#my soul has already departed actually only my unwilling body is here at work

[capriciouswriting]

— coping mechanisms.

pairing: agent whiskey / unnamed (agent absinthe) oc. (ao3, oc pinterest aes)

warnings: angst. minor character death. mentions of blood, drugs and guns. swearing.

word count: 1.6k

angst prompts from this list:

52. “Don’t look at me like that.”

59. “I’m fine. Stop asking.”

45. “You can’t keep it all inside, you know? Bottling it up won’t do any good.”

Her older brother had been the only good thing in her life. Granted, she couldn’t say the same for him. She was a complicated woman, someone who was too difficult to handle and much too opinionated for her own good. She was frustratingly unabashed, and far too lacking in the self-care department.

Her brother was too good to her, far too kind, and far too forgiving. He put up with all her bullshit, and loved her through it all. He saw her for who she was before the booze, drugs and guns - saw who she could be, even when she forgot who that was. He didn’t have to try and always help, he had a good job working security for some whiskey making company (she learns differently later, of course), and had left her back in Texas while he made his way to Kentucky. Whilst her brother moved onto bigger and better things, becoming successful and making good money, she moved down and started to get mixed in with the wrong people. 

It wasn’t always like this, either, for a while she had been doing well and was even enlisted in the police academy - ranking as the top female in her class and best overall with her weaponry. She was doing well, but the tragic cliche story of most downfalls is usually just that - tragic and cliche. A bad boyfriend who got her mixed into his bad business, promises of material goods and an everlasting love. Her brother warned her countless times, telling her that the man was no good for her and the two nearly exchanged fists when he spoke badly to her in front of her older brother. The only good decision she made while her brother was still here was leaving that boyfriend, the bad decision was that she was already knee deep in bad shit to just up and leave. 

So, she didn’t.

When her brother died, she felt like a ghost of herself. The two men on the doorstep of her barren apartment looked upset, feeling the loss of her brother heavy on their own shoulders. This is when everything was explained to her by a man who simply went by “Agent Champagne”. Her brother wasn’t just running security for a whiskey company, and the low-life drug and gun running business she worked for had been the reason her brother was no longer around to bother her.

(“He was doing it for you,” Champ explains, “He wanted to get you out.”)

She couldn’t bring herself to cry, but what she did do was run straight to her bathroom and vomit all the contents of her stomach. The emotions coursing through her becoming all too much for her to handle in that single moment. 

When she’s sitting across from the two men again, Champ’s voice barely meets her ears as he speaks. She knows she’s looking directly at the one in the black hat, Agent Whiskey, as he looks at her with such disdain she swears he thinks she killed her brother with her own two hands. She can’t bite her tongue, she wishes she had more self control to, but in that moment she can’t find it within herself to be polite towards Whiskey.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

She has to take her anger out on someone, she thinks, and he just happens to be the one to mess with the bull.

They’re in each other's faces before Champ can even really comprehend,Whiskey going nose to nose with her. She’s unafraid, looking at him dead in the eye while her nostrils flare with anger - and if Whiskey weren’t so angry with her he would’ve commended the bravery. But he’s too angry, and so is she, so instead they’re standing toe to toe while Champ is pushing on both of their chests and trying to yell over them to step away.

She does, and asks them to quickly leave so she can finally stop her hands from shaking and so she can focus on what she’s going to do next. Champ breaks her heart, though, explaining that they can’t do that. He explains that her brother had explicitly stated, if he had died, she was to be in the care of the Statesmen. And as angry as she was with Agent Whiskey, she couldn’t bring herself to go against anything her brother would ask. Not anymore.

Not when the guilt was clawing its way up from her stomach, into the valves of her heart, and threatening to escape through her throat like the vomit. The guilt and anger burned her insides while simultaneously turning her veins into ice, making everything ache - from her bones to her soul.

She learned about the Statesmen slowly, mostly unwilling. Meeting them all one by one but staying obnoxiously close to Champagne. Memories of her brother were shared between everyone as time went on, except Agent Whiskey. His own judgement clouding any sense of actually getting to know her. They both steered clear of each other for a long time, despite Champ speaking to them both individually about the matter. Whiskey was, after all, her brother’s best friend within the Statesmen. But neither of them heeded the advice. Sneers and glares were haughtily shared, and there was one more instance where Tequila had to step in between the two in question when they got into another yelling match about her brother.

(“It’s your fault he’s gone, he was trying to protect you from your shitty decisions!” Whiskey had yelled at her, she swung at him as soon as the words left his mouth. Choosing to lash out physically instead of verbally.)

This time they completely avoid each other, and as more time passes she becomes more involved and acquainted with Statesmen business. Champ kept his last promise to her brother, and when she finally took over her brother’s title as Agent Absinthe, Agent Whiskey was none too happy. He stomped out of the meeting room despite voting her in, but tells himself it’s because it’s what her brother would’ve wanted. Not him.

They go back to not speaking, and avoid each other at all points humanly possible. This changes when they’re sent on a field mission together to watch and infiltrate the same group of people she was once affiliated with, the same group of people who killed her brother - and the same group of people who nearly killed her.

Whiskey barely got her out, and she had been covered in blood and screaming obscenities at him and the people who had killed her brother. Absinthe is barely able to walk right, and she’s leaning so heavily on him that he’s practically carrying her out. Arm wrapped around her middle, her own arms wrapped around his neck for support. She’s lame in one leg, blood oozing from a gunshot wound she had sustained early on. 

(“They’re dead, Absinthe, they’re dead,” Whiskey chanted to her as he hauled her away, she’s still panting out obscenities, “I promise, they’re gone.”)

Her body is starting to feel heavy, to both Whiskey and herself. So, he gets them a safe distance away from the chaos before he stops, setting Absinthe on the ground carefully. He works quickly, removing the belt around his waist and wrapping it around her thigh. He keeps asking her under his breath if she’s okay but she’s refusing to speak or even look his way.

“Hey,” He snaps his fingers in front of her face in an attempt to get her attention. Her breathing has slowed, and she looks far away. Like she’s there, but not really, “You okay?”

“I’m fine, stop asking.”

He frowns, aggravated. Whiskey wants to shoot something back at her, and feels like he has every reason to be an asshole.

“Why’d you get me out of there? You don’t even like me.”

He looks up as she speaks. She’s paler, and covered in blood in random places on her face and clothes. But when Whiskey looks at her, really looks at her, he sees the dark circles under her eyes and the smallest indent of her cheeks sinking in. The exhaustion is evident, and he can’t bring himself to recall if she actually ever cried when him and Champ came to tell her that her brother was gone. He can’t remember if she ever shed a tear when stories were shared from other Statesmen. Whiskey knows she didn’t even cry, when she had all the reason to, when he put her brother’s death on her shoulders.

“He’d kill me if I didn’t.”

The understanding is immediate, and it’s the first time he’s ever gotten a laugh out of her - granted it’s short, and akin more to a huff of a laugh than anything, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.

Whiskey shifts on his haunches in front of her, “You can’t keep it all inside, y’know? Bottling it up won’t do any good.”

Absinthe leans back against the wall, shoulders falling slack as she looks towards him finally, “Don’t really have anyone to talk to, do I?”

Whiskey sighs, leaning down to help her up so they can start moving again. They’re quiet for a long time, it’s a silence that - for the first time - is very comfortable between them. Neither say anything, and only when they’re both sitting on a plane to head back to the Statesmen headquarters, does Whiskey decide to say something.

“He wouldn’t want this for us,” he shifts to look at her, “And although you’ve been nothin’ but a pain in my ass, and I’ve been nothin’ but an asshole back… He’d want me to listen if you’d need it. So, I’ll listen.”

Only then, does she finally cry.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Queen Of The Damned”

In the whole eternity, The Queen of the Underworld only loved once: he was mortal and died shortly after she gave him a child. So when The Joker says he’s a Prince, he’s not actually lying or being a presumptuous lunatic: the green haired man is in fact royalty and sole heir to The Realm Below.

“Stop fidgeting!!!” the nurse admonishes. “This is a new experimental drug and it will help you, OK?” she tries to reason with the patient confined inside a straitjacket, heavy chains bounding him to the metal table.

“Let me go!” he hisses and tries to bite her as she checks his neck for pulse.

“I can’t let you go, Mister Joker. We’re trying to make you better, alright?” the caregiver dodges his teeth before J can sink them in her flesh.

“If you don’t untie me, my Mother will come!!! She doesn’t like it if I’m in danger!”

“Shut the hell up, you insane bastard!” the attending physician can’t hold in his bitterness while mixing the serum.

“Doctor Reeves!” the woman raises her voice. “That’s not the way we talk! I know you are new at Arkham Asylum, but I would really appreciate it if you treat our cases with respect!”

“I’m sorry,” the physician apologizes for his unprofessional remark. “He gets on my nerves!”

“Yes well… Please keep your personal opinions to yourself because they’re not doing any good! The patient is very agitated; would you like me to take over?” she offers and gets cut off.

“I don’t need your expertise, I’m a doctor for God’s sake!”

“I wasn’t implying otherwise,” the nurse sighs at his obvious crankiness; why does she have to be stuck during the night shift with Reeves?! Arkham’s South Wing is already harboring the worst criminals and a psychiatrist that took the job for the thrills can’t possibly render assistance to the troubled convicts incarcerated here.

“I’m done,” he taps the syringe and approaches The Joker when the lights suddenly flicker. “Another power outage?! The storm is not that bad!” the guy rants and doesn’t realize the prisoner is not struggling to escape anymore.  

“My Mother’s coming!” the most demented smile flourishes on The Joker’s lips. “I warned you!” he maniacally starts laughing with delight. “You should have listened!”

A low rumble shakes the immense building and the convoluted hallways fill up with mist: the Queen of The Realm Below steps in the world of the living again, surrounded by her loyal army of twisted warriors.

“Protect The Prince!” the invisible wraiths shriek, crawling on the walls in order to destroy the cameras. Some fly through brick and metal with the sole purpose of fulfilling their ruler’s command: no greater honor than aid her son trapped in the human kingdom.

He often gets in trouble and somehow miraculously vanishes or avoids hazardous situations; this is his first time at Arkham and the authorities will believe tonight’s events are an inside job or simply an elaborate breakout plotted by The Joker’s team.

Ironically enough The King of Gotham is not even crazy: his mind works on a totally different level due to the unearthly heritage. There is no cure for a person that’s not sick, no medicine or therapy allegedly mending something that’s not fractured.

“Why isn’t the generator kicking in?” Reeves stares at the ceiling and the nurse carefully listens, pointing out a disturbing detail:

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” the doctor crinkles his nose. “It’s silent.”

“Exactly,” she mutters. “Why is it so quiet?”

“I have no idea,” he prepares to poke The Joker’s arm when the halogen bulbs instantly go out. “Ana, can you…” the psychiatrist mumbles as the lights turn back on. “Finally!” he turns towards the woman and gasps at the frightening apparition standing next to him. Your sword whooshes in the stillness and the corpse falls to the ground, abruptly followed by the caregiver’s: both didn’t have the opportunity to process what they saw by pure coincidence. It was gone in a second along with their existence.

The Queen towers over the medical ward, slowly taking off her helmet; her hair intensely burns, eternally fueled by the fires of The Underworld.

“You came!” The Joker face brightens up with pure happiness noticing the creatures’ claws release him from his constraints: they grumble, coo and chirp seeing The Prince is safe and sound; he pets a few kneeling at his feet while rushing in your arms. “Mother!” J sniffles and you hold him tight until his body relaxes a little bit.

“Are you hurt?” you whisper and your son pouts, burying his cheeks in the cold silver of your plated armor.

“No,” the muffled word prompts a kiss on his forehead; The Joker lets go, unwilling to watch his mother depart: he’s aware she can’t linger for too long, yet the desire to stay close to her never fades. “When are you going to take me with you?” the piercing blue eyes inherited from his father glare into yours.

“Soon,” the elusive reply makes him frown.

“You promised and I’m always left behind!”

How can you explain why he’s still here?... J wouldn’t comprehend what coming with you to The Realm Below means: he would have to get rid of his mortal shell and you just don’t have the strength to witness him die.  

Despite the horrifying moniker, The Queen of The Damned is neither good nor evil; her actions are invariably guided by circumstances.

She takes care of lost, damaged spirits and although powerful and feared, Y/N is also the recipient of her legions’ constant devotion, for no other Monarch of The Underworld ever enjoyed being cherished by its subject as much as you are.

The abomination born from her love with a human didn’t diminish the horde’s allegiance: it actually made them adore The Queen more because affection is desperately craved in The Realm Below and they can’t wait to have a Prince willing to share his Mother’s duties!

But The Joker’s arrival keeps on getting postponed…  

“You know what I’ll do?” J mischievously snickers. “I’m gonna call my crew and tell them to pick me up. The mystery of how I’m able to walk out of this place without their intervention will drive them nuts! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” his sinister chuckle resonates in the room; he feels such gratification thinking about it one could presume he’s in a cheerful disposition. “Did you clear the path for me?” The Prince inquires and the entities snarl, excited he’s paying attention to their mighty deeds. “Perfect!” your son praises. “I’ll signal when to open the gates, ok?”

They growl at his approval and you have to interrupt the joyful mood:

“I have to go…”

“Is dad waiting for you?” J asks, already guessing the answer.

“Yes,” you nod and reassure: “Don’t worry, I’ll return when you need me!”

Before the sentence ends The Queen disappears, abandoning her descendant inside the Arkham Asylum. The Joker sulks, upset he can’t follow you and gets distracted by the commotion created on the other side of Block H: apparently some guards weren’t annihilated as expected.

“You said you cleared the path!” he scolds and picks up the phone, dialing Frost’s number. “No matter, I’ll get reinforcements and we’ll make this a party on our own, hm?” the silver grin widens at the concept of fighting his way out himself.

In the meantime, J’s mother materializes by the Endless Wall that separates The Realm Below from The Realm Above: its transparent, glass like composition is meant to keep you apart from the man you love. Why?

The response is easy: The King reigning over The Realm Above always craved your fondness and felt betrayed when you gave your attention to a mere human; deciding to give Kai a child was the epitome of mockery for the jealous emperor. He never accepted your choices had nothing to do with him. Thus he took the matters in his own hands and ensured Kai’s demise, making certain you won’t be able to save him: the mortal you loved was killed in a car crash and went to The Realm Above, which was the plan all along. Since The Joker’s father was at peace when he passed and not a lost, broken soul, he didn’t wind up in your kingdom; The Emperor sealed the borders as soon as Kai appeared on his domain, making sure you won’t touch or hear each other again.  

You tried to break the spell without success: only the one that casted such magic could reverse it and The King has no intention to do so. He likes torturing The Queen of The Damned and her beloved, that’s why he lingers in the shadows to glutton at their agony every time they meet.

Today is no exception and it sure brings The Emperor great comfort to view the aftermath of his revolting actions: it probably hurts because you’re unable to do more than gaze at the man you love. Such a fit punishment for a stuck-up Queen rejecting his proposal. You sure got what you deserved! All the powers you possess are useless against his impenetrable curse unleashed out of pure resentment.

Hmm… what’s going on?... You suddenly seem flustered and The King is trying to estimate on the motive; Kai keeps on calling your name, yet you can’t discern the sounds anyway. You swiftly fade in a hurry, neglecting to wave goodbye for a valid pretext: the sharp ache in your chest alerted that something awful happened to your son.

**************  

The Joker is lying on the floor, almost unconscious from the blood loss. The red stain under him is growing bigger and bigger, reaching the collapsed security officers that stood between J and his freedom. He was overly hyped and decided to create mayhem: being reckless provoked the dark side of his personality and he didn’t wait for his gang nor allowed the wraiths to intervene.

The Clown Prince of Crime definitely counts on his Mother’s aid, therefore he doesn’t have to worry about consequences to his endeavors. He trusts you won’t fail to show up and get him out of messy situations like this one.

“M-mother…”, The Joker wheezes as you hover over him. “Mother… h-help me…”, he begs and your hesitation puzzles your heir; his father distracted you and in exchange J got severely injured.

“… …. …. I won’t… I can’t have your father, but I’ll take you…” The Queen confesses, adamant to overcome her delay in fulfilling his wish for years. Maybe she won’t be determined like she is now if another chance will arise in the future.

“Really?...” the hope in his tone makes you sadder. “Mother…” he winces in pain, trying to touch you. “Please h-help me…It…it hurts…”

You grab his fingers and squeeze them in yours, pecking his tattooed knuckles.

“I know…I’m sorry…”

“W-why won’t you…” and he pauses, taking a last labored breath, “…help m-me?!...”

His eyelids are closing, the individual labeled as one of the worse criminals lastly fleeing the prison of his mortal half. The Joker is dead and The Prince of The Realm Below emerges from his remains, stunned to wake up next to you.

“Mother?...” he blinks and you cup his face, relieved you had the courage to do what  you deferred in the past.

“It’s ok,” you smile. “You’ll get used to the sensation, give it a few moments,” you pass your hand to his burning hair, amazed at the terrifying beauty he was blessed with thanks to his ancestry.

“Boss!!!”

“Mister Joker!!”

“Mister J, where are you?” the questions echo in the deserted Block H: his henchmen finally infiltrated the area, spooked at the unnerving feeling that something is shady. When they arrived, the Asylum’s gates were open; nobody around on the street, no guards, no medical personnel, nobody they could spot anywhere on their way to pick up The Joker as instructed.

“Over here!” Frost shouts and rushes to The Joker’s corpse, swiftly taking his pulse. “Shit!” he mumbles when he detects no heartbeat.

“What the fuck?!” Panda is the second to stumble on the scene, baffled to notice his employer covered in blood wearing just a pair of sweatpants.

“We need to get out this instant!” Frost commands as the others join the small group. “Help me carry him!”

“J?..” a woman’s voice emerges. “J?” the visibly pregnant Ava runs on the empty corridor. “Oh my God!” she panics when she sees them trying to lift him up. “J?” she gently caresses his face, panicked when there’s no movement. “Is he dead?” she presses on his wounds and starts crying since the guys are quiet. “Aren’t you going to do anything??!!” she screams, desperate to acknowledge not too much can be done.

“… Mother…” The Prince articulates and you already predict his request: “… Can I stay?”

Who else understands him better to begin with? He loves the mortal and you can relate to his anguish. Of course he wants to go with you also, yet there are things that are holding him back in the human world.

“I suppose I’m condemned to ages of loneliness…” you utter and give him a violent nudge before you change your mind.

The Prince falls back into his body; The Joker gasping for air makes Frost and Panda almost drop him on the marble floor.

“J!” Ava exclaims in disbelief. “Baby??!!” she brings her ear to his lips because he’s saying something.

“Mother… Mother…” J faintly repeats and the woman misinterprets. “Yes, I’m going to be a mom and you’re going to be a dad. You already know this, hm?” she caresses his face. “Be careful!” Ava reprimands as they wrap Richard’s jacket around The Joker and Panda drags a stretcher next to them.

“Jesus boss, we thought we lost you!” Jonny adds and barely deciphers his reply:

“You’re not that lucky…”

The Joker keeps staring at The Queen and the army hidden to the rest of them: she’s leaving and although weakened, he wants to apologize for generating more sorrow when she doesn’t deserve it.

“Forgive me…” J whispers and your last words only he can discern give him unexpected bliss:

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

**************

You come near the transparent wall, seeking to find consolation even if it’s impossible: Kay is on the other side, the palm of his right hand against the invisible barrier. You cover it with yours, wishing you could tell him so much but what’s the point?...  He can’t hear you.

“I couldn’t bring him with me,” The Queen whispers nevertheless. “He wanted to stay… and I couldn’t force him…”

Something is trickling down your face and you touch it, confused.

What is this?! Tears don’t exist in The Underworld; a few drip on the barrier and it starts sizzling to your legion’s dismay. They sniff the bubbly fumes, curiously scratching at the expanding chain reaction: the wall is melting.

You and Kay watch the gap becoming larger and larger until there’s enough space to fit. Is this real or an illusion?!

I guess you’ll have to find out so you take a few shaky steps towards him, not being able to suppress your astonishment when he yanks you in his arms.  

The Emperor is lurking in the shadows, furious his unbreakable magic is dissipating with each passing moment. Your warriors are granted free passage again and they spill inside The Kingdom Above, howling while awaiting orders.  

As she hugs the man she loves, The Mother of lost spirits sneers through her clenched teeth:

“Attack!”

Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.

[kurojiri]

On the road to redemption

Fandom: Harry Potter Pairing: Tom Riddle/ Luna Lovegood (pre-relationship) Summary: Tom was told he couldn’t take over the world at age fifth-teen. So, as a means to lessen his sentence and be eligible for parole for a reincarnation rehabilitation cleanse cycle after this lifetime as Tom Riddle, he will be accompanied by his new guardian angel named Luna to see that he fills his quota for good deeds. Wonderful. A/N: for @tunavibes Word Count: 3,750 Read on: ao3 | ffnt 

He hadn’t really bothered to consider what actually happened after someone died.

That had been one of the main purposes of him spending so many hours and years into making the horcruxes as he wanted to create and hide away the whole concept of dying; to defy death essentially. Magic had occupied his own belief system too, when he considered his life after Hogwarts. He, who was a half-blood with half his history coming from an old ancestry family and awe, and another that was dirty and unknown (for the wizarding world and himself). Tom Riddle, of course only focused on what he had deemed had been important to remember. Yet, that had been a mistake. He could admit that now quietly.

Not that it could save him, he had done enough damage to damn his soul.  

Demons were real. Angels too. So really, Tom couldn’t help but sigh and want to scream from the echoes from Mrs. Cole’s old warnings about naughty children going to hell. And all those other people calling him a devil’s spawn. They weren’t right; but neither were they wrong all together. Heaven and Hell did exist; and in Tom’s case he really made his name famous in both their circles. At age fifteen no less.  

Apparently, since Tom had always been a troubled boy, who had gone through many guardian angels from the past and now many refused to work with Tom, he had been given a very small list of angels that would probably work with him. It had come from a somewhat new program that heaven wanted to try before the souls were fully judged upon their death. A format that helped troubled souls into early redemption. He didn’t fancy a trip to eternal damnation without parole, so there he was. In the middle of talking to a consultant, who was then promptly made to be the case worker that had his case number.

That hadn’t been how he wanted his Wednesday to go, but he had little rights at the moment. He was now stuck there, having to drink tea that had been too bitter and lukewarm, and with biscuits that had been provided being too sweet for his liking. The office cubicle had been a narrow spot, and messy with many folders stacked impossibly high. From what he had been able to see, his consultant had a horrid scrawny writing, and ink spots on his trousers. He must have been new since he had a terrible posture as he kept checking over his work. Tom could have used him, but with his magic being temporarily taken away from him during his appointment he couldn’t really afford any more tallies for bad behavior. Too bad, it could have been interesting to have an informative inside heaven.  

The morning had been stuffy with numerous angels roaming, working and settling with recently deceased souls. Tom had been somewhat grateful that the deceased were cleaned up. There had not been any hints of what got them, if Tom blinked and forget what he was doing, he could have assumed that he was still back on earth. Where his soul was not in jeopardy. And that he had not been stopped mid-work.    

Myrtle's ghost had been the last straw for his last guardian angel, he had called in headquarters about Tom’s evil scheme. Had paused the ritual for him creating his first horcrux, and had called in Death right away. (Tom still couldn’t really believe that he had met the actual figure, Death.) It hadn’t been one of his greatest moments. His magic had been mostly drained from the ritual, and whatever he had left had been buried deeper inside his core when they coaxed Myrtle’s ghost closer for an interview. His clothes had been dirty from the water that had been leaking from the bathroom and the Chamber of Secrets. Hence, why his hair was limping too from the sweat dripping from his brow.

The basilisk had been freed too in the midst when he thought he could take on a glowing bloke with wings. He blamed it on the low blood pressure when he still had his wand then. Tom had pointed the wand to his guardian angel (which he didn’t know was a thing then) and had cursed him. It didn’t hit him; it flew past the body and when Death came forward Tom’s magic just knew who he was. Yes, the black menacing cloak and skeleton body said it all, but it had been the very essence of pure magic that radiated from him, that made his knees buckle down. The showdown didn’t last at all.

(And it couldn’t have been called one either because it had been a rather pathetic show of a mortal trying to fight the literal manifestation of death and an angel that had sneaked behind him as he bound Tom's magic away for that misunderstanding—quarrel, depending on whom you asked to cease as they went along with protocol to judge his mortal sins and ultimately give him a sentence for his crimes against humanity.)

Tom could only remember how scared he had been. That the glowing man, who could have been a veela (if men were capable of carrying that gene), and a dementor god had caged him so quickly. They subdued his magic, had made Tom want for his body to melt from its foundations. He had been a mess. And it had been the first steps for Tom to understand that he was a weak mortal. Even with magic, he couldn’t go against certain things, and beings; such as Death and his cosmic intervention of life and death.    

Hence: Heaven, Hell and Purgatory.  

Tom Riddle’s own life now rested on the angel that had been making calls, writing thousands of letters and codes since his arrival. It had been nerve-wracking. With half his cuppa down, he wanted to open his mouth. But with another chain of angels coming and leaving, their wings had brushed to the back of his chair. Their own magic had been too pure. Too powerful that it had suffocated him on few occasions. It almost seemed like their magic knew instinctively of Tom’s corrupted soul, because each time they came closer to brush his back, it burned him. Some were kinder about it with their apologies.    

Others, they had irritated Tom that they could brush off his shivers.

He had been about to comment about the lack of space when his case worker finally put down his ink pen (muggle looking, oddly enough). “Tom Marvolo Riddle. Born on the 31st of December in 1926, to the parents of Tom Riddle Sr, a non-magical mortal and Merope Riddle née Gaunt, a child of magic.” Tom nodded, as the angel continued (but he had made sure to remember about finally learning the name of his father). “You were temporarily detained after being caught performing an illegal dark ritual that is punishable to a sentence of eternal damnation without parole for an emergency reincarnation rehabilitation cleanse cycle.”    

Tom had momentarily looked small. He did his best to still his body from the way the man looked at him coolly. It seemed like he was getting the hang of his career as he took in Tom’s visible cracked soul.    

“Is that correct?”  

His lips pursed. “Yes, it is correct.”

His case worker sighed as he put down the folder, he had fiddled with. He took off his glasses before refilling his cuppa. “Now, I understand that your assigned guardian angel had quit their position right after he had taken you to the lower level of Purgatory. Usually when someone like you,” he poked at Tom's file, “and of your background of losing a certain number of guardian angels and has committed a major taboo it would be an easy swipe to hell. However, the head chief had expressed some leniency and wishes to try out a relatively new program for people (like you) that could be redeemed.”  

He took a big sip from his cuppa. “Personally, I don’t care about mortals with their constant wars, issues etc.; but I would like to have a simple case once in a while. They don’t warn any of us new guys how hectic the office life can be. So, hear me out Tommy-boy. Please think about what led you here today at my cubicle. And repent. Get a new hobby. And repent some more because honestly lad, your limbo status isn’t that great to be in. I have already called some people that were interested in helping you on your journey to redemption. So, let’s go to the interviewing rooms and get started before lunch break preferably. Although, if you want something to eat, just telling you it's Taco Tuesday.”  

“It's Wednesday.”  

That, and Tom didn’t even know what the arse was a taco. Or why they had them on Tuesdays.    

His case worker shrugged his shoulders. “It’s always Taco Tuesday when Carl from Department of Angel Resources makes them.”

They didn’t say much after that as he was pulled into a futuristic elevator; where once again he was burned by the feathers that tickled his arms and back. It hadn’t been that thrilling making his way towards the interview hallway. The walls were pale white with few portraits. That, and the coffee was all gone. Not that he trusted the angel that had been in charge of it.  

Inside the interview room it had the same dull walls with a wooden table. The chairs were metallic and uncomfortable. Too bare and quiet that it had been awkward for him to sit down with a clock ticking while his case worker had his clipboard and other files ready. The first one that came had been haughty; an arse-kisser. He didn’t last long with the prepared questions and Tom’s own reluctance to speak to him. The second was quieter, with a penchant for small animals; she didn’t like how he killed a couple of furry creatures when he was younger.  

By number seven, his case worker wanted to pull his hair out. Not that it would help them. The other six had all ranged from cocky, bizarre and unwilling to understand. They could be fine with other humans, but when it came to Tom, none of them could mesh with him. Could not see something that Death saw him by giving him a second chance. Tom never had cared about what others thought about him, but when these beings that had some pull at someone’s destiny to the afterlife, he had become somewhat uneasy that he would be stuck with the wrong company.      

Did Tom really want to redeem himself? Not really, but he also didn’t want to end up in hell. And that had been enough motivation for anyone.

As number seven came in, Tom’s own heart soared.    

She was lovely, odd, and for some reason, dangerous. Her silver eyes had been a little cloudy, but he couldn’t stop analyzing in the way she glided into the room; she had been breathtaking. And then she opened her mouth.  

She was completely unorthodox. The way she politely answered the questions left him baffled, and he had been sure his case worker had been too as he jotted some of her answers. For all the beauty she had, she was a loony girl. (He had to make sure he didn’t outwardly gap at her when she looked at him.) He was half convinced that she had been created to ruin him. She had to have been when at the end of the interview he said yes to her.    

His case worker had been speechless, but rapidly worked on approving the contract and other required paperwork. They only had thirty minutes before Carl would ring up the tacos, and he wanted Tom and Luna, his new guardian angel to wait in line for him, so they could get him some tacos. As he had been left to Luna’s care Tom had been uncharacteristically hushed. It all felt rushed. By finding out the afterlife, and having been sentenced into community service until further notice.  

He still couldn’t forget how she gave him a silver and blue bracelet with hidden runes inscribed on it. Her magic had been contained to it, but strangely hers didn’t' burn him. It instead felt like a cool mist softly fanning his skin.  

When he asked about it, she had smiled at him. “It’s a way to talk to me when we go back to earth. Most of the time we angels don’t actively interact with mortals.”  

“So, then, as long as anyone has it on, they can see and communicate with you?”  

Luna’s smile twitched to a more amused chuckle. “Not exactly.” Her hands wrapped around his arm where the bracelet was placed. “This had been made for only you and myself to communicate with. So, while you can talk to me, nobody else can see or interact with me.”    

They made a left turn and got inside the elevator again. He did his best to ignore the stares that they both received, while Luna smiled and waved at a few. He couldn’t blame them for gawking at them.    

They looked so unconventional when they stood side by side. With her loose garments, tangled wavy hair and wings, and Tom in his dull colored trousers and collared shirt without any wrinkles. (He had been grateful that when he entered the afterlife that his clothes had been cleaned up.) Neither looked like they could belong to the same group of associates. By then they stood, with Luna humming to herself, and Tom counting the seconds before the doors would open to the cafeteria.    

It truly had been the strangest Wednesdays he had ever had; but at least he learned and tasted what tacos were. They hadn't been terrible, but too greasy for his likes.

.

Back on earth, Tom’s life had quietened down considerably. Dumbledore still didn’t trust him, Myrtle’s ghost now semi haunted him whenever she felt like it; which had been obnoxiously frequent after his classes when he did his best to maintain his grades. (ex-Dark Lord or not, Tom Riddle expected his grades to always be top tier.) And now with his head lowered most Slytherin's left his side, not that he had been hurt or shocked from their actions. He would have done so too if another poor bloke had fucked shite up. His Hogwarts career really became slower. And that had been due to Luna’s insistence of working with his community service.  

She had been his daily reminder of where his life strayed off to. With pressed robes still being a thing, he maintained and grades that shined brighter than the other purebloods that used to follow him. The only difference was now, his façade came with the chains of his fate based on his actions of good deeds. For example, Luna loved the idea of him becoming a professor. He did too when she looked at his file the other day ago. It had included a very small list of interests and goals he had made up years ago. There had been some that had been impossible to achieve as a mortal and others he had forgotten he made when he had been younger and delusional. But being a professor at Hogwarts; Tom had loved it.  

He always had loved Hogwarts and its complicated world. It had been the first tale and home for Tom as it brought him magic, even if it had been Dumbledore that had been that catalyst back then. But now, as he was in a new crossing road, Tom still wanted Hogwarts to be a part of his life in some fashion.

If he couldn’t take over the world, he could at least reshape it. Tom figured that if he could teach the future magical children on how to be adequate casters and problem solvers then it would overall benefit all humanity for the better. Heaven above, would appreciate that with the amount of magical folks that died too early from not being informed enough during their training. (There had been numerous, very chatty angels that had whined about that issue in the elevators for him to remember that bit during his brief time in the afterlife.)  

But before that, he needed to figure what he was willing to do with his life. Meaning, if Tom wanted to stay in Hogwarts, or leave to America for a scholarship and temporary transfer program that they had where he could be made an apprentice and gain a reputable name and work before trying his luck back on graduation back in Europe. It almost seemed like a hard decision. In the end of his fifth year, he had enough professors that wrote outstanding recommendations and approval to enter the program. He gained a temporary residence with a family that would host his stay for his last two remaining years for Ilvermorny, and that had been it. His new road to take with Luna’s light guiding him when he packed up for the last time in the Slytherin dorm room.  

It oddly felt right.  

International portkeys were expensive; but they had been opted to do the job as Tom’s summer had been flagged to end quickly. With a different location, time zone and cycle of when classes started, he had little time to accumulate in Wools or to the people. He had paperwork to finish that included his muggle side affairs to tweak his background during his stay there with a temporary resident status.  

(It had been a relief that he wouldn’t have to worry about Mrs. Cole or the latter staff and children again once he was ready to leave the orphanage for good.)  

With the time constrict it had enabled for Tom to get used to having Luna around him. There had been moments when he just knew when she was close, and others when he had to channel his magic to call her. He tested it out when he walked back and forth his appointments to gain a muggle passport and other documents, he needed for his trip. Since apparently across the pond they wanted Tom to be somewhat well-versed with muggle affairs and teachings to blend with their non-magical sections if he ever ventured out and needed to act without suspicion. Although he still couldn’t really talk to them muggles since the states were more reclusive with muggles with their Rappaport’s Law going on that kept the magical community segregated with the non-magical kind.  

But at least, Tom had been finding their customs and school curriculum to be less dull than he feared. Their extra studies and clubs had been interesting too, as he had shuffled with the pamphlets and booklets that they had given him in the list of supplies that he would need shortly before he would head off to school. Those short days had lifted his mood since it reminded him of the first summer after he learned about his magic and Hogwarts.  

As if, Tom could really begin anew.  

It had helped that it worked when they talked to each other too, it had made Tom’s new goals much easier to accommodate and swallow since his revelations. From her own smiles Tom had acquired a peculiar emotion of satisfaction when he had gathered his remaining items before leaving altogether from his room.    

With the bracelet on he had been able to see her facial expressions when they talked. They had been sharp as they had been fluid like the clouds that roamed in the skies as of late. He didn’t know her well enough, but Tom had studied enough people to get a brief understanding that Luna had comprehended what made Tom click before, and sometimes still did as they walked around the limited orphanage. Old habits, after all, had always been hard to quit right away; but he had been learning to curb some intents with her so close. It had been outstanding for him to see his control he still relented with Luna’s own magic being woven to the bracelet he wore and monitored their connection, he could feel her own intentions, her feelings, and empathy that he did not fully possess or understood yet.  

It all been alien for him. But in a good way, Tom had wanted a challenge. A mindless puzzle to foster room for him to improve himself indulgently.    

“Are you ready?”  

He closed his trunk with a soft grunt. Then, lifted it off his bed to smooth over the thin sheet. “Yes, I suppose I am.”  

The first portkey he had used had been very tight, strong and lasted longer than he liked. The trip landed him closer to the edge of where water and land connected. Where the salt in the air touched his skin and Tom almost wanted to crouch from the chilly air that invaded his lungs. It had been a couple of years since that incident, and with Luna’s figure fading from his line of vision he had to make due with by walking dutifully to the port where the ship would take him to America. In six weeks, Tom would have a new life officially. With a temporary home in the summers and winters and in two years' time, Tom Riddle would be an adult.  

Someone that could (and will have to) make a difference in the world; and preferably, from his case worker, Death and Luna’s expenses, with only good deeds.  

As he walked towards the ship Tom allowed himself to be sentimental. Once he had made it to the main deck and found a good place to stand without getting in the way, he took one last glance back at the land. He didn’t have anyone to wave goodbye, but that had been fine for him. And when the image of the land had been long gone, Tom simply went to his assigned room and prepared a small journal entry about the day before getting started on the few materials of homework that he had while he swayed with the waves and idle chatter by the crew and other passengers.

It would end up alright. He may not know how it truly felt to bleed onto faith alone for any new journeys, but that had been why Luna existed. Why they had been paired together.  

They would make it work.

He just had a good feeling about it.