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mellowswriting · 4 years

Note

OMG CONGRATS ON THE FOLLOWERS MY LOVE!!!!💙💙 I would love to request something angst but with a happy ending with Frankie please!!! I’m open for anything! Thank you so much!!!

Always

pairing || Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales x Reader

summary || You step in when Frankie’s ex leaves him with their baby and in turn, find your own little family.

word count || 7,213

warnings || angst, hurt/comfort, parental abandonment

a/n || Thank you so much! Somehow this started as something small and then exploded into my longest fic on this blog. Enjoy! (p.s this gif does things to me smh)

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The last thing you expected was a phone call at the crisp time of 11:43 pm. It had been a long day already with your job being a disaster and you were half tempted to just let it ring so you could stay in the warm, safe cocoon of your bed...but something in your gut nagged at you to pick up, told that it was important. The bleary sight of Frankie’s name on your phone screen had you sitting up and rushing to hit the green ‘accept call’ button - he would never call this late unless it was serious.

He sounded wrecked, his voice panic-stricken and cracking over words too rushed for you to understand, and your heart began pounding. In all of your years of knowing Francisco Morales, you had never heard him like this. Not when he called you while he was out on deployment, not when he whispered to you about the horrors he had seen overseas, not when you comforted him after the shitshow that happened in South America.

“Frankie, slow down. I can’t understand you,” You tried to make your voice calm and reassuring but your worry bubbled through anyway, and you threw back the warm comfort of your blankets to scramble for clothes. Whatever this was, you needed to be there. There was no way in hell you would just listen to your best friend go through it over the phone. “What’s going on?”

A deep, shuddering breath crackled through the receiver, then “Eliza left us. She just...she just fucking left.”

Your breath caught in your throat and acidic anger ripped up through your chest, nearly suffocating you in it’s intensity. The mere idea of her walking out on Frankie and their new baby after all she had already put him through...god, you could just scream. It was forced down with a harsh swallow - it was not the time for your own anger. With your sweatpants and hoodie yanked on, you paused, struggling to find any words of comfort. “I’m on my way, okay? I’ll be there soon.”

“Ok” Frankie whispered and that was how you knew just how bad it was - he didn’t try to convince you not to come out so late or that you could just come in the morning like he did any other time he was in crisis. “Please don’t hang up.”

“Frankie…” You whispered. Your heart ached for him, wrestling with your anger. “I won’t. I’ll stay on the line, I promise.”

You rambled about any and everything as you drove. He needed to hear your voice, needed to be distracted, but you felt a bit ridiculous talking about the boring things you dealt with at work that day while he was in crisis. It helped, obvious by the way his breathing evened out as he listened and hummed in response.

There was no telling just how many traffic laws you broke as you sped the few blocks between your home and his. All you could do was be glad you weren't pulled over and managed to throw your car in park and kill the engine in the gravel driveway within ten minutes of leaving your own house. The front door swung open before you even managed to get out of your car and you practically sprinted up the steps to wrap your best friend in your arms.

Frankie stumbled back slightly as you collided with his chest but he curled his arms around your waist and buried his face in your neck nonetheless. No words passed through the nonexistent space between you. There wasn’t any need. You pushed the door closed behind you before you led him further into his living room and settled next to him on the couch. The sight of his bloodshot eyes and the exhausted slope to his shoulders had a wild mix of anger and sadness whirling through you.

“Where’s Isabella?” You whispered.

“She’s asleep upstairs. Eliza dropped her off and she just...slept right through it all, the entire argument.” His voice was hoarse, a testament to his rough night. “I...I can’t do this on my own.”

“Hey, you aren’t on your own.” You said, your tone soft but leaving no room for argument. “I’m not going to tell you it’s going to be easy, but you sure as hell aren’t alone. You have me and the boys. God knows Santi will be happy to flex his status as godfather even more.”

That pulled a half-hearted smile from Frankie. It was fleeting, gone in less than a second, but you counted it as a win nonetheless. Watching that far away look return to his eyes made you chest ache and you were desperate to break the spell of worry and anger that hung over him. Somehow knowing that you couldn’t even if you tried brought you no closer to peace.

“Have you eaten?” You asked as you carefully brushed a hand through his hair, appreciating the curls that were usually hidden under his hat. Frankie leaned into the touch and you smiled softly at his acceptance of the comfort you offered.

“No, but I can’t eat right now.” Frankie grumbled. The intensity of the anger, the shock, the fear, it all gave way to a mind-numbing exhaustion and he just wanted to sleep. You sighed but didn’t push him. “M’tired.”

“Alright, c’mon. Let’s get you to bed.” You heaved yourself from the couch and offered Frankie a hand to pull him along with you. He grumbled quietly to himself as you ushered him up the stairs, the both of you mindful of the sleeping baby. Frankie flipped the baby monitor on and took a moment to observe the grainy image of his little girl, fast asleep and entirely unaware that their lives had just changed drastically.

“She deserves better than a broken family.” Frankie whispered, the image of defeat as he sat heavily on the edge of his bed. There was nothing for you to say in that moment, nothing that would ease his burden or change his mind. So instead of speaking, you just sat next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulled him into your side and rubbed his back in slow strokes. Just when you thought he might be calm enough to lay down and get some sleep, Frankie went stiff against you and groaned. “Fuck, I have work tomorrow!”

He was up and pacing a hole in the floor before you could even blink, grumbling out a quiet rant about the insanity of his situation. It seemed like he was a step away from spiraling out completely - and you knew just how to prevent that. Francisco Morales was a military man through and through; give him clear instructions and he’ll tackle a task with all he’s got. All he needed was for someone to help him see past the panic to the next step.

“Frankie, stop.” You stepped in his way and put both of your hands on his shoulders firmly, only continuing when he finally looked you in your eyes. “Call the office now and leave a message for them to cancel your tours for the next couple of days so you can get your head on straight. It’s a family emergency. They’ll understand. And after you call them, you need to lay down and at least rest your body, because Isabella will need to be fed in a few hours and you need to get some sleep while you can. I’m staying the night -”

“Wait, what? No, you don’t have to -” Frankie interrupted but was met with your finger at his lips, almost cracking up when he pouted against it.

“I don’t have to, you’re right. But my best friend needs my help and the little girl that I adore deserves to have a dad who isn’t ripping his hair out from stress. If the tables were turned and I was the one in this position, would you let me convince you to leave?” You took your hand away from his face when you shook his head ‘no’ and you gave him a small smile. “Exactly. So, I’m staying the night and I’ll be here to help wherever you need for as long as you need me. Okay?”

Frankie nodded. After that, it was easy to get him burrowed under his covers. His eyes drooped the second he was settled, and with a final brush of his hair off of his forehead, you turned to head back downstairs and set up a makeshift bed on the couch. A hand shot out from under the blankets to latch onto your wrist and Frankie sounded almost child-like when he whispered, “Please stay.”

And who were you to deny such a sweet plea? You curled up on the opposite side of the bed, exhaustion finally dragging you under after the day’s insanity. Two hours later when a shrill cry had you both sitting bolt upright, you threw back the covers and slid out of the warmth of Frankie’s bed right along with him.

“You go make her a bottle and I’ll check her diaper, alright? You asked around a yawn, already shuffling off to the nursery. Frankie made a tired noise of agreement and went downstairs, leaving you to scoop up his crying infant from her crib. “Hi, Bella. Let’s get you changed, yeah? Does that sound good?”

Once she had a clean diaper, you carefully carried her down the stairs and into the kitchen where her father was warming up a bottle. He smiled at the both of you as you approached and reached out to rub his daughter’s back where she lay against you, chest-to-chest. You could see the doubts worming their way back to the forefront of his mind by the way his smile faltered, and you put Isabella into his capable hands.

“We’ve got this, Frankie. One day at a time.” You murmured to him before leaning down to coo at Isabella, grinning when she gave you a gummy smile. “Yeah, your daddy has you. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”

And as you looked at the matching pairs of chocolate eyes sparkling at you in the low light of the kitchen, you could feel in your gut that you were right.

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

After three weeks of staying at Frankie’s house nearly every night, the two of you had a schedule down packed and after two entire months, Frankie realized you were right. It sure as hell wasn’t easy - far from it, in fact - but everyone had stepped up just like you said. You would care for Isabella when Frankie was at work more often than not with Will and Pope picking up responsibility here and there where they could. The true savior here was you. You woke with Frankie in the morning, held his daughter up so he could kiss her forehead before he left for work, cared for her until he came home, and still stuck around to help after.

You were a fucking goddess, and Frankie knew he would be lost without you.

Each day that passed had Frankie’s anger dissipating just a bit more. With his focus solely on establishing a new normal for his daughter, there wasn’t really time for him to think about just how screwed over he got. He was fooling himself into thinking that the storm of emotions that thundered in his chest didn’t need to be handled. Logically, he knew that. The clouds would crack and it would all pour from him eventually, he just didn’t know when.

The boiling point hit on a Saturday. A beautiful day by all other standards; the sun was bright in the cloudless sky, leaving the air shimmering with warmth. The plan was to take a walk to the park with Isabella before meeting the guys for lunch, even though she wasn’t really big enough to enjoy the jungle gyms. In reality, Frankie just wanted to spend some time with his two favorite girls out in the sun. You had Isabella on the couch, getting her dressed after changing her diaper and rambling at her all the while.

Frankie loved the way you talked to his daughter, as if she was entirely invested in whatever mundane story from work you were recounting, taking her gurgles and the spit bubbles she blew as excited responses. The stack of mail in his hand momentarily forgotten, he leaned over the back of the couch with a small laugh.

“Ya know, I don’t think she understands the intricacies of office politics.” He teased, his grin growing when you tossed him a glare that had no heat behind it.

“And I don’t think she understands the intricacies of piloting helicopters, but you don’t hear me making fun of you when you ramble on about rotors at three in the morning.” You grumbled. The smile on your face betrayed any attempt to sound annoyed.

Frankie barked out a laugh. “Touche.”

With Isabella dressed and ready to rumble, Frankie intended to give the mail in his hands a once-over before heading out the door - until a large, yellow envelope with the state’s stamp inked in the corner caught his eye. What the hell did he do to have the state government contacting him? He racked his mind as he tore the envelope open, trying to think of any recent wrongdoings that could’ve gotten him into some legal mess. Maybe that red light last month actually caught his license plate last month. God, this was the last thing he needed right now with everything else he had going on, and -

The five words stamped across the top of the papers made his heart lurch in his chest. ‘Voluntary Relinquishment of Parental Rights’, right there in bold lettering. Eliza’s signature was scrawled at the bottom along with a notary’s. He expected sadness, even tears, but no.

No, Frankie was fucking enraged.

White hot anger surged, leaving his teeth gritted and the papers crumpled slightly in his clenched fist. It had been years since he felt that kind of rage, somehow even worse than the anger he felt during the absolute shitshow that was the mission in South America. A shuddered breath escaped from behind his teeth as he desperately tried to grasp the urge to throw the papers to the ground, along with anything else within his reach.

“Frankie?” The sound of your voice calling out to him sweetly, laced with concern and confusion, somehow only made that rage spike. The fact that you had put your entire life on hold to help him care for his child, the child Eliza swore up and down that she wanted with him before disappearing on them both, had him infuriated on your behalf as well as his own. Just how many lives was Eliza going to change forever with no remorse? Frankie tossed the entire pile of mail on the couch and stormed off to the kitchen, not wanting you or Isabella to see him in such a state.

He had no idea how long he stood braced against the kitchen counter with his eyes squeezed shut, desperately trying to find a way to tamp down on the intensity rolling through him. There was a quiet conversation coming from the living room, two voices too low for him to make out, and there was suddenly a hand on his own. Frankie finally opened his eyes to see you standing next to him, giving him a soft look that disarmed him and made him feel guilty all at once.

You shouldn’t have to be here. You shouldn’t have to deal with the bullshit that always seemed to follow Frankie around every fucking corner. You were too good for his troubles, you deserved better. Frankie hated that he had brought you down this hole with him.

“Where’s Isabella?” Frankie croaked out.

“I called Will, he’s got her in the living room.” You said, your voice just as soft as the expression on your face, and Frankie wanted nothing more than to bury his face in your neck and cry or smash something on the ground just for the satisfaction of seeing it break. The confliction of his wants only made him angrier. “I saw the papers. What do you need?”

“What do I need?” Frankie repeated with a humorless chuckle before hitting the countertop with a clenched fist, just hard enough to make pain shoot up his arm - and the dam broke. “Anything! Anything but a life where the mother of my child doesn’t abandon us at the drop of a fucking hat!”

The coffee mug that sat next to the coffeemaker was the unfortunate victim his impulses chose to meet the sudden, desperate need to get this rage out of his body. His arm reared back, ready to smash the ceramic mug right onto the tile, but the firm grab of two hands kept the lucky cup in one piece. You grabbed his forearm with one hand and wrapped the other over his, securing the mug in his grip as you stepped into his space and settled him with a firm look.

“No, not here. Not like this, not with Isabella so close by.” Shame lanced through Frankie viciously. You were right, as always. How fucking stupid was he to think - “Let’s go.”

“What?” was all he could mutter as you set down the mug and began pulling him towards the front door.

“You’ve got Isabella, right?” You asked Will when you paused to fish your keys from the table next to his door, only continuing in your march towards your car when Will confirmed. Frankie’s guilt-ridden confusion only grew as you pulled out of his driveway after ushering him into your passenger seat. “You need to deal with this in a healthy way. Because god knows you have every reason to be downright enraged. Hell, I even wanted to throw shit around for a while.”

Frankie could only stare at you, his anger and frustration simmering lower the more you spoke. There was a light in your eyes that he recognized, the same one that you had last year when he had to comfort you through the downfall and heartache of your last relationship. It was anger and sadness all wrapped up into an intense shine he recognized all too well.

“But we are going to do these the smart way.” You continued and met his eyes as you pulled up to idle at a red light. There was… something there beneath the empathy, something hovering at the edges of your expression that he just couldn’t place. “Because you are my best friend and I love you and your daughter way too much to let you destroy yourself.”

Heat flushed up his neck at the candidness of your words. Oh, god, he could not let that tiny, hopeful part of his brain latch onto that at run with it. No, it would reignite too many old feelings and needs to let himself hope. Of course you loved him and his child - you were his best friend after all. There was no point in letting himself even consider it beyond that. Not when he could destroy everything good he had left in his life.

Frankie just nodded, trusting in whatever you had in mind. Less than five minutes later, you pulled into the town’s recreational fields and it clicked in his brain. The batting cages. He smiled slightly despite his inner turmoil. This was exactly where he had taken you when you finally got over the shock of your ex-boyfriend’s betrayal and stepped right into an unfathomable rage.

He let you put the ridiculous helmet on his head and gratefully took the aluminum baseball bat from your hands once you got to the small fenced area where he could finally let out his anger. The quarters clinked as you slid them into the slot and you smiled at him from behind the fence.

“You might feel stupid at first, but it helps.” You called out over the whirring of the pitching machine powering up and Frankie laughed. He had told you the exact same thing, verbatim when you had complained that the whole idea was ridiculous.

The harsh crack of the bat meeting that first baseball was like taking a sledgehammer to the wall he had built around his anger. The next one had him grunting into the effort he put behind the swing of the bat, letting every bit of his rage and resentment sing in his veins and bleed into the impact against the ball. Each swing had him building up, had tension racking his back and shoulders only to be released with the ringing sound of aluminum and revived the moment his arms fell to his sides.

“I just...I can’t fucking comprehend it! First, she was so excited. Went on and on about having the whole thing. ” He called out through each swing, knowing you were there behind him, hanging off of the fence to watch and listen. “The house and the kids and the - the fucking white picket fence life. All of it! And then she wanted all of that, but not with me. No, she’d co-parent and find some other man to shack up with because apparently I wasn’t enough for her. Yeah, it hurt and all but at least she was still around! And out of nowhere, she just fucking left! It’s bullshit!”

The aluminum echoed harshly where Frankie threw it to the ground, his hands ripping his hat off to muse his hair roughly before settling back on his head. Every ball hit was like a point knocked off of his frustration. It wasn’t exactly fun, but it felt good.

“Another round?” You asked and Frankie turned to see you with more quarters poised and ready to send more baseballs flying at his head. He nodded, more grateful for you than ever in that moment.

“But at the same time, I am so glad she left when she did. It’s so conflicting because I’m pissed that she put us through that but at least it’s over!” Frankie continued, the pressure finally easing in his chest as he said the things that were building in his mind the last two months. “She jerked me around for so fucking long. At least I don’t have to worry that she’ll change her mind again. At least I can… move on, move forward in my life.”

He didn’t even have to ask you for another round when the last ball had been pitched. This time, he said nothing. Neither did you. Frankie just needed to vent, to be heard. He didn’t need advice or pity or words of encouragement. Well, the encouragement he would need later. The rest would just make him even more angry. Every crack of the bat meeting a ball had the anger receding and exhaustion creeping up to take its place. There was a special kind of relief in the absence of anger - it didn’t exactly feel good, but it wasn’t bad either. Almost numbing.

The bat clattered to the ground after the last ball was sent rocketing into the netting. Frankie was done, for now at least. It would come creeping back in, he knew, but he also knew he could handle it. He felt like he could handle anything with you by his side, with your support and… and your love. It was nice to be taken care of for once. You took the bat back to the office as he plopped himself down at a picnic table and a few moments later, a cool water bottle, dripping with condensation was pressed against the back of his neck. It was soothing against his skin, overheated by the harsh sun.

The two of you sat together at that table for nearly an hour, not having to speak to convey how either of you felt in that moment. Frankie was beyond grateful, and he could tell you were happy he was feeling better just by the way you rubbed a hand between his shoulder blades. He almost lamented at the loss of your touch when you pulled that hand away, only to have you settle it on his just like you did back in the kitchen.

You were always there, always managed to make him feel better. Even when his life was crumbling around him, there was solace to be found in you. In your words, your touch. You never made him feel ashamed when he exposed his sadness or his anger, never made him feel less than. It was impossible for that small flame not to flicker back to life deep in his heart. The spark of hope for the future, especially if you were in it.

“Thank you.” Frankie choked out, unable to express himself any more than that. It didn’t matter, he knew that. You knew how much this little foray into stress relief helped him.

“Always, Frankie.”

Later that night when all was quiet in his home, when the Miller brothers and Pope had left and Isabella was safely asleep in her crib, Frankie was still exhausted. The boys had come over instead of dragging him out to a restaurant and it was a blast, as always, but he couldn’t help the heavy way his shoulders were set for the rest of the day. He just wanted to sleep.

The last thing he expected was the tears. An overwhelming feeling of being entirely unwanted washed over him and he was too damn tired to fight it off, so he sat himself on the edge of the bed and cried. No matter how logical he was with himself, no matter how much he reminded himself that he was well loved despite Eliza, the feeling just would not shake.

Embarrassment layered on top of the sadness when you popped your head into his bedroom, hair still wet from the shower you just took. Frankie wiped the tears away with rough fingers as he turned away from you, giving an entirely fake laugh in a vain attempt to brush it off. He should’ve known better. You padded right up to him and gently cupped his cheek to guide him to look back up at you, and the understanding smile you gave him paired to the gentle brush of your thumb under his eye to wipe a stray tear away had his chin trembling against his will.

“C’mon,” You whispered. Frankie watched you clamber onto his bed through tear-blurred eyes and settle against his pillows, your arms open in an invitation for comfort that he took without a second thought. Frankie laid his head on your chest, wrapped one arm around your waist, and closed his eyes before he could talk himself out of it. This was dangerous ground, letting himself take comfort in you this way. You brushed your hand through his hair, sighing softly as you relaxed. “We’ve got this. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Frankie’s voice was slurred slightly with his sleepiness, the craziness of the day finally pulling him under. “Yeah, we do.”

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

At eight months old, Isabella was growing into a vibrant, happy little girl and you couldn’t be more proud. You hadn’t expected to play such a large role in her life, but now you couldn’t imagine doing anything else. According to her pediatrician, little Bella was as healthy as a horse and blossoming. ‘A textbook case of healthy development’ was what she had said at the last checkup, leaving you and Frankie to grin at each other. The first appointment after Eliza left was nerve racking with Frankie bouncing anxiously the entire time until Dr.Weston gave them the exact same response - Frankie’s daughter was right on track.

The relief on his face had broken your heart. How could that man ever think he wasn’t doing right by his little girl? You saw him with her every single day. You saw the way he babbled along with her while spooning baby food into her mouth. You watched him lie on his belly with her in the living room during tummy-time, trying to help her strengthen her neck. You woke up to him stripping the blankets off of the bed when she couldn’t fall asleep anywhere but his arms and wanted her in bed with you both. If there was anyone who could attest that Francisco Morales was an amazing father, it was you.

And you made sure to tell him that, as often as you could. It made the most delicious flush creep up his neck and paired with that bashful smile he tried to hide by pulling the brim of his hat further down, you could barely keep yourself from kissing him. Guilt ate you alive every single time you had those urges. Frankie was thriving after such an awful ordeal, and there you were, lusting after him like some over-excitable teenager.

It was impossible not to feel so... domestic in your current set up. You slept at Frankie’s so often that your own home felt almost foreign when you would show up for more clothes or to grab something for work. You worked from his kitchen table or couch, tapping away at your laptop as Isabella slept or played on her playmat in front of you. The instinct to refer to Frankie’s house as ‘home’ and the way you saw the three of you as a little family was new and something you had to nip in the bud right away.

That type of thinking would inevitably end in heartbreak when Frankie sent you on your way once he didn’t need as much help with Isabella. At least you knew it wouldn’t be anytime soon and could enjoy it while it lasted, especially since the home was currently plagued with a two word nightmare neither of you expected.

Sleep. Regression.

You sat in the glider with Isabella slumped against your chest, her cute little face pressed against your sternum as you rocked sleepily. Her eyelids fluttered every now and then, but there was yet to be a moment you could settle her into her bed. Frankie had tried before you, but even daddy’s arms weren’t good enough for the fussy baby. He was rooting around downstairs, searching for a little stuffed hippo that sometimes helped her calm down, but at that point, you were willing to just sleep right there in her nursery.

The door cracked open slowly and you peeked one eye open to see Frankie shake his head slightly as he walked in. You held back a sigh. That damned stuffed hippo was going to be the death of all three of you, apparently. Frankie made an urgent noise and your eyes flew open, your eyebrows pinching together in confusion. With a baby constantly on the verge of either falling asleep or waking up, the two of you learned to communicate without words, instead using pointed looks and hand gestures to get a point across.

Frankie gave a pointed look Isabella and you tilted your head down to get a good look at her, and good god you could barely believe your luck. A very long, drawn out transfer from your chest to her crib later, and you and Frankie were creeping out of the nursery, careful to avoid the creaky sections of the hallway. The second the door was closed, you held up a hand for a quiet high five with the goofiest grin on your face, and Frankie obliged with a chuckle.

You practically threw yourself onto the bed you were starting to consider your own, yet another dangerous road, you knew that much. The stubbornness both you and Frankie held strong to had neither of you willing to let the other take the couch, insisting that ‘no, you need good sleep.’ and ‘well, you do, too!’. Each night you spent curled up next to him and waking up a hairsbreadth from each other had you positively yearning.

It was nearly three in the morning and both of you had work in a few hours. The idea filled you with dread, and that was how you found yourself whispering to Frankie that you were calling out because ‘exhaustion is the best reason to use a sick day’. He cracked up at your antics as he crawled in next to you, but the look he gave you once he was settled in… it made your heart flutter in your chest. It was an exhausted, relieved, and grateful expression all rolled into one and in that moment, you felt like you could look at him forever.

You didn’t get the chance to. Frankie slid his arm under your shoulders and pulled you against him. It was too familiar of an embrace for you to shy away, even though you knew you should. You should’ve stayed on your side of the bed with plenty of space between you if you wanted to avoid heartbreak, but instead, you snuggled close to him and set your head right on his chest. You could let yourself indulge in the fantasy that he was yours for just a bit longer, especially if it meant getting this unforgettable experience of curling up with the man you adored.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulled you closer to the abyss of sleep, until his chest rumbled as he spoke, making you blink up at him.

“Thank you, cariño.” Frankie settled his hand against your head, playing gently with your hair.

“Always, Frankie.” You whispered back, a smile on your face even as you slipped into the most peaceful rest you had in years.

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

The house was full of people. For the first time in months, Frankie threw a cookout. It was something you had missed dearly, inviting everyone over for food and beers and a bonfire if the mood was right. Isabella was beyond happy to see everyone she loved all at once, the nine month old squealing with delight at each person who scooped her up from her bouncer. You watched carefully, always ready to swoop in if needed while Frankie ran in and out of the house between the kitchen, grill, and living room.

You had been worried it might be too much for him, the pressure of so much socializing after such a hard time, but he was all grins and twinkling eyes as he ran about. It warmed your heart to see that happiness radiating off of him. God, had you missed it. Things were finally looking up and it felt as if you had let go of a breath that was held in for far too long.

Almost everyone was out in the backyard, soaking up the last of summer before fall got her chilly grip on the world, with you and a few others inside chatting. Isabella had just woken up and boy was she ready to go. Those chubby little legs flailed as you wrestled her into a clean diaper and back into her pretty pink dress. You leaned back with a small laugh once she was finally dressed, letting her have the free reign to roll over onto her belly.

You glanced up at Will where he sat on the couch a few feet away taking a break from all the chitchat, and he grinned at you, muttering something about her being just like her father. You couldn’t agree more. You went to pick her up and carry her outside where she could get some sun and squeal at more guests, but your hand met the carpet instead. Isabella grinned at you less than a foot away, propped up on all fours as she scrambled away so quickly you worried she would get rug burn before you realized - holy shit, she’s crawling.

“Go get Frankie!” You said to Will, who was staring at Isabella with a proud grin. He jumped to his feet, ever the good soldier taking commands, and you scooped the giggling little girl into your arms. “Look at you go! Oh, I’m so proud of you, sweet girl!”

A frazzled Frankie skidded around the corner out of nowhere, half of the crowd piling in behind him in worry, and internally you cursed Will for not informing him that nothing was wrong. Before Frankie could even ask, you motioned for him to sit down a few feet from you and he listened despite the deeply confused look he wore.

“Are you gonna show daddy your new trick, Bella? Huh? Go on,” You cooed as you set her back down on her hands and knees, and she took off like a bat outta hell, scrambling for her father, who watched with wide eyes. Frankie broke off into a loud laugh and picked her up to cradle her against his chest, his eyes bright with unshed, happy tears as the crowd of friends and family let out whoops and claps.

“Oh my god!” Frankie laughed wetly, shuffling forward on his knees to pull you in for a hug with his little girl in between you. Your cheeks hurt with the huge smile you wore as you wrapped your arms around him. The way he looked at you tore through your chest with the most pleasurable kind of pain and the urge to kiss him would have been undeniable if not for the friends that surrounded you. So you cleared your throat and leaned back, pushing his bicep gently.

“You better get back to that grill before everyone in here starves to death.” You tease and leave it at that, gathering Isabella in your arms to take her outside. What you didn’t see was Pope grabbing Frankie and dragging him up the stairs before he could make it outside along with you. You flounced about the backyard, the hem of your sundress fluttering at your knees as you let everyone get a chance to coo at the happy girl in your arms.

Everyone was so happy, all smiles and laughs as they caught up with each other about the various going-ons of their lives, and you wanted to capture it so you could look back on the happy memories.

“Hey, I left my phone upstairs. Do you mind if I leave her with you? I should be right back.” You asked Pope’s girlfriend, Jessa, who eagerly accepted the baby time.

You climbed the stairs easily, humming some silly tune as you pushed open Frankie’s door. With your phone fully charged, you popped it off of the charger and sat on the edge of the bed to check your notifications. There were few messages here and there, mostly from people letting you know they were on their way a few hours ago, so you were content to make your way back outside with the sound of voices caught your attention. It was a low, metallic sounding conversation, but the TV was off, leaving only…

On the screen of the baby monitor were Frankie and Pope, both of them standing with their arms crossed tightly over their chests. If you didn’t know better you would have been worried they were about to fight with the way they glared at each other, but whatever it was wasn’t any of your business. You were going to leave but the sound of your name made you pause. Eavesdropping is wrong, you reminded yourself, even if you were painfully curious, and you made for the door once more until you heard Pope said, “You have to tell her, Fish!” and you froze entirely.

“That woman loves you! She loves your little girl. You’re going to lose out on a good thing if you keep going like this, man!” Pope hissed and for a second, all you could hear was your own heartbeat. He couldn’t mean what you hoped he meant… right?

“I can’t! Isabella is already down one parent, and that… that amazing woman stepped in and saved us both. What kind of a father would I be if I risked my daughter losing a good woman? And for what? Because I'm in love? Absolutely not.” Frankie said in a tone you had never heard from him before. It was harsh, ringing with finality, and it absolutely tore your heart in two.

But the halves of your heart were made whole by the single sentence, ‘Because I’m in love’. Frankie loved you. He said it. You heard it with your own two ears and suddenly those fears of yours felt absolutely ridiculous. That man and his daughter was your family, no two ways about it. And you couldn’t let him go on thinking that you didn’t love your little family more than anything in the world.

So you snuck back downstairs, your heart flying in your chest as you rejoined the little party and tried to act as normally as possible. In reality, you were paying more attention to the back door than anyone who tried to talk to you, giving little ‘mhmm’s instead of answering the questions anyone asked you.

Yeah, you could be entirely oblivious sometimes.

The second Pope and Frankie emerged from the back door you were on the move, excusing yourself from the conversation you hadn’t really been a part of anyway. The confused look Frankie gave you when you asked to talk to him inside was being adorable, his eyebrows scrunched together and head tilted to the side just slightly. He followed you in nonetheless, leaning against the kitchen counter as he popped open a sweating beer. Before he can even ask what’s going on, you step into his space and put your hands on his chest gently, watching as his confusion melts into surprise.

“You are never going to lose me.” You whisper. “Neither of you.”

A blush bloomed up his neck and over his cheeks. “You...you heard that?”

“Didn’t mean to, scouts honor.” You smiled at him, trying to imbue him with the ease and absolute happiness you felt. “The baby monitor was on.”

“Oh.”

You can’t help but chuckle at the simple response and press up on your tiptoes, your hands sliding up to drape over his shoulders so you could play with the curls at the nape of his neck. The breathy sound that escaped Frankie’s chest had your need mounting, desperate to feel his lips on yours, and you lean forward to brush your nose along his. “Say it, Frankie.”

“I love you.” He said it immediately, whispered it into you with a grin so bright it lit up the room with his happiness. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” You barely get it out before he leans forward to kiss you, soft and desperate and happy, all at once. Frankie’s hands fell to your hips and pulled your body flush against his, and it made you to grin against his lips.

You were giddy. That was the only way to describe the excitement that left you almost vibrating with energy as you melted against Frankie’s chest. His lips were sweet, touched by the strawberries and grapes he snacked on as he grilled.

“You love me, huh?” He muttered and pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed with a goofy smile that made your heart lurch in your chest.

“Always, Frankie.”

#frankie morales x reader #frankie 'catfish' morales x reader #frankie 'catfish' morales #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x y/n #frankie morales x you #frankie 'catfish' morales x y/n #frankie 'catfish' morales x you #francisco morales #Triple Frontier #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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narrans · 4 years

Text

A Tall and Small Collection | Soren | Mission Prep

They ate lunch in relative silence while they reflected on their training. Soren could think of a million things his brothers still needed to learn. So far, they focused on physical training. They had learned how to climb a rope, albeit not very quickly, and had learned the essentials about tool maintenance.

Soren showed them the different tools such as the braided thread on his belt and the fishhook his own father had given him. He showed them how to braid the rope so it wouldn’t hurt their hands and how to climb using their legs instead of their arms. Soren, on their rest days, had also let them sew their own borrowing bag.

It had only been a month since their training began, but Soren felt confident they had what it took to go out with him on a very simple run.

Soren didn’t want to take them to the older human woman’s apartment. The cat was on the prowl and this mission should be set up for success. The apartment with the arguing humans wouldn’t do either. Their schedules had become more sporadic and Soren heard other humans in the apartment just two night ago. He didn’t know who they were and didn’t know if they left. The apartment they were training in was empty, leaving only one option.

Before, two apartments were available. Now, only one stood vacant. A new human, a young man probably around Soren’s age, had just moved into the apartment near the older woman. His apartment was a disaster at best, which meant there were plenty of boxes to hide around and a plethora of knick-knacks to borrow. It seemed like he was out most of the time and was asleep during the day.

Soren wanted to double check, but he was certain that tonight around dusk when the human left for work. Soren was finally prepared mentally on how he would address his proposal. “I know you’re tired after today, but,” Soren paused to catch their expressions before continuing. Their eyes gleamed with curiosity and weariness. “What do you think about going on your first borrowing trip tonight?” Dorian’s face brightened instantly, his wide, toothy grin spreading from ear to ear. Rey seemed nervous but determined.

“You mean it?” They asked in unison, their tones differing slightly.

“If you feel up to it,” replied Soren. “It won’t be anything too crazy. We’ll take a look and see if there are any odds and ends we need like needles, pins, and nails. If we have time, maybe we can see the kitchen.”

“No way! Our first borrowing trip!” Dorian was beside himself, leaping to his feet and nearly tipping over Rey’s water cap. The sight brought a thoughtful chuckle out of Soren.

“Easy now. I’m going to check out the area first to make sure tonight is a good night. In the meantime, finish your food and lay down to rest. We won’t be able to do anything until later, which means you need some sleep,” reminded Soren. “I’m going to go ahead and check it out. Get some sleep.”

Soren stood and gathered his things. He checked his belongings: hook, thread, tape, pin, mouse cover, bandage cloth. He was just on his way out when Brady came out from around the corner. He was carrying an empty borrowing bag, which wasn’t much of a surprise. Brady tore off a piece of bread and sat nearby. Soren didn’t bother asking where Brady had gone off to; he never answered anyway.

Soren jogged down the passages, listening carefully to the walls. It was afternoon in the human world, meaning the apartments they lived in between were still occupied. The older human was watching her shows. The angry couple was unpredictable, but the woman was usually in the apartment every third day. Thankfully, everything was quiet; almost eerily so.

The dust between the halls clung to the electrical cords and rested against the wooden baseboards. Soren’s eyes adjusted to the minimal light available as he wound his way to the newly occupied apartment. He passed up one passage, then the next. There was a sharp turn where he had to squeeze through two narrow boards to reach the next apartment. The latch he set in place on the ground wall socket was just ahead.

He breathed in deeply and sensed nothing. No sounds of the television. No rumbling footsteps. No pets. No human. Soren pulled the latch free and cracked it slightly, slipping out and crouching. This outlet, unlike others, came out next to the refrigerator. He closed his exit just enough so the human wouldn’t notice at first glance before crouching and inspecting under the fridge.

It was a disaster. There were dust clumps and a few slick spots which were haphazardly wiped clean. Soren kept his side close to the human utility while crouching. The edge of the counter was just in sight. His heart pounded in his chest, but he managed to steady his breathing to keep his head clear. Soren got down on all fours, mouse hood pulled up, and looked out into the kitchen.

The tile under the fridge was just as untidy as the floor in the main rooms. Evidently, this human was not very clean which could work in one of two ways. One being the human didn’t notice anything missing or askew. The complete opposite was possible. Sometimes humans organized their mess in different ways and were very aware when something minor changed. If Soren was correct, they would be safe for the time being.

He spun around the corner to the lip under the floor cabinets and ran in the shadows until he could look into the main room. It was then that his heart stopped. He felt his breath hitch and limbs grow extremely heavy and yet nonexistent at the same time.

There was the human. From where he was crouched, Soren could see the human was sprawled out to their full height on what the humans called a couch. It seemed like the human was asleep, but Soren didn’t want to leave anything to chance. He felt his limbs shaking, both in a sudden shock and in anticipation. Every nerve waited for his command.

He would check later and see if the human was still there. If they didn’t wake up and leave, there was no way he would take his brothers borrowing tonight. Soren turned on his heel and began to make his way back when he heard the shrill beeping of an alarm. Instinctually, he turned to see the human stir, lazily reaching a gargantuan arm toward a phone which rested on the ground a few feet away. Soren couldn’t waist any time. Heart pounding in his chest, he kept to the shadows and sprinted back for the electrical cover behind the fridge. The sound of heavy-set footsteps began to shake the ground, but not before Soren skidded around the corner to safety.

Soren closed the cover behind him and breathed a sigh of relief. The human was awake now but would be getting ready to leave shortly. The timing was going to work well. He made his way back to the camp to find his brothers fast asleep in their beds, their borrowing bags clutched in their hands. Soren couldn’t help but think about how small his brothers looked in that moment; how young and unspoiled they were about the troubles of borrowing. Rey reached up and rubbed his face, yawning in his sleep, before curling into a tighter ball on top of his blankets.

Soren sighed. [We could postpone until tomorrow. Dorian would be disappointed, but they worked really hard today.] He stepped over to his bed, pulled off his top blanket, and draped it over the sleeping forms of his brothers. Stifling his own yawn, he took off his borrowing bag and the mouse pelt from his shoulders before sitting on his bed. [Perhaps resting my eyes for a moment wouldn’t be the worst thing.] Soren thought to himself as he stretched onto his bed and sank into a peaceful sleep.

Continue

Beginning

#borrower #g/t #gianttiny #giant tiny #tinyhuman #giant world #captured #prepare #brothers #training #be prepared #humans are scary #capture #injured #medical #live for you #living on the edge #original #homebrew

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driftwoodskeleton · 3 years

Note

Fish, plain, fruit :)

Fish: i always assumed my vibe was more 'unmitigated disaster' so it's nice to be assigned otherwise. I actually do need to rearrange my room, but I need new furniture first lmao. I'm staunchly ignoring my thirst because I don't know where my new juice thing is, but you're right I need to drink something :')

Plain: since learning what cores are, yeah, cottagecore rules and I wish I was that cute and soft. Ahh to make jam from fruit I grew and ink from flower petals in a little country cottage surrounded by meadow and drystone walls. Excuse me while I daydream a while ^-^. I'm pretty ANNOYING, yeehaw! But seriously, I wouldn't class myself as anything above unattractive to plain appearance wise. I didn’t used to be kind, because people weren't kind to me, but I decided I didn't want to be like that anymore.

Fruit: Nope, not okay :') doing better than I have been though. Besides the sleep schedule being nonexistent and the problems with regular meals and drinking enough, I'm doing better at taking care of me the person! <3

🌸Thank you!🌸

#thank you for the ask!!#captastra #ask the op #vibe check asks #answered ask #i look like a boglin #only half joking #questionable clarity

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bee-a-lover · 4 years

Note

bellarke

Bellarke! My loves.

Bellamy totally spoils Clarke with breakfast in bed, like, every week. She would do the same for him except she’s a complete disaster in the kitchen. Bellamy’s not a Murphy-level chef, but he’s good at making homey comfort foods

Bellamy has an intense sleep schedule- up with the sun, starts getting tired around 9 pm and is in bed by 10. Clarke often gets caught up with work or an art project and loses track of time, and will end up going to bed at 4 am unless Bellamy reminds her. She either wakes up with the sunrise or at noon; her body clock is nonexistent

Clarke’s the little spoon, I don’t make the rules. She deserves a good cuddle

And there is so much cuddling

They’re both lowkey, sweet PDA people. A kiss on the cheek or peck on he lips for hello/goodbye, leaning into each other when they sit together (unlike Murphy and Emori who are constantly on the verge of ripping each other’s clothes off in public)

Clarke is very into interior decor, and she paints murals on the walls of their home

They don’t get married in a traditional sense because that isn’t rly a thing anymore in their post-apocalyptic universe, but they do have a ceremony celebrating their love with their friends that resembles a wedding because it was a tradition in Madi’s klan and she insisted

They have a daughter together, Madi’s little sister

They are happy and at peace, living on Earth with the people they care about

#the 100 #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #what canon?#bellarke

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zootvootskidoot · 5 years

Text

Bruce Banner is Autistic

(Note: these are just some of my personal headcanons. I might add more later, but I’m not sure.)

I personally don’t have any headcanons about how/when Bruce was diagnosed, but he probably went a long time without having a word to describe always feeling confused and out of place.

It cannot be stressed enough how much Bruce loved Star Trek when he was a kid. Seeing Mr. Spock, someone like him, being loved and accepted was like a religious experience for him. After Brian’s death, he largely left the crew of the Enterprise buried under unpleasant memories. It wasn’t until years later when he first saw The Next Generation that his enthusiasm for the franchise was reignited, specifically Data.

He stims mostly by rocking on his feet because it doesn’t tend to draw attention. Eye contact is already hard, and he hates the feeling of eyes on him.

He has a collection of different fidget pens.

No matter how warm it is, he sleeps with a weighted blanket. It’s purple.

He’ll use echolalia very sparingly and subtly. When he gets especially excited he’ll start repeating himself and gesturing with his hands.

Bruce has a number of special interests. Math is a big one, and by extension, physics. Human biology and anatomy are definitely up there. Biochemistry, electromagnetism, Disney, first aid, and more recently, Norse mythology.

Despite having a lot of sensitivities, he can’t eat anything that tastes bland. Spicy is good, so is sweet. He’ll eat sour foods but doesn’t like the way they make his tongue feel.

He sticks to his routine religiously. He’s awake at 5:30, out of bed by 5:45, and he’s finished his morning yoga by 6:15. Then it’s samefoods for breakfast, getting washed (showers on alternating days) and dressed, and going over his to-do list for the day. He’ll usually nap for two hours after lunch, then it’s back to whatever tasks he needs to complete with scheduled ten minute breaks. Dinner is at 6:40, then he washes up and puts away the dishes before changing for bed. From 7 to 8 is his evening yoga/meditation block, and the next hour is spent doing a relaxing activity before going to bed at 9:30.

Tony, or anyone else for that matter, pops in at almost any time, but Bruce’s sleeping hours are strictly off limits. Interrupting his sleep is setting the day up to be a disaster.

Of course, it can’t always be helped.

Bruce already isn’t too talkative. He’s semiverbal on Bad Days. When talking is too much, he’ll usually communicate via a tablet Tony made special for him, though he’s fluent in ASL.

Just because he can’t talk, doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be with the people he loves. Thor will talk to him, or sit and watch movies. Tony works and processes better when he talks things through, and is more than happy to fill both sides of the conversation. He’ll do it with his AI too, but Bruce understands he likes a physical presence once and a while.

Speaking of Tony, ADHD billionaire geniuses make pretty good friends. When he moves into the tower, he has a residential floor all to himself. Of course, he doesn’t need all the space, so Tony took the liberty of building Bruce a personal multipurpose lab. There’s also a Hulk-proof containment room in case The Big Guy takes the reigns.

Bruce is one of the very few people allowed in Tony’s workshop.

(I’ve been going back and forth on this one because I don’t want to perpetuate the “violent autistic” stereotype but) I really like the Hulk as a metaphor for meltdowns!!!

Hulk is 100% autistic too. He’s his own living, thinking, feeling creature.

He can’t talk a lot, and will often use the same words/phrases. He knows a lot more, but understimulation is a big barrier. A virtually nonexistent ability to multitask doesn’t help. When he can’t communicate what he needs to, Thor is one of the very few people who can understand him.

Very very very tactile stims. Lots of body stims too.

He’s incredibly protective of Bruce. Same goes for the people he feels safe with, and the people Bruce is friends with, though he does have a few reservations about some of them and doesn’t let his guard down when they’re around.

The two communicate fairly often. It’s not as much through words as impulse and emotion. The rush of happy/safe/warm Bruce gets when he sees Thor isn’t just his own.

Hulk feels when Bruce is afraid or anxious. He doesn’t like when Bruce feels that way. Bruce will tell him when he doesn’t have to take over, but sometimes scientists are stupid and don’t know when they need help.

That’s all I’ve got for now. Hope you enjoyed :)

#mcu #autistic headcanon #autistic bruce banner #wills headcanons #bruce banner #hulk #thorbruce #will rambles #will writes #long post #actually autistic

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anonthenullifier · 5 years

Text

A Promise Broken with a Vow - Chapter 1

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Sequel to An Auspice of Scarlet

Overall Summary: Three months after leaving New York and the lives they knew, a series of events leads Vision to decide it is finally time to break his promise to Tony and make a new one with Wanda.

Chapter 1 Link

Dear Mr. Stark,

As I write to you, we are approaching the beginning of our third month. Due to the unexpected delays, which I have dutifully outlined in my prior letters, we are currently traversing through Iowa instead of being well into Nebraska. I worry each day what else will go wrong and how detrimental it will be to our timeline. A week ago we discovered the Lyons-Council Bluff lineA, so heavily touted by the inhabitants of the prairie towns, does not actually exist yet. The stakes have been laid to mark its path, but going forward it appears as if the railroad is no longer a viable transport method. A thought that, for a time, was unfathomable. We rested for two days in Iowa City, long enough to map out a plan, purchase extra horses to haul the railcar over the rougher terrain, and I was able to find enough materials to reinforce the wheels so that we will not repeat the crisis in Springfield when the tracks uprooted.

The line of the d juts up with a violent shake of the car, no doubt due to a rock in the ground. Vision instinctively glances down towards Wanda, whose slumber is somehow unperturbed by the latest turbulence. He does, very gently, inch her head back up his thigh and tilt her shoulder several degrees so she does not roll off the seat when this inevitably happens again. Next he looks to Helen, who shares a commiserate, exasperated head shake, Amadeus’ driving skills are the least refined of the four of them, but the nonstop nature of their schedule means he still is in the rotation, even if he discovers more bumps in the road than is statistically likely to happen by chance.

Vision returns to his letter, frowning at the assault of jagged ink on his otherwise pristine words (truthfully any writing in a moving vehicle is less than pristine, but he has become admirably skilled at it over the months). The intention is to spend up to two nights in Council Bluffs for planning the next leg of their journey and a reprieve from sleeping on the ground or in these seats, and also, fortuitously, a chance for him to rewrite his letter in a stationary setting. For now he keeps going, never sure how much depth to give or even if the letters ever make it to Tony.

For a time we did discuss rerouting to the south and taking the path through Nicaragua that Dr. Cho and Mr. Cho

He pauses, wracking his memory on whether or not he has shared with Tony the surprising truth of the familial connection between Helen and her traveling companion. Of course he may never have mentioned it because, according to etiquette, gossip such as that is not meant to be shared via ink and parchment, even if Helen would not mind. Perhaps it is best to remain socially adroit despite the lack of refinement around them. Principles do matter regardless of environment.

traversed to get to the Exhibition. Yet the seaward path is, as Dr. Cho so eloquently phrased it, months of being embraced by soggy air. An environment we all concurred was not ideal in my present state. Thus

Now his s squiggles along, lurching across the paper in time with the inertia that shoves their bodies to the left (his free hand holds Wanda’s shoulder to keep her steady), while Amadeus curses loudly and the horses release aggrieved whinnies. “Amadeus,” Helen has slid her window open and is hanging half out of it as she speaks with their driver in JoseonB. Even if the words are incomprehensible to him (if Wanda was awake she would help translate some of it, having shown an astounding predilection towards language acquisition), the tone is unmistakably reproachful.

In his lap, Wanda begins to stir. Immediately he runs his hand gently along her temple, easing her back into a steady sleep.

“Apparently,” Helen returns to her seat, tugging her boots on over the hems of her trousers, “we’re stuck in mud.”

An aggravatingly common experience since losing the rails. Vision nods at the information before delicately cupping Wanda’s head, even more delicately lifting it, and then he slides out of the seat, grabs his coat from the bench across from them, and bunches it under Wanda’s ear. He waits six seconds, the average time it takes for Wanda to rouse if he fails at a seamless transfer. At seven seconds she is still blissfully and beautifully at peace.

Vision pulls on his own boots, a shoe choice that was rare at the manor but has become the sole option in the unkempt wilderness where puddles are hidden by tall, swaying grass and unassuming, even idyllic scenes, are frequently rife with moist unpleasantness. It is, per usual, the smartest choice, the squelch of leather sinking into mud greeting him as soon as he steps out of the train car.

“He says he didn’t see it.” The it that Amadeus-by-way-of-Helen is referring to is a sizable sinkhole that appears to be devouring the left rear wheel. It is likely a truthful claim, the knee high grass of the area a perfect screen for most disasters.

Vision walks around the vehicle, eyeing the various junctions where their car interacts with the ground. When he reaches the offending wheel, he squats down, steadying himself with the handhold affixed to the side of the car and ignoring the unhappy grind of the steel fasteners in his joints.

The wheel is stuck, as they already knew. A few careful and serious tugs confirms that it is very stuck, the mud forming a viscous vacuum around the wood where every application of shear stress seems to increase the overall viscosity. Scientifically fascinating albeit disheartening. Back near Wheeling, after a surprise deluge, they were able to apply friction to escape. That, however, is unlikely to work now given how deep the wheel has already sunk, and how it keeps settling in with each pull of the horses. Vision stands, allowing the wince at the sharp pain in his hip to happen freely since no one else is next to him.

At least he thought he was alone. “You said it wasn’t bothering you.” Vision does his best not to flinch at the comment, both from surprise and shame, and turns to face the accusation, finding Helen’s arms crossed and face serious.

Bothering is subjective. Every day, every hour, every minute, his body bothers him, stuck in a continuous fight against the unnatural exoskeleton riveted into his bones. There is never a moment where it is not bothersome, but sometimes it is less so, like when he’s deep in conversation with Wanda, all of his attention on her words and the way she forms each syllable and the small touches of her fingers to his hand when making an important or jocular point. Or when he’s working, the singular joy of butlering meant his day was scheduled down to the millisecond with menial tasks to keep his body and mind busy. When distracted, he can pretend, for a brief time, his discomfort is nonexistent, that he is just a normal man. What Helen is trying to imply is that his hip has gone beyond the typical level of bothering into something more worrisome. A fair and not wholly incorrect conclusion. “I believe the way I was seated today has aggravated it.” He knows it is a weak response, as does Helen’s increasingly dour glare.

“When we get to the town, we’re doing a full check.” The understood? is silently implied, which means he provides an equally wordless affirming nod. “Good. Now what do we do about this?”

He shifts his mind back to the wheel. Friction is out. If they had an acceptable item to use as a lever, it could work, but nothing they have on the train, at least without dismantling the vehicle, is sturdy enough or long enough to apply the necessary force needed. If they were not already so far behind in their schedule (at least two weeks, by his calculations), Vision could piece together some sort of gear based lift, or a simple hydraulic process, no more complicated than what he constructed in his youth. Yet it would require dismantling and then remantling the inner workings of the car, a far too timely process. “We could attempt to utilize vector forces?”

“That could work.”

Her quick agreement creates a momentary comfort at the potential success through empiricism. What they need now is a rope and an anchor point far enough in front of the vehicle to provide sufficient resistance for the application of a perpendicular force. Unfortunately the only thing around them is a vast expanse of swaying grass leading to a horizon of small hills and even more lowly vegetation. “I am not certain we have anything sturdy enough to utilize as an anchor.”

Helen accepts this the way she does any hurdle to scientific advancement, with a shrug and an increased concentration on finding an alternative solution. “I’ll go check the car for anything we could use, we might still have spikes.”

“Thank you.”

While Helen is in the railcar, Vision walks a line from the front of the car, careful not to aggravate the already on edge horses that are now released from their harness and grazing happily. Each muddy boot lands with the heel just kissing the toe of his other foot until he is roughly sixteen feet away. He turns back towards the conundrum of the day, mouth falling as his mind works through the calculations, which is a difficult matter given he does not have enough data. What will be their anchor? How much tension exists in their rope? He cannot even recall how long their rope is, although he is certain it is likely not long enough to reach him here, an unfortunate thought given he is not sure even this distance is enough to help produce the necessary Newtons to remove the wheel from the mud. Even if it did work, they need a sufficient perpendicular force. The horses are the strongest, but also the least reliable, especially now that Amadeus is letting them enjoy a bit of downtime and they tend to get obstinate when it is time to move again.

All of this is wrong anyway, he should be assessing this from the end closest to the wheel. So Vision walks back, this time with his usual gait, no longer needing to measure the distance. It’s as he moves towards the back of the railcar that a voice surprises him, “Try to stay optimistic, Vizh.”

“Wanda, I-” the tilt of her lips matches the lightness of her admonishment, his worry lessening slightly. “I hope we did not wake you.”

The pressure of Wanda’s hand running along the edge of his spinal plate immediately calms his mind, a power he still doesn’t fully comprehend but appreciates nonetheless. “Helen woke me up, said you needed some help.”

A correct assessment. “Yes.” Her hand moves along an ovoid path, soothing away the displeasure in his voice until it falls somewhere around incredulity. “I am simply astounded and mortified at the sheer number of vehicular issues we have encountered and we still have all that,” Wanda follows his voice before he even raises a hand towards the neverending sea of prairie ahead of them, “and more to traverse until…”

“We’ll be fine.” Wanda flashes him a smile imbued with surety, one that sends a jagged jolt along the metal pathways of his body, her confidence growing exponentially since they waved farewell to Tony, this woman remarkably and gloriously at home in their current state of survivalism and independence. “You have me.”

The press of her lips to his cheek renders his mind and body still, enraptured at the sway of her hips, which is made all the more prominent by her adopting the rational dressC standard set by Helen. Vision’s eyes follow as she circles the railcar, hands dancing back and forth in front of her waist, testing the strength of the predicament. Once satisfied, Wanda steps several feet back, heels spread to just past the width of her shoulders, her left foot in front of her right, and then her arms weave a spell through the air, the scarlet energy shimmering, sending prismatic waves along her skin and braided hair. There is never any doubt in his mind nor heart at how much he loves her, but he is always amazed at how much more he loves her every day, particularly when he can witness her in such a free and powerful state.

Creaking emanates from the wheels as they’re loosened from the mud, rising up into the air with a bend of her knees and deep concentration dragging her features down into a scowl. It is awe inspiring to witness this, and yet, it isn’t even her most impressive feat. Around La Fayette a bridge over the Wabash had washed away and Wanda, single-handedly, was able to get them across. Truthfully, if not for Wanda and her abilities they likely would never stand any chance of reaching their goal.

The car settles onto dry land and Wanda wipes her hands, turning towards him with a prideful arc on her mouth. His body responds immediately and instinctively, all else fleeing from his mind except her. Eight steps and his arms can wrap around her waist, pulling her towards him, the laugh eeking out of her mouth echoing inside of his as he kisses her. “You,” he pulls back to look at her, amused and fascinated by the dissipating red in her irises, “are extraordinary.”

“Are you,” the walk of her fingers up his chest matches the feisty pace of her words, “trying to woo me?”

He strives to make his, “Always,” forthright while mirroring her tone. “Have I been successful—”

“We’re losing light.” Helen’s sensible interruption shatters the moment and Wanda ends their physical connection with a sly wink that leaves him a bit shallow breathed. “Do you think we’ll actually make it before sundown?”

It’s a fair question, the sun inching ever closer to the horizon. Night travel in their current railroadless condition is far too dangerous, the last broken axle they experienced delayed them four days. If, however, they were within an hour of the town, he could easily argue the benefits of pushing onward. “Well,” Vision removes his once pristine map from the pocket of his trousers, bothered a bit at the frayed edges and the way the ink is starting to crack where the creases are located. He bends his index finger so that he can use the distance between his knuckles to measure out their trajectory, “Perhaps four miles.”

“Assuming we keep our normal pace, we should get in not long after dusk.”

Wanda’s cheery, “That’s not bad,” counters the dolefulness of Helen’s calculations. “Vizh you said there was a hotel?”

“Um,” his hand dives into the pocket sewn inside the breast of his waistcoat, removing the city guide he bought for a cent in Iowa City. The legend at the bottom is numerically organized while the map is numbered in a haphazard fashion, an aggravating design decision, but eventually he finds the answer. “There are two.”

Wanda squeezes his bicep in gratitude for the information. “Two hotels which means a better chance at separate rooms,” this garners Vision’s attention, the switch from living in a spacious manor with only one other person to a cramped railcar has been trying, at times, “and a bathhouse,” now Helen seems interested though not convinced. Wanda adds, “I’ll drive,” as one last push for them to continue.

Comfort, though truly wonderful, isn’t, to Vision at least, a worthy opponent to remove the preventative logic of making camp for the night and avoiding another broken part, even if he desperately wants to sleep in a bed instead of the benches in the car. “I believe—“

“As long as you drive, I think we try it.” Helen provides her opinion and Vision shutters his own, willing to trust them in this risk.

The trust is earned tenfold, a hundredfold really, as Vision sits in a warm, dry, moderately cushy room at the City Hotel, able to stretch his legs and sit at a desk that does not jolt and vibrate. Wanda even managed to negotiate with the proprietor a stable stall for the horses (even if their railcar is across town near the wagon trains), aid in carrying their belongings to the rooms, and a reduction in the rate from one dollar to seventy five cents a night on the basis that they were renting two rooms and the competitor two doors down (the not nearly as cushy Robinson HotelD) charges fifty cents a night. Vision would never have had the tenacity to push for the accommodations, always believing that prices and terms are a balanced decision between fairness to the customer and the economic needs of the business. Wanda insists this increases the likelihood of him being swindled, which may be true, hence why she accompanies him anytime they need to procure a larger purchase. Even if she haggles further than he is often comfortable, he might be willing to tentatively accept some of her methods as more useful than his own.

There is a knock at the door and Vision gathers a handful of coins before he answers, pleased and appreciative of the ill-polished silver cloches filling a tray in the server’s hand. “Thank you.” He grabs the tray from the man, the waft of minced venison pies forcing him to feel his hunger more acutely, and then offers the service tip, something he knows is not common outside the upper most echelon of society, and even there it is normally a bribe, but he has always viewed it as a chance to show true gratitude and so he refuses to eschew the custom, even now that they are far removed from Mr. Stark’s lifestyle.

The man, who might only be a year or two younger than Vision, stares agape at the money. He provides an overzealous, “Have a good night, sir,” and scurries away, seemingly fearful Vision will reconsider the payment.

Vision places the tray on the oaken desk, focusing less on the generous tip and more so on the word Sir. It’s one Vision hasn’t really utilized more than a handful of times since leaving New York, having transitioned from the individual for whom Sir must always be on the tip of his tongue to the eponymous Sir. It is an odd feeling, one he hasn’t really accepted with the transition from butler to refined traveler. It doesn’t help that the standing mirror reflects back at him the butler, with a tad more mud speckling the fabric around his knees and the shirt a less brilliant white, all of it with more wrinkles than he prefers, a side effect of sitting all day in a train car. He doesn’t truly know this slightly unkempt man, the closest approximation was back at university, but that man, one who had not fully embraced waistcoats or bespoked suits, lacked the heaviness in the eyes and the ever present cogitations about the betrayal of his body.

No, Victor died a long time ago and the butler cowl was hung up three months prior. This is someone new. Someone he is still discovering.

Vision’s mind transfers to more practical matters, sliding his gloves off, first the right and then the left, and placing them one on top of the other on the desk. His joints crackle with each flex of his fingers. Next he shrugs out of the coat, hanging it gently on the back of the desk chair, a bit annoyed at the lack of hangers in the room for more civilized clothing care. He turns towards the mirror again to fiddle with the bowtie, eyes staring firmly at his trembling fingers, wordlessly encouraging them to loosen the perfectly tensioned knot. A mild tug undoes it, the tie falling limp along his chest, slithering from his shoulders with a second tug. He lays the fabric next to the gloves, smoothing the wrinkles out with his right hand. Vision removes the various papers from his pockets, the “railroad” map from his trousers, the town map from his waistcoat, and then his hand dives into the inside pocket of his coat, hanging on the chair, and retrieves a pile of folded parchment tied together with string. All of these he arranges next to the tie.

He removes the waistcoat and lays it over the bedpost, not happy with the location, vowing to move it before they turn in for the evening. Then he sits, lungs expanding a bit more than usual, which he blames on the steep, narrow staircase to the room. When he tries to bring his left foot up, a searing sharpness jabs at his hip and immediately he drops his leg, the wooden heel of his shoe knocking against the ground. An aggrieved “Brilliant,” falls from his lips.

This started twelve and a half days ago. Not all at once, it was gradual, as it usually is, barring a catastrophe. One day it’s an iota more of pressure when he bends over and then a few days later it begins to warm into an ache, and then comes the shooting pain when he moves his leg more than fifteen degrees, all the way up until it gets feverish, locked in place, a little putrid, and well, deadly. Five years, however, has given him an understanding of the typical progression and this isn’t bad yet, really, this is typically a one month post treatment feeling, so the fact they are three months on the road means he may still last the journey, assuming nothing happens to hasten the descent of his bodily functioning. Unfortunately he has found the environment is far more difficult to control than at the manor, an understandable finding given nature is gorgeously cantankerous.

None of this is productive. All he wants to do is get his shoe off, a simple task that does not require musing on the longevity of his hip. It’s been a tactic all his life to narrow down enormous situations to easily attainable steps. Right now it is to finish undressing and then, well, then perhaps he can contemplate the philosophical underpinnings of his life. He uses the toe of his right shoe to ease the heel of his left down, a small kick sending his loafer between the mirror and Wanda’s carpetbag. He repeats this with the other shoe and decides, for now, to just ignore his socks because that is a trickier obstacle.

Vision leans back in the chair, exhaling away his exhaustion and frustrations. It has been a long day and it has taken its toll. There is nothing more insidious than that, or so he tries to convince himself. But then his eyes slide to the papers on the desk and soon his mind follows, untying the string and carefully opening the papers. On top is his letter to Mr. Stark, marred by rivers of wild ink. Vision places it to the side and separates the other two sheets into parallel existences. He runs his hands over the documents, easing them into flatness as best he can before he uses the cheeky terrier shaped paper weights provided by the hotel to hold them down. One of the documents is covered in his handwriting while the other is only half full. Vision tests out the hotel’s inkwell and pen on a spare corner of Mr. Stark’s letter. Happy with the result, he begins to continue copying over the contents of the full document.

As for my shares in Stark Industries, three quarters will be returned to Anthony Stark while one quarter will be transferred to the esteemed medical doctor, Helen Cho, to provide yearly funding for new scientific pursuits.

To Wanda Maximoff, my

Vision left this blank on the original, not certain what to place, whether it is betrothed, beloved, or, maybe, before this document ever needs to be executed, it will be something else. He decides it should remain an enigma, easily filled in depending on the state of their relationship should Wanda ever need to use this.

To Wanda Maximoff, my ________ , I leave everything else. This includes the entirety of my savings, the homestead in Normanskill, all patents, innovations, and intellectual property that may be sold or given to other parties at her discretion, my collection of books, and any heirlooms that may currently exist or be found for the Williams family.

When he attempted to discuss this with Wanda last month, she was less than enthused, understandably so, it is, as Mr. Stark would bumptiously point out, a morbsyE topic, though an essential one. Their strained conversation did confirm his supposition that she wanted nothing to do with Stark Industries. That was as far as they got. Wanda is a brickyF and industrious survivalist, having been through far worse in her life than his demise would bring. If he does die on this trip, she will eventually move on, will live a long, extraordinary life. What he wishes to achieve in leaving her the wealth he has amassed as Mr. Stark’s butler, is to provide some financial standing for her to do whatever she may want to accomplish without having to worry about affording food or a place to live. Not that he wishes for that to be the result, it would be far preferable to be by her side and watch her take on the world. Regardless, he believes it best to leave a little extra space in case he thinks of any other assets that may have slipped his mind.

It took him far more time to determine how to repay Mr. Stark’s kindness and support, only deciding it the other day while speaking to Helen about her current manuscript.

To Anthony Stark I give my full permission to use my identity, life, body, and experiences in published papers that would encourage the scientific advancement of medical technology.

“Hey Vizh,” Wanda’s voice catches his ear right before the creak of the door reaches him.

Vision stands immediately, heart racing at her sudden entrance, his hands working to stack the wills and slide them to the side. He pivots towards the door, lips always lifting at the sight of his beloved, “Let me help you.”

“I’m okay.” Scarlet dances along her hands as she shuts and locks the door without physically touching it, a steaming jug wrapped in ivory cloth clutched between her hands. “Weren’t you supposed to be ready once I got back?”

“I-” he glances down at his shirt, cheeks forming a glow at getting distracted from his task, “Yes, my apologies.” His fingers begin to fiddle with the tortoise shell buttons, sliding them out in a steady pattern while he watches Wanda pour the water into a metal basin next to the mirror. Her hair isn’t soaking, but it is still wet enough that the fabric near the nape of her neck is a shade darker than the rest of her lilac housecoat. “How was your bath?”

Wanda flashes him an engaging smile, “Fantastic. I feel so much better.”

“Wonderful.”

He continues to watch her move through the room as he undresses, awed at the way her confidence makes it seem like this has been her house since childhood, her hands sure as she finds everything they need. Then she pauses, just for a moment, a quizzical tilt of her head in his direction. “What are you looking so spoonyG about?”

“You.” The exaggerated roll of her eyes doesn’t dampen the effect of her self-conscious smirk. Vision closes the four feet between them, lips curving to match the crescent moon of her mouth as his hands run along her cheeks, “You are amazing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” his thumb brushes a strand of hair slicked to her forehead, “and you look just like you did the day we first met, well,” his hands travel down her arms, encouraged by the gleam in her eyes, “mostly, far less distressed and irate at the moment.” This receives a breathy laugh. “You know I believed I was meeting a naiadH that day.”

Her nose crinkles at the comparison, “You got a witch instead.”

“Much preferable.”

Wanda traces the plate on his sternum as she talks, “I know you’re trying to put this off.”

He attempts to play aloof, mainly because he still is unable to logically explain his hesitation, “Would you like to eat first, before it gets cold?”

This gets him his second eye roll of the night and if he can manage two more it will be a personal best. “Just take your gas pipesI and drawers off before the water gets cold.” With a pat to his chest, she turns away and Vision complies, a bit haltingly on the left leg, but he is successful. Once done, he waits, standing in the middle of the room, fingers drumming against the vibranium rod along his thigh, comforted slightly by the fact she remains facing away from him. A towel, framed in a scarlet aura, floats in front of him followed closely by the understanding and comforting tone of Wanda’s, “You ready?”

Vision sits in the desk chair, his side leaned against the back of it to allow the majority of his body to be available, and then he lays the towel on his lap, for some reason still insisting on an ounce of modesty even though the sight is not a mystery to Wanda. “I suppose.”

“Great.” With time they have established a protocol. First, Wanda sets the basin of water on a small footstool, placing it in a location where they can both reach without much trouble. Next, well in a slight change of protocol she lightly shoves his shoulder and then tosses his coat onto the bed, and then she hands him a sponge, keeping one in her own hand. Lastly, she enters his mind, a burst of affection always filling his body at the way it feels to not be alone, her presence like the sunshine on a spring day, chasing away any chill from the wind. The practicality is important, or so they have discovered in pursuing their life together, any time his well-being is involved, her concerns are eased if she can feel his pain and his experience, that way she can adapt before he needs to tell her to. It is more than he ever expected or would have asked, and it is enormously appreciated.

Carefully they begin, the tingle of her powers forming a shield over his vibranium as he gently and studiously dabs the warm, sudsy water along the skin of his chest and arms while Wanda does the same to his back. This routine is one that formed, not naturally, per se, but gradually with each stop in various towns. He was petrified the first time she came into their room as he bathed, uncomfortable at the openness of his body in front of her, having relied on the shadows of the room and sheets of the bed to mask the full effect of his injuries the two times they’d been intimate by that point. Unsurprisingly, she handled it the way she has since they first talked after the fateful séance, with aplomb and respect, never once flinching at the raised, discolored scars or the unpleasant tinny waft of his exoskeleton. To be frank, it has actually become easier with Wanda’s help, her powers allowing more leeway in the inevitable drips that form when the sponge has not fully been wrung out, making the whole process a bit more soothing than perilous.

Vision looks at the mirror as he dips and twists the sponge, eyes consciously not staring at himself, but instead at Wanda, the tip of her tongue peeking out of her lips as she works on his shoulder blades. At one point she brushes something from his shoulder and he can’t stop from noticing the contrast of her skin to his, a naiad soothing a dying duck in a thunderstormG. Immediately her eyes snap up and he sheepishly meets her glare, usually far more careful at controlling disparaging thoughts when she is present in his mind. “I am...”

“Gorgeous.” He’s unable to look away as she places her lips to his skin, a challenge rippling through her actions. Her kiss lingers for several seconds to prove the point of his idiocy all while sending a tingle down his arm, erasing the thought he was trying to convey. “Just like a swan.”

He scoffs, mock (mostly) offense stitched into each syllable, “I’d rather be a dying duck than a vile beast.”

“Why don’t you tell me more about it, so I can understand this fascinating preference.”

No amount of coquettish charm nor slow, sensual tracing of his neck will break his resolve on this topic. Other topics, yes, he is weak to her spells, but not this one. Vision steels his features, a tiny shake of his head accompanying his response. “Never. It was not a proud time in my life.”

A third eye roll and flick of scarlet to his ear, “Fine.” Then her face shifts into seriousness, “You are stunning though.”

Vision mimics her, staring at the two of them in the mirror. Unlike her, he struggles to find evidence in support of her opinion, particularly when he can compare himself to the woman leaning on his shoulder, can remember the reactions of the crowd of objective onlookers who saw him. He is also aware that if he outright denies it that her wrath will follow, Wanda the greatest champion of his ego and self worth. “I suppose my eyes are a striking enough color.”

Wanda frowns, eyes narrowing into a bellicose defiance aimed at his logic. “For being quite a dizzyJ, you are so often a wooden spoonK.”

Pacification now means they can stop assessing the glaring imperfections of his industrial physique, so he imbues his voice with an honest cheerfulness. “It is a good thing I have you to straighten me out.” The next kiss she gives him is shorter but happier, a flutter on his neck that is replaced by the dampness of the sponge as she continues in a pleased silence.

“You know,” he spent so many of the last five years pretending as if he never existed before Mr. Stark brought him to the states, that it is peculiar to him each time a memory emerges from that past life, “my last year at university they introduced the wooden spoon award and it was everyone’s fear that they would win it.” Wanda’s eyes flick up to meet his for a second, a sign of interest before she stares down at his back. “I studied so hard to ensure I would not receive it.”

“Did you get it?”

Suddenly he remembers why he never dallies with the past, his heart dropping several inches as he answers her question, “I, um, actually never got to take the test…” he stops, certain the implication is clear.

A splash fills the tenuous silence between them. His muscles twitch at the unexpected pressure of Wanda’s body against his back, her arms draping over his shoulders and her face nuzzling into the crook of his neck with a soft, “Vizh.”

Vision watches her reflection, notes the creases forming around her mouth and the sadness in her eyes, and then guilt blooms deep in his chest for bringing down the mood in the room yet again. He lifts his free hand and envelops her own with a gentle squeeze. Perhaps a new topic might lift the spirits. “I was speaking with the proprietor while they were setting up the rooms and he mentioned a shop down the road where we might find a suitable mystic tablecloth.”

For a moment he expects to win the wooden spoon, her eyes exasperated until she shifts with his distraction, kissing his neck before she stands up. “We can look at it in the morning.” She dips the sponge, wringing it out with her powers. “I want to set up a table near the wagons tomorrow.”

“It does seem a promising location.” She hums in agreement, dipping out of view of the mirror to reach his lower back. “The proprietor also informed me that the trading post has numerous supplies and maps for the next part of the journey.”

Her disbelief rises up and over his shoulder. “More maps?”

In Vision’s opinion, one can never have too many maps, each one adding a slightly different view of an area depending on if it concerns roadways, railways, geologic structures, political and financial resources and leaders, or his favorite, topographical details. He currently has four for Iowa alone. “Yes, it is important to have a full grasp of the terrain,” his sponge dabs a bit more aggressively at his thigh as he emphasizes the importance of his mapping knowledge in the face of his betrothed’s skepticism, “plus all of our detailed maps end here, so it is vital we purchase more.”

Wanda pops back into view, “Want to do your hair or stand and lose the towel?”

“Um…” It is factual that the question was said with utmost sincerity and not a lick of sauciness, yet his heart always beats a touch faster whenever the air of suggestion can be found in her words. This mixture of lust with the demoralization of even needing help with bathing is a concoction of emotions he has yet to grasp and navigate, often leaving him indecisive and tongue tied. “Hair?”

“Okay, sit back,” his body complies with the guidance of her hands, bringing his back to the cold slats of the chair. Wanda steps away long enough to retrieve the wash basin and move it behind the chair. “You should only get one map this time.”

Mixed emotions are sloughed away immediately, “That is preposterous, two is the bare minimum.”

“They aren’t even right most of the time.”

A fair point that she has made every single time they have this light argument and a point that only underscores the purchase and use of multiple maps. “That is precisely why I have so many.” Wanda drapes a rose colored towel around his neck, the ends hanging down low enough to brush the tip of his sternum plate. “It allows me to combine them into an accurate and usable map for our return journey.”

The chair shifts suddenly, tipping him backwards, his feet lifting from the ground to dangle in the air. The first eight times she did this, it was disorienting and a mite terrifying, now he doesn’t even flinch. Scarlet sparks in his periphery as Wanda’s hand touches his chin, her fingers strutting up his nose and along his forehead, slowly leaning him farther back until his crown is level with her chest, providing him a lovely view of the broad smile on her face. “Our journey back?”

Vision is confused at how euphoric she seems, “Well, yes, or even if-“

“Stop there, don’t ruin it.” Her lips, in conjunction with her plea, silence him with remarkable efficiency, his body overcome with a rush of love that singes away all pessimism whenever she kisses him like this—brazenly and passionately, her powers tinging his sight and thoughts in red while the tickle of her loose hair along his cheek seems to sensitize him to the pressure and movement of her lips. Wanda pulls back far far too soon, a playful peck given to the tip of his nose as she stands back up. “Are your feet cold?”

The rapid turnaround in thinking borders on whiplash, his neck craning to see the navy wool on his feet. He had forgotten about that failure. “It is a new fashion I am experimenting with.”

Her laugh explodes in the air around him, bathing him in the pleasure of victory. “It is a, uh, strong statement.”

“I do think it is striking enough that it may come inL .”

“It lacks a bit of refinement.” Vision closes his eyes at the feel of her fingers running through his hair. “Might need to add in a top hat.”

The mere image of this outfit, or really lack of one, is amusing, in a purely hypothetical sense given any individual who attempted to walk down the street would be immediately arrested for lewd indecencies. Typically such stark and silly differences between reality and hypotheticals are not of interest to him, yet bantering with Wanda seems to erase all need for remaining in line with reality. “It is quite unfortunate I am a taken man since it sounds like a proper tot-huntingM outfit.”

“Oh,” Wanda stops combing through his hair, her breath light against his ear as she leans down, “but we’re not married yet.” This causes him to open his eyes, take in the impishness flickering in his lover’s gaze. “Maybe,” her powers come up through the chair to wrap up and around him, “you can try it out tonight?” In less than a second the mood lessens with reality, “As long as your hip is doing okay.”

The semantics of pain are vague, one person’s bothering or okay markedly different from another. Even for himself, situationally the same pain can be radically different. Earlier it was too much to take off his socks, but right now, under her adoring and concerned gaze, it is a stray thought loosely flying through his mind despite logically knowing there is no reduction in physiological difficulty and thus no backing to willfully act to aggravate the issue further. The mind and the heart, he has discovered, do not always have to agree. “It would be a shame to not fully utilize having our own room and,” the hunger inching into her smile seems to dam up his pain perception, “I just so happened to bring the top hat in with the luggage.”

“We should finish up then.”

“Yes, but,” a tiny ounce of self preservation kicks in, “I do request this time be tamer than our, um,” his voice quiets at the indecorousness of the event in question, “dalliance in the barn as I do believe that may have been the impetus of the issues with my hip.”

Wanda nods in understanding while bringing a bowl of water up towards his brow, “I’ll be gentle and you need to be honest if something hurts.”

“That is amenable to me.”

The rush of water over his ears and the anticipation of what is to come drowns out his doubts and worries. Whoever he may be now, he is a man utterly in love.

Victorian Language and Culture Decoder

AThe Lyons-Council Bluff railroad is annoying. I have accumulated a folder on my computer of over a dozen maps of the US in the 1850s. About half are of the New York region at that time and the other half are travel maps showing railroads, wagon trails, steamboat trails, etc across North America. I have 4 maps of Iowa between 1848-1853. Two had this railroad and two didn’t and it drove me crazy. I didn’t find out about the lack of the Lyons-Council Bluff line in October 1853 until I found a secondhand account of a son writing about his father’s experience helping to lay the stakes for this line in 1853 and that the rail wasn’t actually put in for another year. Basically, I’m in awe of historians who spend their lives tracking this stuff down. It’s exhausting.

BKorea was called Joseon during this time period

CRational dress: women who wear pants

DEven though I have a map of Council Bluffs from 1853 with the names of the hotels, I could not find anything about either the Robinson or City Hotel, so I cannot attest that the City Hotel was better. It just looked bigger on the map. Also the prices are based on hotel advertisements I found for other, similarly sized towns at the time. The main hotel of the town was actually the Pacific House but it wasn’t finished until December 1853. It was magnificent though, from all I’ve read.

EMorbsy: melancholic

FBricky: brave or fearless

GSpoony: being a fool in love or sentimental

HA naiad is a river spirit. This is a nod to one of my all time favorite books - To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis. This book was a large influence on some key aspects in setting up this AU including them meeting at the river (with Wanda being soaking wet), having a seance as a centerpiece for part I of AOS, and a lot of background on spiritualism in Victorian times. It’s a fantastic book, if you ever are looking for a Sci-fi/time travel/historical rom-com/mystery novel.

IGas pipes: pants

JQuite a dizzy: a clever man

KWooden spoon: an idiot. It does actually come from taking a mathematics test, only it was at Cambridge, not University of London. It was a literal wooden spoon (that got bigger and bigger each year) given to the lowest score of the student graduating with honors. It does seem like many places took on the practice, so figured why not include it. This practice no longer exists.

LCome in: become fashionable

MTot-hunting: On the prowl for eligible young women

#scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #alternateuniversescarletvision #thescarletvisionnetwork #the vision #helen cho #AOS #victorian au #mine

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thecapitolgazette · 4 years

Photo

What gossip should people be spreading about you that they aren’t already? Who do you find the most attractive person in the Tower?

Hmm, some really juicy gossip about me that no one is talking about is my insane amount of coffee intake! Like, it’s ridiculous and people really should be judging me! Most attractive? Everyone is super attractive in their own way!

What’s your proudest moment this year?

My proudest moment this year and is finally feeling more normal and more myself. In the last two years have been hard but I feel like I am going back to the old me and I’m so proud!

How is your sleeping schedule these days, since the tributes could die at any time?

What sleeping schedule? It’s nonexistent! Between staying up all night watching the games and then also taking care of my son, there is no sleeping going on. Did I mention the insane amount of coffee intake?

Have you figured out what the arena truly is? Take a wild guess, since most people find it confusing!

A globe that changes climate and natural disasters! Am I right?

What’s the longest you think you could survive in the arena if it were to go on indefinitely?

Maybe a couple of weeks. I couldn’t imagine surviving it with no end in sight. If you were Head Gamemaker for a Game cycle, what kind of arena would you build? Give us your sickest idea.

I’ll leave that to Lysander.

Look around the Tower. Which of these people would you have allied with during the Hunger Games and why?

I would probably ally with Apollo, Satchel, and Addy. They are all amazing and I enjoy being around them! And Apollo is in there to protect us!

Who would you sacrifice yourself for if you had the chance?

I’ve tried to sacrifice myself twice to the people I love and somehow I am the Victor. But, in the case that it actually went right, I would sacrifice myself for anyone who has children. You know, in a world where I wasn’t a mom myself.

If you were to abstract from district loyalties, which tribute would you have supported in the Games and why?

I’m not sure, I’ve paid so much attention to Marino I feel I dont know much about the other tributes. But possiby Memphis, he’s adorable.

#interviews #122 #interviews 122 #ophelia #d8

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diaryofamess · 2 years

Text

Entry #1

This is my attempt to make life better.

I’m not good at following routines, or building habits. My sleep schedule is awful and I constantly forget to eat. I often prefer coffee and fizzy drinks over water and I indulge in activities and substances not congruent with good mental health or physical wellness. My job sucks and most of my friends are in other cities far away, some even in other countries. I struggle to make friends and be vulnerable with people and my love life is nonexistent at best and a disaster at worst. I’m pretty sure I’m having a quarter-life crisis.

But I do want to change. And while my mental health isn’t ideal, it’s so much better than what it used to be. I know I can do better. I just lack motivation.

This blog is for me to talk, vent, and track my progress. Rome wasn’t built in a day, as they say, and a decent, healthy life isn’t constructed overnight either. Good and bad days will come, and it’s up to me to decide what I want to do with them. I need to rediscover who I am and what I want from life. And it starts here.

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amehanaaa · 7 years

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I Found Love In You

Wow, my first Jerza fic! I really had a lot of fun writing some new characters for once; I hope I wrote them well! Please, enjoy! (Also can be read here.)

Part I / II Words: 6215 Summary: Erza’s routine is always the same day after day, but when she’s asked to become a tutor, routine simply becomes a distant memory.

Erza Scarlet only has two hobbies in her life—school and a personal pastime she would never dare tell a soul. But on most days, school consumes most of her time.

Although it normally isn’t seen as a hobby and more so as a job, school has always been a hobby for Erza. She genuinely enjoys the classwork, the homework, and the rush of taking a final exam. Her passion is the result of her flawless grade point average, deeming her to be the smartest student in school.

But her status isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. A barrier exists between Erza and her classmates. Whether it is out of jealousy, intimidation, or admiration, it doesn’t matter. Day after day, the barrier only becomes stronger.

“Erza, since you’re the only one finished with your worksheet, will you take these papers to the office?” Her teacher asks with a proud smile.

“Of course,” she nods respectfully while standing from her desk. Naturally sitting in the front row, she is already out of the classroom within two steps.

This is what it’s like every day. The teacher lectures, assigns a worksheet, allows the class to work together if they need to, and accepts it when they’re finished. And yet, no matter how boring or tedious, Erza loves it all; she hasn’t missed a single day of school since elementary.

She understands why she’s been labeled nerd and lame, but after hearing it so many times, she simply doesn’t care anymore. There isn’t anything lame about doing what you love. That’s what Erza has decided to believe, at least.

“Here are today’s papers, Mira.” She enters the office, neatly placing the stack of papers on the front desk.

“You’re always a great help, Erza.” The secretary sends her an admiring smile identical to her teacher’s. “What would we do without you?”

Erza slightly returns the smile, sitting down and making herself comfortable in her usual chair in the corner of the office. She unzips her bookbag to remove the book she’s been looking forward to continue reading all day. It’s hard to hold back her content smile when she starts to read.

“How have you missed fifty days of school when we’ve been in session for two months?!” A yell bounces off the walls of the office, enough to shake the entire room.

Erza is normally oblivious to voices surrounding her when reading, but this time she curiously lifts her head to sneak a glance in the principal’s office. A male student she has never seen before nonchalantly sits back in his seat while Makarov has visible veins popping out of his forehead as he shouts.

Erza’s eyes return to her book, yet she can’t help but continue to listen. From what she gathers, this student has been to school a total of five times in two months. His grades are nonexistent. He absolutely hates going to school.

A greedy part of Erza wants to keep listening to hear just how much of a disaster this student’s situation is, but her eavesdropping is cut short due to the bell signaling lunch.

“It’s time for lunch, Erza,” Mirajane tells her across the desk. “Why don’t you go talk with your friends for a while?”

“Yeah, okay,” she responds, having no choice but to rise from her seat. She moves slower than she should simply because she wants to hear the plan Makarov has for the student.

“We’re going to get you a tutor,” Makarov states.

“No way,” the student refuses.

Erza hums under her breath, nodding to herself. She always liked Makarov’s ideas. There hasn’t been a day when she disagreed with him before. His ideas always serve their purpose.

Satisfied with how the problem is resolved, the male student in Makarov’s office is already drifting away from Erza’s mind while she leaves. If she’s being honest, she doesn’t even remember his face.

Now, she can eat her lunch on the rooftop and continue reading in peace.

There’s always a speck of happiness within Erza when the school day ends. Not because it’s over, but because she has the entire classroom to herself for the rest of the day. Every day, she can eat, sleep, listen to music, and do her work for as long as she wants. That is until the janitors shoo her away, of course.

Today is no different—except for one thing.

“Erza, you’ll be staying here after school today, right?” Her teacher asks her with the ongoing appreciative twinkle in his eye.

“Yes, I will be,” she replies. “Is there something you need?”

“Makarov will be bringing someone in for you,” the teacher explains. “He’ll be here after the bell.”

“Okay.” She nods in understanding, not thinking too much of it and returning to her classwork. If anything, she thinks she’ll be asked to give another speech during one of the assemblies.

Erza isn’t aware how long it’s been since her teacher last spoke to her, but she’s unexpectedly removed from her thoughts when she feels a tap on the back of her head. She raises her gaze, vacantly blinking at the stranger in front of her.

The stranger’s brown eyes are shielded with cold. His burgundy face tattoo threatens her.

“Always working hard, aren’t you?” Makarov praises with a chuckle, directing Erza’s attention to him beside the stranger. “Erza, I have a request for you.”

“What do you need?” she asks. It is now when she realizes that perhaps this isn’t about a speech after all.

“I need you to tutor this student here,” Makarov gestures to the boy. “This is Jellal Fernandes. Jellal, this is—”

“I know who she is,” Jellal interrupts him with an eyeroll.

“Anyway,” Makarov dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Would you mind doing this? The faculty would really appreciate it.”

Before Erza can stop herself, she begins to nod. Whether she wants to or not, she knows she can’t refuse Makarov’s request. He has done more for her than he will ever know.

“I don’t need a tutor,” Jellal states firmly.

Erza quirks a brow, suddenly feeling offended at the disrespect he has given Makarov today. “Your grades say otherwise,” she remarks.

Jellal instantly scowls. “I’ll be fine on my own. I don’t need you to tutor me.”

Before Erza can retort something back, Makarov reveals the news to her. “If Jellal doesn’t pass the midterms next month, he will not pass this school year.”

This seems new to Jellal since his eyes widen. “When do they start?” he demands.

Makarov sends Erza a look, clearly suggesting that there isn’t much to work with here. “So, will you really do it? We’re not allowed to pay you, but I can—”

“I’ll do it,” Erza confirms. “I’ll tutor Jellal without any compensation.”

Genuine relief flickers in Makarov’s eyes. He begins to take a few steps back, sending them a wave. “Thanks, Erza. I’ll allow you to create a tutoring schedule with him, then. See you two tomorrow.”

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Jellal says plainly once Makarov has left. He lazily sits in the desk beside hers with a heavy sigh. “I’m busy every day from five to midnight.”

“That really limits my options here,” Erza mutters, clicking her pen along with her thoughts.

“Unfortunate,” he replies with artificial pity. His lips slightly tug up to a smirk as he watches her contemplate. “Well, I guess this won’t work for either of us, so I’ll just leav—”

“Here is your tutoring schedule,” she presents while tearing a sheet from her notebook. “I’m afraid you’ll have to not be busy a few days a week.”

“I can’t just change my schedule like this,” he counters, brows furrowing. “You know what? I really don’t need this tutoring anyway. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Erza’s eyes follow Jellal as he surges from his seat and nearly storms to the door. “Tell the underclassmen I said hello on your way out,” she smoothly taunts him.

Jellal freezes in his footsteps, clenching his jaw. He takes a deep, even breath before going back to the desk and returning the schedule to her. “Alright, I can do Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from after school until five. Take it or leave it.”

“One Saturday and you’ll have a deal,” she proposes. She can see the frustration in his shielded eyes, but it fades away when he takes a brief glimpse of the time.

“Whatever, it’s a deal,” he accepts more easily than expected. Without as much as a blink, he is already heading towards the door.

“Where are you going?” she inquires. “Today is Wednesday.”

“I have to go to work. I’m going to be late if you keep bothering me,” he states bluntly. “We’ll start on Friday.”

For the first time ever, Erza sits in her seat stunned, dumbfounded, and irritated all at once. There is absolutely no way she will settle for this. He at least needs to take something today, even if it’s a piece of her mind.

Hastily shoving all her belongings into her bookbag, she exits the classroom and trails after him. She’s seconds away from calling out his name down the hallway, but she’s distracted by the teachers strolling past her.

“Erza, you’re going home already?”

“Is everything alright?”

“I have a stack of papers—”

“I have to get going, but I will answer all your questions tomorrow!” Erza hastily explains before nearly running to catch up with Jellal. It isn’t until she is a few yards away from him when she decides the best option is to quietly follow him to his work.

His brisk pace tells her that he can’t deal with any distractions right now. And somehow, a part of her is curious—what kind of place does he work at?

They are nearing the city once Jellal stops at a building and enters from the back. Erza is rarely ever in the city. Her only destinations are school, the library, her home, and occasionally the bakery by her home. So naturally, she has never seen this building before.

She decides to wait about five minutes before entering the place, not only to come to terms with the fact that she just stalked someone to their work, but also to observe her surroundings. From her observations, only women with extremely revealing clothes are moseying inside.

Erza isn’t sure if she will be accepted inside with her school uniform, but figures she might as well give it a shot. Finally forcing herself to step towards the building, she tries to remain calm while opening the door. She’s forced to squint to see in the dimly lit room. When her eyes adjust, she realizes what kind of place this is. Her heart pounds in her throat.

“Welcome to our club! Who would you like to treat you?” A man greets her with teeth so bright, it’s blinding. “Or are you new here? Let me show you the catalog of our hosts.”

“I want Jellal,” Erza answers, surprised by how even her voice is.

“Jellal truly is one of our finest men here,” the man sighs happily. “Unfortunately, Jellal is entertaining a guest right now. You may either wait an hour or pick another host.”

Erza can’t figure out if she should laugh, feel embarrassed, or just be angry. Deciding to settle with the latter, she ignores the man and strides right past him into the main area; however, her dignified steps immediately come to stop when her eyes fall on Jellal.

Just from the sight of him she can tell that he’s a completely different person. He’s dressed nicely, his eyes match his smile, and his face tattoo compliments his complexion. To say the least, Erza is blown away by how beautiful he is.

The appreciative moment comes to an end once Jellal’s eyes connect with hers, suddenly returning to being shielded like ice. He whispers into his guest’s ear before swiftly heading towards her.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands harshly.

Erza can’t find the words she wants to say; she’s entirely tongue-tied. Maybe it’s because of how his suit perfectly fits him, maybe it’s because of his sweet smell, or maybe it’s because he is a lot more handsome than she initially thought. But after reminding herself what she is actually here for, she digs into her bookbag.

“These are the notes I wrote for you before you came today,” she states before shoving them into his hands. Not giving him a chance to respond, she quickly turns around to exit the club. She keeps her gaze withdrawn to ignore all the stares she receives.

Jellal watches her, entirely awestruck. He looks down at the paperclipped sheets of paper, skimming her neat handwriting. It’s the same paper he saw her writing on before Makarov tapped her head to get her attention.

“How was she able to write all these notes so fast?” he mutters to himself.

Hearing the clear of his coworker’s throat beside him, Jellal is suddenly removed from his daze, being met with bewildered eyes from the guests. He sends them all an assuring smile in response.

With that, he gently slides the papers into his suit jacket before returning to hosting with an interesting thought of how Erza’s scarlet hair looked as it flowed behind her as she left the club.

Erza has never felt such a strong sense of what she is experiencing right now—tranquility. With what happened with Jellal at the club, she knows that any other person would be apprehensive to see him again. She, on the other hand, cannot afford to feel that way.

I’m as cool as a cucumber, Erza mentally braces herself for the hundredth time when entering school the next morning.

Truthfully, she has never seen Jellal in class before. It’s not like she pays much attention, but she is certain she would at least remember his face. Regardless, since it’s Thursday, she won’t see him anyway. If anything, Jellal would only be a distraction. Now, she can continue doing what she loves most—school.

But she knows that somewhere deep inside of her, she can’t face him after seeing his alternate persona as a host. The way her heart leapt into her throat was completely uncalled for. She never wants to experience something like that again.

As Thursday morning begins to flow into early afternoon, Erza isn’t sure if she should feel disappointed or relieved that Jellal never shows up for class. Perhaps he doesn’t care about failing the school year, after all.

By the end of the day, all of the thoughts about yesterday have almost been pushed all the way back to her mind. She isn’t one to dwell on the past; thinking about the past is only a distraction from living in the present.

And just like that, she finds herself entering school the next morning—Jellal completely gone from her mind. It’s Friday, meaning she will have an extra hour to lounge in the classroom before being shooed away. Right now, that’s all she’s looking forward to.

It’s not difficult to feel a sense of déjà vu as Erza listens to her teacher’s lecture, accepts the worksheet, and completes it before anyone else. On cue, she’s given the daily stack of papers.

“Sorry, I forgot to give you yesterday’s stack,” the teacher apologizes at the large pile of papers. “If you need any help, you can ask someone to take the other half.”

“No, it’s okay. I got it,” Erza assures. As she picks up the papers, she knows that this heavy stack is nothing compared to holding a textbook in one hand and writing notes with the other.

“We missed you yesterday, Erza,” Mira says as Erza enters the office.

“My teacher forgot to give me the papers yesterday,” she explains, placing the papers on the front desk.

“You never fail to be a great help.” Mirajane sends her a warm, appreciative smile.

Erza returns the smile once again, wondering if Mira will ever know just how awkward she feels forming the smile. Her legs move on instinct as they take her to the chair in the corner of the office. She is about to reach into her bookbag to start her new book, but she pauses when she notices the person in Makarov’s office.

Jellal sits in a desk, scribbling across a sheet a paper. Just by his intense gaze, Erza can tell he is completely absorbed in his thoughts. She wonders if that’s how she looks like when she works, too. But overall, she’s impressed.

“Erza!” Makarov enthusiastically proclaims while popping his head out of his office, causing her to jolt in her seat. Did he catch her staring inside his office?

“Hi, Makarov,” Erza politely stands from her seat to greet him. He waves her over to his office, leaving her no choice but to step inside.

“We have Jellal on a tight schedule right now so he can catch up on everything that he’s missed,” Makarov states. “How are the tutoring sessions coming along?”

The question is enough for Jellal to immediately lift his head up from his desk, connecting eyes with Erza. Time seems to be at a standstill as they both try to communicate thousands of thoughts at once. How is she supposed to answer when they haven’t even started?

“Jellal is making progress,” she eventually replies, her tone much stiffer than it should be. There’s some truth in her response, but her stomach slightly churns in discomfort.

“Excellent!” Makarov grins, absolutely pleased. “I knew this would arrangement would work out.”

“Of course,” Erza answers with an anxious laugh leaving her lips. She presses her lips together in a thin line to prevent anything else from escaping her. Fortunately, she is saved by the bell as it chimes throughout the school.

“Take a break and enjoy your lunch, alright?” Makarov tells her with a gentle pat on the shoulder.

Erza nods, although they both know break is not in her vocabulary. Her eyes flicker at Jellal once more before she leaves the office. She doesn’t think twice in heading to the rooftop; it’s the second best place for some peace and quiet.

She makes herself at home in the bench that waits for her every day. For the next thirty minutes, it’s just her, a book, and this bench; however, she’s in the midst of taking a bite of into her lunch when she hears the door to the rooftop creak open.

Her eyes try not to widen too much as she locks eyes with Jellal. She’s supposed to be cool like a cucumber, but it’s much easier said than done once he starts to walk towards her.

“Are you really eating lunch by yourself right now?” Jellal asks incredulously. “Where are all your friends?”

“I don’t have any,” Erza answers casually, resuming her lunch.

“Why? Do you think you’re better than everyone?” he counters.

She pauses before raising her gaze to look at him. “What if I am?” she asks with not as much confidence she would have liked.

Jellal lets out a dry laugh, falling back into the open space at the opposite side of the bench. “If you really meant that, your voice wouldn’t be shaking as much as it right now.”

Erza bites her lip as she feels an unfamiliar sense of warmth swirling on her cheeks. She can’t be cool like a cucumber when it comes to him. She feels anxious, out of control, and a little excited.

She sneaks a glance at him as he eats, now noticing all his features presented by the daylight. Everything she saw of him in the club last night is still there, but much dimmer than it should be. His charming aura from last night has completely vanished.

“Anyway, thanks for lying for me back there,” Jellal mentions. “Makarov has no idea we haven’t started yet.”

“I’ve never lied to a teacher before,” Erza admits quietly, refusing to look at him to see his reaction.

“No way! That’s amazing!” he exclaims.

Erza raises her brows, perplexed by his words. If anything, it sounds lame. She waits for him to say it, but he’s already onto the next subject.

“I hear your name a lot in the office,” he reveals. “That’s how I knew of you in the first place. They’re always talking about how helpful you are.”

She feels her lips tug upwards as a sense of joy floods into her chest. She’s more than happy to be the one to make the faculty’s job easier. For everything they have done for her, helping them is the least she could do.

“You’re a lot different than I thought you’d be…” Jellal’s voice trails off for a moment. “Even though you haven’t lied to a teacher before, you had the audacity to barge into my work.”

Erza’s breath hitches in her throat as she finally turns to him and connects gazes with him. “I’m sorry for that. I really didn’t mean to become so angry when I gave you the notes. Did you get in trouble for it?”

“No, the boss was fine after I explained the situation,” he guarantees, his lips gradually forming into a smirk. “Were you mad because I was giving other girls attention?”

“No, I was upset because you can’t have a job while you attend this school,” she explains simply.

“I can’t believe how much of a goody two shoes you are,” he immediately scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Rules exist for a reason,” she defends herself. “We should always follow them.”

“Rules are meant to be bent a little,” he responds nonchalantly.

It’s Erza’s turn to shake her head in disbelief. Jellal, too, is a lot different than she thought he’d be—they’re polar opposites.

“Lunch is ending soon. You should probably stop eating your dessert and actually get to your meal.” He begins to stand up from his spot.

Erza blinks a couple of times, not being able to understand how lunch is almost over and she hasn’t even finished eating yet. What has she been doing these past thirty minutes?

“I’ll be at tutoring today, but only until five,” he reminds her before sending her a lazy wave and leaving the rooftop.

“Okay,” she responds, although he’s already left. She stares at the closed door for several moments, wondering what in the world this feeling in her chest is.

Even though she didn’t get the chance to start her book, her heart is beating as fast as it would as if she had been reading it this entire time.

By the end of the school day, Erza is genuinely looking forward to their first tutoring session. Admittedly, she’s excited to talk to Jellal again, but that’s only part of it. She’s ready to give it all she has to help him; Jellal needs to pass the upcoming midterm.

Once school is finished for the day, she sits in the desk she normally would for class, trying to busy herself while waiting for the door to open. Sure enough, Jellal eventually saunters in with a notebook and pencil in hand.

“Give me a minute,” he sighs, falling into the desk beside her and leaning his head back on the seat. “Makarov really worked my ass off today.”

“We don’t have time for a break,” Erza states firmly as she sets another group of paperclipped sheets onto his desk.

“More notes?” he inquires with bewilderment. “How do you have the time to write all of these?”

“By spending it wisely,” she replies. “Did you use the notes I gave you on Wednesday?”

“Yeah, they really helped actually,” he answers. He places his hand over his mouth. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

She can’t hide the playfulness in her tone. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Whatever, let’s just get on with this.” He rolls his eyes in response.

Erza’s lips slightly form a smile as they get started. She is prepared to take baby steps while showing him the math equations; she even is anticipating taking this entire session reviewing over ways to solve it. However, none of that happens. Instead, Jellal is finished with the math section within an hour.

“You’re actually smart?” Erza says, although it comes out sounding more like a question.

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t really care about it.” He shrugs half-heartedly.

“Why don’t you apply yourself in class?” she asks.

“I don’t care about school,” he answers plainly. “It’s boring.”

Erza’s eyes widen, completely baffled by his words. “School is amazing!” she proclaims. The rest comes flying out of her, wanting to protect her love of school as though it is her child. “One second you’re learning about life, and the next second you’re learning about what happened five hundred years ago. It’s always a journey, day after day!”

Jellal views her as she catches up with her breaths, puzzled. “Why do you like school so much?”

“No reason,” she responds a bit too quickly. “It’s just a hobby.”

“Do you have any other hobbies?” He slightly leans forward, propping himself up on the corner of her desk.

As if a light switch has been flipped on, Erza notices Jellal’s alternate persona making its appearance. Their eyes connect so intensely; she can’t look away. Had there always been a sparkle in his eyes? She isn’t very sure if she wants this to stop or keep going, even as he leans even closer.

“We have the same eye color,” he mentions softly.

“And here’s your next assignment!” she loudly declares, blatantly ignoring him and forcing another set of papers into his face. She refuses to make direct eye contact as she resumes writing notes for him.

Jellal quirks a brow while accepting the papers, sensing her obviously frantic emotions. He decides to keep his thoughts to himself as he mindlessly works on his assignment.

Erza’s thoughts have never gone this haywire while sitting next to someone before. Could he tell she’s never experienced something like this before? Could he tell she’s been trying her best to close off her emotions?

“It’s five now,” she says after thirty minutes of agonizing silence.

“Oh, really? Thanks for letting me know.” Jellal pushes his seat back to stand up. “Got any more notes for—” His words are cut off as she gives him another set. “Why did I even ask?”

Erza watches him as he gathers his belongings. “See you on M-Monday,” she tells him, slightly stumbling over her words. She can’t remember the last time she ever told someone that.

Again, Jellal senses the reluctance in her voice. He’s silent as he heads towards the door, feeling her eyes settled on him. He pauses before stepping outside.

“Maybe you do have some emotions inside of you, after all.”

Erza’s heart jumps into her throat, being left alone in the classroom with the door creaked open. It is in that moment when she realizes—Jellal really can see right through her.

And for some reason, she is not only stunned once again, but also utterly relieved.

After reflecting on her actions over the weekend, Erza decides she cannot be anything but as cool as a cucumber during her time with Jellal. She won’t allow anything to happen again; her time with him is strictly a tutoring session. To keep her promise, she even changes the seating arrangement.

“You’re unnecessarily far, you know,” Jellal nearly scowls during their next session. They sit facing each other, but with three desks between them.

“It’s so I can give you papers easier,” Erza explains falsely.

To maintain a professional environment, she gives him no breaks in between tutoring sections from then on. She intends for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons to only consist of work and nothing else. However, her mindset doesn’t go as planned when Jellal’s stomach rudely interrupts.

“You need to eat a bigger lunch,” she mutters under her breath.

“I would if I could,” he retorts.

As a result, Erza has no choice but to bring in something for Jellal to snack on in exchange for some silence. She isn’t sure what to bring until she finds herself craving something—sweets. It’s then when she settles with that as his treat. Not only does she want to bring them because she’d enjoy eating them herself; it’s also a strategy to keep him motivated to work.

But as much as it pains her, she also has to deal with the fact that this brief time of snacking also brings conversation that she’d much rather avoid.

“These sweets are great!” Jellal proclaims, nearly stuffing an entire muffin into his mouth. “Where did you get these?”

“I live near a bakery,” Erza replies.

“I could eat these all day,” he says with a satisfied smile. He views her handful of sweets. “It looks like you can, too.”

“Their cakes are my favorite,” she admits without a second a thought. She bites her tongue, mentally punishing herself for revealing something she probably shouldn’t have.

“I’ll have to try some of their cakes someday,” he responds.

“I’ll bring some in next time,” she states.

He quirks a brow. “So, you’re saying you’re going to bring sweets from here on out?”

Erza can’t decide whether she’s being manipulated or that this is truly the only way to keep him motivated. Regardless, she begins to nod. “I just hope your stomach doesn’t make too much noise anymore.”

“I promise it won’t,” he assures.

From then on, Erza brings a box of sweets for Jellal every tutoring session. She limits their break to ten minutes in hopes that they won’t talk too much. Yet somehow, she finds herself knowing more about Jellal after each session, even if he’s three desks away with a mouth full of chocolate.

Every day, she learns little things about him like, he really enjoys physics, he’s incredibly patient, he isn’t as tough as he presents himself to be, and lastly—much to her surprise—he loves sweets.

And at the same time, Erza is unconsciously revealing herself to him, too—little by little. She accidentally let it slip that she loves sweet just as much, she loves all subjects, and she’s not as patient as she would like to be.

She isn’t sure if it’s okay for someone to know these things about her, but somehow, she wants him to. She wants him to know the parts of her that not very many people know.

So here they are, nibbling on sweets during their ten minute break before returning to their intense studying. For the most part, they speak about nonsense during the time, but today the conversation is much different.

“It sucks that these tutoring sessions aren’t forever,” Jellal admits. “I want to eat these sweets for the rest of the school year.”

“I’m sure you’ll be relieved when these sessions end,” Erza remarks.

“True,” he chuckles, not trying to hide it. “But I got used to it, you know? You’re not as horrible as I thought you’d be. You’re actually pretty cool.”

It takes a few moments for her to understand his words, blinking several times in the process. She hesitantly opens her mouth. “You’re a little cool, too.”

“Only a little?” he scoffs. “I’ll have you know, I’m known as the coolest person at my job.”

“They have it all wrong,” she responds with a shake of her head. “I think the man with the shiny teeth is the coolest.”

“Hibiki?” he asks curiously, tilting his head as he thinks about it. “I guess his teeth do make him sort of cool.”

“The coolest,” Erza corrects him.

“Nope. I even think you’re cooler than him,” Jellal promptly shoots back.

“He’s definitely cooler.”

“No, you are.”

“He is.”

“You are!”

“He is!”

“Am I?”

“Of course,” Erza blurts out without a second thought. She pauses at her mistake, instantly rolling her eyes at Jellal’s reaction.

“I knew I was more than a little cool,” he declares with a grin. Once he’s finished celebrating, a faint smirk forms across his lips. “Don’t worry, you’re still pretty cool.”

It takes every fiber of Erza’s being to not release her smile. She forces herself to eat what’s left of her bread in one bite, taking another sheet of papers. “Let’s get back to work now.”

As the sound of their chewing is replaced by pencils writing and papers ruffling, it’s difficult for Erza to stay focused. She can’t help but endlessly replay their conversation, promising herself that she’s truly content like this with him. Sure, her heart skips a beat every so often and sometimes the image of how he looks like as a host flashes across her mind, but that’s it.

She doesn’t need anything more than this.

Jellal hasn’t made any physical advances towards her since their first tutoring session, surely because he can sense the determination within Erza. Her efforts at being cool as a cucumber have certainly paid off.

But as the weeks continue and Erza has spent an embarrassing amount of money on sweets, the midterms become dangerously close. It’s time for their tutoring sessions to shift into second gear and cram in everything that’s left.

“Are you free this Saturday?” Erza asks one day.

“What time is the date?” Jellal teases.

She vacantly blinks in response, abiding by her professional environment stance. Jellal caught on as soon as she started, so he doesn’t mind. If anything, her blank expressions are amusing to him.

“Yeah, I have the morning and afternoon off this Saturday,” he answers seriously this time. “We can do it then.”

“Prepare for a long tutoring session,” she states.

“Oh, I do every day.”

Erza smiles to herself, proud that her tutoring sessions have impacted him. But that’s not all—Jellal has made a tremendous amount of progress these past few weeks. Although it’s more like he’s polishing his already advanced skills, she cheers for him every session.

She has high hopes for him and for his midterm; yet, there’s a part of her that feels he still needs an extra boost of motivation. Once an idea enters her mind, she doesn’t hesitate.

“What’s your favorite dessert?” she asks as nonchalantly as she can.

“Strawberry cake,” he responds.

“So is mine!” she blurts out more eagerly than she intended.

“Good choice,” he remarks with a commending nod.

Erza returns the nod, already planning out her idea in her mind. And with the plans to meet at the library this Saturday at noon, she decides that it’s finally time to put her second hobby to good use.

She only hopes that it won’t result in a total disaster like she fears it will.

#fairy tail #fairy tail fanfiction #jerza #jerza fanfiction #my writing #woooo feels good to branch out to another ship #thanks for reading!

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chogisad · 7 years

Text

Skin to Skin | Pt. 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Time is beginning to move at a normal pace again. The sun rises and sets, and this heart remembers to beat without hurting in the mornings. Sehun stops calling. His texts fade into a background noise of apology and regret, and eventually, they too become nonexistent.

I am trying to hold my life and his love in two separate hands. It is a slow but possible process to untangle them, to create different spheres in which they do not have to coexist. I am trying to erase some of these memories, to forget the warmth of his presence in my life.

So in the quiet of a waning summer, I tuck his things into the back of my closet; a sweatshirt, a notebook, a pair of jeans, a toothbrush. They're small details he felt comfortable enough to leave behind, or comfortable enough to make a part of my home too. He spent so much time with me in this apartment that we never questioned the fact that he had a favorite mug, knew the tricks of the showerhead, had the only spare key. I pack and hide it all away, to collect dust with the other secrets, the other parts of my life that are too painful to keep.

Sehun and I spent years at each other's side. We built our lives and moved forward but we always had a place to return to. I called on the weekends and liked to hear the chaos of his surroundings, all travel and music and company. When he was in town, he'd bring take-out and a movie. We'd lounge and laugh and pretend that the outside world wasn't leaving us behind, that'd we'd grown up too fast, that eventually all of this would fall apart at our own hand.

I don't have the courage to ask for the spare key back. A month passes and I realize it doesn't matter.

None of this is by accident. On some nights, when I've had too many drinks or the sheets become cold with a particular loneliness, I think about that day. I think about him and those moments we moved in synch, skin to skin, too willing to risk everything for fleeting temptation. We were searching for something in each other and we were too quick to run when we found it. We both allowed the world to crash down around us. We were not strong enough to pick up the pieces.

Chanyeol calls and serves as a constant reminder that this isn't how things were.

"He misses you."

I stay quiet on my end of the phone call. Lying is a fruitless endeavor; "I don't care," doesn't fool either of us. Silence is better, safer, it keeps my resentment and misplaced love neatly tucked away. It makes no difference anymore.

"He asks about you." Chanyeol's voice is always hesitant, tired, the accidental pawn.

"What do you tell him?"

"That you're good. That you won't admit how much you miss him too."

And that's usually how our conversations end. I try to forget, and Chanyeol wants me to remember. He's bridging miles with memories, as if he could singlehandedly get us to forgive each other.

I don't hold it against him. Chanyeol is far more perceptive than anyone gives him credit for. I never ask but he tells me about Sehun; he's trying to be okay. He has trouble sleeping. He's spends time apologizing to the wrong people.

"I have to go, Yeol." I'm always the first to end our calls. Chanyeol is too good at brokering peace. He's too thoughtful, and I know that if I let him, he'd convince me to build a bridge from these ashes.

Still, life begins to feel normal. Their schedule picks up and Chanyeol calls less often. He always mentions Sehun in passing; on some days I'm grateful, on others I tell myself letting him go was worthwhile.

But we're only as strong as our weaknesses.

Everything is too quiet when I come home to find Sehun asleep on my couch.

The shock is startling; fear and adrenaline coursing, gearing my instincts for survival. My heart recognizes him before my mind. The moment passes but I'm still immobile, standing at the threshold of the hallway and the living room, staring, almost afraid of breathing too loudly.

I watch him in silence, the boy I love, curled into himself in the middle of my home. He's beautiful. Sleep softens his edges, takes away some of his anger. But even in his dreams he cannot escape his worries; his brow is furrowed and his fingers curl into a fist near his chest.

I'd forgotten what it felt like to look at him.

Outside, the wind begins to hum and rain falls to meet the windows.

"I think you should have it." I'd told him, holding out the bronze key on its silver chain.

"Why?" He was in a hurry, the black van only seconds away from honking for him.

"I don't want to keep getting up to let you in. You're over here so often. Plus, if I ever get locked out-- come rescue me."

He'd taken it with a smile and no objection. He hugged me goodbye, tightly, with a promise to call once his plane landed.

Time is passing in unforgiving strides. Maybe I'm already a prisoner to two dimensions. There is a version of myself yearning to relive the moments when Sehun and I could touch without breaking. This apartment once knew the melodious echo of his laughter.

The other version of myself is a foreigner to forgiveness.

I walk to his side in measured steps. Once, it was so easy to exist in the same space. I'm kneeling on the carpeted floor and my hand trembles as I reach for him, so hesitant to disturb the rise and fall of his lungs.

Something catches the light and I freeze. The chain is unmistakable, its silver glinting in the dim orange hum of the living room. His fingers are holding onto the key so tightly I wonder if the brass is digging into his skin, if later there'll be vibrant marks to serve as evidence of this longing.

"Sehun?" I find my voice somewhere beneath weeks of trying to forget him. I shake him lightly. I'm an uncertain breeze on autumn leaves, and he stirs, if only for a moment.

"Hey, hey," I greet him, the words familiarizing themselves with a gentility we once knew so well.

"Hey," his reply is sleepy as he sits up. He peeks down at me with bleary eyes, and a drowsy smile. I can't help it, the way my own lips curl upwards, and the seconds pass as we soak each other in.

My heart lunges in irregularity, unsure if it should beat to these falsehoods of recognition. He's blinking, trying to do away with the persistent hold of sleep, and I'm caught between resentment and amusement, walking along the thin ice of this fragile moment.

"I missed you," he says it like an apology. I want to avert my eyes, but this ensuing chaos is like a natural disaster-- everyone wants to bare witness. He's tired, he's vulnerable, and we are too aware that there is nothing left to lose.

"I-" the truth gets lodged in my throat. I'm choking on self preservation. We're so close, on the cusp of trying to befriend absolution, and the air cloys with possibility. Fight, flight, forgiveness-- experience has made us untrustworthy, cynical to our own capability for mercy.

His smile is a broken understanding.

"It's okay." His voice quiets, echoing the words of another day. "I'll make this easy for the both of us."

My hands shake and he steadies them with his own. I watch, unable to meet his gaze, as he places the key in my palm, and gently closes my fingers over it.

My throat constricts. I stare at our hands, his skin still grazing mine, and my vision turns blurry. A part of me demands I stop mourning things long buried. But this heart is unaffected by the eulogy of time and despite its scars, it thumps away: cacophonous, hopeful, stubborn.

"I missed you too!" I blurt out, surprising us both. It's an erratic confession that leaves us treading uncertain waters, leaves us a little breathless, wondering how safe it is to swim towards shore.

Sehun and I never got the opportunity to make a home out of one another. Our eyes meet. This fragile sincerity is all we have left, faithless and honest, terrified of every what if still lodged in our subconscious.

"I'm sorry that I hurt you," his voice quivers, quiet yet brave. It takes a special kind of courage to conjure this vulnerability.

"I'm sorry that I let you walk away that day." His amber eyes glisten, and we both live this moment with baited breaths.

"I told myself every night that you deserved to be happy. That you deserved better. So I tried to keep my distance." The first tears sit on his lashes, waiting for this beautiful boy to finally let them cascade.

"And it hurts. It hurts so much to be without you." A clear droplet falls, dancing along the curve of his cheek, but he doesn't move to wipe it away. This pain isn't meant to be erased.

Touch. Feel.

The silence could break the both of us.

"I forgive you." I whisper, letting the words flutter in the space between us. I caress away one of his tears with the pad of my thumb. I take away some of the guilt.

"I don't want to be without you." The boy I love hands me his heart, still beating, trusting me to keep him whole. I stare at him and he stares at me and we both wait for the universe to pull us apart once more. We wait for the excuse, the panic, the fear that always sends us running.

But It's gravitational, an unavoidable force beckoning us closer, always back to each other. His breath ghosts over my lips-- tempting, timid-- and I close my eyes.

His kiss is tentative, a grace of silk, a droplet of honey. We are begging to be loved, and his hands cup my face, still gentle, yet still expecting to be pushed away.

"I missed you," I breathe, letting the confession graze his skin, and I feel his smile-- grateful, happy. He rests his forehead against mine and we're both blushing, listening to the playful patter of our hearts, so unaccustomed to this surrender. We lay down our weapons. We let ourselves broker a single peace. We are tired of hurting and we are both willing to believe that this is enough.

The droplets outside fall more earnestly. Everything gets washed away and we share this moment with the hum of rain on the rooftop.

"I love y-"

"Don't." I place a careful finger over his lips. He's confused, but we can both understand that there are some things we must live through with moderation. There are too many wounds still healing. We are a flickering flame, fighting against the wind, and any sudden turn in the current can throw us back into the darkness.

"Not yet." I murmur, wishing I could give him this too. Sehun draws me into his body, wrapping his arms around me. He's warm, reminding me of the summer nights we spent watching dim stars fight their way onto a thankless sky. We were different back then, a little more whole, unaccustomed to the growing war cries of our stubborn hearts.

"God-- I missed you," His sigh whispers along my neck. I hum in agreement, soaking him in, trying to ignore the ache that waits on a horizon when it's time to let go.

We spend that night tucked into each other's side on the small couch. It's innocent, the way we meet each other for the first time again, the way we blush at every tentative kiss. We're lovers in a new home, still feeling for boundaries, too hopeful with the future.

He tells me about the cities that felt empty without me. I tell him about the nights when alcohol was the only companion at my bedside. This truce we crafted is gentle. It nurtures a painful sincerity out of us. We are honest about all the ways we were hurting, all the times we woke to salt on our lips. He stays the night and we say I love you in a hundred different ways.

"I dialed your number so many times."

"I kept seeing you in other people."

"I was afraid of forgetting the sound of your laugh."

"Every morning I had to stop myself from rushing back to you."

Its easy to forgive heartbreak when we are so desperate to be loved again.

The night quiets down and we are left with the echoes of hearts still learning to exist outside of warfare. He thinks I'm asleep. His lips are light on my forehead. He murmurs I love you in the darkness before he drifts into unconsciousness.

I think he's asleep. I press my palm against his chest, wonder how I survived without this proximity. I whisper I love you too with the moon and the night sky as my only witnesses.

They watch on, promising to keep our hearts safe and whole until Sehun and I are ready to say the words with a little more conviction.

A/N: Honestly, I cannot even begin to describe how grateful I am for all the support and love this story got. What started out as a one shot, turned into a four piece series that so many people encouraged me to keep writing. Thank you guys for reading, for messaging me, for giving the motivation to write more. If you’d like, check out my other stuff, and again, thank you thank you thank you. :)

MASTERLIST

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poeticsandaliens · 7 years

Text

A Pirate’s Life for Me (Ch. 1)

Mulder is kidnapped by pirates, and Scully goes to rescue him aboard the haunted ship of Captain Stella Gibson. Swashbuckling adventure and smutty romance ensue.

Warnings: Death, kidnapping, ghosts, pretty much everything involved in your standard pirate story.

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11405793/chapters/25547709

This fic is the unholy brainchild of my Stella x Scully ship and my obsession with pirates. I’m enjoying the fuck out of it.

“This is it, Scully. I can feel it in my bones,” Mulder said at the docks, the Macbeth looming over them. Governor Spender’s men marched aboard two by two, the sailors of lesser rank bearing food, maps, and miscellaneous supplies.

"For your sake, I hope it is."

“I know you don’t believe me.”

“Of course I don’t believe you, but I know better than to try and stop you from getting on that ship.”

“And you’ll watch over my study?”

“Your archives are safe in my hands.”

“Thank you, Scully.” He wrapped her tiny frame in his arms, loosening the pins in her complicated updo. When he released her, his eyes crinkled in an earnest smile. “I’ll miss you, for however long I am away. But the truth is out there, and if I do not return from the sea, know that I died searching for it.”

She held his prematurely weathered cheeks in her hands and promised him— “If word reaches that you’re in trouble, I’ll search all seven seas for you.”

“You’ll come to my rescue.” His grin widened.

“Don’t doubt that I could and readily will. I have only to leverage my father’s name.” She smiled, cocked her eyebrows mischievously, poorly disguising her apprehension.

“Scully.” His gaze darkened. "To be serious, do not put your life on hold on my account.”

“There’s little I would not put on hold for you.” She pushed him toward the boat. “Go, Mulder. They’re about to raise the bridge.”

He had made himself a quest, and she would not keep him. She’d voiced her concerns a thousand times over and failed to sway him—his heart was seabound, and she could do nothing but bolster his courage and keep watch over his archives in his absence. She left the dock before his ship raised anchor, not wanting to trap herself in a band of wives waving their husbands goodbye. She was most certainly not Fox Mulder’s wife, and she hated to draw out the moment—it made her farewells feel all the more final.

Lifting her skirts, she marched back to the carriage and ordered the driver to take her to the top of the hill. Her father had returned to his family twenty years ago lucky, weighed down with the spoils of war, and ordered that new home be built for his wife and children on the highest point of Port Washington.

She remembered that after her father’s Commander came to their door with news of his death, she had asked her mother why they lived on such a hill—it was a tedious carriage ride into town, even more so to the port—and she had said, your father wanted this house to be the first thing he saw when he sailed into the bay. And he wanted us to see his ship from miles away and know he was coming home.

It would have been an endearing prospect, had Lieutenant William Scully ever come home. She could only hope Mulder would not suffer the same fate.

* * *

Scully woke to mid-morning sunlight streaming through the window of Mulder’s office. It was the same dream every night since he'd left—watching him climb aboard the ship and wave his hat to her from the front deck, just as her father had ten years before. A jarring pinch between her ribs reminded her of how she had spent the night.

She groaned at the strings of her corset still pulling tightly on her waist and reached behind her back to loosen them.

“Good morning, Miss Scully.”

Scully startled at the gruff voice behind her.

“Good morning, Commodore Skinner,” she breathed, clutching her chest. Skinner was an imposing man from afar—tall, burly, similar in figure to Fox Mulder. But when he stepped into the study, lamp light glinted on his bald head, and with a pair of spectacles askew on his rosy face, he appeared quite fatherly.

“Another night guarding Mulder’s files, eh?” he asked darkly. “You ought to be getting more sleep.”

“Since when do you visit this cellar solely to remind me of my sleep schedule, Sir? I presume you’re looking for an archive.” She crossed her arms and cocked her eyebrow. Skinner never made it his business to interfere with Mulder’s research—he was a man of logic and order, always buttoned up and bound to the strictest interpretations of the law; Fox Mulder spent his time buried in mythologies, categorizing and studying the legends of the sea.

“I’m afraid so, Miss Scully. You’re responsible for any organization of this archival mess, and certain events have come to light which I cannot ignore.”

“What events?” Scully demanded, sitting upright on the rickety stool, her back digging into Mulder’s desk. Strands of copper hair dropped into her face, and she felt her updo sag to one side after several hours of fitful sleep.

“There’s been talk of the Flying Dutchman near Port Royale, only fifty kilometers from here, and the Lighthouse operator swore he saw a silver ship rise from the sea beneath the very same cliffs that surround our bay.”

Scully rolled her eyes. “The Flying Dutchman does not exist. A ship of ghosts, Sir? You’ve clearly spent too much time listening to Mulder’s stories.”

“Not nearly as much time as you. Miss Scully. I’m not concerned about the ghostly Flying Dutchman. I’m concerned that multiple men report sightings of a pirate ship lurking around Port Washington. I’ve heard too many first hand accounts of pirates in these waters pillaging any port they dock near.”

“Why are you down here, then, sir?”

“Because if sailors cry of the Dutchman, it may very well be a real ship, captained by a real pirate. Just not a spectral nightmare.”

Scully chewed her lip. She was certainly not one to listen to old wives’ tales, but then, neither was Commodore Skinner.

“You want me to locate stories of the Flying Dutchman, Sir?”

“Any information you and Mulder have gathered could help us take precautions against a raid, even if his notes seem far-fetched.”

“Fair enough.” Scully nodded and got to her feet. She snatched a quill off the desk and slid it through the lopsided bun in her hair, twisting it until it tightened and held in place. Still slightly bleary-eyed, she turned to the cabinet in the office’s darkest corner. She had ordered Mulder’s archives by each letter of the alphabet when she first began to assist him as the Governor’s official archivist. Commodore Skinner had, at the time, been astonished at her level of literacy, but had come to realize that Scully was a far more learned woman than was the expectation in Port Washington.

Her father had taught her to read when she was young, after she told him she wanted to pursue medicine as a career. Her mother had been skeptical at first—after all, she had done well for herself mostly illiterate, and Dana Scully’s odds of practicing medicine as a woman in an English merchant colony were virtually nil, when the only doctor in Port Washington had refused to take a woman as his apprentice.

Fortunately, she had stumbled upon Commodore Skinner, searching for a learned assistant to the archivist. She’d found herself dusting off mythologies and researching pirates in a cellar with none other than Port Washington's official archivist, Fox Mulder.

Her first act as his partner had been to tidy his disaster of a study. Her second had been to debunk his theories about the existence of Davy Jones’ Locker, but she hadn’t quite persuaded him as to its nonexistence.

“Scully,” Skinner pressed, eyeing the cabinet. “What is there of the Dutchman?”

“Common legend says it is captained by Davy Jones himself, but legends are hardly grounds for concern,” she scoffed, counting down the drawers. “And Mulder took most writings with him.”

“But of the Dutchman?”

She procured slips of loose parchment from a corner drawer. “Account of a Frenchman in 1680 AD calls it ‘a ship that sails itself, captained by a grizzled old man.’ More recently, a bartender in Los Barriles swears he spotted the Dutchman on his walk home from the pub. It ‘flew up from the waves and glowed silver, as if it were haunted or something of the sort.’”

Skinner raised his eyebrows. “Is that it?”

“If you expected substantial, factual accounts you’ve come to the wrong place, Sir.”

“I suppose I have.” He tipped his hat to her.

“Good day, sir.” Scully turned back to her paperwork, waiting to hear the click of his shoes upon the floorboards and the stairwell’s distinctive creak. Nothing came. “Sir?” She turned around again to see him clutching his hat formally in both hands, his hairless forehead shining.

“Miss Scully, I did not come just to be bombarded with legends. I bear news of Mister Mulder.”

Skinner sighed and pinched his forehead. His fingers fiddled with the golden buttons on his uniform, and his spectacles slid further toward the tip of his nose. He looked positively exhausted. “A ship from the West India Company docked this morning. They rescued three members of the Macbeth’s crew near a remote archipelago. The men claim their ship was overrun by pirates.”

She’d heard this story before—the same tale as preluded an announcement of her father’s death.

“Most of the crew were thrown overboard, but—”

“So Mulder is dead,” she finished. She steeled her face, crossed her arms over her chest. Skinner was not a man she wanted to cry before.

“Fox Mulder has been taken captive.”

She couldn’t immediately decide if that was better or worse than dead. Perhaps he was doomed to vanish as his sister had, never to be heard from again. No one would know what became of him, and she would live with the wondering for the rest of her life. But captive meant he had a chance of rescue, if only she could find him.

She stared at Skinner through glass blue eyes. “Did they say anything else? The name of a port, or a ship, or a man?”

Skinner shook his head solemnly. “Nothing. These were young sailors, Miss Scully; any man on the Macbeth with enough days at sea to recognize a pirate’s vessel twice is likely drowned.”

“We must give pursuit!” Scully gathered the papers strewn across the desk and shoved them into a random drawer. “I want to be aboard a pursuing ship by this evening.” She rolled up her sleeves and smoothed her skirt. “You have the authority to give pursuit of whatever ship took the Riptide, and I know the ports where Mulder would have landed.”

“Governor Spender is already on board the Triton, seeking to eradicate any ship within a thousand kilometers that sails under the skull and crossbones. He ordered that I not let another warship leave Port Washington. I’m sorry, Scully. I cannot give chase.”

Scully couldn’t believe what she was hearing—giving chase was the Commodore’s job. He was a commander of the Royal Navy, not the captain of a makeshift merchant militia. Rationally, she supposed it was indeed foolish to try to rescue Mulder from a ship they could neither recognize nor locate, but good God, wasn’t their duty to try?

“I can use my father’s name,” Scully insisted. “I can get us the fastest ship in the Atlantic.” Her father had been well-respected and fairly successful in the Royal Navy. The Scully name might not earn her command of a ship, as a woman, but it might earn her the right aboard one.

Skinner glanced over his shoulder and kicked the cellar door shut. His face looked ruddy in the pale morning light, revealing perhaps more anxiety than he intended. “My hands are tied, Miss Scully.” He leaned awkwardly toward her, and she resisted the urge to turn away from the nervous officer. “A word of advice to you: the only people who know how to find pirates are better pirates. Were you to act rashly, I could not stop you—as I said, my hands are tied.”

The trust and blessing of a commodore, Scully mused as Skinner whispered gruffly into her ear, were as useful as his rank. Possibly more so.

Skinner straightened himself out and smoothed the wrinkles in his uniform. He tipped his hat to her. “Good day. I’m truly sorry about Mister Mulder’s fate.” He walked stiff-legged to the door. Then he stopped. “Miss Scully, one more thing,” he said over his shoulder, meeting her gaze in the corners of his eyes. “Better pirates carry pistols. I would hate to lose you and Mulder both.”

Then he was gone.

#television: the fall #Television: The X-Files #stella gibson #dana scully #stella x scully #xf fic

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