room, attempting to make his expression as relaxed as possible.

           Isa didn’t follow and could be heard sipping something out of a mug with the intensity of a thousand suns.

           “Sorry for not being able to catch up with ya, I have places to be.” Lea stated and slipped past Terra.

           “Are you sure…?” Terra quietly muttered as he watched him close the door behind him.

           He walked into the kitchen to see Isa sat at the table with a rather peeved expression and clenched fists.

           Folding his arms, he gave him a sympathetic smile. “I, uh, walk in on something? There was yelling.”

           “He’s got the wrong idea, and I wish he’d stop being caught up in the fact I’m not attracted to him anymore. Just because I don’t want to date him doesn’t mean I don’t care about him. That, and he shouldn't get to act like he never caused me pain just because he came back and because I did things wrong, too.”

           “It can take a while to process being rejected, especially if it’s someone you used to date and thought you had a chance with again. Plus, a lot has happened with you two--sort of, uh, hurting each other.”

           Isa rubbed his temples, shaking his head.

           “I can see why you’re kind of reluctant to have him over if that happens every time.” Terra added and went to get a glass of milk.

           “He clings to the past too much, and I think he’s jealous but won’t admit it flat-out.”

           “I’m sure that’s part of it. He’ll get over it and be bearable to talk to…probably. I think he expected you two to go back to being on really good terms when, well, too much changed and he got out of the pessimistic mindset from earlier and ended up with some hope.”

           Isa groaned and sank in his chair, taking another drink.

           “He acts like I was the one who abandoned him first.”

           “Give him time to cool down and probably a mediator.” Terra reassured, turning to him. “What are you hungry for?”

           “I have no real preference. I think I’m going to nap this off. I’m getting a migraine.” Isa uttered.

           Terra watched him aggressively shuffle to the couch and lay down. He turned back to the counter and looked over his options. They had a nice new rice cooker, so they could at least have rice to put something on. Maybe stir-fry? No, he wasn’t going to attempt that. He could just bake some potatoes; those kept well for a few hours after being made.

           Tying his hair back, he shuffled to the pantry and pulled a few big potatoes out.

           How and why did one of the major issues right now end up being relationship drama? He should be thankful for that, but still, why? hopefully that would resolve soon.

           “It’s getting pretty dark out.” Isa groggily stated, looking up from his place on the couch and out the big window above it. “I think that snow storm is coming in.”

           “At least the weather can decide what it wants to do. By the way, some baked potatoes are in the oven when you want them.” Terra said as he walked by with a laundry basket of his clothes to put away.

           “For a few days.”

           Terra resumed, walking into the bedroom and sliding open the drawers on his side of the dresser. He set the basket down and flipped the light switch up. The shadows in the corners dissipated and he sat on the floor to fold some pants.

           He pursed his lips, deep in thought (and annoyance) about the weather and how uncomfortable it would be to work out in that world if he was going to. It wouldn’t be as bad if the gardens didn’t get so icy.

           He stood, and the room went pitch black.

           The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, stomach twisted, and electricity shot up his spine. Blood rushed through his ears and the primal fear set in. If he could have seen the room, it would be spinning.

           Frozen but his heart beating out of his chest, Terra softly gasped. He felt absolutely trapped, suffocating in the inky dark. Oh no, not again. He expected to feel the pain of a heart ripping forcing its way into his chest, the blue moon glaring balefully down, and watching himself split into two people in succession, but every memory pounced on him at once.

           He squeezed his eyes shut so that face wouldn’t be staring at him, but he couldn't quash the images flashing under his eyelids or the feeling of what it was like to fade. Oh, god, he couldn’t breathe. One hand on his chest and the other on his throat, trying to force himself to breathe normally, damnit! His balance was off, head light, and he felt like his legs weighed tons.

           “Terra. Breathe.”

           A hand slowly pressed onto his shoulder.

           He blinked, shivering and wrenching his eyes upward to make some sense of where he was.

           “Terra,” Isa murmured as he knelt down, a small flame dancing on his hand, “the power went out.”

           “The—oh…”

           Using water for electricity was fairly cheap and generally stable, but they had to adapt with the wind, magic, sun, and coal after the fall. There were quite a few blackouts and brownouts already. That was the nice thing about The Castle That Never Was--it didn't have outages.

           Isa wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him up onto quaking legs and letting him lean on him. If there's one thing he learned about Terra, it's he reacted well to tactile stimulation when panicking or anxious. It was unusual compared to other people with similar issues to the two of them, but the fact he went a decade with dulled senses and a lack of stimulation made sense of why he found comfort in being touched and being able to feel it fully. Isa was the same way, but he just didn't like being alone in that state.

           “It’s warmest in here, so let’s sit on the bed while you calm down and I'll get the extra blankets.”

           Isa patted his shoulder and led him around.

           “I didn’t think the dark would do that to me.” Terra grunted and sat. "I thought it was the moon."

           He gripped the covers under him and took a few slow but deep breaths. Maybe it was both?

           Isa sat down next to him. “We could always get one of those dusk-to-dawn nightlights that are hardly bright but are noticeable and have a battery for when the power goes out. We, or I, could go get one today while picking up some other things once you calm down more.”

           He dug into his nightstand for a flashlight, adding, “Maybe the power will be back on by the time we get back.”

           “Or maybe tomorrow. Look outside, it's snowing pretty hard and I'm sure a lot of places have no power. But I just…can’t believe I’m afraid of the dark.” Terra groaned, tired and sulky.

           “To be fair, it’s so dark out and the blinds are closed, it was very abrupt." Isa clicked the light to life. "There's usually some light pouring in from outside, even at night.”

           “It’s such a lame thing to be scared of, though, even if there are valid reasons!” Terra sighed, standing back up now that he could get his bearings and it didn't feel like his lungs were going to implode.

           Isa patted him on the shoulder again and stepped past to go to the living room. “Terra, I’m scared of walking down stairs with someone somewhat close behind me. Yours makes sense after everything you went through and because it's so much harder to avoid the dark.”

           “So does yours…” Terra quietly retorted as he slowly followed after him.

           Just because it's been so long and you don't remember what...

[akaluan]

For the made up fic title - Signal Fires

((I… don’t even know? At all? Valdemar with the Bleach chars as a natural part of the Valdemar world. I guess if something doesn’t really make sense, ask and I’ll answer, but uh… pretty heavily Valdemar AU.

My brain is strange.))

Uryuu spotted the lights of the town through the darkness and felt relief; his journey was almost over, he was almost /home/ again. Even Swallow seemed to agree, snorting and picking up the pace without his input, her tack jingling faintly.

He didn’t bother reining her in despite the late hour. The road was new, without a pothole to be seen for Swallow to step in, and the barracks-town was right /there/. They both wanted the comforts of home, and Swallow could keep this steady pace for a lot longer than it would take them to arrive.

The small secondary entrance swung open as they approached, and Tatsuki leaned out. “The prodigal son returns,” she joked, eyeing him and Swallow carefully in the lantern light. “We didn’t expect you back for another week.”

Uryuu grunted and ducked his head, not bothering to dismount as Swallow stepped through the smaller entrance and turned immediately towards the stables.

“That bad, huh?” Tatsuki asked, closing the gate behind him and darting forward to catch up. “Do I need to get Orihime?”

“No,” Uryuu said. He dismounted at the stable doors and began to untie his gear while Tatsuki pulled one of the doors open, tossing his bags to the side and gathering up his weapons.

“Uhhuh,” Tatsuki said, eyeing him again as she took Swallow’s reins. “Well, if you’re certain. I’ll take care of Swallow, you go relax.”

Uryuu gave Tatsuki a curt nod of thanks and turned, grabbing his bags and stalking towards the barracks. It was such a relief to be home — his /true/ home — and he was looking forward to getting a proper night’s sleep and seeing the rest of the company in the morning.

Except he’d barely set foot in the training yard before a bell-like chiming caught his attention. Uryuu groaned and dropped his packs on one of the benches, followed by his bow and quiver of arrows. He knew that sound, and knew what it likely meant for him.

“Getsu,” Uryuu greeted the Companion once the other was in view. The pure white ‘horse’ nodded and stepped closer, pacing a circle around him while Uryuu buckled his sword in place. “Tatsuki already gave me the once over. I’m /fine/.”

::I will be the judge of that,:: Getsu told him sternly. ::You are back early and out late. You might be physically fine, but that is likely it.::

Uryuu grimaced. “Mother hen,” he muttered. “I’d rather sleep right now, thank you ve— /OW!/”

Teeth clamped down on his right shoulder strong enough to hurt, and another Companion tugged him backwards. ::Nah, ain’t lettin’ ya stew. C’mon minion, to King wit’ ya!::

“Why are the two of you /like this/?” Uryuu snarled, struggling to keep his balance as the second Companion kept pulling him back by his shoulder. He looped an arm back in retaliation and grabbed hold of the Companion’s mane to take some of the pressure off of his shoulder. “This is like the /exact opposite/ of what the damn Valdemarans say you Companions are supposed to be like— /Zan let me go, you damn asshole!/”

::Nah, cause then you’ll jes run,:: Zan told him smugly. ::Aww, look, we’ve got an audience!::

Uryuu /glared/ at the curious onlookers, not that it did much good. Some of the newer recruits ducked away, but the regular members were quite used to sights similar to this. Luckily, Zan dragged him out of the training yard and over to one of the watch towers without much delay.

“Traitors, all of them,” Uryuu grumbled, stumbling forward and almost slamming face-first into a closed door thanks to Zan letting go and giving him a strong shove. “I have no idea where the Valdemarans /ever/ got the idea that you Companions were paragons of Good. Ugh.”

::Probably because very few of them are as stubborn and fractious as you and Ichigo,:: Getsu replied, amused.

“I’m not even a damn Herald!” Uryuu cried, spinning to point accusingly at Getsu. “You’re just /always around Ichigo/ even though you aren’t his, or /anyone’s/ Companion! Everyone just /assumes/ that we’re bonded!” The smugness radiating off Getsu was frustrating, but at least in this Uryuu wasn’t alone. Nearly every Herald Uryuu had ever met ended up feeling the same about Getsu eventually.

::I am free to go wherever I please,:: Getsu declared haughtily.

“Yelling only encourages them,” Ichigo said from behind Uryuu. “I thought we went over this.”

Uryuu made a noise of protest and turned to glower at Ichigo, who stood in the now open doorway, an amused expression on his face. “Then move out of the way and let me in. I don’t want to deal with these two pests anymore.”

::Aww! Y’know ya missed us, minion!::

Ichigo chuckled and stepped back, letting Uryuu into the tower and closing the door behind him, then starting up the spiral stairs towards the outlook on top. They settled together, shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the crenelations and staring off into the darkness around them.

Ichigo didn’t press him for answers, and had likely had words with Zan and Getsu, because neither of the Companions mindspoke to him either.

Uryuu slowly relaxed, turning away from the countryside and sitting down on the roof, his back against the low wall. “Ryuuken wants me to quit.” Ichigo’s disgusted noise had Uryuu chuckling weakly. “He says its high time I retire and take up my rightful place.”

“Didn’t he—?”

“Yeah,” Uryuu agreed grumpily. “Made his way as a merc until grandfather finally died, and only /then/ came back home.” He scowled down at his hands, running his thumb over the heavy callouses. “Even had some woman picked out for me to marry.”

“Not surprising,” Ichigo mused. “Contract?”

“Not yet.” Uryuu shrugged and shifted position, leaning against Ichigo’s leg. “Nice enough woman, I guess. At least from the two days I had to speak with her, before I had another fight with Ryuuken and stormed out.”

“Think he’ll try to set up a contract?”

Uryuu scoffed. “I have no doubt. Think Getsu will let me pretend to be his Herald for a while? Then Ryuuken can’t say a damn thing.”

“Sure he can,” Ichigo said, bending down enough to rest a hand atop Uryuu’s head and thread his fingers through Uryuu’s hair. “He’s not /from/ Valdemar, what does he care about Heralds and the laws surrounding them?”

Uryuu grimaced at the reminder. He’d clearly been living in Valdemar too long if he just took for granted the way many people reacted to Heralds. “Well, I’m out of ideas then.”

“Eh, just tell Captain. She’ll sort him out before a day is over.”

He winced at the thought and rubbed at his temple. “That is probably the worst idea you’ve ever had, thank you for that. I’m not interested in inheriting so soon.”

Ichigo chuckled and tugged lightly on Uryuu’s hair. “I’m sure she’d help you handle it. Find you a good accountant and someone to govern in your stead. Just leave it in their hands and be an absentee lord.”

He groaned and slumped against Ichigo’s leg. “Please stop talking, I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Alright, alright,” Ichigo murmured softly, combing his fingers through Uryuu’s hair. “No more talking about shitty situations. So, want to hear what Tatsuki’s been getting up to?”

Uryuu made an absent noise of agreement and let Ichigo’s voice drown out the anxiety that returning to Ryuuken’s home always invoked.

(He didn’t know what he’d do without his friend.)