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astralaffairs · 5 years ago

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freedom of the press 04 | thomas jefferson

title: freedom of the press

pairing: thomas jefferson x reader

tags: @stargazelaurens @ivory-haired-queens @exoticxchicken8 @assbuttstyles777 @superbarriobrothers @distinguishedpotsticker @fukaaaaaaaa @hereforthepsyche-assessment @ivetoldamillionlies @fangirl570 @thealaddinkid @lasciviouspeach @snazzydoesthings @shy-and-awkward-daveed @rachelhermionerose @soft-weeb-s @gryffinclxw @anamrnk @daveeddiggsit @ayayayayana @marinovakovich --- hope i didnt miss anyone; lmk if you want to be added!!

words: 13.5k

warnings: this still doesn’t go past, like, pg-13, but careful around the end -- it isn’t quite sfw even tho its not rlly nsfw. also, neo-nazi mentions, the loml monica lewinsky mentions, bunny slippers & flaming hot cheetos (hope yall can handle it gettin SPICY 🔥)

desc: you’d just moved to d.c. full time, a promotion at your publication leading to a transfer to another district chapter, and you were more than thrilled to be there, more than ready to immerse yourself in the world of politics. what you weren’t ready for, though, was how the campaign trail you were following made your heart flutter and your stomach turn. you also hadn’t expected it to be so… gaudy? magenta? – or perhaps, though you wouldn’t hear of it, that wasn’t the campaign’s effect at all.

Y/N SPENT THE following days, the next weeks, focusing on herself. She was letting herself get distracted, and with that, distracted by precisely the person she was supposed to be focusing on. It felt ironic, really, but she wasn't amused.

She spent time tapping her sources from and around the campaign trail, trying to establish a connection with other politicians who had been identified as potential candidates for the election, trying to expand her network beyond her small corner of the policy scene. ("The policy scene" was much bigger than she'd thought.)

She reached out to think tanks, to analysts, economists -- she was getting a little off track, but basically, she talked to everyone with no link to the name "Jefferson," despite the precise nature of her assignment.

Her stab at freedom from the now-former Secretary of State was to little avail. While he was the foundation of his campaign, there was enough else going on surrounding the election that she could dance around confronting him.

Yet, not for as long as she'd have liked.

She was knee-deep into finding the perfect person to cold call at Brookings when the crucial blow came.

"Y/N!" Her boss's perpetually peppy voice rang through the hall toward her office, and our fatigued heroine looked up with a brow raised. Ashley stopped in the doorway, appearing elated. "Guess what?"

Her eyes flashed with crazed excitement, and Y/N almost didn't want to ask what. It felt very much like a trick question.

In response to Y/N's expectant stare, silent and unmoving, Ashley sighed and entered. "You should be a lot more excited when I come running down to your office with a 'guess what,' y'know."

She sighed. "Oh, no! I'm so sorry! What ever exciting news could I be missing out on at this very moment?" Her contrived enthusiasm reeked of sarcasm, but Ashley's spirits were too high to be quashed, and she only rolled her eyes in response.

"So, you've been covering the Jefferson campaign for months, right?" Apparently she was ignoring the less-than-thrilled response. Y/N nodded. "And you were out in front of it before anyone else was, right? You know more than anyone else about his platform and history."

Grudgingly, she nodded again. "I suppose so." She was equally unexcited to claim to know Thomas Jefferson's past better than anyone else.

"And, he's projected to be the Republican frontrunner."

"The debates haven't even started, everything could change in a night," Y/N pointed out. "You know that."

"You're right, the debates haven't started." Y/N was clearly missing something. Ashley seemed to be unreasonably thrilled about the lack of pre-existing clash between the candidates. She raised a brow, and Ashley appeared to be holding back a squeal with how she was grinning. "But, the debates are only a few days from now, so, I called in an old contact from NBC, and of course, they'd heard of you--" She paused for dramatic emphasis, but the anticipation wasn't exactly killing Y/N, "And... since the Washington Post is co-sponsoring the event, they want to have you as one of the moderators for the first round of debates!"

With that, Y/N was struck silent. "They...?" She could only gape for a moment, and Ashley nodded excitedly.

"Mm-hmm. It's against precedent, but since you've become the most prominent and consistent reporter covering Jefferson the past few months, they think your input would be invaluable."

"But what about my live commentary?" she asked, still dumbstruck. Everything in her was telling her this was a bad idea; she needed to protest her way out. "I won't be able to provide as good of coverage of the debates if I'm not taking notes and writing during them. It'll hurt my articles. This is too big of an event not to write for."

She knew she was rambling, but Ashley only let out a sigh, as though Y/N was being absolutely ridiculous. "Oh, come on. Your commentary's more valuable on the spot if it can be used to grill the candidates and get Jefferson to talk."

"'Get Jefferson to talk'? This is a debate, not an interrogation." She blinked, visibly put-off. "Besides, it's not like I'd be controlling the floor. I wouldn't be doing much good anyway, and it really wouldn't get me much notice." She paused a moment, trying to gauge Ashley's reaction, and swallowed. "I think I should stick to my own territory."

"Y/N." Her tone was firm now. "This is the biggest opportunity you're going to get for people to notice you as a political journalist. It wasn't easy to get you this position, and besides, you're perfectly equipped for it. You've spent hundreds of hours by now researching the issues, contacting think tanks for different perspectives on them, contrasting Jefferson with the other candidates, and..." She took a thoughtful pause. "And I can't even scratch the surface of what you've been spending all this time on. If anyone should be moderating, it should be you. This isn't the time for cold feet."

Ashley had begun monologuing, and Y/N knew right there that there was no getting out of this job. It's not about getting cold feet, though, Y/N thought, I can do it, easily. What Ashley didn't know, though, was that there was more there.

The growing pause following her boss's speech was heavy with expectation, and finally, Y/N sighed, knowing she didn't actually have a choice in the matter if she cared to keep her job.

"Fine. Should I book myself a hotel in Detroit?"

"Don't bother. It'll come out of company funds; it's the least we can do."

She sighed, turning back to her computer, closing the tab she'd just opened. "Michigan, here I come."

_______________

THAT CONVERSATION HAD taken place Monday, and, as Y/N later realized, the first round of debates were that Wednesday, so she had approximately 48 hours to pack, fly, and get situated in Detroit. That evening was a whirlwind -- Ashley texted her that the flight the WaPo had booked her left at 10:00 on Tuesday morning, she immediately began her frenzied packing. Which, in turn, brings us once again to the apartment, filled with Y/N's anguish, the hair she was tearing out with stress, and clothing strewn over the carpet's full surface area.

"What do I wear, Ang? I'm gonna be on national TV, I need to look good but so, so, so professional," she wailed, looking up at her friend who was perched on the edge of her bed. Angelica gave her a sympathetic look.

"You're overthinking it, honey," she said, "No one's worried with what you're wearing, alright? It's what you say, not what you look like."

"But I'm..." She sighed, arms going slack along with the three different dresses she'd been holding up to the light, shoulders slumping. "I dunno, it's just the first time I'm gonna be that clearly in the public eye. When I'm writing I can just hide behind the words."

"The time for hiding's over." Angelica pushed herself off the edge of the bed, joining Y/N in the garment tsunami that threatened to claim her furniture. "You got the spot with the debates because people wanna hear from you, so pick an outfit. Doesn't matter which."

"But it does." Y/N looked over at her weakly, everything in her expression reading dejected, from her furrowed brow to her little pout. Angelica gave her a pointed look, and she huffed. "I just... It's not only the public, y'know? I'm also up with all the famous newscasters and the fucking Republicans, for God's sake."

"Since when do you care what Republicans think of you?"

"I..." She hesitated, considering herself. Angelica made a good point -- since when did she care? "I don't, really. I just don't want to look bad on national TV on my first gig where I'm... visible."

She pursed her lips, praying the issue wouldn't be pushed further.

Finally, Angelica huffed, beginning to pick through the pile of Y/N's clothes, seemingly resigned to the angst that deciding one outfit had apparently proved to be. With a sigh, Y/N slumped against the footboard of her bed, her dejected stare meeting the multicolored flood piling around her ankles. She carded a hand through her now-disheveled hair as she checked her phone, unable to stifle a grin at her Twitter notifications coming from all different corners of the political compass -- not to mention, now, John Adams. Her recent article on Jefferson's voting history was blowing up.

She began to respond to a tweet, nails tapping frantically against her phone screen, and though she couldn't see it, Angelica raised an eyebrow.

She let out a soft giggle as she read another response to her post: this time, the successive Secretary of State, his voice being behind her loud and clear. The feedback on her writing was only making her progressively giddy. Her smile curled with self-content, though, as she saw James Madison's message about her post, sent directly to her. Angelica raised another eyebrow.

"Y/N?" Angelica's tone bordered on cagey as it cut through Y/N's laser focus. She looked up, eyes wide. "The concerns about your outfit wouldn't happen to have anything to do with the Jefferson campaign, right?"

"Well, of course they do." She blinked, unable to place the intent behind the skepticism heavy in Angelica's words. "It's the only reason I have this gig, anyway."

Angelica pursed her lips; apparently, that hadn't been quite what she was asking. "Would it have anything to do with a specific person from the Jefferson campaign?"

Y/N paled. All-too-vivid memories of the state dinner that was now months past fought their way to the forefront of her mind -- her attempts to curb them hadn't been in vain till Angelica popped the question. "I'm sorry?"

The pause that followed as Angelica examined Y/N's look of near-panic was anything but silent, both their trains of thought threatening to derail themselves with conjecture. Angelica took in a shuddering breath.

"I just mean..." Y/N could hardly bear to meet Angelica's wary gaze. "D'you have a thing for James Madison?"

The next beat that passed was simply stunned. Y/N could hardly conceal her laughter in a huff; she had to swallow her amusement, every nerve in her body immediately relaxing.

"What did you just ask me?" She shook her head, small grin breaking out across her lips as her shoulders slumped. Angelica didn't look so sure. "I am not lusting over James Madison, Ang. He's literally married."

"Marriage isn't forever, babes." She pinned her with a skeptical stare, to which Y/N could only laugh.

"I swear to you, Angelica. You will at no point see me trying to jump James Madison's bones."

"So why'd you react how you did when I asked you about the Jefferson campaign, hm?" Angelica folded her arms, plainly unconvinced, and Y/N's breath caught. She'd supposed she was off the hook.

"What do you mean?" Y/N wished the question hadn't come out so breathily.

"Y/N," Angelica started, exasperated, "You've been messaging Madison on Twitter. You've met him multiple times and have spent your fair share of hours detailing to me each of the times you've met. You were just giggling at something he sent you." She was fully deadpan by then. "You don't need to hide it, I just want you to talk to me 'bout it."

"I promise, it's not that I'm in love with Madison." Y/N's smile as she returned to packing was meant to have been placating, but functioned as anything but. She needed to get back to packing before Angelica could press the matter. "Blue or green dress?"

"Don't change the subject!"

"I'm not, but I'm gonna be on a plane in twelve hours!" she said, "I need to finish packing."

"So there's no ulterior motive to how you're approaching the Jefferson campaign?"

For a moment just long enough to evoke doubt, Y/N paused. She wasn't inclined to reminisce on the last time she'd actually talked to anyone from the Jefferson campaign, but her psyche had other priorities. A nearly undetectable chill ran down her spine -- she could still feel his heavy hands trailing down to her hips, hot breath brushing over her cheek; she could even feel the sculpt and contour of his body as it pressed against hers, muscles rippling under his stiff button-down. Her skin burned still where rough calluses had grazed her neck.

"There's no ulterior motive, Ang." She wanted her words to be true, fighting back a shudder as she bottled up the memory. "I swear."

Angelica didn't look convinced.

________________

ABOUT TEN HOURS, a mildly annoying trip through TSA (the Post had paid for her pre-check, otherwise she'd have been less forgiving of the experience -- and the line), and two hours on a plane later, she rolled into her hotel lobby in Michigan, small suitcase dragging behind her. She knew she wasn't exactly a sight to see, just off a plane at noon in her socks and sandals, her oversized sweater. She certainly wasn't feeling as high-end as her hotel appeared to be.

The high ceilings, crown molding, and arched entryways all reeked of wealth, not to mention that the space was crawling with men and women in sharp suits, appearing as though they were on the verge of being willing to cut anyone who held them up for a moment too long. She shifted her weight uncomfortably from one Birkenstock to the other, waiting for the manager to return to the front desk so that she could check in. As she warily eyed the man marching through with a clipboard, aggression in each step, she had to wonder why the Washington Post had decided to drop here there, of all places.

She would've loved to disappear into her sweater, at that moment.

The manager returned to her position, looking just as sleek and professional as everyone else there, and Y/N's appearance seemed to give her pause. "Can I help you?"

"Hi, yes, I'm here to check into my hotel room for the next three nights." She gave the manager her warmest smile in an effort to diffuse some of her tense nature, but it was to no avail. "I'm here with the Washington Post, but I think it should be under the name L/N?"

Y/N waited a moment, trying to roll some of her post-travel soreness out of her shoulders as the manager typed away at the computer before her. She creased her brow, frowning for a moment. "Y/N?"

"That's me," she said, enthusiasm weak in her voice.

"Alright, you're up in room 569, so let me get you your key." She paused, rooting through drawers as her coworker appeared next to her, apparently taking a post at the next laptop over. She looked back up. "Alright, you should be all set," -- she slid the keys across the counter to Y/N -- "but it's still early, and I'm not sure your room's been checked out of quite yet. Excuse me for a moment to go see about that."

Before Y/N could say another word, she was gone, and Y/N let out a heavy sigh. It'd been a long 12 hours, and all she wanted was a proper bed and a nap. It seemed rest wasn't what the universe had in mind for her, though.

She began checking her Twitter while she stood in wait, paying no mind to the energetic bustle of who she'd worked out to be politicians and the like, given the snippets of conversation she'd picked up standing there; however, tuning out became significantly more difficult when a familiar voice sounded next to her.

"Yes, only the next three nights. The room is registered for the surname 'Madison'." If she couldn't guess from his voice, his words were a dead giveaway. She looked up, and sure enough, there was the man himself. Well, shit.

Not only was she painfully opposed to having to interact with him in her near-pajamas and slipper socks, feeling like the biggest mess she'd ever been, but she also knew that where he was, Jefferson wasn't far behind.

She immediately busied herself with something, anything on her phone, facing down and away from him in the hope that he wouldn't notice her. She'd just pulled up a scintillating article on diabetes in labradors, when--

"Y/N?" The man at the desk helping him had disappeared when she reluctantly turned to face him -- busying himself with something other than helping protect her from social interaction, apparently. James, however, looked all but amused.

"Hey, James." She did her best to return the positive sentiment he perpetually seemed to give off, but she knew it came out weaker than intended. "Should I assume I know what brings you here?"

"Should I assume that it'd be the same thing that brought you here?" He quirked an eyebrow, unable to resist eyeing her outfit. She sighed.

"That might be fair," she conceded, small smile resting on her lips. "Is the campaign all ready for the first round of debates?"

He laughed; not a polite chuckle, but a full-bodied laugh, as though he couldn't believe the question. "Something like that. We've prepared Thomas as many talking points as we could think he might need, but I'm worried the moderators--" He gave her a pointed look, wearing a knowing smile, "--may end up grilling him regardless."

A wry smile crept onto Y/N's face. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Word travels fast, especially from the Washington Post's Twitter account."

"You really are always one step ahead, hm?"

"You're the one with the questions, last I checked."

"Well, I'm sure your campaign will be thrilled to hear them -- following you is why I got the gig, anyway." She only shrugged, despite the self-content etched into her grin.

"Oh, really?" Amusement was deep-set in his smile.

She nodded. "I'm forever grateful."

"Grateful enough to go easy on Thomas?"

"Not quite," she laughed, "When following his campaign makes me my first million, then we'll talk."

"Sounds like we'll have to step it up, then."

"Running on a deadline, James," she warned him in a singsong voice, folding her arms.

"We'll win you over by the end." He grinned, turning back to the woman at the desk, handing her his credit card, and shot Y/N a sly glance. "Thomas has always loved a challenge."

Her stomach turned at his words for reasons she couldn't explain, amused smile faltering for only a moment as James slid his card back into his wallet and tucked it into his coat pocket. James raised an eyebrow at her silence, her moment of hesitation.

To her delight, that was the moment the concierge returned, wearing a wide (and contrived, but that was how customer service was) smile, stepping back up to the desktop Y/N stood before.

"Alright, your room should be all set, Ms. L/N." She returned to quickly tapping at the keyboard, before pulling out a number of brochures. "These are for room service and the various hotel amenities. Our pool is on the second floor, gym is on the third along with the spa, meeting rooms are on the fourth, and the business office is on the fifth, fully equipped with desks and printers." She hesitated, glancing with disdain down at Y/N's choice of travel outfit. "Are... you here on business? Or... ?"

As she trailed off, Y/N sighed, returning the less-than-candid customer service smile. "Yes, I am, actually. Thanks so much for everything."

She nodded. "Alright! Don't hesitate to come let us know if there's anything else you need. There will always be someone here to help you."

"Perfect." She turned back to James as she folded up the brochures, shoving them into the side pocket of her purse. "Well, sounds like I'll be seeing you around, then."

"Thomas and I look forward to it."

Then, the automatic doors of the lobby slid open, and a rush of cold air, as well as a grand entourage, made their way in, catching both of their attention. "Well, speak of the devil."

At that, Y/N realized exactly why there was such a crowd, and it became immediately clear why the Washington Post had chosen that hotel to set her down in, among the countless in the area. Thomas Jefferson had just entered, along with a bustling crowd of Secret Service and reporters, all orbiting him like he was the sun. He wore a broad grin, laughing and shaking hands, and Y/N stared for decidedly a moment too long, longer yet than James had. Her breath caught as Thomas looked over at her, and she found herself frozen, rooted to the spot, his gaze locked on hers.

Thomas, too, was stunned when she caught his eye. His pause was minuscule enough to be unnoticeable, hardly a fleeting glance that even Y/N didn't think anything of, but his self-consciousness couldn't let it go in that moment. His smile faltered for a moment, softening to become small, apologetic, and certainly more sheepish than it'd ever been, all the teasing self-content drained out of it. For the first time, she returned the smile -- tense, nervous, but real.

The flash of a camera broke their gaze, and the moment ended as quickly as it came.

_______________

Y/N CRASHED ALMOST immediately into her hotel bed upon reaching her room; she'd had less sleep than she'd have liked during the past thirty-six hours, anxiety keeping her awake. She was shaken from her long-overdue nap, though, by her phone buzzing angrily next to her. She groaned as she recognized the number as belonging to Ashley, her boss, and declined almost immediately.

After that, though, despite her best efforts, her nap seemed to have ended, and much to her dismay. She made the mistake of instead opening her email, then, deciding productivity was the obvious cure for sleeplessness -- until she opened her most recent email from Ashley. (The subject line read 'IMPORTANT, IMMEDIATE, AND URGENT.' Got any synonyms for 'redundant'?)

The oversized, highlighted body text blared at her to the point where her eyes began to water, still adjusting to the light and certainly not ready to be staring directly into all the light of the sun her boss had managed to stuff into a single communication.

There's no reason to use font size 25, she thought, rather irked, and highlighting every word in bright yellow goes entirely against the point of highlighting.

She could only bring herself to skim the message, but when she did, she groaned at its contents, falling back onto her hotel bed in annoyance. Thomas Jefferson was having another campaign rally, apparently, to garner support going into the debates. And she was being prodded to attend.

It was expected to be a small ordeal; the venue was modest, and around 100 people would be in attendance, maximum. So, she went. Grudgingly, with a full 30 oz cup of coffee, and in jeans and a tank top, but she went.

She showed up just over 20 minutes before the event -- a town hall on his policy, as it turned out. She felt a bit out of place, the look she was rocking from her hiking boots to her disheveled post-nap bun not exactly screaming 'distinguished professional,' but she liked to think throwing a blazer atop the whole look saved it.

The venue was small, homey -- she'd read that it was generally used as a comedy club, but that the space could be rented out (obviously). Y/N figured the best use of her time there was to get to know Jefferson's base of voters. Who were they? What did they care about? And, most importantly, how long could they keep her occupied so she never actually had to speak with Jefferson?

The first person she met, though, wasn't exactly a supporter.

She'd tucked herself into a back corner as everyone swarmed Jefferson, who was busy giving his opening remarks, but she was content just to record them, to reserve judgment for the time being (verbally, at least). She had the audio being taped, all but absentmindedly taking notes for herself for the debates. Yet, there wasn't much substance in most of what he was saying.

"This seat taken?"

She looked up with her eyebrows raised, surprised to have been approached. What met her was the smiling face of a vaguely-familiar Democratic reporter, and eyebrow cocked in question.

"I... No! No, please sit." She smiled, motioned to the metal folding chair beside her. "We've met before, right? Ben Arnold, New York Times?"

"That's me. And it's Y/N, yeah?" He pulled out the chair, swinging a leg around it and resting his forearms on his thighs as he looked to her. "You're from the Washington Post, the one tracking Jefferson."

She sighed. "That seems to be everyone's first reaction to meeting me, hm? Jefferson's media adversary?" Her tone was joking, but there was a certain bitterness in them at her career now being irreparably tied to Secretary Jefferson. She hoped Ben didn't take it personally. "Yeah, you've got the right girl, though."

"To be fair, you've become famous for digging up info on him that no one else seems to have." He shrugged. "I've read some of your recent stuff, since we're following the same campaign; hope you know you're famous in your own right, even if it is tied to him." He nodded toward the stage with that, just as applause broke out and Jefferson began taking questions from the crowd.

She chuckled, though it was all but mirthless. "Thanks, but I'm not so sure about that. Everyone loves gossip, and they only know me because they think I'm here to dish out the dirt on Jefferson."

"Now, that's not true." She raised a brow, and he grinned. "They follow you because you knowledgeably and eloquently dish out the dirt on Jefferson."

"Oh, that's so different." She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help her laugh at his words.

"It's true!" he protested. "C'mon, there's a reason the public has latched onto your coverage and not mine."

"I dunno about that." She pursed her lips, stifling her small smile. "I've read your writing. It's really good."

"Aw, you've looked up my writing? I'm flattered." He appeared touched, though mockingly, placing a hand on his heart and plastering on an exaggerated pout, causing her to laugh.

"Well, you did give me your business card."

He sighed, nodded sagely. "Ah yes, I suppose the media circus is easily Google-able, huh?"

"What can I say, clowns recognize clowns." Her gaze drifted back toward the stage with this, turning toward Jefferson as she cast Ben a sidelong glance. The corners of her lips quirked up. "And we are all caught in this circus, too." The pointed look she gave Jefferson at that was entirely devoid of subtlety, and Ben laughed.

"Are you claiming Jefferson as part of our circus? A bold move, Y/N."

"Good point, good point." She leaned back in her chair with a grin. "So what are we, then? Consumers taking advantage of free entertainment?"

"I dunno, we're making money off this circus." He pursed his lips. "Shit, what d'you call the people who like, run the circus?"

Her eyes widened in amusement as she looked back over at him. "What, we're the ringmasters?"

"Yeah, yeah, exactly!" She couldn't keep herself from laughing at that, the idea of Jefferson as a circus freak or a traveling sideshow too comical to entertain. He cracked a grin as well, unable to take himself seriously. "C'mon, hear me out -- he's up there playing the fool, and we're making the big bucks off of it, hm?"

"Fair enough," she conceded, grin now chronic and apparently contagious. "Anyway, what're you here for? Just general info from the town hall, or looking for something specific?"

"Well, I figured this was my chance to question Jefferson before the debates, y'know?" He nudged Y/N at that. "Or can I just pass my questions off to you for tomorrow, since I've heard you're moderating now?"

She sighed. "Word really does travel fast when Jefferson's name is attached, huh?"

"Or it's because your name's attached." She gave him a skeptical look, and he held up his hands defensively. "I'm serious! People care about what you have to say now, y'know? Given, it is about his campaign, but really, it's your take on the next election that they want -- it's no longer just about him."

Y/N had to pretend her chest wasn't swelling with pride at that. Perhaps he was just feeding her ego, talking her up because he wanted to be able to use her for sources, but it was nice to hear regardless of the motive behind it. Her small smile grew. "Well, thanks, I guess. I'll certainly take it."

"You should." He looked like he was about to continue, but his following sentence was broken off by a sudden uproar of excitement. Hollers, cheers, and applause sounded loudly from the center of the room, and they both looked over to see Jefferson exiting the podium, moving down to begin talking to the voters there to see him, and Y/N sighed.

"Guess we'd better get a move on if we want anything out of this event."

"I suppose so." He huffed as he lifted himself out of his chair, and Y/N immediately followed suit, tucking her laptop into her bag. "You headed to talk to Jefferson?"

"Nah, actually." Her gaze darted through the room as she tried to find where to begin. "Just tryna find out what his supporters care about for the election. Needa know what points I need to drive home tomorrow at the debate." He nodded, and she cocked an eyebrow. "Care to join me?"

"Think I'll have to take a rain check, unfortunately. My editor wants direct quotes from Jefferson, and this is most of my window of opportunity." He glanced over at her with a small grin as they walked together toward the center of the room. "Come find me if you get sick of the Republicans, though. I'd be more than happy to abandon Jefferson for a cup of coffee at the place around the corner."

He winked before he made off toward where Jefferson stood, and Y/N was left stunned a moment. Shit, was he hitting on her? She couldn't help it as her eyes raked over his retreating form, biting her lip as she decided that she certainly wouldn't have minded if he was. After all, even the clowns need company in the media circus.

She didn't let herself dwell, though, but instead fixed her focus on the task at hand. She floated throughout the room for the next hour or two, meeting Ben's eye in passing here and there, receiving a wry grin. A few trends emerged from Jefferson's supporters, and they were fairly generic. Russia, China, healthcare, the crushing weight of existence and the feeling that they were running out of time, fear of the impending race war, healthcare -- y'know, the usual.

(Perhaps she'd spoken to one too many alt-righters. The fact that they were at the Jefferson town hall spoke volumes.)

A few hours deep, she checked her watch, concerned about how long this would go on, leafed through her notes trying to determine whether she had enough to just jump ship, to climb into her hotel bed, order room service, and take her pants off. She glanced back up at Jefferson warily.

Her gaze traveled lazily around the room as she decided talking to one or two more people wouldn't kill her, wincing internally even as she made the decision. She braced herself for just a few more minutes of crazy.

"Y/N!"

Oh, the voice that came from her left was melodic, sounded of angels singing, of her walking miracle saving her from the political shitshow, and she turned with a smile. Walking toward her brightly was Dolley Madison, and her brows shot up as she reached her.

"Hey, Dolley, what's up?"

"Not much." She pulled Y/N for an unexpected hug, grinning as she pulled back to look at her from arm's length. Her hands still rested on Y/N's shoulders. "Fancy meeting you here, though. What are the odds?"

"Oh, so low. Especially considering my job and your marriage, who knew we'd both end up at Jefferson's town hall?" Her tone was playful as Dolley rolled her eyes.

"Oh, don't gimme that. I'm just glad to see you."

Y/N laughed as Dolley finally pulled back, settling beside her. "Jesus; tell me about it. D'you know how many crazy voters I've had to pretend were completely normal in the past few hours. Even just your sanity is a breath of fresh air."

"Yeah, the American voter." Her smile was amused as she eyed the crowd. "Really gives you hope for the future of our country, hm?"

"Of course." Y/N laughed, tucking a hair behind her ears. "Comforting to know these are the people who determine our president for the next four years."

"I'm sure." Dolley glanced back up toward where Jefferson stood, James apparently now beside him making his way through the crowd. "Though, I do find a bit of comfort in the idea of Thomas being the one behind the wheel for the next four years."

"That makes one of us." Though Y/N's tone was joking, her words were dead serious, and transparently so. Dolley grinned as she caught her eye.

"Yeah?"

"I might be just a little bit biased." Y/N shrugged. "To be fair, I've spent the past four months digging up all the dirt there is on him, and reviving any and all skeletons in his many, many closets."

"Yeah, I gotcha. I keep up with your articles." Dolley winked, and Y/N could feel herself flush. The fact that Dolley Madison actively kept tabs on her writing felt like quite the honor. "Didn't think any of it was all that damning, though, to be honest."

"No, I agree with you." Y/N nodded reasonably, eyes fixed on Jefferson as he moved fluidly through the room, weaving between people and families, shaking hands, taking selfies. "And I'm glad it comes off that way, too. I try to keep the tone of my writing neutral, but as a journalist, I have to look at everything with a critical eye, y'know?"

"I've gotcha. I may be biased too, considering my husband is probably gonna be his running mate." Dolley grinned as she caught James's eye and waved to him. He was at the opposite end of the room, but he began walking toward them almost immediately.

"James may be what saves the ticket in my eyes, to be honest." Y/N returned the smile as he neared them, and turned to Dolley. "If not, though, is it too late to take you up on covering my therapy costs?"

She laughed, squeezing Y/N's forearm lightly. "I'll just have to hope James helps keep your sanity these next few months."

"What's that about Y/N's sanity?" James furrowed his brow as he reached them, a small smile resting on his lips, but his gaze full of concern.

The two women shared an entertained look before Y/N turned to James. "Just that when I lose it, the two of you had better find me a comfy asylum."

James's visible confusion deepened as Dolley's grin grew. "Don't worry about it, love. We were just discussing Y/N's writing about the campaign."

"Ah, so that's why you're losing your sanity?" He raised an eyebrow, and Y/N nodded in confirmation. "Then no worries, we'll find you the best therapist money can buy."

She let out a soft 'aw,' placing her hand over her heart. "When you do, I'll be sure to write an exposé on the generosity of the Madisons. You'd better be honored when I cross party lines for you two."

James grinned. "Abandoning partisanship for the Jefferson campaign? Never thought I'd see the day."

"You won't. It'll all be for Dolley." Y/N shot her a wink. "I'll throw all my weight behind Jefferson when Hell freezes over."

"You do so much for me," Dolley sighed dramatically, wiping away an imaginary tear as she squeezed Y/N's hand, pretending to be moved by her words. Meanwhile, James folded his arms, wearing a small smile.

"He'll see to it that that's sooner than you think."

________________

SHE ABANDONED JEFFERSON'S rally not long after, having no desire to breathe any more air that reeked so heavily of contrived charisma and shitty cologne, but having all the desire in the world to snuggle into her warm pajamas and pop open a bottle of hotel wine. After all, the debates didn't start for nearly 24 more hours.

She was about to pick up her nap from earlier right where it'd left off, but had first to piece together what she'd taken away from the rally and forward it over to Ashley. Not to mention the unfortunately necessary hours of preparation between her and the debates. She couldn't mess up her first run on TV. It was two hours and half a bottle of wine later that she sent off the culmination of her notes and recordings from the afternoon, and by the time Ashley emailed her back, it was nearly eight PM. After that, she resolved to spend no more than two hours writing and revising her questions for the following evening.

She groaned at the fourth email from Ashley -- she had too much criticism, but not nearly enough suggestion. If all my ideas are bad, Y/N thought, frustrated, why don't you have any better ones? After shooting her a response, she decided to take a well-deserved break.

At this point in the night, shame was a non-factor in her decisions, and she was far beyond caring if anyone down in the lobby was going to judge her tank top or bunny slippers. She just wanted whatever candy went best with shitty, five-dollar, red wine, and a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos, and she knew the hotel's food kiosk was the most convenient place to find both.

"Wait, hold the elevator!" She only really kicked into gear when turned the corner on her floor to see the elevator's doors about to close, and she really didn't have the patience left to wait for the next one down, let alone actually take the stairs. To her delight, a hand darted out against the door at her words, and they bounced back open. She breathed a sigh of relief as she finally reached them, ready to sing her mystery savior's praises -- that is, until she saw who was standing in the back of the elevator, and her eyes widened; she'd be lying if she said she didn't seriously consider braving five flights of stairs just to reach the ground floor undisturbed.

"Oh, I-- Y/N..." Jefferson's voice trailed off, surprised, as she stepped hesitantly into the elevator, keeping her distance from him even in the small space. "Hey."

"Secretary Jefferson." She only acknowledged him, not meeting his eyes as the elevator doors finally closed. He glanced over at her with an eyebrow raised at that, though, almost surprised that 'Thomas' had somehow reverted to 'Secretary Jefferson' in just the past few weeks, but he couldn't pretend he didn't know why -- that was why he didn't say a word about it, especially since they both knew, and both wanted to deny, that they couldn't help but still think about the last time they'd met. The tension was heavy in the growing silence.

She could feel his gaze over her shoulder, could see him out of the corner of her eye, but she was determined not to catch his eye, looking instead firmly down to her phone screen, responding to Angelica and Alex's texts from earlier in the day (keeping her brightness down, though, so he couldn't see those, either). She swallowed thickly as he looked back up, biting her lip as she glanced over at him. She looked back down for a moment, anxious in the deafening silence, eyes unfocused but toward her phone screen, but she figured she was safe to sneak another glance at him -- apparently, he'd made the same calculation.

She froze as their eyes met, breath catching in the back of her throat and heat rushing to her face, and he only smiled, waiting to see if she would make the next move. She was determined to ignore him, but it appeared as though she'd been caught. He held her gaze a moment as the elevator descended; it appeared she wouldn't be the first to speak.

She bit her lip, looking up at him as his eyes traveled down her form, grin widening as he caught sight of her pajama pants and slippers, and he raised a teasing brow. "Harry Potter? Really?"

She glanced self-consciously down at her Deathly Hallows pants, her face growing hotter by the second, and she looked back up at him weakly. "They're good books, okay?" she said, tone defensive as she folded her arms, fixed her gaze back on the elevator doors before them, and he chuckled.

"You won't hear me arguin' with that." He had to choke back another laugh as she rolled her eyes, letting out a nearly-inaudible huff. "Aw, c'mon, I'm just teasin'."

She scowled as she looked up at him, feeling more-than-flustered and far from entertained. "What do you want from me, Jefferson?"

He quirked up a brow at her. "Really?" He paused, seemingly in disbelief, and she shook her head blankly at him, waiting for him to continue. "We just never gonna talk about that state dinner, then?"

Her face was now burning; she couldn't meet his eye. He'd finally pointed out the elephant in the room, and for once in her career, it didn't happen to be the one that belonged to the GOP. Just the one that had decided to sit directly on her ego and crush her spirit. "I certainly wasn't planning on bringing it up."

He sighed. "C'mon, Y/N." She didn't look up. "Alright, fine, pretend it didn't happen. But I just wanted to say that--"

That was the exact moment the elevator dinged as it reached the ground floor, catching both of their attention immediately. He cut himself off as the doors began to open. As they caught sight of the numerous people standing before them in the lobby, waiting to get onto the elevator, he glanced back down at her to find her looking up at him, biting her lip but her expression unreadable.

"Some other time, Secretary Jefferson."

She exited the elevator without another word, and he did the same, although slow to follow suit. He didn't continue after her; he couldn't see the point. There was no way he'd be able to have that conversation with her in a lobby full of politicians, but his stare was still attached to her as she left. He really didn't know what to make of her -- but he intended to figure it out.

________________

THE NEXT EVENING was the first night of the debates. To be quite candid, to Y/N, nearly the entire night was a blur. She'd gotten ready with a series of emails to her boss and with Angelica on Facetime, helping her strike the perfect balance of femininity and professionalism (it'd proved to be a tough line to walk), and arrived at the venue hours early as per her official instruction. She steeled herself for the ordeal, determined to ignore any lingering tension between her and Jefferson. She had a job to do there, and she intended to do it right. After the debate, once she began to remove her microphone and slowly make her way out, she avoided him at all costs -- even if the confrontation was inevitable, with the unfortunately large overlap between their lives, it was neither the time nor the place, and she intended to put it off as long as possible.

Chatter filled the room behind her. Everyone who had shown up to watch the debates live was now slowly filing out, apart from groups here and there of stragglers or of people who wanted to approach the candidates afterward. She handed her microphone off to a tech intern with a warm smile and a 'thank you,' collecting her notes before she went backstage to retrieve her coat. (Michigan winters, she'd learned, were brutal.)

She shuffled everything back into her folder, glancing at the crowd behind her, when she caught sight of a familiar face. She furrowed her brow and squinted. She paused, considering whether to go down to greet him -- she hardly knew him, after all -- but he beat her to the punch. He waved, beckoned her over when he caught her eye, and warily, she obliged.

"Hey, it's Lafayette, right? We met at the state dinner; I'm Alex's friend, Y/N."

He grinned as she reached him, clutching her papers to her chest and extending a hand in greeting, which he took without hesitation. "Oui, I remember. It is good to see you, Y/N, although Alexander neglected to mention zat you would be moderating ze debates."

"Oh, what, didn't he tell you how important I am?" She shrugged, shaking her head with a grin as though it was obvious. "Next I'm coming for Anderson Cooper's job, just you wait."

He laughed, folding his arms as he glanced up toward the stage. "I do not doubt it for even a moment. Are you moderating again tomorrow night?"

She nodded. "Mhm. You coming tomorrow night?"

"Oui. I came all ze way to Michigan for zis; it would be a shame if I was only 'ere for one night, hm?" He raised his eyebrows, and she shrugged, nodded. He flashed her a sly grin. "Besides, since I now know zat you are going to be 'ere tomorrow, zat gives me all ze more reason to show up."

Her breath hitched a moment, before she laughed nervously, running a hand through her hair. "Ah, yes, can't miss my political commentary and passive aggression for two hours onstage. Isn't that your idea of a perfect Thursday night?"

"More or less." His smile was sharp, his gaze all but wolfish for a moment, and a chill ran down her spine before his expression softened. "Would it be against your ethics as a journalist to tell me which of ze candidates you are supporting?"

Y/N shrugged. "To be honest, I'm not a fan of any of them at the moment, but we'll see how it shakes out after the second night of debates. After all, the candidates are only human, so I've gotta find a way to look past the skeletons in their closets."

Lafayette raised a wary eyebrow, looking concerned. "Ze 'skeletons in their closets'?" he repeated, and she cracked a grin.

"Yeah, like the bad things from their past?"

He stared at her, expression deadpan. "I am from France. You will 'ave to forgive me zat we do not use murder as an idiom for all wrongdoings."

She couldn't help her laugh at that, covering her mouth with her free hand. "Cut me some slack; I've grown up with it."

He raised his eyebrows. "With murder?"

"No! With the English language!" she defended, laughing, and he couldn't stifle his grin any longer.

"My apologies, chérie. I could not 'elp myself." He held up his hands in his defense, and she rolled her eyes. "Is it safe to assume you are not voting for any of ze candidates zat 'ave murdered anyone?"

She shook her head, amused. "Yeah, that's a fair guess."

"I am glad to 'ear it." He paused a moment, grinning as he nodded to someone behind her, and she raised a brow. She glanced over her shoulder to see none other than Thomas Jefferson approaching, headed down the same stairs she'd taken to reach Lafayette several minutes before, and she groaned internally. Just her luck. Would it be rude to immediately run the moment he reached where she was standing? "Thomas! 'Ow 'ave you been?" Lafayette immediately pulled him into a hug as he reached the pair of them, greeting him like an old friend, and Jefferson pulled back with a small smile of his own.

"Gotta say, I've been worse," he said, "Especially when you weren't here. Spendin' all that time over in France, abandonin' us." He put a hand on his heart, shaking his head with a playfully mournful frown, and Lafayette rolled his eyes.

"Oui, I am sure I was sorely missed." He huffed, shaking his head, and Jefferson cracked a grin. "I left you with an open invitation to come and visit me whenever you pleased, and you never came. I did not feel particularly missed, Monsieur Jefferson."

"Ah, I'll find a way to make it up to you." He shot Lafayette a wink, and in the midst of the interaction, Y/N considered just silently slipping away. They seemed to have forgotten she was there, and if there was ever a time to escape, it was right then. She hesitated. "Though, you never came to visit me back in D.C., either," Jefferson pointed out to his friend, who scoffed, "So who's really to blame?"

"I resent ze accusation, Thomas. I was busy. I am a very important person with very important things to do, and I simply could not find ze time. I tried to visit you, but alas, ze people of France must come first." He sighed dramatically, his entire proclamation made in jest. Jefferson rolled his eyes.

"You implyin' I'm not doin' anything down in D.C.? That hurts, Laf, really."

Lafayette grinned. "Of course not."

It was then that Y/N began to back away from the pair, seemingly forgotten in their enthusiastic greeting, and she figured that she'd be able to escape without a problem. Just after she began to turn, though, Lafayette spoke.

"Ah, Thomas, you know Y/N, hm?" She froze at that. Her retreat no longer seemed as secure as it had previously. His tone was jovial as he motioned to her, and she reluctantly turned back around to face them. "Obviously, from zis," --He motioned to the stage, and Y/N met Jefferson's eyes warily-- "but ze two of you met at ze state dinner, non? With Alex?"

Jefferson seemed to be taking his cues from Y/N at that point, watching her with raised brows as she sighed, plastering on a smile as she turned to Lafayette. "Yeah. Yeah, we've met."

What followed that was a momentary silence. Lafayette had obviously detected rigidity of the interaction, but he hadn't quite figured out what to do with it, and Y/N wasn't at all inclined to force the conversation to happen. She had no interest in making small talk with Jefferson. Lafayette cleared his throat, raising an eyebrow at Jefferson, who sighed.

"Yeah, a couple of times now," Jefferson added tiredly. "State dinner wasn't the first."

"Oui? When else?"

Y/N and Jefferson shared a tired glance. The whole interaction was painfully out of character for both of them, their actions and words forced, and while neither of them seemed up to carrying the conversation, it certainly seemed Lafayette was doing his best.

"Just, through work, Lafayette. Nothing all that exciting. I've been covering his campaign for a while now, so by the state dinner, we'd already met once or twice," Y/N explained, offering Lafayette a weak smile. "Y'know, exciting stuff."

"Actually, about the state dinner." Both Y/N and Lafayette were surprised when Jefferson spoke up once again, instead of just letting the conversation entirely drop. She was concerned as to where this was going. "I just," he paused, meeting her eyes, "wanted to apologize, if I ever made you uncomf--"

"Don't worry about it, Secretary Jefferson," Y/N cut him off abruptly with a sigh before plastering on an understanding (obviously forced) smile. He raised his eyebrows. "It's fine; it was a mistake. And this really isn't the time or the place. We can... talk about this later." She huffed, clutching her papers even more tightly against her chest. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't hide how flustered she was.

He paused, searching her expression, clearly not quite believing her. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She smiled stiffly.

"Alright," he sighed. He made pointed eye contact with her, squaring his shoulders. His gaze was determined if not frustrated. "We will talk about this some other time. See you around, Lafayette, Y/N." He nodded to both of them, holding Y/N's gaze for just a moment too long, his expression steely. She could feel her heartbeat in her head; the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and he turned and left. Lafayette and Y/N both stayed there a moment longer, frozen to the spot and stunned for entirely different reasons.

There was a skip, before Lafayette broke the silence.

"What happened at ze state dinner?" Lafayette asked, turning to her, but she didn't even hear him. She was still fixated on Jefferson's parting words. Her heart was in her throat as she watched him retreat. Jesus, fuck.

We will talk about this.

___________________

Twitter

@gilafayette started following you.

Y/N raised an eyebrow from where she sat on her hotel bed. The debates were only a few hours away.

@Y/N_L/N: As the second night of Republican primary debates nears, keep up with the biggest issues and the who's-who of the candidates with the Washington Post's recent article about night 1 of the debates. Join us tonight on the official live stream, co-sponsored alongside NBC, and hear it all firsthand from the candidates themselves.

Quoted article: https://www.washingtonpost.com/fakelink/clowns

@BenArnold started following you.

Replying to @Y/N_L/N: @BenArnold: or you could just read my recap, but to each their own ig

She rolled her eyes at the tweet, though smiling to herself. She considered replying to it, but then thought better of it -- his tweet was so clearly in jest, and it was too easy to misinterpret tones over the internet. She opted to like the tweet.

@JamesMdson retweeted your recent tweet.

New message from @A_Hamilton:

@A_Hamilton: wanna grill jefferson about our war debts with france tn???

@A_Hamilton: i could even write u the questions

@A_Hamilton: wait omg open it up to audience questions and claim it's from someone else if u don't wanna attribute it to urself

@A_Hamilton: Suzie from Mississippi asked: why the fuck would you decide not to engage in France's war as secretary of state, not even try to assist them when we HAD the funds and they'd just helped us in our war, and then oppose an improved centralized banking system so that we could unilaterally balance the national budget, asshole?

@Y/N_L/N: have u been drinking again

@A_Hamilton: ok ok hear me out. like he wouldn't suspect a thing!!!! he doesn't even know we're friends why would it b me

@A_Hamilton: wait shit we saw him at the state dinner

@A_Hamilton: fuck nvm just pin the question on lafayette as a bitter french diplomat

@Y/N_L/N: alex.

@Y/N_L/N: i swear to god, you are the ONLY voter THAT invested in our debt to france

@Y/N_L/N: isnt it just like a trade deficit, anyway??

@A_Hamilton: YES THATS THE PROBLEM

@A_Hamilton: he can't even deal w our relations with one of our oldest allies, he was a shitty secretary of state

@Y/N_L/N: clean up the language and ill lead the conversation there

@Y/N_L/N: it's not a completely shit idea

@A_Hamilton: ur the only reporter that matters ily

✅ Read, 5:27 PM.

@gilafayette wants to send you a message. Accept?

@gilafayette: what happened at the state dinner between you and thomas

@gilafayette: i tried to ask him but he is very evasive

@gilafayette: i am concerned about him since then

Y/N's eyes widened as she accepted the message. She'd expected it to just be dropped, for Lafayette to entirely let it go, as it truly wasn't his problem, but there she was. She raised a brow at the last message, though.

Messages to @gilafayette:

@Y/N_L/N: it was nothing important, but why are you concerned about him??

@gilafayette: he has been acting strange since we saw you

@gilafayette: he and i went for coffee and he was preoccupied for the whole time

@gilafayette: and when i tried to ask him he was being very evasive

@Y/N_L/N: it really wasn't anything monumental. hes probably preoccupied w/ the debates, don't read into it

@Y/N_L/N: have u tried just asking him what's on his mind?

@gilafayette: brb

She rolled her eyes at the message. Of course he hadn't even thought to consider the obvious solution: communication. There seemed to be a disconnect between Lafayette and the obvious, though..

Messages to @gilafayette:

@gilafayette: he says he is fine and not to worry

@gilafayette: but i worry

@Y/N_L/N: did he say what was on his mind

@gilafayette: no

@gilafayette: brb i will tell him you asked. perhaps he only does not want to talk to me.

Her pulse skipped as she read the message; her eyes widened. Shit.

@Y/N_L/N: no lafayette pls don't say that

@Y/N_L/N: i didn't ask. i just wanted to give you a better idea for what to ask.

@gilafayette: yes you told me to ask

@gilafayette: exactly

@gilafayette: what is the difference?

She let out a groan, burying her face in her hands. This whole interaction felt so middle-school to her. Y/N said to ask Lafayette to ask Thomas if he's still thinking about her!

@Y/N_L/N: please lafayette just keep me out of this

@Y/N_L/N: don't wanna get involved in ur relationship with him. if i wanted to ask him something id do it on my own time

@gilafayette: wait he has just responded

@Y/N_L/N: so you still sent the message???

@gilafayette: it was too late, i am sorry!

@Y/N_L/N: what did he say??

@gilafayette: "if she wants to know, tell her to ask me herself"

@Y/N_L/N: lafayette i stg

@Y/N_L/N: please tell him this was just a misunderstanding and it wasn't MY question!!

✅ Read, 5:49 PM.

She groaned, letting herself fall back onto her bed as she saw the read receipt. Just her luck.

@Thomas_Jefferson wants to send you a message. Accept?

Oh, fuck. She didn't want to open the message, but at the same time, she was desperate to see what he had sent. In the midst of her internal struggle, it occurred briefly to her that if she didn't just open the message, he'd find some way to confront her about it in person that night, and -- to her dismay -- her mind was made up.

Messages to @Thomas_Jefferson:

@Thomas_Jefferson: did you really just avoid every time i tried to talk to you abt that night and then ask lafayette what was on my mind???

@Thomas_Jefferson: im going to come talk to you after the debate tonight. don't leave the building.

✅ Read, 5:56 PM.

________________

WITH JEFFERSON'S WORDS still in mind, Y/N fled the second night of debates the moment she could cut loose, calling an Uber before they even gave her the go-ahead to leave, not having a second to waste.

She caught his eye on the way out, him surrounded by three campaign staffers and James Madison, and he raised an eyebrow at her. The intimation was obvious: wait up for him.

She broke the eye contact immediately, shaking her head lightly. She had a blue Toyota Camry and a driver named Mandy to find out on the snow-coated street, and she was off long before he had even a chance to try to follow her.

She'd assumed the ordeal was over. She thought it was over with, that she'd somehow managed to escape scot-free, and that she'd managed to avoid Jefferson privately confronting her once and for all.

Boy, was she wrong.

She spent her final evening in the hotel carefree, drafting the second night's article as Lizzo played in the background. She'd packed most of her things, aside from the previous night's bottle of wine and the second pack of Flaming Hot Cheetos she'd bought with her future self in mind (she was patting herself on the back for that one, of course).

She strolled over to the business office on her floor with a pen in her mouth, still humming along to her long-abandoned music, as Ashley had requested that she fax over her handwritten notes from both nights of debates -- she'd called down to the front desk to ask first if they had a fax machine. She hadn't intended to get out of bed if she didn't have to.

Balancing her notes across the keyboard of her laptop in one arm, she opened the door to the office, eyes still fixated on the screen of her computer as she pushed the door with her shoulder. When she looked up, she was met with more than just a printer and a fax machine.

His nose was no longer buried in the book he held on his lap, seemingly distracted by the sound of the door opening, and he had his sweatpant-clad legs propped up on the desk before him, his glasses discarded on the table next to him. She froze when their eyes met.

"Y/N," Jefferson said, looking as stunned as she felt. She blinked. A beat passed. She almost responded, before she remembered the pen she still held in her mouth, continuing into the room and letting the door click shut behind her so that she could put her papers down. "Shit, uh... I can leave if you need the room, or--"

"No, no, you're fine." She finally took the pen out from between her teeth, withdrawing her papers from her laptop, closing it atop the desk. "But I can, ah, come back, if--"

"No, 'course not." He gave her a soft grin, fiddling with the page of his book. "Seems like you're the only one who actually needs the room, anyway."

She returned his smile, though hesitantly, feeling awkward to be alone with him in the small space. "Thanks."

She began shuffling her papers into the fax machine one by one, and the silence grew heavy. She tried not to feel the need to fill it. Yet--

"What brought you here, anyway?" She glanced back at him over her shoulder with an eyebrow raised and found his gaze still trained on her. She shifted her weight, and he chuckled.

"Just tryin' to escape."

She furrowed her brow, not sure if she understood, and another moment passed as she fed her last paper into the fax machine. Now she just had to play the waiting game (which was unfortunately long, considering the number of papers Ashley demanded). "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, lifting his feet off the desk's edge as he leaned forward to rest his forearms atop his legs. "Just needed a moment to myself. I'm sharin' my room here with James, and since I started runnin' for president it hasn't been easy to find some time alone."

She nodded, glancing down at the book in his hand, and grinned. "And you're spending that time reading?"

"You got any better ideas for me?" He raised a playful eyebrow when she turned to lean against where the wraparound desk met the back of the incredibly small room. She only shrugged.

"Could spend this time cleaning up your entire political platform," she suggested, and he laughed.

"Now you're just baitin' me."

"Never!"

He rolled his eyes as he turned the office chair to face her. "Now tell me why I don't believe you."

"Beats me." She plastered on an innocent smile, ultimately pursing her lips, though, to stifle her grin.

"Mhm." He shook his head in amusement, wide grin adorning his lips as he looked down once again, thumbing the nearest page of his book. Y/N raised an eyebrow.

"Whatcha reading?"

"Nietzsche." He held up the book, showing her the name scrawled across the cover and the spine.

"Zarathustra? Really?" She eyed the book with a wary gaze, and his eyebrows shot toward his hairline, amused.

"Don't tell me you've read it?"

"It seems we have annoyingly similar taste in literature, Secretary Jefferson." She grinned. "Can I get past you to the printer real quick?"

"Hm? Oh, 'course." He glanced over his shoulder, standing and taking a step over immediately as he realized the chair was situated directly in front of where she needed to be. She thanked him softly as she moved past him to collect her newly-inked papers. There was a skip; he hesitated. "So it's back to Secretary Jefferson now, huh?"

She looked over to where he stood beside her, eyebrows raised and heat creeping up the back of her neck. The look in his eyes was expectant, but not demanding. "Is that alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course," he said, wearing a small, almost comforting smile, and she couldn't help but return it, before he added with a grin. "Thomas is better, though."

Despite the amusement in his eyes and the mischief dancing in his smile, Y/N let out a sigh as she pushed herself onto the counter beside the fax machine. "I'm sorry, I really just--"

"I know. 'M sorry. We don't have to get into it, if you don't wanna."

She paused as she met his eyes. The understanding tone he was taking now felt like a far cry from how he'd been earlier in the day, but sitting alone with him in that hotel business office after hours, both of them out of their suits and into their sleepwear, joking about his reading material, she felt like she was just then seeing him clearly. "I..." She gave him a small smile. "Thank you."

"You never responded to my message on Twitter, though," he continued, a grin once again breaking across his face, and she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "C'mon, don't pretend, I saw that you read it."

"Lafayette was out of line!" she defended, "God, he was asking for advice on what he should say to you because he was worried, and somehow I became his advisor, and I literally just told him to ask you what was wrong. I wasn't trying to pry after avoiding you the past few days."

"I kinda figured, after Laf's next couple messages. Basically told me you were chewin' him out for askin' that," he laughed, but raised an eyebrow as he met her eyes. "But you admit you were avoidin' me, though, huh?"

"I--" She paused, mouth open to respond, and eyebrows raised, but she didn't know how to respond. The question caught her entirely by surprise. "I guess so, yeah."

Her face burned as he chuckled lightly, and she couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. She bit her lip, folded her arms across her chest. "Don't act like it's some big confession, now; it was kinda obvious. You said all of three words to me in the elevator, shut me down when you were talkin' to Lafayette, and then today, at the debate?" He raised an eyebrow, seemingly enjoying watching her squirm. She didn't look up at him. "Now, that was the most obvious of all. You read my message, made direct eye contact with me, and then were still the first one outta the building. You aren't subtle, sweetheart."

She sighed, crossed her ankles where she sat on the counter, and ran a hand through her hair. "Yeah, I guess that's fair," she sighed, finally looking up at him, and he didn't say a word, waiting for her to continue. He cocked an expectant eyebrow. "Just, after the state dinner, and what happened -- or really, what almost happened," she sighed, and the corners of his lips quirked up. "I really didn't wanna talk to you, or know how to, and I'm sorry, I just-- What would I have said? What was I supposed to say? 'So, I know I, like, almost let you kiss me three weeks ago, but now I'm gonna grill you about fiscal policy on national television! Isn't that fun?'" She plastered on an exaggerated smile, mocking the hypothetical, and he laughed.

"That would've been a good start." She rolled her eyes, bit her lips, and his smile softened. "Could've at least let me talk to you, though."

She sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I should've, but I think I just scared myself into thinking talking to you meant my immediate demise."

"Now, that offends me a little," he teased, "I'm nothin' if not approachable, and I don't like hearin' you suggest otherwise."

She pursed her lips as she met his eyes. "Oh, of course. The Republican presidential frontrunner, who's always surrounded by people much more important than me, and is never seen in public without an entourage. The easiest to talk to." He didn't comment on the thinly veiled confession of insecurity contained in her dry sarcasm, but instead raised an eyebrow.

"Aren't I?" His tone, his wide grin both seemed to suggest that he was joking, but something in how he looked at Y/N made her breath catch.

"Yeah," she said, softly, "I guess you are." She swallowed, looking down at her feet, and the only sound reverberating through the little room was the cranking of the aging fax machine that still held her notes. The hush that fell over them only stretched on.

"Can I just--"

"I wanted to--"

They both looked up at once, though, voices overlapping as they chose the same moment to break the silence, and Thomas grinned. Y/N let out a light laugh. "You can go first."

"Yeah?" he asked, hesitant. She nodded, shooting him a wink.

"The floor is yours."

"Much appreciated." They shared an anticipatory glance, the tension in the room magnified by the close proximity the little space had pushed them into. They weren't even feet apart. "Anyway, I just, at least, wanna apologize."

Y/N quirked up an eyebrow. "What for?"

"The state dinner." She sighed heavily, raking a hand through her hair, and he continued, "C'mon, don't pretend there's nothin' to talk about there. I can't let myself ignore it, so I'm sorry." She bit her lip, trying to keep herself from squirming under his gaze, afraid to break the eye contact as he searched her expression. "Seemed like I scared you that night, and I wanna make sure I didn't make you feel unsafe, or uncomfortable, or... Just felt like I put you in a bad position, or made you feel like you couldn't leave because of me, since I was still the Secretary of State and all, and..." He trailed off as he saw Y/N raise an amused eyebrow, failing to stifle a grin at his words, and hardly stifling a laugh. He huffed, but there was no real frustration behind his smile. "Gimme a break, it's happened!"

"What, you've cornered other hot reporters in your office and leveraged your title against them?" she teased, and he rolled his eyes, cracking a grin.

"I usually go for hot Congresswomen, but none were around, so I figured you'd have to do."

"You've tried to stick it on Nancy Pelosi?" she asked in mock disbelief, and he laughed, carding a hand through his hair, "Can I quote you on that?"

"May wanna keep it off the record, just this once." He winked, and she couldn't help her light huff, playful disappointment mingling with amusement. He pursed his lips. "But seriously, Y/N, hope I didn't scare you."

"No sweat, Thomas, I don't scare easy." She gave him a soft smile, and he raised a brow, surprised to hear her using his first name again, but he held his tongue. She swallowed thickly, realizing it at the same time. "I'm not about to become your Monica Lewinsky, if that's what you're worried about -- you didn't put me in any position I didn't wanna be in." Her last few words had even her taking pause, surprised at having said them aloud. It felt more like a confession than a reassurance, and with that, Thomas's brows shot toward his hairline, and a small smirk rested on his lips. Y/N could feel her heart in her throat as she waited for him to respond.

"'I didn't put you in any position you didn't wanna be in,' huh?" he repeated slowly, his smug smile growing as her eyes slowly began to widen; she didn't like watching him take pleasure in this.

"I--" She cut herself off as he took a step toward her, pushing herself further back where she sat on the edge of the desk. "Yeah," she breathed, worried that her heart would beat out of her chest if she said much more.

"So--" One of his hands landed beside her on the desk as his stare became increasingly self-contented, "What if you ended up in that position again, hm?" His other large hand came to rest on her right knee; he was now hovering just inches above her, and her pulse threatened to stop altogether as she looked up at him, wide-eyed.

"Thomas," she said softly, biting her lip, and she couldn't help but notice him track the movement, his gaze falling momentarily to her mouth. His hand lifted from her knee to her jaw, brushing a hair away from her face before running his thumb along her cheekbone, cupping her cheek. "What are you doing?" she asked, breathlessly.

"This time, is it a position you don't wanna be in?" he asked, the hand that previously sat on the desk now meeting her waist, pulling her closer to him. Something about his smile told her that he was confident in what her answer would be. He raised an eyebrow.

"What..." Her voice faltered as he pulled her into him, her legs now straddling his waist from atop the desk, and she prayed he didn't catch it when her gaze fell to his lips, if only for a moment. (The way he grinned told her he'd definitely caught it.) He stilled millimeters away from her lips, and the movement wasn't even conscious as her arms wrapped around his neck. "Thomas."

He smiled, his nose brushing against hers, and he couldn't help that his grin grew when she shivered at the contact. "Y/N," he whispered, too close even to make out her full face, but he could see every detail of her shining eyes clearly, could trace every ridge of her lips.

She was terrified. Every nerve in her body seemed to be standing on end, and she could feel everything. Even the slightest movements made her pulse jump -- the pads of his fingers digging into her waist, his breath as it fluttered across her cheek, him pulling her impossibly closer, yet still, not quite close enough. She swallowed hard, looking into his eyes. "Kiss me."

He obliged her immediately, his hand gripping her jaw as his lips moved against hers, and she reacted in the same moment. One of her hands weaved itself into his hair, while the other sank into the back of his old college t-shirt. His tongue pushed insistently past her lips, and she arched against him in an effort to pull him ever closer, pushing herself toward the edge of the desk. His hand slid down to hook itself under her thigh, and his grip tightened on her leg as she sighed against him. He nipped at her bottom lip, tugging it into his mouth, but nearly lost it when he yanked at her hair, and she let out a soft, needy whine against his mouth -- the kiss immediately became harsher, faster; in seconds it was all teeth and tongue. Y/N didn't know when his lips had begun to trail down her neck, didn't realize his hands began to tug at her shirt until she felt his fingers brush against her stomach, and she shuddered. She gasped as he scraped his teeth over the base of her neck, sucking a hickey into the skin, and she rolled her hips involuntarily up against his. He groaned against her.

"Fuck," she whispered as his hands finally breached the hem of her shirt, pressing into the bare skin of her waist, and she dragged her nails down across his back, feeling his muscles rippling in his shoulders as he pulled her harshly against himself.

"Shit, sweetheart." She yanked at his hair, began kissing along his jawline, grinding her hips persistently up against his. "Y/N," he groaned, his nails beginning to dig directly into her hips. Her movements faltered a moment. She swallowed.

It must have been then that she came to her senses. She couldn't have placed exactly when, or why she broke it off, but it must have been when she heard her name out of his mouth, against her skin, when she realized exactly where she was. She pulled back from him, gasping for air, her hands against his chest, and he raised his eyebrows.

"What...?" he breathed, equally winded, "What's wrong? Did I do somethin'?"

Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him, shaking her head slowly, but her expression was despairing, the gravity of the situation just then beginning to sink in.

"I..." She trailed off, letting out a huff as she ran a hand through her hair, "No, no, it... it's not you, but..." She pulled further back, pushing him gently away as she broke out of his grasp. The look in his eyes was worried, but more so disappointed. "We can't do this, Thomas. Fuck, this was a mistake. What were we thinking? I just--"

She groaned softly, burying her face into her hands before hopping off of the desk, scrambling to collect her laptop and her papers. His eyes widened as she began to rush to leave the room.

"Hey, hey, sweetheart!" He grabbed ahold of her arm as she began to turn away, and she yanked it from his fingers. "Y/N, c'mon, wait a minute."

"This can't happen! Don't you get it?" she said. "This was so fucking stupid. I'm a political journalist, Thomas, and you're running for President, for God's sake! Can you imagine what would happen if we hooked up? If that somehow leaked?"

"Wait, be reasonable--"

"I'd become the next fucking Monica Lewinsky, and there goes your campaign, and there goes my career. Next I get accused of biased reporting, and you get accused of foul play with the media." She shook her head, shuffling her papers together as she turned to leave. "I'm sorry. I... I'm so sorry, this was such a mistake."

"Y/N." His voice was steady, but firm. "Listen to me: no one's losin' their career, no one's life is shatterin' because of this. Relax, darlin'. Leave if you want to, but relax. I'm not gonna try to make you stay."

She hesitated as he rested his hands on her biceps, as they ghosted down her arms. He smiled. "Don't get me wrong, you're more than welcome to stay, but I won't hold it against you if you don't."

"I can't do this, Thomas," she breathed, and he chuckled. Despite his small smile, and despite what genuinely were his best efforts, disappointment clouded his gaze, and he did a poor job of hiding it.

"Okay. Then go." His voice was soft, gentle. "If you ever change your mind, though, just know that I'm the only one with access to my Twitter messages. You know how to reach me if you want to." He grinned as he said that, and Y/N’s eyes widened. Did he just offer himself up as a booty call?

The thought had her breath hitching in the back of her throat. The look in his eyes told her that he was being perfectly sincere.

"I'm sorry,” she finally said, voice only just above a whisper, and he nodded.

"Don't worry about it.” There was a skip. “I'll see you soon, Y/N.”

“Bye, Thomas.” She held his gaze a moment longer, struggling to bring herself to leave, but knowing she couldn’t stay. He sent her a wink, and she finally began to move.

She was out the door without another word, her breathing shaky as she rushed back to her hotel room. She was desperate to immediately open her phone, to text Angelica or Alex, but shit, if that wouldn't ruin her life. Angelica would find some way to convince her to quit her job, or somehow weasel her way out of her assignment on the 2020 election, and Alex would be worse yet -- he'd take it straight back to Thomas and confront him.

She groaned into her hands as she walked into her bathroom. A cold, cleansing shower was what she needed at that moment. The first thing she saw as she walked into the bathroom, though, was a deep purple hickey, at the base of her neck; she'd be covering that up for weeks, she thought as she drew closer to the mirror, running a hand over it as she examined the area. Yet, it also left her with several 'what if's -- what if she hadn't stopped it? What if she were to let this happen? What if, for once in her life, she stopped worrying, let herself live, took a risk?

What if she'd decided to stay?

She met her own eyes in the mirror as she entertained the thought, and she swallowed roughly.

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worryinglyinnocent · 4 years ago

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Fic: Northern Lights

Summary: Belle travels to frozen Arendelle to witness the Northern Aurora. Legend has it that eligible young women will see the face of their intended in the lights, but Belle’s never held much sway by old wives’ tales…

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling moodboard, available here.

Rated: G

Northern Lights

Belle had been looking forward to her trip to Arendelle ever since she had received Anna’s invitation. As the carriage drove through along the heavily salted roads, snow and ice piled up in huge drifts around them, she could see that the entire kingdom was in a state of intense excitement.

She knew why, of course. It was the entire reason for her visit to Anna in the first place. Well, in the invitation, Anna had couched it in terms of diplomacy: a visit from a duchess of the southern lands to the frozen and near uninhabitable North was always a good exercise in maintaining friendly relations across the Enchanted Forest. Belle knew the truth, however.

The Northern Aurora was due to become visible again over Arendelle’s peaks that night, and it was a momentous occasion. The mesmerising sky lights were only seen every ten or so years, and all of Arendelle fell into a frenzy when they became visible again. Much store was set by the Aurora, and the swirling colours were said to predict all kinds of things about the future.

Belle did not hold much with the divination side of things, but she knew that she wanted to witness the natural magnificence since she had the chance. She had seen illustrations of the Aurora in her books before, but she knew that they would never be able to compare with seeing the lights in person. The pictures themselves were breath-taking, which meant that the lights themselves could only be more so.

The carriage rounded a corner and the Arendelle royal palace came into view. Belle could already see Anna standing by the gates, wrapped up in wool and furs and prancing from one foot to the other to try and keep warm as she waited for her guest. Almost as soon as Belle was out of the carriage, Anna had grabbed her and was leading her through the palace’s halls, chattering on so fast that Belle could barely get a word in edgeways. She didn’t mind, though, content to let Anna guide her on a whistle-stop tour of the palace and fill her in on several hundred years of history in just a few minutes.

She had first met Anna just a few years ago, when she had accompanied Queen Elsa on a tour of the southern kingdoms and they had spent a few days in the Duchy of Avonlea, neighbouring Belle’s own lands. All of the nobility in the region had been invited to meet the visiting royalty, and being Belle’s age, Anna had taken a shine to her. Although they were chalk and cheese in terms of personality, Anna brash and outgoing, a people-person in all respects, whilst Belle was more reserved although no less forceful when she wanted to be, the two young ladies had got on very well and had remained firm friends ever since.

This was Belle’s first time in Arendelle, and her first time visiting anywhere without her father. Anna was determined that they should make the most of their comparative freedom.

“Of course, Elsa will make sure that we have a chaperone when we go out to see the lights tonight, but with any luck it will be Sir Rumpel.”

“Sir Rumpel?” Belle was intrigued by the name.

“Rumpelstiltskin, really, but it’s such a mouthful to pronounce. He doesn’t seem to mind when I call him Rumpel. Everyone says that he’s performed great feats in war against the ogres. Of course, all that was long before my time and he doesn’t like to talk about it, but I think that the reports are trustworthy. Anyway, he’s lovely, and very discreet so I don’t think he’ll tell Elsa if we happen to slip away for a bit.” Anna sighed dramatically. “It can be so tiresome having someone watching your every move all the time.”

Although Belle was only the daughter of a duke comparatively low in the noble pecking order, she too knew the problems of being followed by knights everywhere she went. She wasn’t sure that she was looking forward to meeting this knight of Anna’s. In her experience, most soldiers were alike, but Anna’s description of Sir Rumpelstiltskin had roused her curiosity.

The rest of the day was spent in the room that had been set aside for Belle’s stay, the two girls catching up on everything that had happened since they had last been in touch. As darkness began to fall outside, far earlier than it did in the south, Belle could tell that Anna could barely contain her excitement; she was practically bouncing up and down on the bed.

“You know, they say that young ladies of a marriageable age will see the face of their future husband when they look into the lights,” she said, then gave an emphatic sigh. “Oh, I hope mine’s handsome.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Anna, please don’t tell me that you invited me to see the Aurora just so that I could see my potential suitor?”

“Of course not! The lights are a wonderful natural phenomenon that everyone should have the chance to experience in person and of course we’re doing our bit for maintaining good relationships between Arendelle and the rest of the Enchanted Forest. Honestly, Belle, didn’t you read my letter to your father?”

Belle remained firmly unconvinced and Anna let out a sigh of defeat.

“All right, all right, yes, one of the reasons that I wanted you to see the lights was to see your future husband. I know that you haven’t been having much luck on that front and I thought that if you had something to aim for then it would help you.”

Belle just shook her head in despair. It was true enough that none of the potential matches that her father had introduced her to over the last couple of years had been anywhere near suitable, and she knew that she was running out of eligible noblemen, but Belle had never been of the opinion that bloodlines and fortunes should be of the highest priority when selecting a partner. She held far more store by love and friendship, no matter who her partner might be.

Presently there was a polite tap on the door and a voice spoke through the wood.

“Your Highness, Her Majesty has instructed me to accompany you to the Aurora tonight. I suggest that we head out soon if we want to get the best view of the lights.”

Anna rushed over to the door and flung it open.

“Oh, I did so hope that it would be you coming with us, Sir Rumpel. Belle, this is Sir Rumpelstiltskin. Sir Rumpel, my dear friend Lady Belle of the Marchlands.”

Sir Rumpelstiltskin bowed. “Welcome to Arendelle, Lady Belle. I hope that you’ll enjoy your stay here.”

Belle curtseyed. “Thank you, Sir.”

She took a moment to take him in, the famous knight that Anna had told her so much and yet so little about. He was certainly not like any of the other knights of Belle’s acquaintance, and she was very pleased by that. He was older for a start, mature and measured rather than one of the young, hot-blooded types that she was used to, and there was kindness and gentleness in his eyes.

“The sled is waiting, Your Highness, Your Ladyship. I’ll see you shortly.”

He closed the door after him, and as Anna bustled around gathering their warm cloaks and fur-lined boots, Belle was left wondering.

“Come on, Belle, stop daydreaming! You don’t want to miss your chance, do you?” Anna shoved a hat on her head haphazardly and as Belle pulled it up from over her eyes, she saw Anna give a wistful sigh. “Oh, I hope mine looks like Prince Hans from the Southern Isles.”

Belle raised an eyebrow, unseen, and she continued to prepare for their departure. From what she’d heard of the Southern Isles’ royal family, she thought that Anna could do an awful lot better than Prince Hans, but she didn’t say anything, letting her friend indulge in her harmless fantasies.

At last, they were ready, and soon tucked up snugly under heavy blankets in the back of the sled. Sir Rumpel was trotting alongside them on a white charger, and Belle couldn’t help sneaking little sideways glances at him. She was trying to be subtle, but she knew she’d failed when she saw the corner of his mouth twitch up in a smile.

Presently, he leaned down in the saddle to speak to her.

“You’ll get a good view just around the next corner,” he said. Even though Belle knew that he was talking about the lights, she felt her face flame as her thoughts turned in a different direction. At least the warmth in her cheeks was countering the cool wind.

They rounded the corner and all thoughts of Sir Rumpel were put out of Belle’s head as she caught her first glimpse of the Aurora. It was breath-taking, even from this distance, and she stared in wonder at it.

“I know, it’s mesmerising, isn’t it?” Anna clapped her hands together in excitement. “It’ll be even better when we get closer.”

The sky was swirling in bright greens and blues as if it were alive, and Belle immediately thought of just how little justice the illustrations in her books did to its raw and unrefined beauty. It kept her spellbound until they reached the plateau where crowds were gathering to watch the lights in their full glory, and it was only when Sir Rumpel offered her a hand to help her out of the sled that she remembered where she was and was brought back to the present.

She kept hold of his hand as he guided her across the icy ground towards the best viewing spot; Anna had already rushed on ahead, not caring as she slipped and slid across the plateau until she was right in the centre of the crowd, gazing up at the Aurora.

Belle looked up and drank in the majesty of the spectacle. If she’d held even the vaguest belief in the old notions, then it would have been well and truly squashed in that moment. There was nothing akin to a human face in the lights, and she could not see how anyone could see anything aside from the beautiful waves of colour. They in themselves were more handsome than any potential intended.

Although, that said…

She looked across at Sir Rumpel, very aware that she was still holding his hand, but he showed no signs of being uncomfortable with her closeness. He wasn’t looking at her, instead staring up at the lights as she had been doing until just a moment before.

The swirling hues of blue and green lit up his face, and Belle wondered. Maybe it was not so much seeing the face of one’s future partner in the lights, as seeing the lights in the face of one’s future partner.

Almost as if he could feel her looking at him, Sir Rumpel glanced over at her and smiled, giving her hand a brief squeeze where it still rested in his.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

Belle nodded. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“I’m glad you’ve had the opportunity to experience it first-hand.”

Nothing more was said, as Anna came bounding back over to them at that point.

“I think I’m going to marry a reindeer,” she said, screwing her nose up in disgust. “I couldn’t see anything at all human shaped. Just what looked like antlers. What about you?”

Belle shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen any antlers.”

“But you have seen something, right?” Anna was far too enthusiastic for her own good. “Something good?”

Belle glanced at the knight beside her once more before turning back to Anna.

“Yes. Something good.”

It was only an old fairy tale, after all, but maybe some truth could come out of it in the future.

#rumbelle fic #A Monthly Rumbelling #rumbelle #Belle French #Rumpelstiltskin #Knight!Rumpel #Lady!Belle #meet cute #first meetings #Fic: Northern Lights

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wafflewarriors · 5 years ago

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The Not-So-French Mistake

Chapter 8: Putting Tissues in Teen Issues

Sydney was still jittery when the stationed tents had grown quiet. She was heedful of the shrill pops and cracks of staticky fabric against fabric as she sat up. Each tooth of the tent's zipper was meticulously grating as she tugged it open. She worried it would wake a fellow camper and would result in a need to excuse her absence.

She climbed onto the soft, chalky dirt, and stood, surveying for watching eyes. She sighed, stealthily creeping past without brushing against stray weeds. Her stolen boots―originally Dean's boots―rasped and scuffed against the chapped soil, unreasonably wide for her feet.

When she had successfully passed them, her breath became less demanding. She wandered for a minute, reviewing the path she had raged through during her pathetic tantrum.

She forgot how to breathe as a forearm hammered into her chest and slammed her against a dusty drywall. She floundered, the breath knocked out of her lungs. The broad silhouette in front of her was barely lit by the pale, inky moonlight that pooled over his shoulders, but it was unmistakable. “Dean?” was her fearful whisper.

He faltered, realizing who he had struck. He loosened his hold for a more breathable position, but held firmly. “I knew we couldn't trust you.”

She croaked in protest, “I can explain!”

“Explain, then.” he said, just as a silvery line entered her peripheral vision: a gun.

She flinched, peeking timidly at the barrel aimed at her jaw. She inhaled shakily, a knot coiling in her throat as she watched the weapon with meek fright. Her anxiety pushed at her lungs, not allowing a full breath. Just because she was familiar with guns did not mean she wasn't intimidated by them. One hasty finger and she would be a goner.

Shaping words was more difficult than she had wished. “There was an angel―” It came out garbled, but intelligible.

“An angel? When?”

“When you all decided to ditch me! People started disappearing, and somebody had to act, so I did! We ran a search party, and he just appeared, and said he could help, and... and I just wanted to go home, you know? He said to meet alone!” She squeaked, unshed tears welling up in her eyes as her anxiety spiked. “I swear it!” Her thoughts were in an erratic frenzy: please don’t shoot me, please don't shoot me―

He looked to her with uncertainty and distrust, though his gaze never wavered. “Alone? You said people started disappearing, and you didn't think that you might have applied to the list?” There was a minuscule twitch in Dean's brow.

“I had a few people with me! We just split for a moment, and he showed up―”

Rather than his previous betrayed expression, he now looked incredulously at her. His lip twisted upward, baring his canines fiercely. “Split for a moment? You have got to be kidding me. That's all it took for someone to go MIA!”

“Yeah, but―”

“God!” The gun had withdrawn and he rubbed his forehead in aged worry. “I told you not do anything stupid!”

It was my fault, she thought bitterly. This, all of this, my fault. She'd watched enough Supernatural episodes to understand that. When someone relatively new entered the show, they, without fail, regardless of whether they were blissfully unaware of the fact, would wind up dead. The list ran on: Mary, Jess, John, Ellen, Jo, Benny, Kevin, Charlie, even Bobby almost wound up dead… anyone who so much as spoke with a Winchester ended up as a ticking time bomb.

Sydney wasn't stupid, and wasn't suicidal like Dean appeared to believe―she was just holding herself responsible. Responsible for the deaths of the town, no matter what they told her. With her scrambled memory, she could have even contributed to the brutality. The thought sent shivers spastically through her nerves. Having been introduced as an ally, only to discover her terrible crimes she couldn't even remember.

How ironic would it be―to be slain by Sam and Dean Winchester, the men she believed could have saved her. It wasn't unlikely―Supernatural loved to hurl painful twists in plots such as this. Toss in a likeable character and present them as innocent, only to discover their selfish background.

Sydney was a ‘witness’ of the Winchesters: the fresh blood in the miserable show, doomed to fall at the hands of the mysterious evil Sam and Dean miraculously stumble upon each episode. And witnesses typically died. She withheld this knowledge from Dean, as he would only deny the painful, aching truth.

It wasn't if she would die; it was when, and how painfully.

She didn't even blink as the ugly thoughts rifled throughout her mind. She only shrugged sheepishly, eyes brought down to the tarnished leather of his boots encompassing her petite ankles. Tepid air seeped into the open gape of the boots, encircling her ankles like prickling cuffs linking her feet to the ground in arrest. “Sorry.” The apology was weak, she knew, but Dean, she hoped, would buy into it.

He sighed, though visibly relaxing, clapping a hand on her shoulder as a show of forgiveness. “I'm going to come with you, okay? If all goes to worst, I have an angel blade with me.” He displayed the chromium-like handle poking from the inner pocket of his jacket.

She contemplated it, but Dean Winchester wasn't one to bargain; his decision was final. She yearned to argue and challenge it, but it was hopeless. Maybe another day, she thought wistfully. She nodded, loose boots shuffling fine puffs of dirt as they tread the alley that eventually led to the abandoned hotel.

From the outside, the hotel was made of flame-licked limestone, the structure tilted to the left to accommodate the molten temperatures. The entire set up was unstable, and there were risks of it collapsing without the addition of a trap.

“You seriously went in there? This is like... a giant Jenga block on the 40th turn.”

In short, the meeting place was not one for cowards. It was difficult to believe that this morning she had blindly stormed in there, smashing windows and kicking doors, when the entire building looked as if it would topple with a shift of breath.

Albeit, Dean wasn't a coward, so he took his chances and entered the building with Sydney at his heels.

She wanted to skip the jeopardous mission as her anxiety pitched upward, dangerously close to panic. Without Dean, she could have debated her chances and abandoned her plan if she had felt it too risky, and then snuck back to the camp as if it had never occurred. With Dean, she was either in or out, and she was petrified it would lead her to a premature death; however, she was grateful for his presence, despite the odds.

She skirted around an overturned sofa she had earlier thrown, swallowing her apprehension. “So… what, uh… what gave it away? I know you're a hunter an all… but I was pretty quiet. I mean, do you sleep that lightly?”

A stifled snicker lit his face and he vainly hid his bemused chuckling through a few failing coughs. She wasn't sure what was so funny. “Actually... I was awake. Sleep doesn't always come easy, you know... but someone's gotta watch the town with the threat of kidnapping, and all. Also, my boots do not fit your little feet. You sounded like Barney out there―stomping around like that.”

She smacked him on the shoulder. “Hey!”

He surrendered willingly. “Joking, joking. Jeez, you don't hit soft, do you?” He rubbed at the slightly tender, pink imprint left by her hand. “Actually, you were okay. You're light on your feet, but my boots kind of neutralized your skills.”

“Oh.”

Sydney possessed the same weepy puppy-dog eyes that Sam had, and it rattled Dean like nothing else. “You’re certain you don’t want to stick around? Cas practically treats you like family, and with some training, you'd make a great hunter, you know. We, uh… we have a guest room in the bunker.”

He’s offering me to stay, Sydney finally processed. “I―you're serious?”

He smiled, eyes soft like green tea. “Yeah, Pipsqueak. I mean it. We could use you around.” He nudged her playfully, “Whaddaya say?”

She blushed, flattered that the literal freaking Winchesters were fond of her presence. It was the highest compliment she could receive from Dean Winchester. She was... honored. "I'll... I'll consider it," she said, slightly dazed.

Dean grinned genuinely, fondness crinkling his eyes. “All right then.” He examined the room the corridor had led to and wrinkled his nose. “You sure this is the place? It’s kind of… sketchy.”

The drywall resembled a chipped egg, missing flakes forming cracks along the aged paint like veins. The carpet crimped away from the walls to reveal the darkened floorboards tainted with mold. Everything metal was rusted: namely the window frame, the outdated heater, and the outlet were all corroded and stained with the ugly umber hue. The carpet reeked of mold and mildew, shriveling the air around it with it’s musty odor.

She stiffened, embracing the lingering heat that breathed into the hallway. “That's where I was...” Kidnapped, she wanted to say, but the words didn't pass her gaping jaw. “How... how didn't I notice..?” she mumbled, dumbfounded.

She had been so absorbed with her childish fit that she hadn't come to notice that her evening chat had occured in the room she first arose in.

Dean’s posture suddenly became protective, looming over her as a shield for anything that dare approach. His hand ventured from his side to her shoulder-blade, and he stepped in front of her, tucking her into his inner-elbow.

Yet, the room was vacant. Only the occasional wisp of paper in the waft of flushed air disturbed the silence, which hardly indicated the scorching temperatures they had endured merely hours ago. A note had been set in the center of the room, fluttering at the slightest air current, a dance of stark-white contrasting the hotel room's dimmed pigments.

Dean shot her a look of caution, suggesting she not not enter for her own wellbeing. He was concerned it was trap set explicitly for her, and he would not have an inexperienced child's blood on his hands because he hadn't been too watchful.

Sydney knew there was no choice here. Dean's judgment would forever override her own, and he would veto any dangerous suggestions decisively. Dean wielded the power here, and technically this―

“This is a dictatorship.” ~Dean Winchester

Sydney recoiled, staggering backward. Her temples throbbed as a memory heaved through her train of thought for no reason whatsoever. Except, that hadn't been her memory.

For the second time since she'd been here, something was seriously wrong.

When she had been occupied with dimensional research at Bobby's house, she had been struck with a voice narrating Dean's car in which she had never heard, yet recognized, and did not recall the name Chuck Shurley, but she sensed a familiarity from watching the show. Prophet, right? More like God, she supposed.

Nothing had even triggered it, it had just overrun her mind, overwhelming her with the addition of pins and needles, and tense muscles.

“Sydney?”

She had no influence over the involuntary fragments of flashbacks: it just struck her like an axe through a layered wall―

“Now, Sam, I'm gonna put up a barrier inside your mind. It might feel a little... itchy. But do me a favor―don't scratch the wall. Because trust me―you're not gonna like what happens.” ~Death

Sydney gritted her teeth as the new memory invaded, yanking any stray ideas back into the pits of her aching mind. It hurt to remember, and they gave her no context anyway. It added no motivation to prod further or seek answers, but it continued so, nonetheless. Poking at the wall in her mind had not been intentional, and hardly considered curious behavior.

Where was she obtaining such memories if they weren't her own? Her discussion with Dean about her memories being altered appeared to be exceedingly more probable.

It was slightly unnerving to rediscover the Winchesters’ memories. Or at least, that's what she now assumed they were, as these only frequently occurring when around them. The flashbacks only enhanced her skeptical view of the entire am I even human? angst that she now carried as baggage.

If she wasn't human, what was she?

“Sydney!”

Tags:

@queen-bubble, @rosaren2498

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kaekiro · 6 years ago

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Practice

Pairing: Eren/Mikasa II Rating: K II Words: 1,589II [AO3] Warnings: none A/N: Happy Eremika Week! I chose to do “First Time” for this fic c: This follows Love If We Made It, and is in Mikasa’s POV this au might also get another part but I don’t have all my ideas together for it yet

The first time he kisses her, both of them shrouded by tall trees and foliage alike, it is unexpected.

It began with the simple choice: help Eren with sparring, or start the list of chores the Captain prepared. Between the two, she much rather preferred the former and was pleasantly surprised that he asked for her help at all. Before Captain Levi could find them, they had walked past the wall of pines just east of headquarters and into a clearing that they decided to use for sparing that late morning. Practicing close combat privately was easier for him apparently, as it minimized distractions and chances of accidentally colliding into and hurting the other pairs who were practicing. She understood in turn, willing to help him any way she could and thankful to be inhaling fresh air instead of pungent cleaning products.

Both of them hadn’t been practicing for very long and she could already see just how much improvement he’s made since the last time they did this. His swings and kicks are more precise now, and carried power that came from concentration rather than frustrated impulse. He used to get so upset when he couldn’t land a single hit and it lapsed his judgment, making him sloppier. But now she’s surprised by the amount of effort on her part to predict his movements, tells him she’s proud of how far he’s come since their cadet days.

“Thanks. Maybe one day I can be as good as you,” he half-jokes, assuming his fighting stance again.

“You’re already better than most people I’ve fought. But there’s always room for improvement.”

He considers that, dropping his hands. “Where do you think I need improvement?”

At his question, she also drops her arms, looking over him thoughtfully. “Maybe speed. More so when you’re on offense. That was something I needed to work on back then. It just boils down to practice.”

“How did you do it?”

“I held weights while practicing. Attaching some to my ankles helped too. Once you do that with weights and then without them, you’ll see how much faster you get and how much lighter you’ll feel.”

He listens attentively, nodding. “I see. That might also help if I’m tossing my opponent over my shoulder, like you do. I’ve only done it a few times, but I usually almost end up straining something,” he admits, cupping the back of his neck.

“Do you want to practice that next?”

He visibly tenses as he meets her eyes. “Practice… tossing? I, uh, I don’t know.”

Concerned, she frowns. “Why do you look worried?”

“Cause I don't know how to do that properly yet.” The tip of his shoe nudges a couple of stones, flipping them. “I don’t want you landing weird and injuring something.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

She suddenly feels his gaze on her right cheek, and this time it’s her who’s gone stiff. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she states as a matter of fact, turning away intentionally. “I’ll show you step by step first, and then you can try, okay?”

Without waiting for an answer, she begins to shrug off her jacket and drops it to the side, facing him again and stepping closer as a way of insistence. Despite his obvious reluctance, he mimics her actions, tossing aside his jacket and wiping the sweat collecting at his hairline. She begins showing him a basic way of tossing an opponent, one that she’s rarely used but works if the other person isn’t very skilled in combat. From there they work on timing and even more complex methods, practicing each step slowly before she was positive that he’s got them down at this pace.

“Okay, now you try it on me. Remember, you have to work fast so you don’t end up shouldering your opponent's full weight.”

He fists his hands and relaxes them, taking a breath. “I’ll try my best.”

She moves without warning, throwing lighter punches and kicks for him to block until he takes advantage of the opening she’s giving to him. With his grip tight on her wrist, she's pulled forward with more strength than she expects and, caught off guard, is tossed to the ground before she can break her fall. A cross between a grunt and a cough breaks free from her and it takes quite a bit of convincing to assure him that she’s fine, that he can try again. Though Eren gains a more confidence each round, what she didn’t consider beforehand was the toll that it would take on her. After being flipped numerous times, she began to feel dizzy and nauseous, the sensation nearing an unbearable point but she decided to hold off saying something, mainly for his sake. That was until he had her on the ground again, pausing long enough to notice that something was off.

“Are you okay, Mikasa?”

She was sweating more than usual, hair sticking to her neck and different parts of her face and is a bit dismayed that she can’t open her eyes right away. She puts her hand up to placate him.

“Yes… I just -” she drops the hand on his forearm without meaning to, sucking in air, “need a minute.”

The next few moments are spent focusing on her breathing, leveling it out to ease her nausea. It isn’t until she opens her eyes that she realizes he never moved from his place above her, and both simply stare, breaths audible yet slow and she’s unsure of what to make of the look on his face. Until then it nears hers, his fingers gently pushing the strands sticking to her mouth aside, grazing her lips in the process. At the intimate touch, she becomes lightheaded again, the pain in her stomach quickly devolving into a flutter. He looks at her lips tentatively, his own forming an indecisive grimace and she watches him, captivated by curiosity and the strange tension between them. When the hand at the corner of her mouth moves to cup the base of her head and the ends of his hair starts tickling her skin, she doesn’t doubt his intention, feels herself blushing brightly in comparison to the tinge of color on his face. But he makes a point to stop, looking at her questioningly and giving her the chance to pull away. In a clouded mix of attraction and anticipation, she squeezes his forearm in response and flicks her gaze from his eyes to his lips and back, noting how the color on his face spreads across the bridge of his nose.

“Mikasa,” he murmurs, “close your eyes.”

She does so, barely taking a second to wonder why, to remember how inexperienced and unprepared she is before his nose is flush against the apple of her cheek and he is kissing her in full. Her fingers curl around his forearm again and her eyes close tighter, Eren’s lips on hers an odd yet pleasant sensation that makes her skin hotter and nerves frenzied. He sighs the syllables of her name against her mouth, parting for the briefest of seconds to lean on the arm beside her head and kiss her better. The whys and whats are lost to her, irrelevant, because like earlier, she can feel his confidence grow as well as her own with each gentle movement of lips and hands. She’s almost embarrassed by the sounds they’re making, but his nails lightly raking over her scalp causes her skin to prickle with goosebumps, her hand traveling up and over the muscle in his arm till her palm is at the bulging tendon on the side of his neck. She couldn’t be any less aware of their surroundings, merely craving more of this kind of attention that she’s wanted for a long time. And although the way he deepens his kiss tells her that she isn’t alone in that feeling, reality had already found its way to reel them back in.

It’s him who breaks the kiss when he hears something that her ears don’t catch at first, both soon recognizing it as shouts of squad leaders and noises that could only belong to the maneuvering gear.

“Shit.”

Their eyes meet and, in a slight panic, make a mutual decision. Eren stands to his full height, sheepish as he pulls her up and she immediately goes to smooth down her hair, walking over to retrieve her jacket and hating how much her hands are shaking. Talking to him about this proves to be daunting on her end, especially with how abrupt and somewhat awkward it had ended. Everything is burning - her lips, her face, her stomach and perhaps it’s best to talk about it when she isn’t as raw or embarrassed, but then he speaks up.

“Hey, um, thanks. For helping me today.”

Tucking a tangled lock of hair behind her ear, she gives him the most genuine smile she can manage at the moment. “Of course.”

After a stretch of silence, she thinks it okay to start walking back and he jogs to catch up and match her pace. Halfway back to headquarters, she senses his eyes on her and finds them shamelessly trained on her mouth when she faces him. A flicker of desire threatens to ignite a flame that’s destined to consume her, and she struggles to keep her voice neutral and cool when she asks, “What is it?”

“Your lips,” he starts, reaching over to swipe a rough thumb over her bottom one. “They’re so soft.”

#eremika #eremika week #eremika art #writing #lil bouts of inspiration #kaleidoscopes

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lillaxtrigger · 6 years ago

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Faded land: Chapter 10

The day of the derby had finally arrived The stands near the starting line were completely packed with screaming spectators. Confetti rains down upon the roads as they shower around the participants, who were more than raring to go. With the exception of one, however. Near the rear of racers stood Clara atop her less than eager bear spider, Angelo visibly nervous as she views the viscous competition up front. Taking a gaze towards the crowd of fans on the wayside, the scientist worries about how many of them have set up traps and hired snipers to halt her progress, or possibly end their very lives. Rico, beside her, stands to the side of Angelo, asking the rider: “So, you think your ready?”. “No. No I am not.”. “Well, your as ready as you’ll ever be, I guess.”. The trainer lowers himself to Angelo’s head as she shakes. “Angelo girl. Listen. I know you’re scared. But I know that deep down within you is a survivor. You’ve been through this race several times and came out alive every single time. I know this time won’t be any different.”. “Wait. Angelo’s raced before?” Clara asks. “Well, duh. Plenty of times.”. “What happened to her riders?”. “Died.”. Taking in a deep breath, she looks forward, replying with: “Great. That’s-that comforting to know.”. The clown can’t help but listen to her nervous moaning, letting out a weary sigh. “Listen, just try and relax, alright. Angelo here is just as nervous as you are. Gotta remember that you and her are a team. Act like it and you might just make it through alive. Hear me?”. Clara begins to calm herself down, reassuring herself with: “R-right. Gotta stay calm. It’s just like partial accelerator physics. As long as all of us do our part and don’t fuck up, we’ll be fine. He he he...He...”. “That’s the spirit...I guess.”. The megaphones above them let out a high pitched squeal, a voice comes on announcing: “Attention, attention. The race will soon begin. All non participants please clear off the track.”. “Whelp, guess that’s my excuse to fuck off.” Rico finishes as he begins to walk off the race way. “Any advice?” Clara asks the leaving clown. “Keep on your toes and try to keep your head on your shoulders.”. “You mean figuratively, right?”. All the scientist could hear of the trainer was a departing laughter. With a disgruntled groan, she faces forward, noting the tail ends of the mutant beasts she would have to face. The track all clear, the racers ready to ride, the crowd hyped, everything was set for the derby to take off. Clara however was still feeling quite anxious. Maybe entering this race wasn’t the best idea. Its then she looks down upon her steed, Angelo’s eight eyes staring upwards towards her. No...They can do this. Lets just take a deep breathe to calm ourselves. With her worries on hold, she looks ahead with more determination in her gaze. “Welcome one and all to the annual Columbus Derby!” the megaphone announces, sending the spectators in a waving frenzy. “Each year, we run this race throughout the city in celebration of our valiant efforts to rebuild our society with the mutant animals we ride with. The rules are the same as every year. A no hold bar race to the finish. The only rule being to follow the blue taped roads set up throughout the city. And without further introductions, lets get this show on the road.” Both riders and steeds alike braced themselves, grips tightening, snouts fuming, feet grinding, ready to take the lead. “Let’s hit the road in three...two...one...Blast off!”. The steeds charge ahead, a big puff of smoke left in their lunge. Clara is left behind in the dust, coughing up graveling particals captured in her lungs The dust settling, the scientist finds the racers quickly leaving her behind. She whips Angelo’s reins, commanding the ursa arachnid to: “Come on. Let’s move it.”. The spider steed takes off, hoping to catch up to the competition. Swiftly, they make up for their rough start, coming up to two riders that she threatens to pass. Attempting to pass between them, they begin squeezing her into a box and attempt to smash her in. She pulls the reins of her steed to make Angelo break, dunping her opponents to slam into one another. Scuttling past the wreck, Clara looks towards her surroundings, finding the architect around her to be too short to reliably swing through. Maybe wait until they grow to starting web swinging Aw man, the look on the other riders faces when they see her swing through the streets. As she tries to imagine the shock on their face, one of them pushes both of them towards the wall. Upon seeing her opponent come in for another push, Clara has her steed climb up the wall nearby. After seeing the rider crash into the wall, she looks ahead and finds the building to be quickly running out of wall to climb. She and Angelo jump off before coming to the huge gap and land back on the concrete. With that, she sees more of the competition up ahead. Looks like she might be able catch up to them. That’s when she witnesses one of them fall pray to a rising wall of spikes, plunging its splintery wood into the flesh of both the rider and its steed. Good god, what a gruesome sight! Guess Rico wasn't exactly exaggerating about those traps, was he? Finding the others soon falling victim as well, she hurries back onto the wall. They couldn’t possibly have set up any traps on the sides of the buildings. Since Angelo is the only steed in the race that can climb up walls as far as she knows, they should be safe as long as they keep to the wall. A fact that is swiftly disproven when she witnesses one of the windows break beside her along with a loud bang. Looking over, she finds a couple of her opponents to be in possession of firearms, picking off each other in a heated firefight, some even aiming towards her. Oh yeah, guns...right. She has Angelo move about the building as they fire in an attempt to shoot her down. A couple of the riders were too busy aiming for Clara to notice the traps popping up ahead, some even set up with guns that attached to mechanisms that pull the trigger upon being sprung. Poetically ironic, if not a bit bizarre. Right when she thinks she’s out of the flames of danger, a spring board pops out from one of the windows, pushing them towards the ground. Landing upon the ground, Angelo tries to regain her balance with the threat of gunfire behind them. That’s when another trap rears its ugly head. A burning net, its flaming strings tempting to roast them alive. This trap really couldn’t come at a worse time. With the competition firing at her from behind and the spreading pyre in front, there’s no way that she can focus on...hang on a minute. That’s it. Barely evading the embers of the burning net in their pursuit for balance, she hooks onto pillar holding the trap together via Angelo’s webbing, ripping it from the ground. She than has the ursa arachnid severe the silk before it caught ablaze. The net tumbles towards the other racers from behind and snags them in its flaming grip. As they come towards a more broken neighborhood, it looks like things were beginning to clear up. No traps popping up. No bullets flying past. Seems like easy riding from here on out. A thought that is swiftly shattered when a clear lob of liquid hurl past them. She watches as the blob lands upon the road ahead and quickly starts dissolving the concrete before them into a pothole, the foul scent reach her nose as she past. Ew! What kind of disgusting creature could have volleyed such a horrid liquid. Looking back, she finds one more rider atop canal ostrich chimera, its legs running along the pavement at a brisk pace. Its cheeks begin to puff up as it pursues, readying another lob of its corrosive spit. Clara and Angelo evade the acidic saliva, weaving out a stream of silk towards the camel ostriches mouth in hopes of shutting its mouth. The mutant spits towards the string however, quickly melting the webs into nothing but a gooey blob. Seeing their salivary foe on the approach, Clara urgently ponders what to do next. She knows that frothing acid that strong could melt through most materials, even hard metal wouldn’t stand a chance against such a chemically corrosive compound. Usually when handling such powerful liquids, she carries them in test tubes so not to burn herself. Remembering what those tubes were made of, she hatches an idea. She looks scans around the neighborhood in front of her while evading the barrage of saliva. None of the remaining homes had any passing windows to work with, all of them seemingly broken into. Except for one. Only one chance for her moment to counterattack, she wastes no time in taking it. Angelo spews her webbing towards the panel as they pass the broken abode, pulling the glass off its hinge. The camel rider sees the string along his side with and has his camel spit upon the silk. However, with the window in the midst of being pulled away having been severed, it begins to careen towards the opposing racer. The camel instinctively spits at the oncoming glass in hopes of it melting away, but with no luck as the glass shatters on them upon impact. Glass shards litter their fronts as they run, some of which end up in the camel ostriches eyes. Clara watches as her former pursuers flail about until they tumble down on the concrete. Not what the scientist was originally planning, but eh, best not to question uncertain probabilities. She got more urgent matters on hand. Within their sites up ahead was a large orange complex, an open garage door showing several of the rider riders inside lounging about. Guess that must be one of the checkpoints. However, their chance for respite was fleeting as the garage door slowly threatens to close. Clara whips Angelo’s reins, commanding her steed to: “Gotta move girl. Pick up the pace!”. The bear spider books it through the track, her eight legs scuttling as fast as they could carry the two. The doors nearly closed, the scientist is not sure they’re gonna make it. They slide under the descending doorway right before it shuts, the unwinding riders surprised by their sudden entry. In their relief, Clara hears a buzzer sounding off alongside an official announcing via plastic megaphone: “The first part of the race is officially over.”. After counting how many riders were left, the official also announces: “All 21 racers within the checkpoint will move to the next portion of the derby in 10 minutes. Use the time you got in any way you wish. Food for people and steeds are on the furthest right.”. Wait. How many did they say were left? 21? Weren't there 30 starting out? So that means 9 of them had already bit the dust. This race does not screw around. Best to get as much rest and food as they can before the race starts up again. Upon the right of the garage, Clara and Angelo were feeding themselves with a sandwich and feed respectively. The fact that nearly half of the competition was already snuffed out still haunts her thoughts, realizing there were a couple moments where she might have ended up as one of them. That when a familiar tone catches her ears. “Quite impressive.”. Beside her, the gorillaroo racer, Manfred sits in the neighboring stool, a sandwich being fancily held in his white gloved hands. “I had thought a rookie such as yourself would have croaked near the start. But here you are.”. Taking a gentlemanly bite out of his sandwich with such elegance. “Surely you must have practice some sort of method for getting here. Tell me, what sort of secret did you exploit to get this far?”. “Eh...N-no secret really. Just using my head’s all.” Clara responds. Finding her steed nudging her side with her head, the ursa arachnid reminds her to add: “And of course, Angelo too.”. The scientist gives her steed a warming head rub, Angelo letting out a happy grunt. “Well young miss, It best be in good sport to inform you that the first portain of the derby was merely just the start. To trim the fat off the competition like a well seasoned prime steak. I pray that you have enough brains to spare, lest you may find yourself swiftly losing them? The real race shall commence very shortly.”. With those words of warning, he departs from the bar, leaving the scientist quite humbled. That feeling of progression had quickly drained, knowing that much more difficult challenges lied in wait. Their brief rest had swiftly come to an end. The riders lining up to the starting line to continue the next part of their deadly derby. The official on the side begins his countdown: “On your marks. Get set…GO!”. Upon the go, the riders takeoff. This time with Clara going on the mark. She grasp a fair lead ahead from last place, passing by countless racers. The scientist gazes her surroundings, noting the buildings to be of much more manageable size. Looks like they’re breaching towards downtown Columbus. Might even be enough room do swing about. But before she could act, the competition around her pulls out their weapons and moves on the attack.. With swift paw, she escapes the crossfire and moves up one of the pieces of restored architect. Like a big, tantalizing red target, most of her opponents point their firearms straight towards the ascending bear spider. Taking cover atop the roof, she watches as the competition rides off towards the city. She takes a moment to herself, aiming Angelo’s backside to find the perfect angel to make the turn ahead. Lets hope all that practice didn’t go to waste. She pats Angelo’s back, commanding her to spit out her sticky silk towards one of the opposing buildings. Jumping off the complex, they briskly swing across the city block. The architect around them being nothing but a blur as they fly through the air. Just like they practiced, Angelo cuts her string at the rising arch of their swing and shoots another string towards the next building. Upon coming at the corner, she steers her steed towards the outer edge. Right when they’re about to enter the upcoming corner, Clara aims Angelo’s webs towards the inner corner and swings around the turn. The overwhelming centrifugal force rockets them through the street and towards upcoming competition. Overhead, a shadow passes under the riders and are in awe to behold the ursa arachnid that they left behind now swiftly gliding over them at breakneck speeds. Once their astonishment had settled however, they pull out their firearms and attempt to shoot the flying spider out of the sky. With the echo of gunshots right behind, she looks back and finds the cavalry firing in her direction. God, will these guys ever stop? One of them indeed does stop when a bullet passes through their skull and falls off their steed. What? How did that happen!? She could have sworn all of them were aiming in her direction. So what gives? Not to long after, the others are soon sniped, their limp bodies tumbling back. What the hell is happening!? Upon passing along the side of a building, Clara manages to spot a gunman in one of the open windows in the midst of hiding. Are these the snipers Rico mentioned? Guess that would explain the sudden shoot out from earlier? How many more of them are awaiting them ahead? You know what, it doesn’t matter. As long as they continue to swing through the streets as such, none of them can even hope of hitting them. A hypothesis that is quickly snuffed when the scientist feels a passing bullet graze the top of her head. Holy shit! That was close! Better speed things along before Manfred's prediction comes true. Coming along an intersection, she finds the path to be leading to the right. She readies to swing around the building like last time, spurting out a string of web along the near right corner. Amid her swing, a streaking knife flies through, severing Angelo’s silk prematurely. Upon their rough landing, Clara attempts to regain control of their balance. Right on the cusp of retreating their footing, something makes her steed cry out in pain. Along side her worry, she wonders what could be causing Angelo such agony. She looks around, wondering if that knife might have cut her or something whilst passing through. That’s when she finds a scaly equine biting down on one of the poor bear spiders legs, streams of red blood leak out between the chimera’s teeth. Atop the horse croc was one of Clara’s rivals; Oppela, sporting a crazed glare towards the scientist. A maniacal laughter escapes the leathery rider sharp teeth as she brandishes a set of sharp knives betwixt her fingers. She chucks the knives towards her preys head, Clara ducks under the cold fleeting steel. “Time to settle down at the campfire, my little marshmallow. I wanna take a bite outta your sugary hide!”. A threat that makes the scientist face flush red as she witnesses Oppela pulls out more knives from her satchel. She couldn’t tell whether her opponent was being literal or not and frankly, she wasn’t in any hurry to find out. Without hesitation, she begins to kick Oppela’s horse croc repeatedly in the face, hoping to loosen its sharp grip on Angelo’s bleeding limb. In the midst of evading the leathery woman’s irresponsible collection of sharp weaponry, she takes one of Angelo’s claws and has her swipe at the cold blooded stallions, making it release the ursa arachnid from its fangs. Watching as the scaly steed backs away, Clara takes the opportunity to shoot Angelo’s webbing towards its face. The sticky silk covering its line of site, Oppela’s steed flails out of control, the rider herself trying in vain to get the webs off her precious horse crocs face. A distraction that proved to be mortally fatal as a wayward sniper manages to shoot her through the side of her chest. Clara watches as both steed and rider tumble backwards out of their site. Turning back around, she notices Angelo’s beginning to slow down, possibly as a result from her injury. Hearing the very near sound of gunfire, she does not hesitate to retreat towards the wayside and into an alley before she shares the same fate as her previous foe. Once hidden from the looming threat of sniper fire, she checks up on where their scaly foe bit the poor bear spider. Thankfully, the bite marks weren't that deep, only being shallow enough to draw blood. Still, need to patch this mess up with something. But what? A look at the arachnids backside makes her wonder about a weird idea that floats in her mind. Patting the ursa’s back, she makes some of Angelo's silk come out and quickly laps up the webbing. She spreads the silk around the wound, weaving the silk around the scars and halting any more blood from leaking out. The patch job almost make it look like the bear spider was wearing a cast of sorts. How appropriate. “Can you move?” Clara asks her. In response, the fuzzy arachnid attempt to get up from the pavement. A little shaky of a rise, but she manages to stable herself and stands tall. “Awesome!”. Without any further stalling, she hops aboard her steed once again, commanding: “Now, lets get moving.”. They ride out of the alleyway, Angelo keeping her wounded leg off the ground as she crawled off. They soon come across a fork in the road, both paths traced with blue taping. Weird. She doesn’t remember a mention about a split in the path. Well, Rico did say that the race track was randomly planned, maybe this is just part of the process. She can’t really find any of the competition ahead on either way. Seems Clara might have to take a guess on this one. The split coming up, she swiftly heads down the right path out of impulse, not really sure where it might lead her. Much to her surprise, it actually leads to the next checkpoint. How lucky. Quickly, she heads in the open garage and comes to a halt. The pitstop seemed eerily empty. She couldn’t have gotten here that early, could she? That stop for Angelo’s leg did cost them quite a chunk of time. Not to mention, there were no officials either, not a single employee. The entire garage was reminiscent of a ghost town, the only thing filling the air was the echoing of a constant beep. She dismounts from her arachnid steed to investigate where the sound might be coming from. Clara follows the mechanical beeping towards the right where the food vendors would normally be. Looking over the counter, she doesn’t find anything that could be making it, but can hear the sound very clearly as if it were very near. Underneath, she finds something attached to the roof of the counter. She hops over to inspect, find a mechanical box with a red LED screen counting down. Oh no. It’s near zero. Clara waste no time in her escape, jumping over the counter and running back towards Angelo. As soon as she mounts, she whips her steeds reins, demanding: “Gotta bolt it outta here!”. The bear spider rushes out of the garage moments before the checkpoint is engulfed in a shattering explosion. The blast knocks them a fair ways, sending them tumbling through the streets. Upon looking back, Clara finds the garage to be reduced to be nothing more than rubble. Getting up upon her steed, she notices something about the blue lining leading to the destroyed garage. One of the pieces of rubble had seemingly scrapped the lines, but something was wrong. Upon further inspection, she finds the blue marking to be not sticky tape, but similarly colored blue chalk Unbelievable. She’s been duped. With quick step, she hastes back to the fork and down the other pathway. Although she witnesses the buildings around them growing, she fails to find her fellow riders ahead. Dammit! That decoy checkpoint ate up more of Clara’s time then she thought. She doesn’t know how far they are from the competition. They must be miles behind by now. Even if they swung through the city, she’s not sure they could make it in time. They could have already lost for all she knows. Seeing her rider upset like this makes Angelo look towards her surroundings. The bear spiders spots a complex in between two bigger pieces of architect. Against Clara’s wishes she starts to climb up towards the smaller building. “Whoa, whoa, where are you going?”. The scientist watches as her steed sticks the two ends of silk in between the buildings. Lining themselves up between the middle of the string, Clara wondering aloud: “Hang on. What are you...you...”. Her speech begins to die down when she finds a massive complex out in the near distance. The setting sun casting its massive shadow through the city. Clara realizes what Angelo wants to do. She looks down upon the bear spider, asking: “Are you sure you wanna go through with this?” Her steed responds with a worried, but determined groan. It seems like she really does. “Alright. Lets pull back.”. On her command, Angelo begins to pull upon her silk slingshot, stretching it out as far as she could. Clara has the bear spider aim slightly to the left before declaring: “Okay. Let’s fly.”. With those words, Angelo loosens her footing, flinging them across countless buildings below and towards the skyscraper ahead. Upon the track along the side, the riders in last place caught the glimpse of the duo gliding through the city sky. With the tower on the approach, Clara has Angelo stall for just moment before spurting out her webbing. Wait for it. Wait for it. Just a little more. Now! The scientist has her steed shoot out her silk towards the end of the building. As the centrifugal force flings them around the building, Angelo severs her string, careening them towards the front of the competition ahead. The wind blowing in their faces and first place on the horizon, a crescent hope fills within the two. At this rate of speed, they’re reach near first, maybe even pass it. Hope soon wavers when they witness another of their rivals, Manfred float in front of them as they near the front. “Quite the clever maiden, you are.” the aristocrat admires. Upon passing, his gorillaroo grabs hold of one of Angelo’s legs, both riders in a spin as Manfred shifts their velocity. “But not clever enough!”. Downward, the gentlemen sends them, plummeting towards the concrete streets below. Quickly, they plummet towards the ground. The streets approaching as they tumble. Passing by the architecture on their way down, Clara has Angelo spin her web towards one of the ascending complexes. The string hooks onto one of the buildings and swings them to safety. The concrete barely scrapes the scientists head as they swing far along the street. Seems they managed to safely escape from becoming a fleshy amalgam of red paste on the freshly paved roads. Although less could be said about their landing. Both of them roll through the city block, crashing into an opposing apartment complex. In their wreck, they find the tosser that just tossed them bouncing towards their direction. That mobile of an opponent could spell a lot of danger for them in the long haul. It’d be best to take them out a swiftly as possible, and Clara thinks she may know a way how. With hastes, both steed and rider pull themselves together and scuttle around the corner of the track. The aristocratic rider is rather perplexed, seeing no sigh of where his spidery opponent might have ended up as they descend. “Hmm...How peculiar. There appears to be no sign of a body of sort. Not even a single hue of red.”. With another leap off the ground, Manfred shrugs off the odd assumption in favor of boasting aloud: “Oh well, suppose it does not matter. Surely they could not have survived such a grizzly fate. The last checkpoint is near. And soon after, the finish line. I shall reclaim my rightful title yet.”. Distracted by his own snooty laughter, he fails to notice the white string in the way of their landing. The gentleman is promptly caught within the sticky silks reach, snapping his neck like a fragile twig. As the once proud aristocrat hangs from the white noose, his noble steed landing upon the concrete, wondering where its master might have disappeared. In their distraction, Clara and Angelo scuttle away, confirming their revenge. Soon after, they reach the actual checkpoint, confirmed by the riders and derby employees inside. Hopefully this one doesn’t blow up like the last one. Clara looks about, noticing that not a lot of racers hadn’t made it yet. Guess she has some time to kill. Might as well relax. After a quick snack break, a few more rider galloped into the checkpoint before the buzzer sounded off. With the close of the garage doors, the officials call out to the remaining racers: “Right. That’s 8 runners counted. Like the last checkpoint, you have 10 minutes to relax.”. Only 8 racers left? Such a fact astonishes the scientist. The last count was 21. More than 10 of them were snuffed out along the way. She figured that a few of them might have fallen for the traps and snipers set up throughout, and she might have had a hand of thinning the competition. But surely, she couldn’t have taken out that many. What happened to the rest. A question that his soon answered when a familiar rhino cheetah had approached, reeling back from the horn of the steed that was oozing with thick blood. She swears that she can make out a couple bits of guts decorating the pointed bone. Hearing a rough chortle above the mutant monster, she looks overhead and finds its respective punk rider. “I’ll be damned. Figure you might have ended up an example of horridly shitty blood art before making it here. Congrats kid.” Derake admits. “Oh um...thank you-”. “But you better not get too comfy, ya fucking rookie. The last stretch to the finish line is almost like a run through hell itself. All of us are hellbent to take home the gold, doing anything it takes to give them an edge. Everyone will be wanting to stop you. Everyone. The riders be fierce. The guns be blazin. The traps be plenty. It’ll be a motherfuckin shit storm towards the finish, bitch! And you’ll have a front row seat through the whole damn maelstrom of blood fueled tenacity.”. A booming laughter escapes the punks lunges, echoing throughout the entire garage. The foreboding shadow covering Clara and Angelo shrinks as Derake takes his leave, parting with: “Let’s hope your ready for all this city has to offer. Cause it won’t hold back.”. Words of warning leave the scientist in a shake as she readies towards the finish line alongside the other racers. Looking aside, she could practically see the kill crazy determination behind their gazes, debilitating her own a fair bit. She begins to wonder if it’s even worth it to finish the race. It begins to sink in how lucky they’ve managed to be so far and worries when that her good fortune might run out soon. She wonders if she should just cut her losses and book it outta town as fast as she can. She’d hate to screw Rico over like this, and Angelo might refuse to follow her commands. Before she could ponder any further, the announcer begins the countdown to the start towards the finish. “On your marks...”. The racers tightened their grips on the reins of their steeds. “Get set.”. The mutant animals look ahead as they prepare to lunged through to the finish, their riders sharing in the feeling...well most of them anyway. Clara herself still somewhat regretting her, in hindsight, admittedly rash decision. Before she could back out, the official sounds off the: “Go!”. The herd of mutants charge forth, carrying their riders towards victory or death with Derake taking the immediate lead. Almost right our of the gate, the competition around the scientist threatens to murder one another with whatever they have. The bullets and cold steel littering the air along side the countless traps pick them off one by one. Dodging her competitor’s fire alongside weaving through the constant barrage of traps proved to quickly overwhelming for the scientist. Yeah, she’s not dealing with all this at once. Quickly escaping from the frantic folly, they crawl towards the side of the building and ascend the wall. Although the constant traps come to a halt, the gunfire does not. If they can start to swing, they’d have less stuff to deal with, all the more insensitive to scuttle towards the roof. On their trip up, the window in front of them spouts a burst of flames, knocking them towards the concrete below. Clara acts fast and has Angelo aim her webbing upward. The silk attaches to a building as they plummet, the momentum sending them swinging past the competition. Try as they might, the remaining riders could not shoot down this fuzzy web slinger. Swing on, spider bear, swing on. Ahead, they find their final rival, Derake, his rhino cheetah charging through whatever obstacle was in its way. Luckily for Clara, her and Angelo were swinging faster then they were running, meaning they can safely pass them without much scrutiny. Point one for physics. Seeing the bear spider swing past them, Derake pulls out a weird looking pistol and takes aim. “Oh no you don’t.”. Pulling the trigger, he sends a fireball straight for their webbing. The flare connects, igniting the silk and having the ember crawl towards Angelo’s backside. Wondering what that orange flicker behind her was, she looks back and finds the flames to be edging closer. “Ah! Angelo, cut the string! Cut the string!” she urges her steed. As commanded, the bear spider claws her string early, making them plummet towards the pavement. A little rough of a landing, but they manage to keep their speed nonetheless. They would swing once more, but find the buildings around them to be rapidly shrinking. Seems like they really are near the finish. A fact that is strengthened by a flares flying past Clara that is shot by a slowly approaching Derake. “End of the road, bitch. I’m in the mood for some scorched spider on a stick!”. Jeez! Seems the dude’s desperate to have them dead. Dodging the flares alongside the constant traps, she wonders why she didn’t bring a weapon of her own. She finds out of the traps ahead to be another one of those spring loaded guns that goes off. Evading the gunshot, she snatches the rifle off its hinge as she passes. This will work. Without hesitation, Clara takes aim towards the punks head and pulls the trigger. Unfortunately, nothing came out. Looks like it only had one shot in it. Dammit! Oh well, best hang onto it anyway. Could be used as a club or something. As they dodge flare after flare, the scientist wonders how many of those things this overcompensating asshole’s got. Dealing with him and the constant obstacles, Clara was on the brink of maddening frustration. She could barely think with all this chaos happening around her. She’d love to take one of those flares and shove it down that bastards-... That’s it! With the rhino cheetahs horn right on their tail, Clara repeatedly pats on Angelo’s backside. Her arachnid spews out as much silk as she possibly can. The wave of webbing covers both Derake and his vicious steed from head to toe. Although it makes them back away considerably, the webs don’t appear to slow down the beast, but Clara figured that it wouldn’t. The scientist knew that a monster that strong couldn’t be stopped by mere silk. Instead, she had a different strategy planned. Angered, Derake wipes the webbing of his lines of site and aims his flare gun towards Clara. Come on. Pull the trigger. His rage subsides when he sees the webbing that was left on his arm, causing him to look himself over. Looking down, he finds himself and his rhino cheetah covered in sticky and very flammable webbing. “Oh ho ho ho ho. You clever bitch. I almost fell for that.”. Much to Clara’s dismay, the punk rider throws his flare gun aside, shattering the scientist plans to pieces. “Nice try. But I ain’t that stupid.”. Son of a bitch is smarter than he looks. Now what? She need to think of something soon before the web covered bastard catches up. Ahead, she spots something gleaming in the distance. It was a discarded flare sitting on the wayside, its flames still alight. Maybe her plan could work after all. The pursuing punk closing in, he watches as his prey steers towards the edge. Clara wields the blunt end of her gun like a golf club, ready to smack the upcoming ball of flames back to its sender. Gotta time this just right. The moment on the rise, she swings her rifle with everything she’s got, sending the forgotten flare back to its sender. Upon impact, the webs surrounding both Derake and his steed were set ablaze, engulfing them in a raging pyre. The last line of snipers are taken aback, watching the burning champion crash into a building upon the turn. That distraction lets Clara slip by their sites. At long last, the finish line was along the horizon. This horrible nightmare of a derby was nearly over. Alongside the crowd, Rico looks ahead in amazement. He can’t believe the kid actually managed to survive. It looks like they might even win. A promise that gives both rider and trainer hope as Clara races towards the finish. That hope is extinguished in an act of cruel irony when a burning steed rushes past them and crosses the line before her. As the blazing racer skids to a halt, the flames surrounding him dye down, revealing Derake and his less than vicious beast. The crowd is swept up in a roar as the charred punk dismounts from his steed and runs in front of the crowd to boast. “Ah, hell yeah! You know it! You love it! The Columbus derby champion is on top once more, baby!”. Rico hopes out of the stands and runs towards the two whilst shouting: “Holy shit! Can’t believe either of you made it all the way through!”. He lowers himself toward Angelo’s head, asking his beloved bear spider: “Are you okay girl? Any scratches or bruises?”. The fuzzy arachnid bear rubs her head against her trainers, licking the clowns cheeks. Watching as the champion celebrates his victory, it makes Clara say: “I can’t believe it. I lit the bastard on fire and he still managed to win. How?”. “Take a look at his steed.” Rico tells her. “Huh?”. Back towards the punks rhino cheetah, she watches as the poor thing struggles to stand. “Seems like he took most of your flambe for him. Instead of putting out their flames, Derake ran him in a burning charge. He put his own desires above his steed.”. The charred chimera soon collapse upon the raceway in a smoking stupor. “Figure he may never race again.”. “He can’t do this, can he?” Clara wonders. “Anything goes in these races, kid. Even treating your ride like shit is viable.”. Rico than notices Angelo’s wrapped up leg, some of the bear spiders blood soaked through. “But, its far from what I can say about you, kid.”. Wondering what the trainer was on about, she notices him staring towards were she patched up her steeds leg. “Oh, um. Yeah. Something happened and I used Angelo’s webs to patch up the wound.”. She hears Rico let out a relieved moan, followed with: “Thanks for taking care of her, kid.”. “Uh, no worries. But...what now? I technically came in last place.”. A glimpse back as the smoking rhino cheetah, a tired sigh escapes his lungs. “I think I’m done.” he admits. “Done with what?”. “Done with all this derby shit. I’ve been stuck in a rut for so god damn long. Trying to climb me and Angelo out of the shit hole I made for us...I’m out of the game. Think I’ll try a different line of work. Hear the grocery store is hiring.”. “Bu-but, what about Angelo? Won’t the city take her away and put her down or something?”. “Yeah, they’d do that. Even piss at me if I objected to it. I mean, unless something happened that was out of my control. Like, uh...Dunno. Say some shitty kid up and stole her?”. As he states such a potential incident, he gives a slight smiling gaze towards the scientist. “Wait, are...Are you serious?”. “Dead serious. Just come back to the shack before you leave.”. The night sky settling upon the soon to be retired trainers humble abode, he hands Clara a few boxes of canned goods for her travels. “There we go. That should last the two of you a week or so.”. “I can’t believe your just letting me run off with her.”. “Better out there than in here.”. Angelo lets out a tearful moan, knowing that this might be the last time she’ll even see her beloved trainer. He lowers himself towards the bear spider, comforting her sorrow with: “I’ll miss you, girl. But I can’t take care of you anymore. Gotta go with the kid now. Take care of her, kay?”. With a final lick goodbye, Rico adds: “I love you too.”. Mounting her knew steed, she readies to set off. “Whelp. Better get going while its dark.”. Before she takes their leave, Rico has one more thing to tell the scientist. “Hey. Good luck crossing the border. Hope you find that friend your looking for.”. With a warm smile, she returns his best wishes with: “Thanks Rico. You too.”. Those final words spoken, the trainer clown watches as Clara and Angelo depart. Riding off from the city of Columbus as the stars above settle.

#faded land #lillaxtrigger

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sanjuno · 6 years ago

Note

This started as a joke, but Dragon!Skies 😅

(Ideas of March Prompt Fill 9/15)

It was impossible to hide a Sky when they manifested, given the way they were immediately encased in an indestructible crystalline eggshell that glittered and shone with a thousand shades of the Rainbow. There was some debate, in the Alliance, over which Sky had cracked their shell at the youngest age. Xanxus di Vongola had already manifested and learned how to control his Flames when he was taken in off the streets at eight. Still, some of the Giglio Nero Donna’s had Manifested that young too. Reborn glared at the pathetic excuse for a personality profile Bakamitsu had dropped into his hands and wondered what the gossips would say if they learned the Young Lion’s spawn had cracked his shell at four.

/…/

Reborn had not quite known what to expect when he arrived in Namimori to teach Sawada Tsunayoshi the laws and customs of his father’s culture so that the boy could take his place as the Vongola Heir. The CEDEF report had listed Tsuna as easily distracted, high-strung, shy, and constantly anxious. Whatever Reborn had thought to expect, it was nothing like this.

A young Misty Cloud was snarling at him, with a smallish army of lesser Flames following his lead. The Sky Reborn had come here to teach was all-but smothered in the arms of two girls, a Sunny Mist and a Misty Lightning respectively. Just in front of the huddle a Misty Rain bounced a sword against his shoulder, smiling like a natural hitman, and a Misty Sun cracked his wrapped knuckles with a shining grin, both with hints of Lightning crackling through them. Behind the main cluster a Stormy Cloud stood with her feet planted and arms crossed, scowl firmly on her face. She was the only one bound directly to the Sky without a hint of Mist in her.

This was bad. Reborn was no good with unanchored Mist-magnets. Although he was going to look into what had made his new student so determined to hide from reality, that would have to wait. Right now Reborn needed a way to get his new student to focus without drifting back into the Dreaming a Sky with too many Mists was prone to.

What to do?

Hm. Perhaps Reborn should try going the traditional route. The Japanese liked tradition, right?

Now, who did Reborn know that would be a shiny enough distraction for a Sky of Tsuna’s potential strength?

… Ah. Yes, that would do nicely.

/…/

At first Reborn had debated dropping the bait in front of Tsuna in class, but as hilarious as that might have been at another time, nothing Tsuna had done so far was in any way predictable. As much as Reborn was enjoying both the chaos that followed his new student and the challenge of figuring out Namimori’s secrets, Reborn would never risk actually breaking Omertà.

So Reborn decided to do some creative editing with his first idea and rewrote the scene he had initially had in mind for maximum effect.

/…/

At first Tsuna had no idea what to make of his new home tutor. Reborn was tiny as an infant but was actually older than Tsuna’s parents and the first thing Reborn had tried to do was shoot him in the head and if Kyouya-sempai had been even a little bit slower…

Reborn insisted that the bullets would not have killed him, but Tsuna really, really did not want to be shot even non-fatally by someone who was visibly plotting messy murder every time Tsuna’s dad came up in the conversation. Sure, Reborn was better about treating Tsuna fairly now that they had gotten to know each other a bit better, but Tsuna still could not shake the feeling that if Tsuna had been a disappointing student Reborn would have taken his dislike for Iemitsu out of Tsuna’s hide. What was strange, and also worrisome, to consider was that Reborn was apparently here as a favour for Tsuna’s father. Why Reborn was doing favours for a man he visibly and verbally disdained was a question Tsuna was not certain he wanted answered.

If Tsuna got too nosy then Reborn might stop being polite about Tsuna’s secrets, and Tsuna’s secrets were not just about him. So Tsuna was content to let the unspoken truce hold.

“Let’s go, Tsuna.” Reborn toddled cheerfully towards the park, and Tsuna felt a sudden chill when he realized that all of his treasures were nowhere nearby. “We have a meeting.”

“Wait, Reborn!” Someone only less than two feet tall should not be capable of dragging four times their bodyweight down the street. This was unfair. Tsuna squeaked as he tripped and scrambled to stay upright. “What meeting?”

“A personal meeting.” Dark eyes gleamed from under the shade of his fedora, and Reborn smirked before letting Tsuna go. “Watch and learn something, Dame-Tsuna.”

/…/

There was a slim figure lounging in the shade of a sakura tree, dapples of light catching on silver chains and coloured stones. “Reborn.”

“Smoking Bomb.” Reborn hopped down off Tsuna’s shoulder to approach the younger hitman. Normally Reborn liked to work his students into a frenzy first to teach them how to think through their initial instinct to panic, but Tsuna was the type to need plain statements. So while the idea all but gave Reborn hives, he was going to show his silly student that someone Tsuna’s own age could earn and keep respect in their world before he started training Tsuna to fight. “You made good time.”

“You made me an offer worthy of a little extra effort.” Stepping out into the light, the explosive expert’s narrowed green eyes raked over Tsuna with clear interest. “A new student?”

“You see now why I asked for speed.” Reborn hid his triumph as the bomber hummed absently and handed over the information Reborn had asked him to gather. Pulling the strings to get Shamal’s protege to come to Namimori personally had been worth it, especially since Reborn had taken the calculated risk of not mentioning he was tutoring a Sky. Smoking Bomb was clearly interested in Tsuna despite managing to stay professional. That was almost secondary to the report the younger hitman had put together on the state of the Alliance and and a bluntly analytical profile on Sawada Iemitsu. This was the kind of report Reborn had been expecting from the CEDEF. “Hm. You do good work, Smoking Bomb. The money will be in your account by tonight, and I will ask my daughter if she would like to meet with your sister.”

“It’s appreciated, Reborn.” Business concluded, there was no reason to linger and every reason to leave, but the silver haired teen hesitated, just as Reborn had expected. The silence stretched just a bit to long as Smoking Bomb stared at Reborn’s student with intent eyes. Finally, the younger hitman shook his head. “Name’s Gokudera Hayato, called the Smoking Bomb. I work freelance, so if you need a job done Reborn can put you in touch with me. Ciao.”

Inclining his head in a quick acknowledgement, the silver haired teen moved to depart before he embarrassed himself. Reborn saw the regret sear itself across Tsuna’s face and took the shot.

Bang!

Gokudera whirled around, face slack with horror as the Sky crumpled.

One knee on the ground, Tsuna’s hand closed around the bomber’s wrist. Gokudera froze in place, arms still out to catch the other boy.

Reborn peered up at his student in confusion. Tsuna had been oddly quiet since the first time Gokudera had spoken, and now that he had finally managed to hit Tsuna with the special bullet Reborn had been expecting more in the way of ardent declarations. There were no Flames, and Tsuna’s clothes had remained intact. Instead of Hyper Dying Will mode, Tsuna was giving off the impression of a sealed pot set to boil, building pressure that was about to…

BOOM!!

… explode. On his back in the bushes several meters from where he had been standing, Reborn blinked rapidly as his ears rang in the aftermath of Tsuna going up like a small atom bomb made of Flames. Ow.

/…/

Mine.

Rusted chains falling away, too-small cage finally broken open.

Mine.

Free for the first time since his father and the old man had tried to damp his inner fire.

Mine.

His heart beating all out of rhythm as he scrambled to catch the fragile treasure fallen into his grasp without causing damage. Something precious and unique, old hurts gleaming silver and gold where the scars had healed over.

“Mine.” Tsuna curled in on himself, wanting to gather his new treasure close but terrified of sending shattered pieces scattering into dust. “Please?”

Sprawled out in the gentle cradle of Tsuna’s paws, Gokudera was a crimson opal, fractals of violet-blue-green-gold flaring in brilliant colour against the amber of Tsuna’s claws. “… Eh?”

“Please?” A whine was building in Tsuna’s throat. How was he supposed to ask? His other treasures had always been his. They had helped Tsuna chip away at the fetters his father had laid on Tsuna’s inner fire. They had been there to help despite Tsuna being crippled and weak. He was supposed to defend his hoard, but they defended Tsuna too. Tsuna had the best hoard, and he had never before considered wanting more but… “Mine.”

“… my Sky is a UMA?” Pale, scarred fingers pressing against Tsuna’s muzzle, patting gently like his pretty treasure thought Tsuna might reject the touch. The silver haired teen was mumbling in strange tongues even as he relaxed into the Harmony Tsuna offered, touch growing more sure as Tsuna pulled Gokudera closer.

Rumbling happily, Tsuna coiled up around the newest member of his hoard and simply basked smugly in his triumph. Tsuna had the best hoard. He bet nobody else had a treasure with five colours. Ha!

/…/

Up a nearby tree and not planning to climb down any time soon, Reborn stared in utter shock as the giant supernatural lizard that was supposed to be his student cuddled the Hurricane of Flames most of the gossip painted as too complicated to ever properly bond. Well, Tsuna was happily proving them wrong, even if he did currently look like something that belonged in an illuminated book of fairy tales.

Sure, Skies hatched from eggs when they woke their Flames and they were jealous of their Guardian’s attention and tended to collect large amounts of wealth, but… yeah. Never mind, Reborn was not even convincing himself that this was impossible.

What the hell had caused the transformation though? Reborn had shot other Skies with the special bullets, and none of them had physically transformed into dragons. What was different about Tsuna? What the fuck else had Bakamitsu left out of his report?

/…/

Half a world away, an old man ruled his Family with a kind smile and an iron Will. He hoped Reborn took to young Tsunayoshi. While it was regrettable that he had needed to Seal the child back then, at the time it had been for the greater good of the Family. A Sky that pure and that strong would have attracted too much attention and destabilized the succession. The situation with Xanxus had been bad enough, and he as still dealing with the fallout from the public backlash of claiming the boy even years later.

Still, Reborn would be able to teach Tsunayoshi enough to get by as the new Heir despite the Seal. It was a moot point anyway. Hyper Dying Will mode would break the Seal on Tsunayoshi’s Flames, and Reborn would be able to claim the credit for the boy’s eventual strength.

After all, the only ones who knew Tsunayoshi had woken his Flames once before were Iemitsu and himself, and Iemitsu knew better than to spread that information around. Sealed or latent, who would be able to tell after Tsunayoshi was Active without knowing that little fact? It would all work out for the better this way.

/…/

Under the Iron Fort, a glacier strung with chains sat in the centre of the darkened catacombs. The ice shuddered, cracked.

Shattered.

Ice vanished into steam as a nightmare of blood-amber scales unfurled massive wings with a scream of enraged triumph.

=/=

So it turns out that sealing an Active Sky equals dragons when the seal goes away! The More You Know.

Welcome to the Godzilla Threshold, Timoteo. *blows kisses*

#Sanjuno's ficwork #ideas of march #KHR Fanfic #Sky Flames are Dragons #It's a bit like Cats Paws only with more collateral damage to the world at large #Reborn the Sun Arcobaleno #Sawada Tsunayoshi #Gokudera Hayato #The Ring Battles are going to be an EVENT in this verse #I can tell that already

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cherrywoes · 3 years ago

Text

acanthus. (yon.)

DEAD AND DYING WERE two very different things—Sakura knew this intimately. Her teachings with Tsunade were not easily forgotten, even in the face of her exile and subsequent disownment as the Hokage’s apprentice, and she found herself dragging up the old lesson in the forefront of her mind as she leaned against a tree, grimacing at the pull and tug of her slapdash glue job. It had been simple: if you were dead, you weren’t fighting. If you were dying, you could still fight. It was less of a medic’s lesson and more of a war tip, but to Sakura, everything felt like war now, even down to the sensitive feelings of betrayal and guilt brewing in her gut. She had suppressed them for over six months, feigning her smiles and faking wellbeing, when her consciousness was trying to kill her with grief. There was nothing she could do now but move forward until she did eventually die, and that didn’t seem too far off.

Katsuyu’s summoning seal was null and void. Even as she managed to produce some meagre sputterings of chakra that didn’t tear the paper, she knew her efforts were hopeless. When she was forced out as Tsunade’s apprentice, all of her contracts and benefits were also taken from her. She had thought, with Katsuyu’s fondness for her, that the slug might retain her contract with her, as she was a sentient being, but clearly that was not the case. Ultimately, Katsuyu followed Tsunade, and it was foolish to think otherwise.

“Damn.” When she reached under her flak jacket to touch the wounds, they came away slick and bloody. The sparse raindrops sneaking through the canopy washed most of it away, but the longer she lingered the more the glue would fail and her wounds would rip open entirely. It was not water resistant, unfortunately, because Kakashi, cheapskate that he was, wouldn’t invest two dollars more to get it. She was grateful he’d extended his kindness to her at all, but she had to wonder how he would get along in life, sooner or later, when his life was at risk.

At the thought of her former teacher, her mind drew back to the summoning scroll he’d shoved in her pack. It was probably her only hope of getting anywhere close to the civilian village now; she’d stopped and now she couldn’t move much farther, pain paralyzing her lower body when the last of her adrenaline ebbed away. It couldn’t be his dogs, but she hadn’t known much about the Hatake clan—only that they were nomadic in nature, and that he was the last of them.

Unsealing her pack, she rummaged through the contents halfheartedly, pulling the slender, ornate contract from the second zipper. It was thinner than any contract scroll she had ever seen, barely half a page, and looked far more expensive than Katsuyu’s. Someone had gone through the effort to add genuine gold and silver plating to the wooden borders, something she hadn’t seen when he had been putting it in her bag, and her eyes caught on the name of the summoning animal, breath stuttering to a faint stop.

Kirin.

She knew the technique, of course, had even witnessed it the one time she had come across Sasuke and nearly lost her life. But she also knew the mythology surrounding the holy beasts, having been present for the few lectures that the academy had presented for entertainment during her lunch breaks. Brilliant beasts of peace and flame, they harmed not a single thing upon the earth, not even the insects upon the ground, and walked upon clouds and slept in the skies. When threatened, however, they were vicious, fierce animals, wielding flames on par with that of the Sharingan’s Amaterasu. No one had seen the contract since Konoha’s founding—so how had it found a home in Kakashi’s hands, and now hers, after all this time?

She swept her bloody thumb across the paper without a second thought. If Kakashi had given it to her, then she was meant to use it somehow. With her contract with Katsuyu gone, she had nothing to protect her if worse came to worse. Nothing in her arsenal would prepare her for being alone like this, on the brink of death, and as the scroll wriggled in her hands and her vision began to blur, she figured even a Kirin who wouldn’t harm another without reason was better than nothing.

What she wasn’t expecting was to be pulled, mentally, into another dimension.

Sakura felt her body collapse against the tree and crumple to the ground, the last of her glue pulling free and the rivers of blood beginning to flow anew. It was a strange feeling; Katsuyu had never done this to her when establishing their contract.

When she blinked, she was no longer outside the borders of Konoha, but within the realm of the Kirin.

Glistening clouds rolled beneath her feet, flecked with particles of gems and iridescent globules of molten silver. The sky was a pale pink and orange gradient, studded with visible stars, and there, in the center of the clouds and empty realm, stood a Kirin.

Tall and elegant, the divine beast stood before her with eyes nearly the color of watered down blood. A tall rack of deerlike horns rose up above scaled ears, forming the shape of a rounded diamond, and hanging from them, swaying in the breeze, was a pale, bleached length of foot long moss, blooming with dark red flowers that seeped with golden nectar, pooling beneath the kirin’s decidedly avian feet. With a bleached skull turned in her direction, those pink eyes trained on her, it looked nothing like any kirin she had ever heard of. Its scales were distinctly serpentine in nature, not dragon-like, as the legends had said, and instead of a brown oxen’s tail, a length of razor sharp vertebrae protruded from the curve of its spine, ending in a viciously curved barb not unlike that of a scorpion’s. When her eyes drew back to the summon’s face, she thought she saw amusement in those eyes, though the skull could not portray emotion.

“None other than I would answer you, traitor of flame,” the kirin spoke, the air around them shifting. It was female, a light, tinkling voice that held sultry undertones of a different kind. The sky darkened to a deep red and the clouds rolled, darkening to a deep, impossible blue and purple, lightning illuminating beneath her feet. Sakura stepped backwards, wary, and the kirin laughed. “There is no need to fear me—yet, of course. I had wondered when Sakura Haruno would grace this realm with her presence. It seems you are earlier than I suspected.”

“How do you—?” Sakura paused, shifting her hand to her stomach. Instead, she touched bare skin, clear of wounds, and when she looked further, she found she was entirely naked and still felt as if she was clothed. “What do you mean?”

“Kirin hear whispers on the wind, even those like myself.” The kirin was suddenly close to her, smelling of blood and flowers and a salty sea breeze. “Do not concern yourself with your lack of clothing. This realm exposes your greatest vulnerabilities. Tell me, Sakura Haruno, what do you wish?”

She swallowed thickly. She knew Kirin could grant wishes—but she had no idea what to expect from this one, who was clearly different from the others. When she hesitated, her mouth open, the Kirin tutted.

“I would hurry.” Pink eyes bore into hers, deep and knowing. “Your life drains away as we speak. And think hard—a foolish wish would cost you dearly.”

Eyeing the sharp shards of bone protruding from the skull inches from her face, she figured she didn’t want to take that risk and find out. “I… wish to live.”

“To live?” Evidently, the Kirin was not expecting such an answer. Her tone was slightly confused, but Sakura felt her stomach twist into knots when the beast before her managed a malicious smile, even with a fixture as a skull for a face. “I see. Even at the cost of others’ lives? Would you steal the lives of others so that you may live, Sakura Haruno?”

“And if I would?” she asked softly, fear threading through her voice. “What then?”

The Kirin tossed her head, beautiful moss and flowers wafting a stronger scent of blood towards her. “Then we would have a contract. My services and your life for the promise of death—should you wish to live past noon.”

“Then…” Sakura paused. She had wanted to end the death she had caused, even if she had only been stopped by being caught, in the end. But this creature, a perversion of a Kirin, in exchange for its aid and her life, wanted more death from her—more murder, more darkness upon her already ink painted soul, and as the faces of all of her victims flashed through her mind, flickers of faint images, their eyes panicked and frenzied as she ended their lives, she found that she wanted to be selfish. To think of no one else but herself, alone and dying in the forest, Sai’s mask strapped around her face and the crow’s eyes peering out from a dead body. To be selfish, and hold no concern about her lack of medical ninjutsu, to just live, and continue existing. “I accept.”

“Excellent.” Plumes of vermillion smoke escaped from the Kirin’s bone nostrils in a pleased exhale. The beast touched her cold, hard nose to Sakura’s forehead, the smoke smelling faintly of honeysuckle and lavender as it obscured her vision and enveloped her body in an impossibly cold embrace. “Let our contract be set in stone. Your wounds will hold until you reach aid, and in return, I must have one life for the extension of my power—your most recent kill will placate me for a time. For each use of my power and length of time you hold my contract, you must take a life; do you understand, Sakura Haruno?”

She squeezed her eyes shut when they threatened to spill over with tears. More death; unavoidable, in the face of her own. “I understand.”

“Very well. And so it is done.” The Kirin retreated, raising her large head above Sakura’s own, flowers drifting from the moss and sticking to her skin, sinking into her shoulders and arms and chest and legs, the petals vanishing into her body. “My name is Yoko. Should you ever need me, spill another’s blood and I shall come.”

The world warped around her and then she was falling, falling, and startled awake in her physical body, her cheek cold with mud and the rain soaking her to the bone. She pushed up to her knees roughly, noting there was no painful tug of glue, and used the tree to prop herself up as she unbuckled her flak jacket. When she ripped her shirt up, expecting to see her wounds still bleeding openly, she was surprised to find crimson flowers blooming from the wounds, no larger than her finger and growing in clusters, roots holding her skin together tighter than any stitches she could have done. When she touched them, experimentally, they thrummed with her blood, pulsing in time with her heartbeat, and she tugged her shirt back down, nausea slamming into her belly as the realization of the deal she just made settled in.

More death. More lives lost because of her. Sakura brought her hand up and rubbed the mud off of her cheek tiredly. She couldn’t avoid it if she tried, it seemed. The best she could do now was get help for her wounds, and go the rest of the way to Amegakure; the war missions would enable her to fulfill the Kirin, Yoko’s, death requirement, and then… after that, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t even know if she would see another day after the war. It was very likely anywhere she went, she would be unwelcome and shunned for what she had done. The news was probably rampant over the other nations now, her friendships ruined with the truth of her actions—even her tentative friendship with Gaara, who only had ever had eyes for Naruto.

Naruto. She zipped her jacket back up and shoved the muddy scroll back in her bag. What would he think of her now? Her crimes had already been bad, and the ones she was about to commit would sully her image further in his mind. He didn’t seem to care when it came to Sasuke, but her? She didn’t expect to be on the same end of his forgiveness. He had a strange hypocriticism for Sasuke and anyone else, expecting the best from others and nothing but betrayal and death from Sasuke. He would probably kill her if he saw her, or try to work out a reason for why she had done it before it inevitably ended in a fight. She would have to avoid him, if she could, and keep tabs on his location, somehow, though he was miles away in Mizugakure the last she remembered. That had been before she was imprisoned, so he could be anywhere now, following Sasuke’s trail.

“Nothing to do about it now, I guess.” She took a shaky breath and began walking towards the village, ignoring the odd thrumming of the flowers embedded in her flesh.

Nothing indeed, the delighted cackle of a Kirin agreed, drifting on the wind.

三 (san) | masterlist | 五 (go)

#naruto #kimisaku #kimimaro x sakura

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nihlisticfireball · 7 years ago

Text

While a crowded tavern was less to their liking, it would be good to have a roof over their heads, if just for a night.

Immediately through the door a bawdy drinking song and the curtain of hot air of an overfull building hit them in the face. It stank of sweat and beer, and more than once Ellie had to step hard to pull her boots from a sticky plank on the floor. Patrons danced on stools and benches, hoisting steins of frothing ale, spilling more than they drank in their frenzied celebration. Ellie could feel Rafe tense up behind her, full of discomfort at the tightly packed confines, before she could turn and suggest leaving, a man stumbled towards her, arm outstretched.

“So happens I like em thick, look,” he slurred, thick fingers wiggling like worms. Quicker than Ellie could blink, a large, strong hand clamped down on the man’s forearm, the vice-like grip tight enough to blanch the skin on the drunk’s hand. He let out a garbled cry as he tried to jerk back, which turned into a harsh keen as his feet slipped from beneath him and his attempts to free his errant limb grew violent; though whether he was screaming at the pain or the sight of red scales revealed by the rise of Rafe’s sleeve, Ellie was not sure. She gave the Drakiin a pointed look from beneath her hood; he grunted in acquiescence, and let go. The unfortunate man was pulling so hard for his freedom he all but flew backwards, falling to the ground and knocking the legs from a few bystanders and a stool or two.

“Demon!” the man cried, visibly trembling. “You’re a d-demon!” He pointed an accusing finger, grasping the already purpling forearm in his opposite hand as though to hold it steady. The tavern had gone quiet, and everyone too drunk to have the sense to look away was staring.

Rafe’s eyes flashed red under the dark of his cowl in the dancing flame of a nearby lamp. “I thought you wanted to hold hands,” he said, his deep voice a cool rumble from down in his chest. A moment of silence passed. Someone coughed, one of the tavern wenches giggled, and suddenly the room burst into air-tossing belly laughter. The music picked up again, and a number of hands helped the terrified drunk to his feet, though now he looked more confused than scared. “Think you’ve had enough, mate,” someone said cheerfully, while another pointed out “What’d ye expect, layin’ hands on another mans woman?”

Ellie knew Rafe was looking to her for a confirmation of sorts, as he always did with his decisions. She knew he sought her approval no matter how many times she explained he did not need it; his upbringing had left him with little confidence in choosing his own directions. Still, she turned her back on him, and felt rather than saw the shift in his demeanor: he missed his step, brain churning in a moment of panic, and was forced to stutter after her as the rowdy crowd closed in her wake. Ellie had been short all her life, and was accustomed to budging through cramped quarters. The mass of bodies did not slow her, but Rafe, though he was taller than the tallest by a head, found it more troublesome. He was used to forcibly knocking people out of his path, and this dance of dodging feet and encroachment on his personal space made him deeply uncomfortable. When at last he plopped next to Ellie on her chosen bench, his shoulders sloped sullenly and his breathing was shallow, as though even the act of inhaling deeply may draw unwanted attention to himself.

“Water,” Ellie commanded of a nearby serving girl before Rafe could speak, her irritation making her voice short. Rafe’s hood draped lower over his head as he sank in his seat. Ellie bit back a sigh, feeling conflicting waves of guilt and annoyance crashing in her gut. Rafe came from a world where his every emotion was dictated and criticized, with a very twisted semblance of free will, and his recent experiences with actions as simple as feeling showed he was still very new to the process. Her exasperation with him was untoward, and did little to coach him down the right path, but she despised being viewed as an object, something requiring protection, and the very thought Rafe might see her as weak made her heart squeeze in palpable frustration.

“Water’s gone foul,” the girl said.

Ellie crinkled her nose. “Then what do you brew with?”

The girl looked away.

“Beer, then,” Ellie grumbled, “preferably something not made here.” And the girl was away. They sat in silence for a long moment, both stewing in their own versions of shame, before Ellie spoke up. “I don’t need you to protect me.”

“I should just let him grab your tit, next time?” The words were a low growl but there was no bite to them.

“You should have let me handle it,” Ellie countered, “so there would be no next time.” Neither of them had looked at the other, till now. Ellie pulled her hood back, her black curls thicker in the hot, wet air. “I’m not fragile, Rafe. And I’m not an object. I’m not yours to protect.”

His eyes darkened in a way which suggested otherwise, and his mouth parted, then closed, and parted again as he searched for the right words. Finally he swept his forked tongue over his sharp canines and shuffled in his seat, dropping his gaze away. “I… don’t like it when people… touch you,” he said gruffly, frowning, wearing the face that came of him puzzling in frustration over something he felt he should understand: the ridge of scales at his brow furrowed in, the left raised slightly higher than the right, an almost pained expression, like the petulant child he never had the opportunity to be, and as close to one as he would ever get.

Ellie could not help her chuckle. “I don’t like when drunkards try and grab my tits either,” she said, voice softening. Her gray coat rustled as she slipped her hand into his cloak beneath the table, squeezing his clenched fist. “But that’s my problem, not yours.” His brows lifted, but his gaze remained heavy and downcast. “It isn’t that I don’t appreciate you having my back. I just don’t need you to fight my battles, is all.”

He seemed to mull over her words for a time, the quiet between them more comfortable, less stark against the boisterous ambiance of the tavern. The girl brought them two mugs of beer, pale, sour stuff, and Ellie thanked her and tipped her with a silver ingot, more her genial self than she had been earlier. She took a small sip and struggled to not make a face.

Rafe noticed. “I’ve upset you,” he said, morose.

“I’m not upset, Rafe. Truly.”

“You only drink when you’re upset.”

Ellie looked blankly at her mug. “To be honest, I’m only drinking so it doesn’t seem like we came in here for nought.” She tried another mouthful and grimaced this time, baring her teeth at the offensive stuff. Rafe thought the way she crinkled her nose and made her freckles dance was adorable, and laughed. It only earned him a fierce glare, but where her thick mop of curls made wild by the humidity might make her look intimidating to some, when combined with the pale line of foam on her upper lip and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth it did little more than endear her to him. He laughed harder, a genuine, happy sound, and Ellie stopped holding his hand and punched him in the shoulder instead. “Asshole.”

“I know,” he said, teeth white in his grin. He twisted the stein about by the handle, elbows on the table, relaxed now. “I know… I know you don’t need me to protect you.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “I didn’t— I don’t— I’m not— trying to protect you… I mean, I am, but not because… I think you need it.” He frowned again, but in puzzlement, not sorrow. “Though you do, sometimes, I think. But, not because you’re weak, or incapable, but… I don’t like to see you get hurt.” He sighed, clearly struggling, fighting with the concept.

Until recently, his life had been spent in servitude, his actions done in the name of another, by the order of another. He did not know what to do— how to feel— without being pointed, or aimed, much like the weapon he was built to be. He found he feared erring now more than ever he had when Kaalarok was there to punish him for his discretions; and err he did, in plenty, but Ellie’s gentle way of speaking him through his mistakes often left him more confused than before, like now: when, if ever, was the right time to intervene if his friend, his only friend he had ever known, was in trouble? Should he wait until the last possible moment, or until she called for him? Was it her folly or his own which pinned them stubborn in conflict, her overconfidence or his underestimation of her? Rafe felt great pain and distress whenever Ellie was threatened with danger, or injured, or troubled, and these were new and overpowering emotions for one so unused to empathy. He had little control over his emotional reactions, would he even be able to stand aside should she come under duress? Could he life with doing so?

“Rafe.” Ellie’s voice bumped him from his thoughts, and he realized he had drifted off, staring silently at the swirls of foam in his beer. He noticed, too, she had reached back beneath his cloak and grasped near the end of his tail, holding it tightly in place, a motion both of comfort and necessity: when he pulled too far inside his head, his long, prehensile tail tended to lash and swing back and forth with the intensity of his rumination, the Drakiin version of a tapping foot for wiggling leg. Six feet of swishing tail, knocking people off their feet and sending tables of earthenware mugs shattering to the ground would draw unwanted attention.

He smiled, sheepish, and shrugged, ensuring his tail was safely circled around his waist. “I just wan’t to be useful.” Useful in a way he had not been since the last time they’d had to kill something.

“Rafe,” Ellie repeated, the sound an admonishing laugh, “you are useful. But I am not your master, and you are not my bodyguard, or my servant, or my soldier, or my shield—,”

“Why even keep me around, then?”

“I keep you around—,” she paused, frowning, “because— I don’t ‘keep you around’,” the words came out in a jumble, she hated when he spoke of himself like a thing or an object to be thrown out, and she turned her steel gray glare on him to tell him so; but he was grinning, all white, sharp teeth and glimmering red eyes, chin lounged on one palm, elbow on the table, and she realized he was goading her. She huffed, looking away, curls bouncing with the movement. “You are my friend,” she said a moment later, palms on the table as though to ground herself, “and is the only use I will ever need of you.” Eyes sliding sideways and up, she met his gaze for one second, two; they both opened their mouths to speak, but she went first: “It would be most useful if you would stop being so damn broody all the time,” she said, tapping the ridge of scales at his nose with the tip of a finger.

The serving girl walked by then, eying their nearly untouched mugs.

“I don’t suppose you have a room available?” Ellie asked, pushing her beer away. The girl took it in hand and reached for Rafes, but he swept his up and began chugging it down, along with all the words he wanted to say. Ellie raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.

“We’re full,” the girl said.

Ellie nodded in understanding, but as the girl went to leave, Rafe slammed his mug down and said in a giant breath, “She’s a Raptoriam.” Then he belched. “‘Scuse me.”

For all the good it’s done us, she almost said, but the girl said she would speak to the proprietor. Ellie sat blinking, amazed the mention of her Order may carry weight here as it had a hundred years ago, and had not come out of her stupor by the time the girl returned with a heavy-set, balding man, his hairy arms crossed over his big chest and stained apron. “Let’s see it, then,” he demanded, and it took Rafe nudging her with his elbow for her to realize he meant her badge.

“Right,” she said, fumbling through the pockets of her enchanted coat. It took her a moment, but eventually she produced the brass circle emblazoned with a rabbits head on one side and a raptor’s talons on the other. It was a snug fit in her palm, but appeared much smaller in the innkeep’s large hand. He eyed it closely, observing both sides, before returning it with a deep nod.

“It’s always a pleasure to have a member of the Order stayin’ with us,” he said, offering his right hand. Ellie reached out to shake it when she realized—

“Your hand, it’s fake.”

“Aye,” the innkeep said, chuckling. Even Rafe let out a snicker.

“No, I mean—,” Ellie flipped the fake limb palm up and scanned her eyes along the wrist. It was an intricate thing, made of pale wood and wire, and she could feel the heft of the gears and mechanisms contained within. “Britha made this,” she said, rubbing the symbol of the boot with an exploding cloud of black powder bursting from the top.

“Ye know th’ Blastboot?”

“She’s our friend,” Ellie said, smiling at the fond memory of the maternalistic, if curmudgeonly, dwarf.

“Well, any friend o’ the Blastboot is a friend o’ mine,” the innkeep said, with a big grin. “Lost me hand to frostbite, many years ago, an’ I didn’t know what to do with meself for a long time. Wandered, mostly, and fought, and lost, and drank, and pissed, and wandered s’more. Then I had th’ fortune of laying a sum of spigots on a brawl with a crippled dwarf, thinkin’ I could win. I imagine ye know ‘ow that played out.” He gave a big laugh while Rafe and Ellie shared a knowing smile. “Th’ Blastboot took pity on me worthless soul an’ offered to make me a hand. I been in her debt since.” He turned to the girl. “They’ll have Curly’s room, then.”

“What about Curly?”

“I’ll tell ‘im he ain’t got no room. Bastard still owes me ten pen, anyway,” he said. “Any member o’ the Order is welcome here.” He nodded and strode away.

“I believe,” Ellie said, grin widening, “this is the first time my being a member of the Order has gotten us anything but laughed at.” Her face was all aglow with pride and there were many things Rafe wanted to say, that she was most beautiful when she walked tall, that smiling suited her, that there was never anything she could say to stop him from throwing himself into the fire to stop her from ever being burned—

but he swallowed his words, and said simply, “No,” as they stood to follow the girl to their room, “we still laughed at you, remember?”

#drops this garbage here #antiquity tag #nanowrimo

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resurrectionofdawn · 7 years ago

Text

She Made Him Mine

March 23, 1993 6:53AM

Chestertown, Maryland

Target elimination in small-town suburbia. The Winter Soldier disliked missions such as these. Or at least as much as it could dislike anything. Sighting through its scope, it spotted the target emerging from his modest-looking grey house. The target stood on the stoop a moment to check his watch.

Inside the empty bedroom of an abandoned, rat-infested fourth-floor apartment building, metal fingers tightened along the stock of a long-range sniper rifle. Almost in range. The fool thought he could hide from them. The assassin did not know or care of the target’s importance, only that it had been told to eliminate the problem. The gunman sighted again before pulling the trigger.

The sound of a single gunshot echoed across the town. Nearly a mile away, a portly 40-ish brown-haired white male in a blue suit carrying a briefcase dropped to the ground, a hole through his temple. He had been about to enter his car to head to work. He lived alone, and his nearest neighbors weren’t due to wake for another 20 minutes. Time to move out.

The assassin broke the weapon down with practiced ease, eyes scanning the streets below his perch. The only signs of life were a few pigeons and the frenzied barking of a nearby dog. It was almost dawn. There were nearly seventy minutes before rendezvous with its team. After the pickup was debrief, perhaps the Chair and always the Cold. The words from its handler were poor comfort: You’ve shaped this century, but it was all there was.

A tiny, traitorous thought wondered when its usefulness would be outlived. Would they send a new Winter Soldier to decommission it? Would it be put into storage and forgotten? Growling to itself, the Soldier viciously silenced those thoughts. Such things were not for it to know.

Sealing the weapon in its’ case, the Soldier turned to jump down the four stories to the ground when it heard… something.

...ay…l...p...e…

The Soldier reared back from the ledge, shaking its head. What had that been? A new malfunction?

...is way. P...se...help.

The Asset did not feel fear but it supposed this qualified. Perhaps it was in the building; leaving would be an excellent idea. Pulling the case onto its back, the Fist of Hydra leapfrogged down the building’s fire escape to the ground. It paused a moment giving it’s most recent perch an uncertain look. Should it report the…haunting? Another head shake; what would happen would happen and there was nothing to be done about it.

7:03AM

Twelve blocks and a nearby park later, it happened again. HELP ME, PLEASE!

The Soldier yelled in shock, grabbing at it’s head. Staggering into a service alley between a hardware store and a cafe, it leaned against a wall and tried to regain control of itself.

“What was that?”

This way...please...I need help.

The Asset can smell blood but see nothing.

The world ripples a moment and a form appears in front of him, barely two meters away sprawled against a tree. It is female and heavily pregnant. Young, mid-twenties. Medium build, blonde with Asiatic features. Dressed in jeans and what had been a white sweater. She is also grievously wounded with several bullet holes and a head injury. Two high in the chest, a third above the swell of her stomach. Seeing the large blossoms of dried blood, the Asset determines that these are exit wounds. She had been shot in the back, most likely running from something.

Dark rivulets of drying blood smeared across the tree's bark are just visible behind her. Looks like she’d been there a while.

An army green pack sits beside her, heavily bloodstained and fully loaded. To have torn through the pack's contents and into her body spoke of high-powered weaponry.

The Soldier's eyes widened beneath his goggles. While he had been setting up his nest yesterday, there had been a fragment of a radio report that had caught his attention. Several people from small township over twenty miles away were under arrest for a hate crime. Against a pregnant mutant.

A quick survey of the clearing told him the direction she had come from; blood would tell after all. This was most likely the one from the radio. For her to have come all this way on foot and still be alive after such grievous wounds was impressive for a civilian.

She certainly had to be some sort of mutant, what with the long pointed ears. Not that he cared if she was. Only the mission mattered, and yet, some long-forgotten flicker of something pleaded with him to stay. He wondered what sort of power she had that had drawn the Winter Soldier to her like a moth to flame.

Points handgun at her

“You called me, why?”

You are the one I need. Her lips do not move but he can hear every word as if she had actually spoke.

A telepath.

Leader would be pleased if she could be brought in, but her extensive wounds have rendered her nonviable. He could kill her simply attempting to move her.

Confusion, a little anger

“Why?”

I'm dying, my son still has a chance. If you were not the right person to be able to help me, you would never have heard me. A shudder runs through her a soft sob catching in her throat. I was careless, my disguise broke and the humans called me mutant and attacked me. I escaped but they killed me regardless. Eyes of unnaturally bright green stared at him dimly. A quick assessment told Soldier that her death was probably within minutes. He holstered his gun.

I have no more options and I will not let him die.

The Asset glanced back the way he had come. He was due to return to his handlers within the hour, he could not be late. “Even if I take him from you, he may still die if left at a hospital.”

I know. Her mental voice is tired, strained. That is why you have to take him with you. The Soldier withdraws a knife, crouches next to her. “They will not permit it. You condemn him to an experiment if they let him live at all.” He would be punished if they heard such words from him but the Asset was honest. A choked cough shook the woman. The Asset recognized that sound. Her lungs were filling with blood.

You are my only chance.

“You are certain of this?” He gestures with the knife. “I can still leave him where he will be found.”

Where if they don’t kill him, he’ll spend his life in a lab. And that’s if just the government learns of him.

“If I take him, he will become an asset of Hydra. They are not kind. They will never let him go.”

Once the Pathway opens again, my people WILL come for him. If not to retrieve, then to avenge. We are terrible in our anger, implacable in our rage. And we will rage.

Images race behind his eyes of silent shadows that attack the unwary and vanish as quickly as they came. Lightning and fire that sink large ships in a single strike. A hail of energy weapons fire deflected back onto the shooters, while medieval-looking armored warriors attacked with swords and abilities that might only be believed if seen. “He will be able to do these things?”

A tiny head shake. No, for all my age I am not strong. I could have fought those attacking me but there were too many. Too much attention. They shot at me as I fled. I was a scout, looking for things we needed.Wet laugh, some blood Coffee doesn’t grow on our worlds, can you believe that?

“It will hurt.”

Just means I die a little faster. It’s been two days since I was attacked. I can’t feel anything below my ribs since I fell down. Others passed by but you were the ONLY one to hear me and I’ve been calling a long time. Slim fingers brush his human arm, as if to reassure him. I don’t have much life left. I am no Mage, but this, the woman’s bloodied face turns determined and somehow ruthless. This I can do.

The Soldier has no time to react as the dying alien traps his wrist like a vise. Her hand burns hot against his skin but there is no pain. We’re all taught this, even if we’re not true Mages. To use our souls, to Sacrifice all that we are in a single act. Since he still lives within me I can use what he would have become and affect you both. He will be Human but also Other. The Asset tries to pull away but her burning green eyes hold him fast. He can’t look away, can’t raise his knife to strike.

And you are the Key.

Energy glowing bright blue and purple crackled, several bolts striking the Soldier but seeming to do no damage. Knowledge poured into him, language, customs, instincts. Things any Danean knew as naturally as breathing. Four combat forms unknown on Earth. Weapons-craft and technology, biology, woodcraft and herb-lore.

A treasure-trove of information.

The last hours of Selaistrae Moon-swallow unfold in his brain like a mission brief. Two days ago she was supposed to have gone back through the Gate and report her findings on setting up an outpost in this area. It seemed to be an ideal location to gain things that could only be found in this region on Earth.

The scouting had been easy; her pregnancy made her less suspect in the eyes of the locals till her shifting charm broke in the middle of the damn supermarket and caused the townsfolk to turn on her.

Some kind of cosmic interference had disrupted the only Gate to Earth and now there was no way home. It could be decades before it reopened.

Winter Soldier felt something burn in his chest, a small grunt of pain escaping him. The forest floor rose up to meet him and abruptly stopped.

It was over.

He found himself on hands and knees shaking in reaction. He felt worse than whenever he came out of cryostasis. What had she done to him?

Selaistrae's hand fell from his wrist. I have done what I can, the rest is up to you. I have stabilized and improved your enhancements. You are more akin to your kironar now. My son, my little Cheshire Grinning is yours now. In all ways. He will need you to guide him. He is Born Knowing. The backpack will have what you need for him. The enchantments are strong. It is nearly indestructible. It is keyed to you and your son. No one else can use it. It will almost always have what you need. Her mental voice begins to fade, eyes glazed.

Please, save your son.

It is the work of moments to cut the child from his mother.

The newborn's voice was weak but growing stronger by the moment. He laid the squalling infant on a small blanket he unthinkingly pulled from the pack and quickly wiped him dry.

The Soldier cushions the child against his metal arm to get a good look at him. He didn’t know what he was expecting but the child looks human enough. Pale gold skin, a wisp of blond hair, the tiny chin resembling his own. Not too small, a little over three kilograms.

Selaistrae's voice intrudes upon him again, just barely clinging to life. They may take him from you but he will not be killed. Not after inheriting a perfect version of the serum. Any test will say he was sired by you. Will you tell him he was loved?

“If I am permitted to keep the memory of him, yes.”

Moon-swallow's mouth twitched upwards. They won't burn out your memory of him, they can't. Nothing of what I have given you can be erased, not fully. I...know that...they will try...I'm...truly sorry for that. You will...remember...her voice faded into silence. Winter stared at the now-dead woman like he knew something was supposed to happen. The baby whined and flailed as the Soldier’s hands absently and expertly swaddled the newborn in front of him.

The sound of breaking glass was heard. The Soldier quickly scooped up the newborn in his flesh hand, his other pulling the gun, alert for any movement. His eyes widened in shock as he witnessed the dead woman's body, clothes and all turn translucent like glass and fall to sand. A strong wind blew for several moments, scattering the remains. There was little doubt that this was the final action of the child's mother.

The Asset rose, tucking the child a little more closely to his body and rapidly made his way to the extraction point.

This still needs a bit of work as the bold parts I am unsure of how to articulate. My biggest hangup is what happens AFTER this part. I need ideas on how his handler and his goons would react to the Soldier with a newborn in his arms like nothing is wrong. I need to know how Pierce would react when he finds out. Any help is appreciated.

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impishnature · 8 years ago

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Good For Something

AO3

Rating: T

Summary: A late night conversation that doesn’t really get to the bottom of things. It’s hard to explain what’s wrong when you’ve spent so long apart.

AN: Just a little thing I had to get out of my head. Warning: bad mental state and vague allusions to suicidal ideation.

“Stan?”

Ford recoiled slightly as he walked into the kitchen, the room mostly dark, when something shifted before him. It was the middle of the night, he’d only snuck out of his room to get a drink and yet his brother was sat at the table, in the gloom, as if he’d been sat there so long he hadn’t even noticed it had gotten dark. “Stan?” He got a noncommittal grunt for his efforts which made him frown, irritation bubbling below the surface. “What are you doing?”

“Writing.”

Ford’s frown vanished behind surprise, curiosity taking over when he heard the familiar scritch scratch of a pen across paper, his eyes not yet adjusted to really see what Stan was up to. “Writing? What on Earth are you writing in the middle of the night?”

Stan’s shoulders shrugged, the man still not deigning to look up at him. “I dunno, just- stuff. It seems to help you and Dipper, I thought I’d give it a try.”

Ford scowled at the answer, eyes narrowing as he stepped across the threshold and towards the sink, frustration hot and fizzling through his chest as his words came out waspish. “Yes, well, it only helps if someone actually reads it-”

“Six- Ford, don’t. I… I don’t want an argument. Not tonight.”

Ford paused, not quite able to turn back to his brother as the whisper breathed out of him, quiet and low but with only them it was still clearly audible. There was something in it that made him nervous, soft acceptance, maybe? Or perhaps the complete and utter lack of fiery retort that he had come to associate with his brother? “All… alright.”

Silence reigned between them for a while, as Ford filled a glass at the sink and Stan sat steadily tapping his pen. It was tense and cold throughout, the air filled with so many words that should be spoken between them and bitter silence all the same.

“You know…” Stan coughed, a gruff almost choke that brought Ford back into the room. His eyes shot to his brother, whose head was still bowed above the page. “You know, this wasn’t what was meant to happen. It was… it was supposed to get better when you got back.” Stan groaned, rubbing at his face until his glasses slipped up his forehead. “Sorry, ignore that. I didn’t mean to say that. I really, really don’t want an argument.”

“Yeah?” Ford couldn’t help the bite, couldn’t help the wish that it had been better too, but it couldn’t be- because it never should have happened, so he crushed the hope before it could sway him. “Well, what do you want, Stan?”

Stan snorted, the sound cold and hollow, leaving a bitter taste in Ford’s mouth. “How the hell should I know?”

Ford sighed, sitting across from his brother and setting his drink down. “Is this about the conversation we had before? Stan, I just want my life back-”

“I know. I understand.”

“Then…?”

Stan ignored him, resting his head on his hand as he looked out of the doorway, facing towards the gift shop even though he couldn’t see it. “I was just good at it, you know?”

“Excuse me?”

“The Mr Mystery stuff- I think I might have actually been good at it. I think I quite liked it. I always did like selling things, but this way I got to sell an experience and people kept coming back for more.” His smile was soft, nostalgic. “Didn’t hurt no one, and people liked me- People liked it.”

Ford gave a groan, leaning back in his chair. “So it is about that. Stan, you really didn’t think you could carry on using my house like that once I was back, did you?”

Stan shrugged again, Ford’s hackles raising as he still refused to look at him. “I dunno. I didn’t really plan this far.”

“So, this is the crux of it? You want to continue your little- farce?”

Stan winced at that, just a small hitch of breath before his face levelled out again, still staring into nothingness. Ford bit his lip, a small bubble of shame dousing the flames.

Maybe he could have worded that differently, at the very least.

“Nah. That’s not it. No real point to it now, is there? It was just a way to get you back, after all. It’s lost its… purpose now. No use to anybody.”

“Then why-?”

Stan sighed, cutting him off. “Why bring it up? I was writing, Ford, now I’m talking out loud. I’d be putting my thoughts somewhere whether you were here or not. You’re just asking questions so I’m answering them too.”

“Oh.” Ford tilted his head, accepting but perplexed, eyes drawn to the page beneath Stan’s hands even if he shielded it away from his gaze.

Something about all of this didn’t sit right with him, something clawing up his back in an attempt to make him see whatever it was he wasn’t getting.

A piece to the puzzle lost on the floor somewhere that he needed to see the full picture.

He scrutinised his brother once more as he pushed the chair back from the table, deciding this conversation was going nowhere. “You should go to bed soon. You’ll regret it when the kids get up.”

Stan shook his head, a bemused smile on his face as he continued to stare into the distance. “Please, I’ve run rings around them with far less sleep. S’funny, you think it’d be easy to sleep now but I’m so used to being up every night and working the days that I can’t seem to get my sleep schedule back on-”

The glass slamming onto the table top made him jolt, eyes snapping to it, yet still not to Ford.

“What is this, Stan? Do you want me to say ‘thank you’? Is that it? Is this your way of guilting me? Or perhaps you want me to say sorry-” Ford made a strangled irritated noise as Stan slowly shook his head. “Then what? What is all this?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing, Sixer.” Stan sighed, looking at the page again. “I just needed a moment- and then you came in so I just- ran my mouth off, as usual.” He ran a hand through his hair, sheepishly looking at the floor. “I don’t know what I’m doing, I should just stop talking. But hey, can’t make the situation worse, can I? So I just keep-” His fingers dug into his scalp, Ford could see his hand tightening in the gloom before he visibly deflated, hunching in on himself. “I didn’t want this.”

Ford couldn’t find it in him to be angry either in that moment, suddenly far too tired, his voice filled with exasperation. “Then what did you want, Stanley?”

“I don’t know!” Stan finally snapped, hands slamming into the table and Ford froze, gripping the glass to make sure it didn’t tip over with the motion. His eyes sought out Ford’s in a moment of frenzy, as if he was trying to make him understand, trying to convey something with gaze alone. There was the fire that Ford had been missing, the palpable spark that had been engulfing every conversation they had had since he had returned but somehow it didn’t seem directed at him this time. Directed inwards, annoyance that he couldn’t get the words out to make Ford understand what he was trying to say, or perhaps frustration that he didn’t really understand it all himself.

And within a moment of staring at Ford, eyes darting this way and that as if willing him to make sense of it for him so that he didn’t have to explain, the spark vanished.

He turned back away from him, eyes back to the paper before him, the pen tapping in his hand before stopping completely.

And then he laughed.

It sent a shiver down Ford’s spine, the bark a sharp crackle of ice, devoid of mirth.

“Yeah I do. I just want to sleep.”

“Then go to bed.” Ford sighed, standing up and drawing away from the table. He had had enough, this conversation was setting his teeth on edge and his hackles rising for some reason and he wanted nothing more than to get away from it. Too many mixed emotions, too much confusion, it was all too close, too soon.

He had been away from home too long.

“Heh… That’s not what I meant.”

Ford blinked at the whisper filtering in from behind his back, the soft odd accepting tone that he couldn’t quite understand still laced throughout Stan’s voice. He turned slowly, eyebrows furrowed and mouth open but the table was deserted, his brother nowhere to be seen.

“…Stan?”

There were flames everywhere, sweeping through the room, crackling and popping whenever they came across something they could consume.

And there was a lot to consume in here.

But though he continued to feed the fire, all he felt was cold.

Stan smiled sadly, watching the blue light flicker at the edges of his vision, watched it creep every closer to where he stood.

He clutched tight to the most precious thing in his mindscape so it would be the last thing to fall, let the rest of the world burn away as he continued to stare at it, unwilling to let it go just yet, even as the room started to crumble and fall in around him.

A small laugh escaped him, a sad, self-deprecating noise. But then the tightness that clutched at his chest lifted and the sound grew lighter, more genuine. The solid leaden lump that had been a constant for so long, the insidious whispers and venomous snarls, all fell away along with the memories.

They couldn’t reach him now, the voices, reduced to ashes along with everything else as he continued to stare at the photo, his finger tracing the smiling faces.

“Guess I was good for something, after all.”

AN: ...I promise that the next fic being written is cavity inducing fluff? ♥ I did wonder about an extra scene in this - with Ford seeing his brother the next day acting normal with the kids and brushing away the conversation but I didn’t know if it actually worked or not *shrugs* So I left it as it was and I hope that you liked it ♥

#gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #grunkle stan #grunkle ford #good for something

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nyxysabyss · 8 years ago

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LEVEL HORIZON; YEAR THREE.80 2/4; Salvation & Lagging Intuition

Chapter 28!

Always in a moment of extreme danger things can be done which had previously been thought impossible. ~Field Marshal Erwin Rommel

The roof tiles shatter and tumble across the cobblestones, the bricks from the wall cascading into jumbled piles. Kenma Kozume’s breath catches, and when he stumbles with the next rolling jolt of the earth, he doesn’t even bother trying to catch himself and drops to his knees.

Kuroo’s in there. Kuroo was inside when it went down. Kuroo is in that building.

Kenma’s mind plays on loop, barely noticing that Yamaguchi has gone quiet as well, or that the shaking dissipates unnervingly quick only a few moments later. When silence finally settles around them and the only thing still moving is the slow residual sway of the trees overhead, Kenma draws his first ragged breath.

Then he blinks as something occurs to him.

I’m alive.

The enormity of the thought hits him, and his heart vaults to a pace far too fast to be healthy after it was skipping beats only seconds before.

Yamaguchi stumbles by him, the others having released him with the main threat having past. The crow sways as he makes his way toward the destroyed building with shaking hands and Kenma slowly pushes to his feet. His mind is still reeling, he can tell, but his golden eyes automatically start surveying the half-destroyed building.

“Tsukki.” Yamaguchi whispers in horror, his anguish distracting. And then the freckled crow sets on the collapsed wall with a frenzy, tossing pieces away and hauling on a splintered beam that doesn’t budge. Kenma raises a hand toward him, but freezes as another brick flies by him.

“Tsukki!”

“He’s alive, Yamaguchi.” Shouyou says and the crow freezes.

“Of course, he is.” He says as if the redhead’s remark is the stupidest thing he’s heard this year, but his voice shakes horribly.

“He is.” Shouyou insists. “Right Kenma?”

The redhead turns to him and Kenma finds himself the focus of everyone, even the distressed freckled crow. He takes a deep breath, trying not to fret at the attention.

“Kuroo is still alive.” He says, the words making his heart squeeze.

“You don’t know that.” Yamaguchi says with a choked sob, his face scrunching with a furious scowl.

“I do. And if Kuroo is alive, Tsukki will be, too. Kuroo will die ahead of all of us. And you will all know the moment he does. Start worrying when I keel over, not before.” He says evenly. It’s not a lie. Kenma is certain that if the larger cat had his way, no one would die without him going first.

“We should probably figure out how to get them out soon, though.” Noya says, pointing to the thick curl of smoke that rises from the half-collapsed temple.

The candles, Kenma realizes and in an instant his anxiety ratchets back up.

If the collapse didn’t kill Kuroo, fire very well could.

“The doors…” Yachi says shakily and they all turn to look at her. She flinches, her little hands fisting in front of her, but her lip firmis and face turns resolved.

“The shoji doors.” She says again, a little more sure. Kageyama jerks.

“They were open. We can get in from around the back side and find them.” He says.

Shouyou and Noya are already turning to find a way around the side of the half-collapsed structure before he’s even finished speaking and everyone follows suit. A monk materializes and catches Kiyoko’s arm, making her flinch violently.

“What are you guys doing? It’s dangerous here.” Kenma levels him with a solemn gaze.

“My leveler is still inside.” He says flatly and the man blanches.

“Inside?” Kenma doesn’t answer, already leaving him behind.

The building itself looks as if it’s twisted, the walls all pulled out of alignment by the front side’s drop. The shoji door is off its track, the frame broken and folded over itself, but they can squeeze inside without issue.

Kenma coughs almost immediately, the dust and smoke invading his lungs. He remembers the last point he saw them, nearly at the front of the building when Kuroo had shielded the blond avian before the building face had crumbled. He can barely recognize the room but he makes for that point based on his memory of what the open space looked like just before. Something snaps beneath his foot; he looks down to find a broken calligraphy brush.

Further.

The rafters and gusset joints have dropped low where the walls have buckled leading toward the front of the ruined temple, and he has to duck, but he keeps going, his eyes stinging from the smoke. He can barely make anything out through the dim haze, his visibility rapidly limited to a matter of a couple feet.

“Kuroo!” He croaks scratchily.

He hears a grunt and heads for it. Stumbles over something… and then more objects, and nearly cracks his head on a rafter. He almost runs into a fallen support post, spiral cracks and splinters threading through its large diameter where it has twisted and bent like a noodle beneath the strain of supporting the ceiling as it shifted. He’s almost ready to leap the post when he calls out once more and there’s an answering cough almost right beside him. He follows the splintered wood another three steps until his eyes make out a wash of light color through the hazy air.

Cream colored feathers. And then, among the pale wings… dust caked dark hair and a pair of ears. Kenma almost wants to weep. They are here, almost where he’d thought, and they are alive.

But in a moment, he sees the problem. They are pinned beneath the support beam.

There is less than a foot of leeway between the beam and the floor, and Kenma just thanks the sky that it had landed on something that didn’t allow it to drop all the way. But that not-quite foot… isn’t enough; the ibis and black cat can’t move an inch.

“Kenma?” He hears Shouyou call somewhere behind him.

“I found them. They’re trapped. We need to get the post off them.” He says and catches movement from the cream wings. The redhead mumbles something and then Shouyou’s right next to him, Kageyama just off his shoulder.

“Shit.” The expletive escapes the avian heir.

“Not a strong enough sentiment, Kageyama.” Noya says darkly from his other side.

“Can we move it?” Kenma shouldn’t be surprised that Yamaguchi is standing nervously right behind them, because he was the one attempting to burrow in through the destroyed front—but he was literally paralyzed with terror minutes ago.

“I fucking hope so.” Kuroo growls, “It’s legit un-fucking-comfortable.”

Kenma’s chest catches with something akin to uneasy joy just hearing the black cat’s voice. Kenma can imagine Kuroo’s remark is true; his leveler’s arm is still cast across the ibis’ wings and back, the beam firmly keeping it there across their shoulders. The blond releases a heavy cough and a groan, but Kenma can tell that he’s avoiding movement— especially the one wing caught awkwardly under Kuroo’s wrist.

Kei’s ensuing wheeze reminds Kenma of his own burning lungs and worsening scratchy impulse to cough in response as well. The smoke is getting thicker and he’s sure the building will probably be going up in flames shortly.

“Come on.” He murmurs and they line up along the support, but the golden cat isn’t sure if they’ll be able to move it.

The pillar is round with no convenient grasping point, and its solid wood so it is heavy. The golden cat knows he isn’t very strong and Shouyou might be wicked quick, but he isn’t much for brute power, either. Noya’s isn’t a whole lot stronger than the redhead and Yamaguchi and Kageyama are their greatest available contributors. Kenma can’t help but mentally grouse that the strongest individual here just happens to be under the post.

His fears are confirmed a moment later when the beam doesn’t budge and his gut twists. They don’t have time to figure out some clever system to raise it; the building is on fire. They try again… and fail again.

Kenma can hear Yamaguchi starting to panic, can feel his own heart starting to tick an unsteady rhythm. Kuroo didn’t survive the earthquake and temple collapse just to burn to death.

He didn’t. Kenma won’t believe that.

He and Kuroo are finally levelers. The glowing thread that stretches between them in the smoke and dust is proof of that. After everything they’ve been through, they’ve only been a level pair for little more than a year. Everything is going perfect—even putting up with the stupid fox hadn’t been that bad, because Kuroo had made sure to get his apology across multiple times over, both that night and since. He finally never doubts that the black cat is his… and he’s not ready to give that up.

They try again, but it’s no use. The beam doesn’t even jar. He casts about nearly blind, his vision obstructed by the dim hazy air that burns his eyes.

There must be something they can do, something they haven’t tried. They could really use Tsukishima’s quick comprehension at the moment, but he’s as equally in this bind as Kuroo.

What do they do? Kenma has no idea and he can’t see anything that would help them.

He turns back to the support, his mind feeling like it’s underwater as he finds Kuroo beneath it, struggling to breath under the pinning upright.

He doesn’t know what to do. He has no idea where to start. And no matter how unprepared for death he is, no matter how he will adamantly stay here and fight for his and Kuroo’s future… he has a little of the black cat in himself as well. He can’t see a way out of this where they all survive. The longer the others stayed, the less likely they were to make it out.

They should leave, he thinks, knowing they would never listen to a demand like that. Chances look slimmer by the moment, but Noya and the younger level pair can still survive.

Movement draws his gaze and he turns to see another set of hands lining up beside him. And then more of them. He catches a flash of temple priest garb before he hears the quiet order.

“Ready, go!”

He barely has a chance to throw his own efforts behind it as the words reach his ears. The addition of four more hands— or is it five? — jars the pillar and there is a hiss from Tsukishima. The golden cat’s heart is skipping beats again as they momentarily relax beside him, because even if it wasn’t much, the post moved.

“Again!”

Kenma’s back and shoulders strain under the command, his thoughts blanking with the singular goal of moving the awkward and heavy beam. He throws his shoulder into it, because here—here is a chance for that future he’d been starting to think he’d be forgoing.

And then he catches the best sound he thinks he’s ever heard. Kuroo groans and there’s a scrabbling shift against the floorboards.

Without thinking, he abandons his place at the post and his hands instantly tangle in the black cat’s shirt. With a heave, he hauls his leveler backward, losing his feet in the process and Kuroo grunts heavily in pain at the motion. He doesn’t let go of that handful of fabric until he’s positive the black cat is free of the post’s danger.

He can barely hear anything above the racing pulse in his ears, but he catches the fierce swear from Tsukishima followed quickly by one as equally colorful and filled with alarm from Noya; Kenma knows they’ve lost the hold and the beam has dropped back into place. He has a moment to regret his impulsive grab at Kuroo, but then—

“They’re out, let’s go!”

Kenma squints in surprise at Kageyama’s words only to see Shouyou pulling on the blond beside him. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who’d ditched the support for the chance to extract their comrades.

A monk reaches under Kuroo’s arm and hauls him up, ignoring his sharp hiss of pain, and then they are quickly picking their way back out of the destroyed structure.

He can hear the crackle of fire, the creak of wood, Tsukishima’s brilliant curse, Yamaguchi’s anxious hovering, Noya’s rough smoky cough, Feathers’ trip and Shouyou’s ensuing encouragement, the heavy breathing of the monks around them, Kuroo’s labored intake that betrays his acute discomfort beside him, but more than anything, he can hear his heart thundering in his head under the tumultuous hope in his chest. He collars the emotion, focusing only on moving forward and keeping pace with the monk who tugs Kuroo along at a clip. The smoke gets thicker, the air hot and his eyes sting and lungs burn with every breath, but he follows the patch of gold robe leading them around a pile of crumbled bricks.

And then they are outside, the sunlight a blinding relief, the soft spring breeze a cooling caress against his sweating soot covered skin. They don’t stop until they are several meters away from the burning half-collapsed building, but Kenma can’t help shaking his head violently in an attempt to relieve the itch from the dust that has invaded his ears.

When he finally straightens, a hand on Kuroo’s shirt to reassure himself that the black cat really did make it out with them, he turns to find the others just behind them.

All of them. They are surrounded by the monks who helped them and people he doesn’t know, but he sees everyone.

Noya is bent over in a coughing fit, Shouyou is losing his mind over a cut on Kageyama’s leg that he must have gotten stumbling through the temple ruin, Yamaguchi kneels beside Tsukishima who holds his ribs with a pale faced frown, blood still running from a cut on the back of his head and his one wing listless behind him, and Kiyoko is beside them with a wide anxious gaze. He blinks as Yachi materializes in front of him with teary eyes.

“Are you alright?” She asks quickly and Kenma nods and finally looks toward his leveler as she moves on to him.

He breathes roughly, his face twisted in pain, and blood runs down over one ear from his hair and there are several scrapes and cuts along the arm that hangs limply at his side. And as Kenma looks closer, he sees the abnormality in cat’s physique. That arm, the one hanging loose, drops a couple inches lower than the other, his shoulder sloping off at a steeper angle than Kuroo’s normal slouch, and his back and spine round more on that side compared to the other. Yachi’s zeroed in on it as well, and her fingers ghost over an out of place protrusion near his throat.

“Your collarbone is broken.” She whispers.

“Don’t think that’s all.” He mutters with a grimace. “The post hit me from behind.”

Yachi’s eyes widen and she quickly bounces around him. She frowns and Kenma helps her carefully pull Kuroo’s shirt off so she can see the muscles better, and the golden cat can’t stand how there’s been hardly any movement from that limp arm. When the bunting pulls in a breath, he’s quickly following her gaze.

“You’re right.” She says and points to Kuroo’s rounded shoulder with a trembling lip.

This is the arm he’d thrown over Tsukishima as the front had collapsed, he remembers, and the support hit him from behind. His shoulder blade is broken… probably in several places, but he likely spared the ibis a direct blow to the head.

“You,” Tsukishima grits out with a pained breath, “How, did you know? You can’t even see properly. How did you know we weren’t going to make that?” He asks and Kuroo fixes him with an annoyed frown. He gingerly raises the hand on his not broken side and points to his ears.

“I heard the bricks falling.” He grumbles with a wince. A monk steps over, eager to help and Noya glances at the golden clad guys around them between coughs.

“How—” he huffs, “did you guys do that? You basically— lifted the roof with it.”

Kenma frowns, because he’d never even considered that. The support had kept the roof up; just because it had collapsed didn’t mean it didn’t still have all that weight on top of it. They’d have never had a chance without the monks.

“They’re Ussuri.” Kuroo murmurs and Kiyoko looks at him with surprise.

“Bears.” She says with awe and a monk smiles quietly at them, his long canines peeking out in the process.

“Wow, really? No wonder they were so strong. You guys are awesome!” Shouyou says with a grin, earning a chuckle from the one tending to the cut on his leveler’s calf.

“Thank you for coming to get us…” Yamaguchi says with a deep bow, “we have no way to really thank you.” The monk that carefully maneuvers Tsukishima’s wing, the ibis biting back a curse, glances up.

“We apologize that we had to. We didn’t think anyone was still inside.” He murmurs.

“Well, there wasn’t until this idiot decided to lose his mind.” Kuroo weakly grouses with a wince as another monk inspects his injuries.

“Shut up, you lousy cat. I thought you were all still there.”

“And I’m now useless and you’ve got broken ribs for your inobservance.” Kuro grumbles.

“Probably a cracked wing, too. We can brace it to ensure that it heals correctly.” One of the bears says to the ibis.

“You hear that, oh fearless leader? I’m relegated to the shrimp’s level of mobility and it hurts to breathe, you miserable mangy furball. You aren’t allowed to make travel plans anymore.” Tsukishima growls. Kuroo rolls his eyes.

“Wouldn’t have mattered if we were here or home. That was no small tremor; we’d have felt it in either place.”

And there’s a few drawn-out seconds where everyone processes the enormity of that statement. The realization dawns and everyone’s faces crease with worry and shock.

“Asahi!” Noya yelps, his wings already lifting him into the air, the small crow still coughing intermittently from the smoke.

“Noya!” Shouyou yells after him, but the crow doesn’t even glance back at him. The redhead looks at Feathers with panic and then at Kuroo.

“Send Kageyama back, too.” He says with a determined set to his jaw.

“Hinata—”

“Go, Kageyama! What if they need help? We will be fine. We’ll be there tomorrow.” Shouyou cuts his leveler off.

“Maybe you will, Shrimp.” Tsukishima mutters and the redhead shoots a flat look at him.

“Your wing and ribs don’t affect your legs, moron.” He says before looking back at Kageyama beseechingly.

“I can’t, but you can. Please go.” A murderous scowl creases Feathers’ face, but he takes a deep breath and nods once despite his glare.

“Hitoka?” Kiyoko asks and the bunting nods with a firm frown.

“I’ll go, too.” She says, quickly getting to her feet.

No one asks Yamaguchi and the crow doesn’t speak as the other two leap into the sky, buzzing after the already diminishing shape of Noya.

“You guys have relatives the next town over?” The monk working on Kuroo asks quietly. Kenma looks at him, his misgiving deepening.

This earthquake… there hasn’t been one this powerful in centuries and they will have felt it, too.

They are a solid day’s walk inland from Sheru Bay, over ten leagues out. It’s a distance that the avians might cover in an hour if they have a tailwind and they are really pushing their wings. It will leave them exhausted by the time they get there, but Kenma doubts they will do anything less. They won’t know if everyone escaped the earthquake until they return, have no way of knowing if someone didn’t make it out of a building in time or if someone sustained injury.

He’s grateful that the bears and Kiyoko are here so they can trust Kuroo and Tsukishima to their care. This way, Yachi can fly for the others in case her skills are needed.

But the danger for them isn’t like the danger for this small village. Kenma’s thoughts drift in particular to Suga who only recently stopped glowing after the mess at the snake nest, Natsu who is grounded, and the cats who have no wings to directly remove them from harm’s way like the avians.

He hopes everyone is okay, because the earthquake isn’t the only threat.

“On the coast.” He clarifies softly and the bear’s brown eyes crease with horror and understanding.

Even people who’ve never lived along the sandy shore know what often follows an earthquake.

Level Pair ; Chapter 1; Chapter 27; Chapter 29

A/N: So... here's another first for me. Just like I'd never attempted a full combat scene, I've never tackled a natural disaster before either XD And be excited! Everyone is still alive at the moment! And Bears!

Ahaha... so next chap isn't completely finished yet? I am really trying to power through it, and am still intending to post tomorrow, but I apologize if I don't make it. I will also be traveling on friday and saturday (1/27-28) and will have limited connection to the rest of the world; I will try to post at least one of those days if not both, but just a heads up.

Nyx WILL have that chapter ready by tomorrow... probably. Have an extraordinary evening guys!

#level pair #level horizon #haikyuu!!#kenma kozume #kuroken #fanfiction #long post

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