#now go excuse me while i extinguish the tavern-

[project-isles]

Update!!!!

[nightowlwriting]

summary: caleb is not so sure that he deserves the kindness you've done for him. you're sure that he deserves so much more, and you plan to show him in small increments so that you don't scare him away. the shopping trip is only the beginning. (part 3/13 of the kindness series, a thematically connected series of c2/exu imagines)

word count: 2.1k

warnings: caleb's low self-esteem, mentions of political corruption, set early in c2

note: i am only on ep16 of c2 so that's where we're at folks, also my german is so so so rusty so uhhh hope it's right but any germans want to correct me feel free lmfao

masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Caleb Widogast is a jumpy, jumpy man. You assume it’s for good reason - he’d confided in the group that he met Nott in jail and, well, typically people don’t go to jail unless they’ve done something.

(Although, the more that you adventure with the Mighty Nein you’re not so sure that’s true. It seems like corruption runs deep in the Empire, and you’ve only scratched the surface.)

Still, he is far jumpier than even Nott, and she’s a goblin in the Empire. You watch him, sometimes, and cringe when he flinches. It’s not pity that makes you start being nice to Caleb, but that does color your actions in the beginning. You are of the firm belief that he is a good person, that all of the Nein are, and that they deserve kindness. Caleb most of all. He is so hard on himself and no amount of coaxing from the rest of the group can get him to ease up. Not even Nott, and she functions as his pseudo-mother. But you want him to loosen up, want more of those moments where he makes a joke with a straight face, only to crack a small smile when the group looks away from him. (You try not to look away, craving those moments where you can see the smile light up his face.) When your group arrives in Zadash, you make it your mission to get Caleb to feel some sort of positive emotions about himself.

Or some sort of positive emotion that’s not scarred by whatever happened in his past. You want him to be happy, to heal from whatever keeps him held back from joking with the rest of you. It doesn’t even matter if he reciprocates how you feel about him - you don’t really care. You can love him from afar, be kind to him, and that will be enough for you. He doesn’t have to fall in love with you like you’ve fallen in love with him, really, that’s not why you’re doing this. This being stopping by Pumat’s shop to pick up some more spell scrolls for him with your gold. He had been muttering to himself the last time you were all in about not having enough money, but you hadn't wanted to embarrass him by purchasing them on his behalf, so a separate trip it is. Pumats, all of them, seem to know what you’re doing because they smile when you tuck the scrolls under your cloak and sweep out of the shop.

Your next stop is an ink shop, where you pick up some more ink and incense for Caleb. You’re not really sure how his magic works because it’s not something he was born with or given by a God, but you know that he’s always looking for good ink, parchment, and incense. Just because you don’t understand doesn’t mean that you can’t be supportive. You hope that’s what Caleb will get out of your gift, and not anything else. After you gather the magic supplies - you’d asked specifically for the things that wizards use just to make sure - you make your way to the Chastity’s Nook. Maybe Caleb was joking about wanting to be titillated while he learns, but you feel better safe than sorry.

The worker there is incredibly nice, if not shy, and helps you pick out something educational, historical, and terribly smutty. It makes you blush when you glance through it, but it seems to be the right balance of the things that Caleb has expressed interest in before. (Even if that might be fake - you’re not totally sure. Still, it can not hurt to try.) She even wraps it up nicely for you, offering to wrap your other gifts too. That might be too much, so you decline, but you still pass her a few more silver as a tip. You’ve never been so nervous as you are when you make your way back to the tavern where you’re staying, but it’s almost easy to keep your cool and mask the absolute terror you feel when Caleb is sitting with the group, eating dinner. You were kind of counting on him being in his room, reading, but you don’t let his sudden appearance stop you. Jester spots you first, patting the empty seat between her and Nott, calling your name. You slip into it, easily concealing your gifts behind your back. “Where did you go?”

A sly smile slips onto your face as you reach forward, taking a portion of the food they’d ordered, “Oh, you know, around.”

“You smell like perfume,” Beau leans over Nott and sniffs you, making a slightly disgusted face, “Why do you smell like perfume?”

“I went shopping,” You cut in before Jester and Molly can interject with salacious theories, “That shopping happened to be in the Tri-Spire, thank you very much.” Caleb raises an eyebrow, sharing a look with Fjord, but you ignore it. “What did you guys do today?” You don’t really listen - only enough to hum or nod as they’re speaking - because you’re focused on figuring out a plan to get your gifts to Caleb without the others noticing or making him feel like you’re doing it out of pity, or that he owes you. You just want him to be happy that he’s getting a gift. It’s later, when everyone has cleared out, that Jester shakes your shoulder lightly, calling your name.

“Are you okay?” Her dark blue eyebrows pull down over her eyes, incredibly worried, “You didn’t talk at all during dinner.” You take her hand in yours, squeezing it briefly.

“I’m fine, Jessie. I think I might head to bed, though.” You give her a hug before heading up to your room, looking over your shoulder just before you hit the stairs to see if Caleb had gone to bed when you had zoned out. He’s easy to find in the corner, nose deep in a book, and you grin. That makes everything so much easier, especially since Nott is tucked into the booth next to him. That means that their room is completely empty and a perfect place to drop the gifts without any of the unnecessary baggage that might come with giving them to him face to face. You don’t even think about the fact that he might have warded his room until it’s too late. (That being until you watch the string snap around your ankles when you make it four steps into the room.)

But, damnit, you have a mission to complete. There’s at least a minute before Caleb makes it to the stairs and perhaps another half a minute before he hits the door. You set the things up on what you think is Caleb’s bed a little messier than you wanted but you’re running out of time. The door is a no-go to leave, and you can hear Caleb bounding up the steps. You whirl, tugging your cloak tightly around you as you debate jumping through the window instead of opening it. In the end that will just draw an entirely different reaction than you want, so you settle for slamming the window up and slinging one leg over the sill. Caleb’s room is on the second floor, so the fall might hurt a little bit, but Caleb is right outside the door, so you don’t have any other choices-

“Was machst du in meinem Zimmer!?” He bellows, hands already engulfed in flame, when he kicks the door open. It startles you off of the window sill, luckily into the room instead of out. You pop up, hands raised and already talking.

“Okay, I don’t know what you’re saying but I didn’t know you had your room warded, I was just trying to give you the things that I bought you today, and then by the time I realized it was too late because I couldn’t just leave without giving you the stuff, because then you’d be scared-” Caleb extinguishes the flames that had started to crawl up his arms, shutting the door as he comes closer to the bed. You scramble to your feet, snagging your cloak in your hands to twist it nervously. “-I should leave now, excuse me.” You do your best to skirt around him but Caleb holds up a hand, eyes on the pile of loot you’ve left on his bed. He wraps a warm hand around your wrist to keep you in place as he tries to process what’s happening.

“What is on my bed?” Caleb finally looks toward you then, eyebrows furrowed as he watches you nervously fidget with your robe, biting your lower lip. “I am not mad, but what do you mean things you bought me?” He gestures loosely with the other hand and you take a step closer to him and the bed. You weren’t ready for being confronted with Caleb, despite how much you thought about what you might say to him in a situation like this. You almost swallow your tongue trying to figure out what to say to him.

“I bought you things,” You blurt, “Because you deserve it. I’m not sure if it’s all the right things, but I tried and even if you can’t use them for, you know, magic things you can use them for other stuff-” You watch as he makes his way over to the pile and begins rifling through it, mumbling to himself in Zemnian. “I’m not doing this out of pity, or anything,” You move to his side, peeking over as he skims through the book you bought, “I did it because I want to, I promise.” You wring your hands and look off to the side, avoiding watching the way he’s pouring over what you’ve bought, “You weren’t even really supposed to know they’re from me, honestly, I just wanted to do something nice for you because you deserve kindness-”

“-I am not so sure about that,” Caleb turns to you, catching your attention. He smiles, but it’s weak, when he looks at the small pile you’ve bought for him, “The spells will be useful for the group, but the rest… You are too kind.”

“I’m not!” Perhaps on instinct, you reach out and clasp his wrists in your hands, “No, Caleb, please. I didn’t do this to make you feel bad, I want you to feel good. You’re so bright, Caleb, and so amazing that I just want you to feel a fraction of the happiness you make me feel.” He hesitates so you press on, taking the chance to step closer to him as your heart takes off at a breakneck pace in your chest. “Please, don’t feel guilty. I did this because I want to, okay? I want to make you happy and make you smile, and make you feel good because it makes me feel good. You don’t have to do - to do anything and if you want, I’ll stop. You just say the word and I’ll stop, but I see you, Caleb.” Your voice breaks off as your eyes mist over. He looks awe-inspired at you, not stepping away or pulling from your grasp, “I see you. I see the way you bite back jokes, and sometimes they slip through. I see the way you care for us, for Nott. I see the way you sacrifice yourself in everything you do because you don’t feel like you deserve to be happy, but you do. Please, you are such a good man - I can see it. I can feel it, Caleb. You deserve the world’s largest kindness, but if I can’t give that to you I’ll give you small kindnesses, if you’ll let me.” Your lip quivers and your voice comes out in a hoarse whisper when you decide to fling yourself off the metaphorical cliff you’ve found yourself on, “Caleb Widogast, I wish to give you never-ending small kindnesses not only because you deserve them, but because I love you. I am in love with you.” The difference sits heavy in the air between you as you watch Caleb process everything that you’ve said.

“You… Are you in love with me?”

“Undoubtedly.” You confirmed, whispering. He’s stepped toward you a fraction of an inch, but it puts the both of you nearly chest to chest. “I have never been so sure of something, Caleb.”

“I enjoy the way you say my name.” He confesses. You watch in wonder as red begins to crest from underneath his facial hair, coloring his cheeks a rosy, pretty pink. He tries to look away, but you duck your head to try and keep some semblance of eye contact. Your hands tremble in his.

“I’ll say it forever, then,” You try to smile, but you really only manage an upward quiver of your lips, “Every day, if you’ll accept my kindness.”

“Es wird schwer,” Caleb says under his breath as he shuffles even closer to you, “Es wird so schwer, aber ich werde es versuchen.” You’re not totally sure what he’s saying, but when he presses a terrified, hesitant kiss against your lips the message comes across loud and clear.

[spencers-renaissance]

Rain is a Chance to be Touched Ch. 4

what you can do with what there is

Chapter Three

This is the fourth chapter in my ongoing hotchreid fic! Please click here for the fic summary, full tags, trigger warnings, more information etc.

Last Chapter: Last Chapter: some time passed and Spencer is still struggling, especially after he felt betrayed by Rossi on the Solitary Man case. Georgetown tried to recruit Spencer to run their Chemistry department.

In This Chapter: Aaron comes to some heartbreaking realisations, gets very protective, and Stuff Happens in Alaska.

TW: haley & foyet as well as grief mentioned; chapter centres on an outsider's view of depression.

Word Count: 4.4k

RCT Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

AARON

Now is no time to think of what you do not have. Think of what you can do with what there is. — Ernest Hemmingway, The Old Man and the Sea

Much of the year passes in somewhat of a blur for Aaron. He focuses on looking after Jack, dedicating absolutely everything he has to his son when he’s at home while throwing himself into the cases that come across his desk at work.

A small part of him he’d thought was dead regenerates as his work serves as a stark reminder of all the people he saves, all the good he can do with his job still. Maybe he couldn’t save Haley — something that will no doubt haunt him for the rest of his days — but he can save other people’s loved ones. There is still good to do, and he tries to draw his strength from that.

Grief, of course, still flickers relentlessly in his heart, and no matter how hard he tries he can’t quite seem to extinguish the flame burning its way through the tired tissue, but at least the smouldering doesn’t hurt quite so viscerally anymore. He’s learned to live with it. Getting up in the morning feels easier day by day, and sometimes he’s even able to look at Jack without seeing Haley’s face — and if he does, it doesn’t punch him in the gut in quite the way it used to.

As soon as he’s back to work he tries as hard as he can to keep an eye on Spencer, but the hectic nature of the cases and the younger man’s talent for melting into the background when he wants to is making it far harder than he’d like. He’d come over to his place a few times after Aaron had invited him to stay for lunch and he’d seemed a little more comfortable each time, brightening up considerably as he sat on the sofa with Aaron or let Jack take him on a tour through his lego sets.

The problem is that even though Aaron knows Spencer’s mental state is deteriorating, he has no idea how to bring it up. Sometimes it’s even easy to miss: it doesn’t affect his work, he avoids the rest of them as much as possible — Aaron and Penelope appearing to be the only exceptions for some reason — and his fake smiles seem to have the others on the team pretty much convinced.

He can’t exactly order him into his office and demand to know what’s going on, especially since his work is still exemplary, nor does it seem tactful to bring it up when Spencer is sitting on the floor playing trains with his son. Broaching the subject of emotions isn’t something either of them are exactly comfortable with, and he knows he’ll scare him off if he ambushes him.

Something had changed after their case in New Mexico, but he still can’t quite put his finger on what. An element of relief has been playing over Spencer’s face and body language; something of the deep uneasiness he’d been carrying lifted.

He’d be relieved if Spencer had had even a single conversation with him outside of work since that case. Surely if he was genuinely feeling better his visits to Aaron’s apartment would only increase, but they’ve stopped altogether.

Between working hard to distract himself from the pain of losing Haley and looking after Jack, he just can’t figure it out.

That is, until the Alaska case.

🌧

Aaron makes a point to get on the jet last. Spencer’s been avoiding him, but if he chooses a seat first, then Aaron can slide into the seat opposite. He doesn’t exactly have a game plan, but he wants to at least stick close to Spencer, to have at least one conversation with him.

Having him close has felt more and more essential recently. He chalks it up to feeling Spencer’s avoidance all too acutely, but really — if he’s being completely honest with himself — he knows it’s more than that; something deep inside him is shifting. If it is what he thinks it is, he’s in for a world of trouble.

The jet always feels cosy at night, the soft lighting and comfortable seating a decent environment to get a nap in, and as he climbs in, the door closing behind him, he sees the rest of the team getting ready for a few hours of sleep before they debrief an hour or so before landing. Spencer’s tucked into the corner closest to the door, feet curled up under him as he faces towards the window, the blackness of the night and warm light of the plane reflecting his tight, pensive face.

As he slides in opposite him, Spencer’s eyes open briefly. He’s careful to school his expression, but Aaron sees the turmoil in the miniscule movements of his face muscles. He wants to wrap him up in his arms and hold him until his anxiety passes but he doubts that would be helpful: he’s clearly playing at least a part in the pain Spencer’s going through.

“Okay?” he murmurs, as the quiet roar of the jet engines starting up gives them a little privacy for conversation.

Spencer nods, keeping his eyes closed as he shifts a little. Maybe it’s the gentle illumination of the cabin or maybe it’s just one of the first real times of clarity and concentration he’s had in months — barring his fierce focus on the cases — but in this moment Aaron notices. He notices how Spencer’s lost a significant amount of weight, how his face is gaunt and exhausted, his body language tense and self-protective. It’s like all the confusion that’s been playing across his mind is answered in an instant.

Aaron’s stomach clenches with guilt. How did he ever let it get this bad? How did he not see? How has everyone else not seen?

He’s been operating in such a haze of trauma and grief it’s as though he’s been floating through life, not focusing on anybody but Jack longer than necessary. Even when Spencer was sitting on his couch and clamming up whenever he brought the team up or discussed something that made him uncomfortable for some unfathomable reason, he just couldn’t see it. He’s been so wrapped up in himself and Jack, he’d missed the signs of someone who means so much to him spiralling down into a black pit of… what? Exhaustion? Despair? Misery?

Aaron clears his throat. “Spencer,” he starts — it feels more appropriate to use his first name — as they take off towards Alaska, “you can be honest with me.” He tries for gentleness, and reaches across the small table between them to brush Spencer’s hand with the pads of his fingers; meant to be a reassuring, non-assuming touch.

His stomach does a somersault as his fingers meet Spencer’s cold skin. As much as he wants to pretend it’s nervousness, some sort of anticipation, plain and simple worry for the wellbeing of a colleague, he can’t. Every fibre of his being is begging him to take Spencer’s hands in his, hold them until they warm up again, until his eyes open and meet his own, until he climbs into Aaron’s lap and lets him make everything better.

Instead, Spencer’s eyes squeeze tighter as a small tear makes its way past his eyelashes, sliding down his pale cheek and Aaron’s chest burns at the sight.

“Oh, Spencer,” he says, voice hoarse as emotion crawls up from his chest, invading his throat. “I’m so sorry.” Sorry for not noticing sooner, sorry you’re in so much pain, sorry I can’t make it better.

Spencer just shakes his head, eyes still tight and wrinkled, withdrawing his hand from where it’s still resting under Hotch’s cautious touch. “Not your fault,” he whispers eventually, bringing himself together enough to manage a watery, self-deprecating smile. “I’m being ridiculous.” He wipes another tear away and inhales deeply, letting out slowly as he looks down in his lap. “I’m tired and we need to sleep before we get to Alaska. Can this wait? Please?”

He’s definitely telling the truth. His eyes are dark and every muscle in his body is belying his exhaustion, there’s no question about that.

Aaron knows he needs to relent. Spencer is right, they all need their rest so they can focus their full attention on the case once they arrive in Alaska, and it’s not like he’s going to spill his soul to Aaron on a jet surrounded by people he doesn’t seem all too happy with.

“Okay,” he sighs, trying to school his face rid of anything that could be construed as pity as he tries for something closer to empathy. “Let’s talk about it after this case.” He doesn’t add a question or leave any room for argument: he’s going to get the truth out of Spencer if it kills him.

Spencer nods once, closing his eyes and drawing even tighter in on himself. Aaron doesn’t quite trust he’s really agreeing — he’s holding something back; his face is a little too blank to be natural, his body language tense, and Aaron isn’t inclined to believe it’s simply apprehension for such a conversation. But pushing won’t get him anywhere. He takes his comfort in at least knowing now, knowing what to look out for, knowing he needs to protect Spencer, as well as a tentative agreement.

He closes his eyes, not intending to sleep but to think. Something’s gone horribly wrong, and he needs to figure out what. With Spencer involved, he’ll move heaven and earth to get to the bottom of it.

Emily and Derek are taken on a tour of the small town as soon as they arrive by seaplane, and the rest of them are directed to Carol’s Tavern by the Sheriff. Aaron tries not to be obvious, but he can’t help himself from hovering a little closer to Spencer than normal, itching for an excuse to touch him as they enter the inn and start to set up.

Spencer sits quietly in an armchair, speed-reading through the existing files and documents on the case supplied by the police department, and he looks so small Aaron wants to cry. He didn’t have weight to lose in the first place: he’s skin and bones and he looks utterly exhausted. He’s flipping through the papers slower than usual, rubbing his eyes and face constantly as his leg bounces up and down. It’s so unlike Spencer, Aaron has to ask himself again in utter bewilderment how on earth a team of FBI profilers all missed this.

“Everything okay?” Dave asks as he sidles up to where Aaron is standing, pretending to fiddle on his phone while he sneaks covert looks in Spencer’s direction.

Aaron’s known Dave long enough to hear the implication in his voice, and he fights to keep his cool, to keep the blush off his face. “Yeah,” he says as nonchalantly as possible, ignoring whatever he’s trying to imply. “The Sheriff is going to escort me to the police office as soon as he wraps up talking with Carol. I want you and Spencer to head to the ME.” Even if Spencer is having problems with people on the team, surely Dave will be a comforting fatherly presence. As much as he itches to go with him instead, that would only raise suspicion, and he knows Spencer would never forgive him for that.

“I hear it’s actually the town doctor,” Dave says, raising an eyebrow, “not an ME. But we’ll head out as soon as you do.”

The Sheriff wanders over and Aaron sends Dave a flat-lipped smile and follows him out of the inn. He catches a final look at Spencer’s bone-weary face as Dave collects him to go to the doctor’s office, and nothing registers on Dave’s face to say he’s noticed Spencer’s misery; he simply taps him on the shoulder, tells him where they’re going, and collects his coat.

To some extent, he forgives himself for not noticing Spencer’s suffering despite the guilt he still feels, but the rest of the team — Dave, his father figure — not seeing it, not reaching out, not doing everything they can to alleviate it feels unforgivable.

Anger rises in his chest as they walk the short distance to the police office. How long has it been like this? No wonder Spencer was so cagey when he bought up the team: they abandoned him in his hour of need. He forces the swelling fury down as they walk into the building as best he can though; it’s unproductive and they have a case to solve. He’s going to work relentlessly until it is, until they can fly home and he can fix this.

They regroup back at the inn that evening, sharing their facts and theories from the day’s work. The fire is going, a cosy antidote to the freezing Alaska air outside, and Aaron’s sure he would probably feel quite content if he wasn’t so damn worried about Spencer.

It’s the sort of place he could properly relax and enjoy on holiday. Haley was always a two-weeks-in-Europe kind of person, but he’s always preferred a cosy, private cabin in the middle of winter. His therapist has slowly got him used to the idea of one day moving on with someone new, and he thinks that maybe he’ll have to revisit Alaska and take that person with him one day.

(He ignores the part of his heart that longs for that person to be Spencer.)

“Alright, so we have a psychopath with hunting skills who knows the routines of everybody in town,” JJ sighs, resting her head on her palm, curled into the corner of one of the sofas. “How do we keep everybody safe?”

“Sheriff, I suggest you institute a curfew until we have the unsub in custody,” Aaron says, voice grave. “Nobody out after dark.”

“I’ll have one of my deputies patrolling around the clock.”

He nods. “Garcia, how’s it coming with town records?”

“I've run everyone who's been printed through CODIS, nothing's come up so far. I'm gonna pull an all-nighter, finish going through the town records — should have background checks by sunrise.”

“Good,” he says, nodding appreciatively in her direction. His eyes are still half-watching Spencer. “The rest of us should get some sleep, start fresh in the morning.”

“I’ve got four of the rooms available upstairs,” Carol says, clearly anticipating less than pleased reactions.

Spencer’s head snaps up at that, “uh, four?” Anxiety is written across his face, not for the first time today, and Aaron itches to hold his hand, calm his worries. His instincts, let alone his feelings, are getting harder and harder to ignore.

“It's the best we can do. Your team is double the size of my department,” the Sheriff replies, somewhat harshly as he gets up to leave. Aaron winces at the way it makes Spencer draw in on himself, almost flinching at his tone. “See you in the morning.”

“Looks like we’ll have to double up,” Aaron says, inching closer to Spencer’s armchair. He ignores the Sheriff’s good night. Anyone who speaks even somewhat rudely to Spencer doesn’t deserve niceties.

Immediately, Derek scoffs. “I’m not sleeping with Reid,” he says, and it’s so out of the blue that Aaron nearly does a double take. How uncalled for, he thinks, and his heart sinks at the sight of Spencer retreating further inside himself, a hurt, bewildered expression colouring his features.

(He once again ignores the part of his brain that responds to Derek’s comment with ‘I’d like to’. That is wildly unhelpful right now.)

“Dibs,” Penelope says, resting her hand on his forearm as they share loving glances with one another, but Aaron barely pays them any attention, his eyes glued to Spencer and his heartbroken expression. He realises that it probably feels like a double rejection for him, both Penelope and Derek choosing each other for him.

“I’ll sleep alone,” Dave says knowingly, coming up behind him and resting his hands on both his shoulders for a moment before grabbing his bag and heading upstairs, room key in hand.

Spencer seems frozen in time, thoughts clearly going a million miles an hour, so Aaron waits until JJ and Emily have paired off and gone upstairs with Derek and Penelope before crouching down in front of Spencer’s armchair.

“Hey,” he says softly, touching his palm to Spencer’s arm briefly. As soon as his eyes come back into focus, a flash of that expression Aaron hasn’t been able to put his finger on — relief? — whips across his face before he carefully schools it into neutrality. Aaron can still see the undertones of pain and betrayal written in his eyes, though. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

Spencer starts at that. “You want to share a room with me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Aaron asks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

He shakes his head and gathers himself, grabbing his bag and heading to the stairs without replying.

Aaron enters the room a moment after him, surprised to see the ensuite light on and door locked already. He heads towards the only bed in the room, a spacious double, and dumps his bag before sitting on the edge and fixing his eyes on the motel art hanging on the wall opposite him. He takes a deep breath in before exhaling slowly: he can do this, he can share a bed with Spencer and not make it weird.

It’s a good few minutes before Spencer exits the bathroom, changed into a relaxed t-shirt and pajama bottoms with his long hair combed and fluffy around his shoulders. Aaron tries very hard not to think how utterly delectable he looks and simply offers a small smile as Spencer approaches the bed.

“I can sleep on the floor if you prefer,” Aaron says, completely sincere. He’d do anything to make Spencer more comfortable. Any other time he’d expect Spencer to stay polite and insist it’s fine, but this version of the younger man seems to be teetering on the edge of reckless carelessness and furious irritation just precariously enough to say what he really means.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Spencer crawls under the duvet, not meeting Aaron’s eyes as a blush colours his cheeks. “The bed’s big enough for the both of us.”

Aaron gets ready for bed as quickly as he can before joining Spencer under the covers, feeling the warmth of his body heat and desperately craving more. He tries to stamp those feelings down. He’s only recently lost Haley, and where did this ridiculous crush on his youngest subordinate come from anyway? He squeezes his eyes tightly shut for a minute as his chest tightens with the flood of all these confusing emotions before he turns his attention towards the man lying next to him.

“Spencer?” he whispers, rolling over to face him.

He doesn’t respond, just turns his head a little and blinks slowly.

“Derek shouldn’t have said what he said in the lobby,” he murmurs carefully, not wanting to upset him. “I’m sorry.”

Aaron feels the mattress move as Spencer tenses up, curling in on himself but not turning to face the other way. He can’t help it when he reaches out to place his hand on top of Spencer’s clutched, freezing fingers.

“What do you think he meant?” Spencer whispers, voice vulnerable and strained as his big, blinking eyes meet Aaron’s.

Aaron swallows as his stomach dips at the intensity of sad, hazel eyes staring into his own, and he squeezes Spencer’s hands a little tighter. “I don’t know, Spencer,” he says sadly. “I really don’t. He probably didn’t mean anything by it, but it was cruel and uncalled for. He’s the one missing out.” He smiles a little in the soft light of the streetlamp streaming in through the curtains, trying to convince Spencer how serious he is.

A gallery of emotions play out across Spencer’s face. They’re gone too quickly for Aaron to read, but he can gather enough to know he’s conflicted about something.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” he promises softly. He feels so unprofessional right now, but there’s nothing he can do to stop himself: Spencer is hurting and every part of him is itching to make it better. His reasons are unimportant and irrelevant at this moment in time, all that matters is Spencer’s well-being.

Spencer looks away at that, shifting a little as he pulls his hands away from Aaron’s. “We should get some sleep,” he says quietly, rolling away to face the window.

Neither of them sleep for hours.

He keeps Spencer as close as possible for the rest of the case, and once they’ve finally wrapped it up — Aaron quietly proud of how clever Spencer is for figuring out the driving motive for the unsub — they clamber onto the jet and collapse into their seats.

It’s nice to be flying home in daylight for once, but the bright light of the clear sky is clearly hurting Spencer’s head as he curls into himself in the same corner he chose on the journey there. The first thing he does when he sits down is close the shutter, heart fluttering at Spencer’s thankful smile.

Aaron works through his paperwork as Spencer sits opposite him silently, not joining in with anybody’s conversations like he used to do, instead seeming totally wrapped up in his own head. It’s nice to sit in the configuration they’re both so used to, although Aaron definitely prefers to sit at the other end of the jet, and he’d relax into it a little more if Spencer wasn’t so obviously in pain. He cracks on with his work, trying his best to focus on the knowledge that the second they get back to Quantico, he can talk with Spencer and they can get started on fixing what’s wrong.

“Hotch?” Spencer says quietly, unravelling himself from his curled ball as they approach landing.

Aaron looks up from his careful organising of the case notes into his binder, and can’t help it when his face softens the second he meets Spencer’s eyes. “Yeah?”

“Can I talk to you?” he asks, looking a little fearful for some reason. “When we get back to the office?”

Aaron is immediately torn between feeling elated that Spencer wants to confide in him and not completely trusting that this is a good thing. Spencer didn’t exactly seem like he was chomping at the bit to have the kind of conversation Aaron is hoping for, and he doubts that two nights of sharing a bed changed that drastically.

“Of course,” he says, regardless of his doubts, but his suspicion is only raised when Spencer’s expression turns to something like shame at Aaron’s cautious smile, turning to look out the window instead.

Aaron watches as Spencer eases himself into the chair opposite his desk as soon as they get into his office, wringing his hands as he waits for him to situate himself. Watching his body language, he’s still torn: this really could go either way, but his gut is telling him to prepare for the worst. Aaron prays he’s wrong, but he knows that this is instinct; his subconscious has picked up on things he isn’t even aware of and it’s telling him to brace himself.

“I’m resigning,” Spencer says. “Effective immediately.”

Aaron’s head swims, his vision blurs, his heart pounds — considering the implications of Spencer Reid resigning from the BAU is dizzying him. He does his best to keep his cool, but Spencer is a profiler. He’ll be able to see the raging emotions through the cracks in his mask.

“Is…” he starts, before clearing his throat and briefly glancing down at the table, “is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

Spencer shakes his head, despondency evident on his face. Did he really manage to miss such miserable expressions all this time, or has Spencer finally stopped concealing them now he doesn’t have anything to lose?

“I can’t do this anymore, Hotch,” he says, allowing himself to be vulnerable with Aaron again, and despite the circumstances, he treasures that trust more than anything. “I’m tired. I don’t want it to affect my work, and I have no joy in this anymore. I’ve been offered a position at Georgetown, and I’m accepting it.”

When Spencer joined the bureau at 22, three years below the standard eligibility age, one of the conditions of his contract had been the ability to resign without notice: the brass’s attempt at insuring his mental health and covering their own asses. Three years away from a contract renewal, the condition remains, and Spencer is free to leave if he wants to. Even if it makes Aaron’s heart sick.

“I’m… incredibly sorry to see you go, Spencer.” He’s sort of at a loss for words. “I hope you know that you can still talk to me, even when you leave. I know you’re unhappy, I know there’s something going on and I want to help. This team is a family, and that doesn’t change just because someone leaves to do something else.”

“Well, I’m not sure how welcome I really am in this family,” Spencer responds, an edge of bitterness in his tone that catches Aaron off-guard.

“What do you mean? Is it what Derek said?” Aaron knows it’s something bigger than that, but he still hasn’t figured out what. He knows Spencer’s been a bit left out since everything happened with Foyet, but the specifics are lost on him, and he’s desperate to know, desperate to fix this.

Spencer deflates, suddenly looking incredibly tired. “No, I—” he trails off. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I am worrying about it, Spencer,” he says, firm and kind. “I worry about you. I care about you.”

“I know, I’m sorry. But I need to go home. I’m exhausted,” Spencer says slowly, standing up to leave. Aaron’s at a loss for what to say so just stands up with him, hoping against hope that this isn’t the last time he sees him. Spencer pauses in the doorway. “Did you mean… what you said? That I can talk to you still?” His voice is small and apprehensive, refusing to meet Aaron’s eye.

He softens at that, feeling some of the intense emotions raging inside of him quieten as he looks at the smaller man standing in his doorway, hanging on with his fingernails. “Yes,” he promises quietly. “I meant every word. You can call me anytime, day or night. If you think I’m just going to let you walk out of my life, Spencer, you’re sorely mistaken.” His voice is fierce, emotional in a way he doesn’t often allow.

Spencer meets his eyes then, and Aaron wants to drown in them, consequences be damned. “Thank you, Aaron,” he whispers quietly, before he opens the door and makes his way across the bullpen, both ignoring and ignored by Emily and Derek chatting happily at their desks.

He doesn’t turn around this time, and Aaron doesn’t wave. He sits at his desk, and he cries.

Chapter Five

If this chapter brought anything up for you, hotlines are in the endnotes of the AO3 version of this fic. Bigger countries are listed and a link is included if you live somewhere else in the world.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch @marvel-ous-m @oliverbrnch @sbeno22 @aaron-hotchner187

[banditthewriter]

Leave Nothing To Chance - Charles Vane

So. This happened. No idea where this came from, but here we go, 1.5k words of... something. First time writing for this fandom and this character. But who hasn’t wanted to be a pirate at some point in their life, right? (Except the paralyzing fear of drowning that is...)

Does this mean my fic writing hiatus is over? Probably not. Consider this a fic relapse. We’ll see what happens.

Uh. But yeah. Enjoy?

*gif not mine*

*****

The conversations from people in the streets rose up to meet you on the patio where you sat with one of your favorite books. The sun had driven most people into taverns and the inn, but some had to make the trek through the heart of Nassau. The merchants, the men and women who toiled tirelessly to survive. 

Your mother had been a teacher in Nassau before her untimely death. It meant that you were educated, but to what end? Your father would have you married off to some merchant or farmer in the interior before he would allow you to make your own way through the world. And if your stepmother had anything to say about it, you’d be working in the brothel.

If working with her legs in the air was good enough for her daughter, it was good enough for her good for nothing stepdaughter. At least that’s what she constantly told your father anytime the subject of money came up.

The secret stash of coins that you had been adding to since your fifth birthday, long before you ever came to Nassau, was your ticket to a better life. And with every passing day as your father’s health started to fail him, you began coming up with contingencies. 

As you flipped the page in the book you were pretending to read, you heard a snippet of conversation from some of the men who were making their way from the butcher shop.

“Did you see who came into the bay this morning?”

“Aye, The Ranger. If the stories are to be believed, it’s the biggest haul the crew has gotten in years.”

“Going to be a rowdy night for certain.”

The men scurried off out of view and away from where you could hear them, but that didn’t stop you from peering over the railing as if you could see the bay from where you sat. 

The Ranger coming back with a big prize did mean that the island would be buzzing with excitement and danger, as it always did when one of the crews had a large haul. The men wanted to celebrate, others wanted to express their jealousy. 

You slipped the string that you used for a bookmark between the pages as you thought about what this might mean for the night. The crew would mostly be at either the tavern or the inn. 

And perhaps, if you could be sneaky enough, you might be as well.

------

The lump in your bed was made by extra bedding and clothes. If anyone opened your bedroom door, that’s all they would see on the mattress on the floor that you slept on. It wasn’t often that your father checked on you, not now that you were older, but on nights when Nassau was as chaotic as it was that night?

He might just want to make sure you were sound asleep.

Instead you scaled down the edge of the patio and hopped onto the street below. No one had heard and if anyone on the street noticed, they didn’t draw attention to you. Most people were hurrying towards one vice or another so you weren’t a cause for concern for any of them.

You dusted off your dress before you started towards the tavern.

It had been a choice between the inn or the tavern but you knew that an unaccompanied woman in the inn-also-brothel would draw too much attention. The tavern made more sense. You’d been before, of course, but rarely by yourself.

Even rarer still did you go on a night when one of the larger crews had returned from a long voyage with a prize that had garnered them quite the payment. If the gossip was to be believed, that is.

The tavern was alive with song and laughter, voices calling out over each other to the point where nothing made sense. You saw a few familiar faces, but none you’d wish to interrupt. Instead you continued to act as if you were looking for someone.

In fact you weren’t looking for anyone. You knew you didn’t need to. Not on a night like this.

A bit of blonde hair caught your eye and you quickly ducked behind a bulky pirate before Eleanor Guthrie caught sight of you. She had a habit of throwing you out if she caught you there alone and you didn’t want to take the chance. Not tonight. 

Instead you slipped through the crowd and kept your head down. You knew how to act around pirates, had been taught since you came to Nassau. Don’t draw attention to yourself but don’t cower. If someone starts something, stand firm as you back away. It was a dance of contradictions, but one you had gotten good at over the years.

Most of the people in Nassau respected your father, remembered your mother fondly, but there was always someone who was willing to piss on that respect if they felt the urge.

You made strides to never give them a reason to bother with you.

A hand squeezed at your backside. Your eyes darted to the side to where the culprit stood. A bleary eyed pirate looked back at you, his mostly toothless grin making you roll your eyes. It didn’t take much of a prod towards one of the buxom ladies nearby for him to go off in a different direction.

Those encounters happened more often than not. You would deal with those a thousand times if it meant you didn’t have to deal with the more serious situations.

While your attention was on the toothless pirate about to bury himself in the cleavage of the lady he had stumbled into, you found yourself stumbling into someone. Someone taller than you and sturdy. 

A breath was startled out of you as you looked up and met the blue eyes of the one and only Charles Vane. The captain of The Ranger himself stood before you without a care in the world. He had a tankard of ale in one hand and the other resting at his side. 

“You should watch where you’re walking,” he rasped in the unique voice of his. 

You tore your eyes away from his look and cast a glance around the tavern. No one had seemed to notice the two of you.

“It was an accident. My apologies Captain Vane.”

From the corner of your eye, you watched as he tilted his head. He was observing you, cataloging every inch and wrinkle. The idea of him staring at you like that should make you indignant, but you found yourself giddy at the attention instead.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

That was a familiar sentiment. You let yourself catch his intense gaze once more.

“I thought the tavern was open to the public. Or has The Ranger crew rented it out for the night for their own devices?”

Those eyes narrowed at you. Whatever spark that had led you to snap at the captain was almost completely extinguished. Almost. You remembered your mother’s words about standing firm as you back away from conflict.

Perhaps you should put that to the test.

“If you’ll excuse me,” you said as you turned towards one of the doors that led out to a lesser traveled street.

You had barely stepped onto the dirt before a hand grabbed around your upper arm.

“I think we should discuss your attitude,” he said as he started to urge you down the street and towards a secluded area where no one would be able to see the two of you.

You opened your mouth to form a rebuttal, but the look on his face said that it wouldn’t be welcomed right then. Instead you bit your tongue and mentally listed all the ways this was going to end badly for someone.

In the secluded corner, you were pushed until your back hit the wall of the building. He stood before you, close enough that you could still feel the warmth of him. 

“Do you think your attitude is wise when you’re speaking to a pirate?”

You wanted to cross your arms but refused to show any weakness. Instead you tilted your chin up towards him.

“What can I say? I guess you just bring it out of me.”

His eyes widened at your snark. You felt more than saw his hand come up towards you, brushing against your arm completely on purpose. Then the backs of his fingers brushed against your cheek.

“I missed you too.”

Charles wrapped his hand around the back of your neck to tug you into a kiss. You pulled back long enough to give him a glare for good measure before you tugged him back in for another kiss. And another and another.

It was tradition for you to find him when he made it back to Nassau. Just like every time before that your paths crossed in public, the two of you always pretended to not know one another. Each time it got harder and harder, but you knew why the two of you did it.

Your father wanted you to marry a merchant or farmer. Your stepmother wanted you to become a whore. And you? Well you were in love with a pirate captain and wanted to run away to the sea with him.

It wasn’t exactly easy but hey, that was Nassau.

X

Thanks for reading?

[electronicdelusionstarlight]

I want to write, like, this one story, and it's high fantasy because of course it is, and it starts with a Legal Process in front of the king, but the system is rigged so he has to judge batches of people to save time, so 4 people completely unrelated to each other are sentenced to Hard Labor because one of them started a tavern brawl the other 3 ended up in, and one of them was used as a scapegoat by his friends from the academy that were out past curfew while another one was found with "stolen property" which is actually a gift from her lover that happens to be the wife of a promiment noble family so she can't really sell her out by saying she got it from her and shit while the fourth one was, like, just there at the wrong place at the wrong time...

Except Hard Labor here in the Kingdom (To name later) is, like, adventuring duty, so they get coscripted in the Adventuring Guild (Who only gets members from convicts at this point so there is a huge racket) and will have to take quests to pay their debt to society, but all the reward money is usually all spent in Guild Fees and shit, and the loot is meager and nothing compared to the herculean efforts they must take in their quests.

Basically that's it, we make one a warrior that refuse to use anything of value in battle because she's a compulsive hoarder and wants to "save them for a better time" so she just goes in battle in cheap armor and fighting with the shit she finds at hand like a chair or a rusty sword stolen from a corpse or a whole ass tree, a mage from the Academy that was majoring in a Theoretic Field and is specialized in research and history and shit, so he is useless at combat magic but did take a elective in Card Based Summoning Magic because his grandma used to be a big shot at that back in the days so he got her deck as a inheritance except the economy in card based summoning magic is strictly P2W so his old cards have been either power creeped by stronger cards or cursed by the Curse of Nerfaram, which greatly weakens them, and since all hus gold goes into Guild Fees and there are all a series of capitalism is evil shit going on about when someone can get cards and when he's stuck with that, a "Elven" Orphan Thief raised by a Orc and Goblin Dads who found her in the woods tended by "wolves", so she now follows the heritage of her fathers while trying to connect to her own, but she's actually the daughter of the previous King and his 12th concubine, a elven necromancer who betrayed him after (INSERT REASON HERE) (It would be easy to make this about her being a sex slave but honestly that's kinda tripe let's just say she was the previous Dracolich Queen that got seduced by the king, the previous "Hero" but then she realizes she is not the only woman in his life and finds that insulting as do many other members of the Harem so one day they just run away from the guy but she has the leave her daughter in the woods because it's not safe or some shit don't know going to brainstorm later) so later she has to come to terms with her being a princess and her new powers and shit and the fourth one is just a Goblin "Cleric", which is actually a Very Short Archdemon who has taken Mortal Form to heal the innocent so that they will have the possibility to live on and one day sin out of their own volition, except they are very unsubtle about it and both Demonic and goblin healing magic, while some of the best in the world, do have the tendency to exalt the user into bombastic bouts of megalomania (The Joke "Live, Insect!" Goblin throws a supernova of healing power against someone Will happen at some point), and is actually working for the big bad into raising a army of the damned and conquer the Kingdom, but then his new friendships makes him realize that maybe Mortals aren't that bad and don't deserve to be enslaved, but then it turns out the big bad isn't actually the big bad, just a bad, for the real Bad is the King keeping the world into stalemate of dark ages of questimg just to keep his power, so they do a 180°, they gather the friends they made along the way, their debt to the Adventuring Guild extinguished by taking down the Bad, and start their own little Saturday Morning Cartoon Villain Group to dethrone the king and conquer the world.

Then Book 2 is them being the villains of the story, so to speak, for revolutionary forces of change are usually seen as villains in fantasy despite making a lot of sense, just look at the Defias and Just the Defias.

Also at some point I'm gona add a sidequest about some noble family that start with them asking to get rid of the evil ghost in their mansion but the evil ghost is the youngest daughter of one of the 2 sons the family head "got rid off" one day because she was 1) blind, 2) autistic, 3) born from him having a affair with his son's wife (Which wasn't exactly consensual if you ask me) 4) all of the above so he drops her in a well and she becomes a ghost who controlls rats and the elven thief finds out but is also dropped in the well where it turns out the girl's mother was blamed and got hanged for what happened and was actually a witch who cursed the family into becoming Werewolves thinking tbey would realize the monsters they became (They all knew and didn't stop him from doing what he did to her and then her daughter, even her husband), but then most of them now just have a excuse to blame their "wolf side" to appease their horrible human instincts and the ghost girl tells the elf all of this once she realizes the elf can see her, and she tells her her family plan to eat the elf friends' after they "got rid of the ghost" that night and the elf must do something which is when the necromantic powers start awakening in full as the ghosts of their victims, beggars and sex workers and foreigners and other people that wouldn't be missed by the "normal" folk of the nearby town controlled by the noble family, all conveniently burried across and beneath the manor, are rallied by her against their oppressors as their corpses and skeletons sprang up the floorboard amd a werewolf v zombie & ghost brawl happens.

Also a giant cobra that is actually a elder god of death is a thing. They, like, meet it at the start and kinda forget about it and in the climatic battle they do a 4 people combo of the Mage using a teleport card to bring the Necromancer Thief to a place she is thinking as she is thrown by the warrior against the big bad as they are being boosted by the Cleric, so she crashes against the big bad and teleports him in the cave where the elder god is chained and the mighty big bad goes "where did you bring me?!" as he lights a light with his impressive light magic (Head Paladin of the Guild maybe? To take credit for those who killed the devil or some shit and take the witnesses out?) which awakes the snake that swallows him whole and thanks its follower for the tasty firefly or somr shit.

Something like that.

[zjaikha]

Writing Prompt: Eavesdropping

Set a good decade ago, the boys are pretty darn young (and naive) here.

Alternate title: Why Z'jai Generally Works Alone

Z'jai hated Ul'dah. Just the thought of setting foot in the city ran an uncomfortable shiver up his spine. Too many bad memories at this point; too many ghosts waiting for him, unwilling to let him be. So he sent Anrai inside every other week to pick apart the bounty board for him. The Hyur, on the other hand, thrived in that shithole in more ways than one, so it was a beneficial partnership for them both.

He loitered outside city limits in Scorpion Crossing, waiting, ever-patient. Traveling merchants came and went, and some far-flung villagers came to dig through their wares, but he kept himself inconspicuous just outside the gates. Z'jai found he was rarely bothered when he was on his ow;n, and his tail swung back and forth lazily as he inclined his chin, watching the stars quietly. ... He was starting to get hungry, and hoped Anrai would come back soon.

"Aw, look at you, still here waitin' for me. What a good boy!"

Z'jai quickly regretted his wish for a swift return, and he turned to glower at the beaming Hyur from beneath his hood. "Shut up. I'll cut your arse off and feed it to the ziz."

"Yeah, whatever, I'd like to see you try." Anrai sauntered over with his usual confident stride, waving a few papers over his head. "Ready to hear today's sublime selection of bullshit?"

"Lay it on me." Zj'ai leaned back against the stone wall of the settlement, arms folding low across his torso, and leveled his gaze on the horizon as he prepared to listen.

"All right so, we got here... some sad maid in Lower La Noscea's missin' her children, gone for nearly a moon now - man that's a long time, if I were her I'd stop givin' a shit, probably all eaten up by sea rats or somethin', or maybe dragged into some Lominsan street gang for orphans, man I HATE it there, always smells like dirty fuckin' socks--"

"Anrai."

"Shit, sorry." The two locked gazes for the briefest of moments, and Anrai looked almost apologetic as he flipped to the next bounty. "Uhh.. okay, someone in Horizon needs an escort to catch a ferry... wow, that sounds boring as shit, just do it yourself man." The Hyur muttered softly, flipping to the next page. "... Wood Wailers lookin' for volunteer tailors to sew bags for medical supplies and transport for the Ninth Spear effort. Kinda out of our skillset."

"Excuse me? I sewed your damn eyebrow shut the other week after you got into a fight with that yelling Roegadyn outside Little Ala Mhigo."

"What?? You did no such thing!"

"That was ME." Z'jai fumed quietly, frowning petulantly at the other man, tail flipping back and forth in agitation. "You had too much La Noscean red that night, bleeding everywhere like a fool... -remember-?" He hissed the word, pointedly.

Anrai paused, gears turning in his head, and a vapid look in sapphire eyes until the lightbulb clicked. "... Oh YEAH! That was you! Thanks!" He flashed a wide and bright smile, and Z'jai rolled his eyes as he shifted against the wall, relaxing just a bit. ".. Is that all?"

The Hyur glanced at the last page. "... Information gathering at the Coffer & Coffin. Some gang of miners that frequent the place suspected in some embezzlement. But no one's got proof yet. ... What can miners even embezzle? Rocks??"

Z'jai let out a low and very metered sigh, the flat of one foot propelling himself away from the wall, and he snatched the final bulletin from Anrai's hands in one smooth motion. "That one."

- - - -

Three nights later, the pair stood just outside the Coffer & Coffin. Z'jai had been quietly second guessing his admittance to let Anrai come along this time, but he had seemed really interested and excited at the prospect of being a part of something, and so he took a deep breath and swallowed his doubts, turning to face the other man.

"An. Listen. It's VERY important that you let me do my job. I need you to stay quiet and discreet, okay?" He had one hand on each of Anrai's shoulders as he spoke, and he remained very still, voice serious as their gazes locked. "Just stay with me and..." His brain tactically cut off the second part of that request real fast - don't do anything dumb - and instead substituted it with, "... Behave."

"Yeah man. Of course." Anrai replied in like kind, and it almost surprised the AuRa with how even he was. Z'jai took a few steps backwards and tilted his head to one side, motioning for him to follow down the dirt road to the tavern.

Z'jai hadn't frequented this particular alehouse much, especially given its proximity to the city, but he remembered it like any other - dull, run-down, noisy. The latter elicited a soft sigh as he nudged the door open with one shoulder, realizing there may have been a good reason this job was on the board for so long. He found his eyebrows furrowing at the tables of noisy drunken patrons, but made his way to the bar nevertheless, to snag a seat and quietly scout out his surroundings.

Anrai hopped dutifully on the stool next to him and folded his hands on the bar. He was a little -too- well groomed and may have seemed out of place to a sober eye, but there didn't seem to be many of those about tonight. A critical gaze scanned the bottles behind the bar and he couldn't help but blurt out - "Oh! Three-barrels bourbon! I haven't had that since... well, the last time I had it. Ha! Probably a while ago since I can't really remember. Barkeep!" One hand raised over his head, and he barely caught a very venomous glare from the AuRa at his side as the barkeep took his order and moved to pour a double of the liquor.

"Only -one-. Got it?" If the tone of one's voice could kill, Anrai would presently be occupying the coffin half of the Coffer & Coffin.

"Yeah man, 's good! I'm just trying to fit in and be discreet, like you said!" Anrai replied in hushed tones with a very overly dramatic wink. He felt Z'jai's tail whack him on the leg in a subtle warning, and he just chuckled softly as he leaned back on his stool a bit. "I'll be fine. Go do your sneaky listenin' shit. I'll wait here like a good boy, promise."

Somehow the AuRa remained hopeful, and he remained in his own seat for a few moments before reluctantly getting up to walk the length of the bar under the pretense of perusing their wares...

- - - -

He saw the miners come in, not even a bell later. He saw them congregate in a very tucked-away corner of the alehouse. But he couldn't get close enough without seeming very suspicious. So he was perched on his stool again, very tense and agitated, because all he could hear was...

"So I'm tellin' ya, this guy just runs AT me with his fuckin' club, an' he's all like, YAAAAAAA, and I'm all like, DUDE have you ever fuckin' swung a club before?!" Anrai was a few bourbons deep and having a grand time recounting his latest coliseum exploits to one of the barmaids behind the bar as she washed glasses. She kept his attention just enough in the hopes of a good tip with a well placed smile and laugh, but he's clueless as usual. "So he swings it right, and he just fuckin', has no GRIP on it, so the damn thing goes flyin' riiiiiight into the WHOLE pack of flag chocobos, and THEY flip the fuck out, all honkin' up a storm and feathers EVERYWHERE-"

"Anrai. Eat this." Z'jai muttered through gritted teeth and slid a bowl of pub mix along the bar towards his excitable partner, accompanied with a very volatile glare.

"Oh hey! This shit!" Anrai turned his attention away from tales of glory to the snack at hand. "I r'member this shit! Hey, ain't this got peanuts in it? You know I'm allergic to those bastards dude, r'member that one time I ate 'em and couldn't feel my fingers after, why would you feed me this??" The Hyur started waving one arm in disdain.

Z'jai lifted an apologetic gaze towards the barmaid. "I apologize for my friend. He's a bit... extra."

Anrai snorted out a slurred laugh. "Friend?! That's not what you were sayin' last n--" The sentiment quickly extinguished as Zjai's hand found the back of his head, quickly shoving his face down into the bowl of snacks, holding it there like a steel trap.

"Again. My apologies." One eyebrow twitched gently, and the AuRa slid some coin across the bar, defeated, still holding the other man face down in the snack bowl despite his wails of sorrow. He stood, taking a long moment for Anrai to die down to a dull roar before releasing his grip, instantly dragging him along towards the door before he could catch his breath and shout more obscenities at nothing in particular. And once outside and down the stairs, he gave the Hyur a very unfriendly shoulder check that nearly sent him sprawling to the ground. "You IDIOT!" Z'jai hissed through gritted teeth again, bright eyes alight with an angry fire. "What the hell is wrong with you? Can't you even behave??"

"ME? You're the one that shoved my face in those... THINGS!" Anrai hardly even remembered why they were there, only that he may just seize up and die on a lark, and he stalked a wide and wobbly drunken circle around Z'jai with a suspicious gaze and defensive stance. "You tryin' to make me blow up? Like one'a them shitty blowfish in Limsa dude?! 'S THAT what you want, huh?! Guts everywhere??"

Z'jai was at least tactical enough to know when he was facing a losing battle, and drunken Anrai generally fell into that category. He watched the other man slow to a stop as the tan practically blanched from his face, and suddenly the Hyur couldn't run fast enough to the nearest brush to expel all of his semi-expensive bourbon. Z'jai sighed as he waited for the retching to subside, moving to stand a polite distance away, toe of one boot digging idly in the sand. "... Fuck. I hope you kept the rest of those bulletins."

[tastesoftamriel]

Whiterun, part 1 (a long tale by Talviel)

Middas, 4th of Frostfall, 4E 205. I was saddle sore from days on the road. Since leaving Riften, I had covered the three major cities up north: Windhelm, Winterhold, and Dawnstar. In between I’d encountered bandits, fellow travellers, all manner of beasts, as well as some unsavoury folk like necromancers and vampires. Yet in the three months since I left home, I didn’t feel as homesick as I thought I would. I had already travelled from one end of Skyrim to the other during the Dragon Crisis, and once I’d learned all I needed to learn, my heart was fully invested in discovering the rest of Tamriel that I’d only ever seen in maps and books. I downed a potion of stamina and continued to trudge south towards Whiterun, where my calling as Dovahkiin all began.

I reached the city of Whiterun early in the morning. One of the guards on patrol, who recognised me from the Battle for Whiterun, saluted me heartily and we spoke at length while I unloaded my horse, who I’d named Roach, and left her in the care of the stables. Sounding almost alarmed at my change in career since the defeat of Alduin, he wished me luck and pointed me to the Bannered Mare as they were apparently short-staffed since the Redguard woman, Saadia, who worked for them disappeared without a trace. I thanked him and I shouldered my satchel and sacks, labouring up the stairs towards the Plains District. The early risers greeted me warmly for having saved their city, but I waved them off modestly as I made my way through the market square and into the Bannered Mare. Ysolda, the new proprietor, had only just woken up and was occupied with lighting the pit fire in the middle of the room.

She turned to me, yawning, when the door swung open, and her face broke out into a wide grin. “Well look who it is, Talviel of Riften, the saviour of Whiterun and all of Skyrim. Welcome back, friend.” She said warmly, helping me lay down my heavy cargo. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Ysolda. What was I meant to do, leave everyone to roast in the flames of the Stormcloaks and dragons? How are you? How goes business?” I asked, giving her a hug. “Business as usual, same faces and same antics. The city has been rebuilt since the battle, so well done you’d never think anything would have happened. But you’re here early, Dragonborn. Do you need a room?” “Actually, Ysolda, a guard tipped me off that you’re short of staff again. I’m now travelling as a cook, and would love to help out for a while, learn some recipes from you if I can.” She looked relieved and brushed a stray hair from her face. “I swear I’m cursed! Every person I hire either gets sacked or runs off. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, and I’m at my wit’s end trying to find someone to help me out here. How long are you planning on being in town for?” “Well, that depends really. I’ve covered Eastmarch, The Pale, and Winterhold in three months. Haven’t really learned much aside from at Candlehearth Hall and preparing a feast for Jarl Brunwulf Free-Winter in Windhelm. So depending on how much there is to learn, I’d say about a month or so.”

Ysolda smiled knowingly. “There’ll be plenty to keep you occupied. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, as well as a big recipe book Hulda left for me. I also have contacts in old Balgruuf’s kitchen, so let’s just say you’ll be overstaying that month. Of course you get Saadia’s old room and three square meals a day, no questions asked, as well as 350 septims per month. Two days off a week, alternating with me. How does that sound?” “Sounds great, Ysolda. I’m in.” I said, and we hauled my things through the kitchen and up the stairs to a modest but clean room. Ysolda left me to unpack and freshen up, and when I was ready I came downstairs. “Right, it’s now almost nine. Markets should be busy by now. First order of every day is to make sure we get all the freshest ingredients.” She instructed me, and we made our way outside. Gawping faces and cheers surrounded me as I walked along, and I had to resist the urge to pull my hood up to hide my face. We purchased fresh fruit and vegetables from Carlotta Valentina,who was so happy to see me she insisted on gifting me with an enormous wheel of cheese. Staggering to the stall opposite, Anoriath the hunter let out a loud whoop of laughter when he saw me, partially hidden from view by the cheese. “What in Oblivion are you doing here, Dragonborn?” “Working for Ysolda here, actually.” His jaw dropped. “Doing what, shouting rude customers across the room?” Ysolda giggled. “Actually, that would keep those Battle-Borns and Gray-Manes in line. Anyway Anoriath, I’ve got a recipe for venison stew that I want to try out. Will you have venison anytime soon?” “Certainly. I’ll be sure to bring some back for you the next time I go hunting.” “Make it quick, and there might be a bowl of hot stew in it for you.” She said with a wink, as he wrapped up a few slabs of beef and pork for her, throwing in a few rabbits as a hint of his admiration.

We brought our shopping back inside and I began to shelve or set out our wares. Ysolda prepared the bar and talked happily about the events of the four years I’d been gone, as well as telling me to keep an eye out for the Khajiit caravan who would soon be bringing in some barrels of fresh seafood, milk, and butter. I tied on my apron and stoked the cooking fire, checking the day’s menu before getting to work. At noon, the lunchtime crowd rolled in, and stared at me as if I’d sprouted an extra head as I took orders and brought out plates of steaming food while Ysolda ran down to Pelagia Farm to buy some grain and flour. I spent the entire afternoon awkwardly explaining the reasons for my visit about 500 times before Amren noticed the exasperation on my face and offered to run up to the Cloud District so that the Jarl and everyone else could know of my arrival. I thanked him profusely, adding an extra dollop of mashed potatoes to his steak. Nonetheless, citizens who had heard of my arrival came in to greet me and hand me gifts of appreciation, as I was busy trying to clear up and prepare for dinner. Ysolda came back with a huge basket of eggs, with Nimriel and Gloth in tow carrying large sacks of millet and wheat flour. She paid them for the goods and their help before they scurried off, casting furtive glances at me. I was in the middle of awkwardly smiling and nodding to Olava the Feeble when Ysolda clapped her hands for attention. “Alright people, show’s over. Yes, the Dragonborn is back and yes she’s now my head chef. She’ll be here for a while so you can all stop your lollygagging and head home unless you’re here for food, drink, or a bed.” About two-thirds of the crowd shuffled out, mumbling embarrassed apologies.

Just when the parade was over, a messenger from Dragonsreach burst into the tavern, looking for me. He explained apologetically that Jarl Balgruuf the Greater had summoned me, so I sighed and tossed my apron aside. Looking sympathetic, Ysolda promised to take over for dinner. I thanked her, then climbed to the Cloud District. Jarl Balgruuf was leaning in his throne, talking to his steward Proventus Avenicci. The guards announced my arrival with great flair, and I cringed, making my way up to the Jarl. He thudded me on the back in greeting, asking me about my unexpected return. I explained to him (for hopefully the last time that week) why I was in Whiterun and his eyebrows raised in amusement when I mentioned I was working as a cook at the Bannered Mare. “A…cook? Well, I suppose you’re too young to join the Greybeards, if you could even grow a beard, that is.” He joked. “If you’re really interested in becoming a chef, come work in my kitchens for a while if you’re really ready to prove your mettle.” I thanked him, saying I would definitely take him up on the offer when I was ready, and was dismissed.

I made my way through the Wind District, passing Jorrvaskr, when I bumped into a slim auburn-haired woman with green warpaint on her face. I recognised her as Aela the Huntress, one of the most esteemed members of the Companions. I apologised, turning to go, but she gripped my arm with surprising strength. “You’re Talviel of Riften, aren’t you?” She asked in a deep, confident voice. “I am. Saviour of Skyrim, Dovahkiin, blah blah blah.” I said, sounding annoyed. She grinned and let me go. “One of those modest types, I see. Nice change after dealing with all the bravado in there.” She nodded towards Jorrvaskr. “Not going to ask you what brings you back to our humble town since you’re probably sick of it, but the Companions have been in awe of you since you trapped that dragon up in Dragonsreach and slayed Alduin. We never let strangers in, but come by sometime. I’m sure the family would love to meet you, maybe test out your battle skills in person.” “Sure, why not.” I shrugged, taken by her straightforward manner. “I’ll let you go then. Have a nice night.” She said, turning around to head inside Jorrvaskr, but not before I caught an eyeful of her toned legs and behind ascending the stairs in her very short excuse for armour. I blushed, and headed back to the Bannered Mare.

Ysolda looked frazzled as she ran between the bar pouring drinks and doling out bowls of hot cabbage soup with bread. She shoved me into the kitchen as soon as I stepped in the door, and I immediately picked up the slack, naturally working the way I did for Keerava. Soon she looked less stressed as she passed tankards of mead and bottles of wine across the counter, gratefully pocketing the coin. The night wore on, Mikael strummed his lute and sang, and I had to kick a few drunk brawlers out (something Ysolda was not good at doing due to her slight build). I threw out the leftovers and washed up, finally extinguishing the kitchen fire just after midnight. Ysolda shooed a couple of stragglers out, and we ceased trading for the night. “Are you sure you can’t stay forever? I sure could use you more often! Well done on an impressive first day’s work. We wake at 8am tomorrow and start again.” I nodded, and climbed the stairs to my room yawning. Loredas rolled around, my first day off work, and I gratefully slept in until 10. Waking up and having some bread and cheese for breakfast washed down with a potion of stamina, I stepped out into the bright Whiterun morning. I got my knives sharpened at Warmaiden’s, bought a few more stamina potions at Arcadia’s Cauldron, then looked around, at a loss for what to do with my day. I contemplated going hunting, but felt too lazy to take my bow and run around outside. Suddenly, I remembered Aela’s offer from the other night, so I ascended the steps to Jorrvaskr and opened a door hesitantly.

I was greeted by a mixture of loud cheering and heckling, and came face to face with a woman and a man throwing well-executed punches at each other while the rest of the Companions cheered. Unsure of what to do, I just stood in front of the door pretending to look indifferent until the woman landed a cracking blow under the man’s ribs and he crumpled to the ground. Coin was exchanged, glasses were raised, and the fighters wiped the blood off their faces, congratulating each other on a job well done. Aela spotted me from across the room and let out a loud whistle, bringing all activity to a standstill. All eyes turned to me and I smiled awkwardly, raising a hand in greeting. “Come here to try out?” A burly man in heavy steel armour called out. “Oh, no, um…Aela asked me to come over the other day. Practice fighting and stuff. I’m Talviel. Of Riften. The Dragonborn.” I stuttered, hating every second of public speaking. “Aah.” They all said knowingly, and dragged me down to the main room, which was dominated by a fire pit and a long table piled with food. I made a mental note to ask who their cook was.

Introductions were made, and I was greeted coolly by Vilkas, the new Harbinger since the death of Kodlak Whitemane: a Nord who was a dead ringer for the man who first spoke to me when I came in. He had dark brown hair and a greatsword strapped to his back, and wore even more kohl around his eyes than I did. “So, Dragonborn, eh?” He said, sizing me up and grunting when he saw my short, single handed Nightingale blade. “Don’t suppose you can teach us how to shout in a day?” I shook my head. “Either you train for years like Ulfric Stormcloak did, or you just happen to be the Dragonborn.” “Damn.” He sighed. “Well, either we have a nice cosy storytelling session, or we head to the practice yard and see if you’re as formidable a fighter as they say you are.” We all decided firmly on the latter and headed out the back door to their training yard.

We devised a system where lesser members would come at me in twos, while the seniors would attack me one by one with their weapons of choice. Ria and Torvar were the first to face me, and I adopted a battle stance, readying the blunt practice sword I’d been given. The two Companions were heavy handed, and I dodged them easily, taking Torvar down with a swipe behind the knee and Ria with a blow to her ribs. Njada Stonearm and Athis, the brawling pair from earlier, came at me with the same fervour, but dodged around me cautiously after seeing what I’d done with their friends. It turned out Njada was called Stonearm for a reason, and my blade was almost knocked out of my hand as hers smashed against it. Using the opportunity, Athis sprang up behind me, but my perception skills, honed by the Thieves Guild, sensed him coming. I quickly shoved Njada so she stumbled back and ran at her, planting my feet against her chest and backflipping over Athis. Shocked by what had just happened, Athis had little time to react as I threw myself at him, pinning him down, and stabbing my sword into the ground half an inch from his head. He tapped out, but not before Njada sprang towards me, blade pointed at my heart. Grunting, I leaned as far back as I could to avoid her reach, then flipped to my feet before rushing at her. As before, she tried the same tactic of disarming me, but this time I ducked before our blades could make contact, causing her to stumble. I shoved a boot into the small of her back, ramming my sword against the thick protective belt she wore. “Who’s next?” I yelled, panting.

“Come at me.” Farkas, the man in heavy armour said, drawing his greatsword. I sighed, as I hate dealing with heavy fighters. Scanning him quickly for weak spots, I noticed his upper arms were uncovered. Perfect. Lumbering towards me, he took a great swing at my head as I stepped easily out of the way. There was no sense in trying to push, kick, or knock him over- the man was like a brick. I simply hopped around him for a while as he continued to swing heavily, then made my move when his guard was down. I swiped, and the blunt sword in my hand bashed against his unprotected left arm. “Ow!” He shouted, and I hopped to the right, doing the same thing. I ran backwards and took a bow as Aela cackled. “Both your arms are off, Shield-Brother.” “That’s gonna leave a bruise.” Farkas grumbled, patting me on the shoulder as he went to the patio. “Good fight.” Just Vilkas and Aela left. Vilkas was much like his brother, only much more limber and with almost impenetrable armour. “I think by now I’ve killed one of every living thing in Skyrim. May be time for a trip to Morrowind.” He said, and charged towards me. I rolled to the side, taken aback by how he used a greatsword as if it were as light as a butter knife. Wearing him out took a lot longer than his brother, and I gave up on that tactic after a few minutes. Finally, as he made a downward swing, I skipped over his sword and caught his eye, feigning expression of combined pleading and beguiling that Sapphire made me master, which caught him off guard. I took the moment to slash forward, stopping just before his throat. “Bam, you’re dead.” I smiled, and he raised his hands in defeat, looking at me with increased respect.

Finally, Aela stepped forward, drawing her bow. “I notice you have no shield. You’re in trouble.” She winked at me as she walked to the far end of the practice yard. Without warning, she fired at me, and the arrow whizzed past my right ear. I sharpened my senses the way Niruin taught me how in the cisterns, and prepared myself. The arrows came almost unrelentingly at me, as I jumped, ducked, and weaved, making my way towards Aela. As I was almost within arm’s reach, she fired a last arrow at me and I deflected it with my blade without thinking. “How the-” She spat as she drew her knife, crouching. It turned out that she was just as nimble as I was, and a force to be reckoned with. We danced around each other, blades clashing, when she suddenly leapt up and threw me to the ground. We wrestled as her Shield-Brothers and Shield-Sister shouted words of encouragement to her. I wrapped her in a headlock and she struggled to break free. With my free hand, I jabbed her in the ribs with my sword. She rolled facedown on top of of me, groaning in defeat, then unexpectedly bit me on the lip, a knowing look in her eye. I didn’t know how to react, but felt something stir within me that I only ever felt when I touched myself in the dead of night thinking of Brynjolf. She pushed herself off, and pulled me to my feet, as if nothing had happened at all.

“Well, I don’t know how you did it, but you bested all of the Companions without a scratch on you. You sure you’re not going to join us?” Vilkas said, impressed, as we stepped onto the patio, still out of breath. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be leaving Whiterun soon.” I smiled, pouring myself a tankard of water from the dining table that was set out. “That’s a shame, Dragonborn. We would be formidable with you as our Shield-Sister. But enough talk. A good fight makes one hungry, and I’m sure you’ll agree. Come, Tilma is sure to have brought out the apple pie by now. Best in Skyrim.” The rest of the Companions agreed, and we trudged inside, dirty and sweaty from our scuffle. We sat at the long table, eating hungrily and passing each other dishes. Finally, an old woman ascended the steps in a corner, carrying a large, fragrant apple pie that she set down and began to cut into slices. When my slice was placed in front of me, I almost smashed my face into it. As Vilkas had said, it was probably the best in Skyrim. “Hey Tilma? Would you be willing to share this recipe with me, by any chance?” I grinned, burping. “Well, that’s a closely guarded secret, dear, but bring me some cooking of your own and we’ll see if you’re worthy.” She smiled, clearing away the used plates and tankards. “Huh? The Dragonborn cooking?” Ria chuckled. Full and happy, I leaned back in my chair and told my tale, which evoked laughter from everyone. “The best fighter in Skyrim, working at the Bannered Mare as a cook. Tilma’s right, you’ll have to bring us something to prove your worth. Just not dragon stew.” Farkas laughed, coughing into his napkin. “I get Tirdas off. I’ll take you up on that.” I was hellbent on getting that apple pie recipe.

End of part one

[b-does-the-write-thing]

300 Belle runs away - Rumple is exasperated with adventurer!Belle, she's his aide but is always getting into scrapes

Well, I wrote this a drunk prompt, but seeing as how I’m at work atm. I won’t be able to continue this as a drunk prompt. Oh well. You can read the first part of this here. It’s fairly short.

This was all that brute Gaston’s fault.

If that boastful pig had not shown up at his castle door, demanding for the Dark One to fetch him back his bride, Rumpelstiltskin would not be in this situation. “Come now,” he said with a heavy sigh. “She’s hardly worth her weight in gold.”

Belle glared at him, her eyes the only thing he could see through the vines that wrapped her from head to toe. Add the fact she was hanging upside down from a tree, the effect was rather wasted on him

The fairy tilted her head at him, weighing her options. “You’re here for her, aren’t you?”

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged as he examined his fingernails. “She works for me,” he said in a exasperated tone. “Tell me, fairy-”

“Rosetta,” the fairy said with a wiggle of indignation.

“Would you pay to ransom a servant who is so easily ensnared?”

The garden fairy, one of the most laughable of all the little folk, glanced over her shoulder where Belle was rapidly turning as red as a cherry. Rumpelstiltskin’s fingers tingled a bit, but Belle’s eyes were still glaring at him which he took to be a good sign that she was not liable to pass out any time soon.

“Fine,” the fairy decided. “A favor from the Dark One then.’

His eyes narrowed. “Your ask is worth more than the price of a kingdom,” he warned her. Had Rheul Ghorm put this little sprite up to this? “I will give you my word not to eviscerate you upon the spot or tear your wings from your body.”

The fairy went pale. “But…but- you said-”

“Release her,” he growled and if the sky went dark and the air grew cold, the fairy did not mention it. She clicked her fingers and flew off as quickly as the wind could carry her. The vines released Belle all at once.

He barely got there in time to catch her. He certainly did not have time to consider what he was doing and so he ended up with an armful of his aide who aside from her red face appeared unharmed.

“You didn’t have to scare her,” Belle chided him but he didn’t really pay attention to that. He was more concerned with how out of breath she sounded.

Instead of asking if she was okay, he hastily put her down and stepped back to sneer at her. “How,” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain, “did you manage to be captured by a garden fairy of all creatures?”

Belle grinned and held up a small pebble she had clutched in her right hand. “I was getting this,” she said as she flicked it over to him. He caught the stone nearly in his hand and the feeling of magic flashed through his body.  “An element stone?” he said in disbelief, openly goggling at it.

Belle preened. “She didn’t even notice it in her garden! She just assumed it was her own magic that made the flowers grow so!” Belle gestured at the garden which now that he saw it, looked more out of Wonderland than the Enchanted Forest.

“You’re welcome,” Belle said as she brushed past him. “Now, are we going home or can we go to the market like you promised we would last week?”

Yes, he decided, as she walked away from him, head held as tall as the tree she had just been hanging from, this was entirely that brute Gaston’s fault.

-

He knew about the scars.

The bruises and cuts had gone but the lines on her back…they had never really faded away. She preferred long sleeves when she was out in the world, leather breeches and tall boots, anything to hide herself from wandering eyes, hide away the shame she bore from her marriage.

At home though, in the safety of the Dark Castle, she would sit by the rose bush that had once been her husband in gowns that showed off her collarbones and forearms. The burn on her right arm on full display as she plucked the roses from Gaston and shredded them between her fingertips.

He did not bother her in those moments, though he stood in the doorway and traced the scars on her back, visible in the sheer fabric she draped herself with when they were at home. He sometimes…almost believed she wore those dresses for him but he saw no reason why she would and excused those thoughts as flights of fancy.

–

“Do you have a death wish?” he demanded as he gripped both her arms. Her skin was hot under his palms and she winced as his talons scratched against her exposed skin.

“I’m fine!” she shot back, shaking her head to clear her face of her sooty hair. Small embers still burned at the frayed ends of her curls and he stuck his hands in her hair to extinguish them, too focused on the feel of her silken hair gritty and burnt beneath his touch to listen to her assure him she had things under control.

“He was a cursed prince!” she exclaimed as he frogmarched her back to the carriage.

“You didn’t know that!” he replied heatedly. She went up into the carriage with too much of a tussle, though she promptly crossed her arms and huffed at him. Her clothes were in tatters, half burned away and though her skin underneath did not have any burns, her hair was in a halo of frizz around her blackened face, the only color the bright blue of her damnable eyes.

“I had it under control,” she told him pointedly.

“You were on fire,” he corrected her.

“Just a little bit.”

He put a hand to the bridge of his nose and pinched it as if to ward off the coming headache. His carriage smelled of smoke and ash, and burnt hair and his entire being wanted nothing more than to magic her clean as he had done the day he had met her, cover her in flame retardant armor and lock her in the tallest tower of the Dark Castle.

A soft touch on his hand made him jump. Belle had leaned over and now that she had his attention she sat back in her seat with a smile. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” she said and he knew it was the closest thing he would get to an apology. “Did I mention the prince’s true love lays buried alive in the Castle of Thorns?”

It appeared they weren’t going straight home after all.

–

She was surrounded by brigands.

Not just any brigands, those so disfigured by nature and fate that they could hold no job but mercenaries. These souls were so desperate and so dismal, they would sell their own mother out for a pint of ale. Rumpelstiltskin had already raised a hand to burn the entire tavern to the ground, when she turned her head, saw him and smiled.

“There you are!” she cried as she rushed over into the darkest shadows and dragged him out into the light. “Everyone, this is who I was talking about!”

The entire crowd cheered and he found two pints thrust into his hand as an arm that ended in a hook draped over his shoulder. The brigand in question had another hook at the end of his other arm, but chinked his glass against Rumpelstiltskin’s with a smile. “What a girl,” he said as Belle raised her own tankard as the crowd roared its approval. “You’re a lucky man, sir,” he added with a drunken hiccup as Belle laughed at some joke someone had told her, seemingly unaware of the disfigurements of the men around her.  

Rumpelstiltskin did not say anything. He simply took a large drink.

–

“I’ve been thinking,” Belle said as they sat by the fireplace one cold winter night.

“We aren’t going back to Arendelle,” he said as he paused his spinning. “You nearly got yourself killed on that mountain, and those trolls aren’t too be trusted, I don’t care what that overgrown reindeer told you.”

“His name was Kristoff, and he’s now the official Ice Master and Deliverer of Arendelle.”

“That’s not a real job,” he said with a scoff.

“Neither is the Dark One’s Aide,” Belle added with a laugh. Before he could respond, she curled her feet underneath her and lay her head on his lap. She sighed in contentment while he remained utterly frozen in confusion. “Do you think we could go see the lighting of the lanterns?” she asked, her voice growing faint as she relaxed against him.  

He frowned. It was not like Belle to ask his permission…usually she came to him with a plan, more of a formality than anything. He cleared his throat. “I don’t see you couldn’t,” he said. His hands were immobile on his wheel, and he had to resist the urge to bury them in her hair. Her gown this evening was low backed and he could see the scars of the whip her husband had used on her even in the faint light of the fire.  “Just avoid any royal guards. I don’t need them wondering why the missing princess of Avonlea is wandering the streets of Corona.”

Belle lifted her head and his traitorous hands almost reached out to pull her back to him. She twisted around and gave him a funny little smile that did rather wonderfully horrible things to his insides.  “I mean together,” she said and his entire world lit up.

–

She stood in the torchlight of Camelot, her head raised high, every inch a queen. 

The actual queen of Camelot watched Belle like a hawk from her perch, though the Queen’s pet Lancelot had eyes only for his love, King Arthur was openly admiring Belle in her dark green velvet gown. The cut did not show off her back, and the bell sleeves hid her burned arms. Only Rumpelstiltskin knew what lay underneath the gown though every man in the room was openly picturing it.

“Is it here?” she asked him as she gently lay her hand on his arm.

“Squirreled away, but attainable,” he replied evenly. HIs appearance drew just as much attention as Belle, though hardly for the same reasons. One silly twit fainted as they passed by and Belle’s lip twitched in amusement.

“Shall we dance then?” she asked and her eyes were bright with mischief. “It seems as if we have time.”

“A  beauty dancing with a beast?” he asked with a quirk of his brow.

Belle leaned up to press a lingering kiss to his cheek. If people around them gasped, he did not hear them over the pounding of his heart. “With the man I love,” she answered smoothly and as he took her in arms to the swell off the music, Rumpelstiltskin could not help but thank whatever gods were listening for Gaston knocking on his door that day.

The brute had demanded the Dark One to find his bride. And so, the Dark One had.