#or being so enthusiastic about what hes talking about that he pours soup onto a table lol

[theorahsart]

I've read several ancedotes in this book about Robspierre that make me convinced he was autistic, and then read about this hilarious incident the other day on Tumblr, and felt compelled to draw a silly comic about it.

[deltas-writing-corner]

Courtship (4): The Gargoyle Graveyard

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland (Malleus x GN!reader)

Author note: Again, thank you all for being patient with me and I apologize for having a very inconsistent writing schedule. I'm going to make it my goal to update on a bi weekly basis instead of leaving you all in silent limbo. Also a reminder I suck at figuring out which warnings to put so if there's something that needs to be forewarned that I failed to disclose please lmk!

Warnings: Mentions of heavy bodily injuries | childhood trauma/neglect | discussions/mentions of discrimination | mentions of virginity/sexual history

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AO3 version

Clay. Stone. Porcelain. Plaster. Metal. There are even gargoyles carved entirely of wood! Some statues are stand-alone works of art while others are part of a clear collection or series of similar inspiration. They even come in all sorts of shapes and sizes; as small as an apple or a towering height to rival Malleus himself. No matter what, each grotesque has been crafted with the utmost consideration, by well seasoned and knowing hands. Even the ones that have clear defects and cannot serve their intended purpose are free of overabundant ivy, weeds, or dust. There’s a clear degree of love and care the family who makes these statues has for their craft that makes him feel less alone in his interest in an uncherished form of art.

“It should be around here somewhere,” you muse aloud. Ever since he expressed interest in seeing more sculptures made with non-traditional materials, you’ve been keeping your eye out for a particular one that would fulfill his yearning. You eventually find it and eagerly point to it. “There it is!”

Malleus watches as you approach a massive-sized statue covered with a thick and half-wet tarp. He helps you remove the cover, revealing a winged and slightly humanoid canine. There are many more grotesques with a similar design, but what makes this one stand out the most is the material it’s made out of.

“Amazing!” Malleus awes. “I’ve never seen a grotesque of this size made entirely of glass! They’ve even managed to maintain their attention to detail despite such an abnormal material choice.”

“You can even see the inner channel where the water would flow in and redirect out of its mouth,” you notice.

“They even went out of their way to make it functional despite it being unfit for actual installation?” Malleus inquires with disbelief. “Such a shame.”

“If you’re looking to buy anything here, I’m afraid it's a lost cause. One of the first warnings the grandfather gave me is that none of these are for sale.”

“What was his second warning?”

“If we damage anything, even as small as a scratch, he’ll kill us.”

“How charming,” he chuckles. “I cannot blame him. These statues must take weeks to complete. Time is a human’s greatest enemy.”

“For some, sure. But when I went to visit the family and talked to the old man, he was lunging around all this heavy equipment like he was still in his prime,” you recall. “He lives for his craft. If there’s anything humans are at risk of their entire lives, it’s a lack of motivation and reason to live.”

“I suppose that’s true, but the lifespan of humans and the inevitable effects of aging is difficult to live with, especially once it begins to hinder one’s ability to do what one could previously do without issue. ”

“You’re not wrong,” you acknowledge. “But I think I’d rather live a short life with fulfillment than a dull, long-as-shit life.”

To show that he’s entirely on your side, Gunter lets out a guttural bark while his tail rapidly wags and thumps the damp ground, coating the ends of his bushy tail in specs of dirt and dirtied, remnant snow of the north that has managed to stay frozen on the isles warmer south end.

“You’re only agreeing with them because you’ve been promised food,” Malleus chastises. “Don’t think I didn’t pick up on your grumbling stomach.”

“And don't think I didn't pick up on your stomach rumbling either your highness," you quip back at him. "The family has a small cottage nearby we can use. We'll settle down for a bit and eat before sightseeing some more."

Before you turn and walk in the direction towards the aforementioned lodgings, you reach your hand out for Malleus to take and he latches onto you with restrained enthusiasm. He's taller than you, but he takes care not to take his normal strides as to not leave you struggling to keep up with him. Gunter doesn't know the way, so he trots beside you every step of the way up until the destination is in plain view. The cottage is small but well-attended. There’s a rustic flair to its construction that makes it feel familiar and safe despite never stepping foot in it before.

"Those gargoyles were something, huh?" you remark to him while you tap and shake off the gunk wedged into the soles of your heavy boots against the frame of the door.

"Indeed," he nods, taking your cloak off for you and hanging it on the wooden rack nearby. "I don't think I've ever seen that many gargoyles in one day. Just when my eyes land upon an intriguing one, there's several more that catch my attention."

The way he gets all wide-eyed is outright adorable. It makes you grin just as enthusiastically too. "I bet your club is going to have a field day once you tell them about this!"

His child-like smile turns into one of disappointment. "I'm certain they would, if I wasn't the sole member that is."

Your hands halt from pulling out and setting down all the premade food out of your pack. "Seriously? You're the only one?"

When he nods his head, you feel a twinge of hurt in your heart. Poor guy. You can only imagine how disappointing it must be to go through all those lengths to start a club (you would know since you're technically a staff member of the school and have been given a rundown on some of the school's functions and regulations) only for no one to show interest. Of course, you completely understand that gargoyles aren't exactly all the rage within the minds of teenage boys. Still! He goes through so much effort to build relationships with his peers but they always cower away, either due to his status or even because of the way he looks. You won’t deny that he does come off as rather intimidating at first glance, but he's a sweet guy once you give him the chance to speak.

But to expect teenagers going through social pressures and demanding academics to be as understanding and willing to understand someone like Malleus is an impossible demand. Given that everyone in the school can be a bunch of self-centered and easily agitated bunch of pricks, it's understandable that most of the student body isn't keen on trying to take into consideration the proper etiquette one needs to consider in the presence of a young and noble fae. Deuce has met and talked briefly with Malleus on one occasion, but even he visibly shakes whenever his name is mentioned, even in casual passing.

Wait until they found out who you've gone and gotten buddy-buddy with behind their back. They probably think they're slick or that their intentions are well swept under the rug, but it's clear they feel some semblance of responsibility for your well-being, as both a magicless individual as well as a close, albeit older, friend. You dread the day people begin to make the connections between Malleus and you, but you still can’t help but wonder what their reactions might be. You also dread the high probability those two idiots are going to find out and embarrass the living hell out of you, which you know you do not have the patience or tolerance for.

Gunter jumps up and sits himself down in one of the wooden dining chairs, pushing the small ceramic plate towards you with his nose, as if telling you "Alright, I’ve done what I said I'd do, now feed me what I'm owed." You tell him that you'll give him what he's well earned after you get a small fire started in the brick fireplace. Just because it's warmer near the southern half of the island and not as heavily blanketed with snow, doesn't mean the cold has completely vanished, Winter is still winter after all.

"Where did these scars come from?"

Malleus' unexpected question and closeness nearly make you drop the iron rod you've been using to stoke the growing fire. You've since taken off your boots and rolled up the bottoms of your pants just above your knee as the room starts to warm up enough for a thin layer of perspiration to accumulate and roll down your skin. The scars he's referring to are the ones on your right leg, both side by side at an awkward angle and discolored. You have a lot more scars than these, some much more gruesome in appearance than these two. Malleus has never asked about your scars, but sometimes you catch him looking in the general area of some that peak through your clothes. He likely keeps quiet about their existence out of courtesy.

Yet out of all the markings on your body, why did these two stand out enough that he'd finally ask about them?

"It's a long story," you say in an effort to stall the topic. "Sit. I'll feed you two once the fire is stable."

He doesn’t push you for an answer, instead simply doing as you say and lets you poke at the burning logs until they're properly aflame on their own. You made mostly some of your morning favorites; Creamy and thick potato stew with diced carrots and peas and some eggs, ham, and crispy hash browns sandwich between homemade halved croissants. You teased him about having picky taste buds earlier, but Malleus is content to eat anything you serve him so long as it is not comparable to the likes of Lilia's atrocious cooking.

(Seriously, how does a man as old as Lilia not know the basic fundamentals of cooking? And why does everything he makes end up burnt and tasting like something rotten? You will never understand.)

"Don't eat too quickly," you warn Gunter as you pour a bit of light-colored soup onto his designated plate. Your words are ignored, as the equally marred wolf sloppily slurps and munches on the few bits of potatoes and vegetables you generously scraped out of the thermos. His food is gone as quickly as it’s put in front of him and he looks at you expecting more.

"No. The rest is mine," you scold. "And don't beg Malleus for some either! I know you do it behind my back, you little shit!"

He turns to look at Malleus with an accusatory glare, thinking that he ratted him out to you. Malleus’s response towards the silent imputation is to turn and look out the window as if something caught his interest all of a sudden, cup raised to his lips as he politely sips away at his meal without an air of calmness. You have to slap a hand over your mouth to hide the amusement that overtakes your senses.

"Malleus, stop that!"

"Stop what?" he innocently asks.

"Stop making me want to laugh!"

He sets his cup down onto its matching serving dish. "It's not my fault you have an easily satiable sense of humor."

"Wow!" you say incredulously and put your arms up in offense. "And here I was thinking we were friends!"

His distant demeanor breaks and you both devolve into a fit of laughter together. Gunter unfortunately takes advantage of your joint distraction and slips away with a warm sandwich between his jaw, your sandwich in particular.

"That damn wolf!" you curse. "I knew I should have trusted my gut and pack extras.”

Malleus pities your distress before moving over to sit closer. "Worry not. I'll split mine in half with you,” he reassures.

"No, it's fine," you immediately dismiss his offer. "Have it for yourself."

"I'm not taking no for an answer," he firmly states. “Don’t be stubborn. It’s far too early for that.”

"I thought you liked it when I was stubborn?” you pout.

He shakes his head with a smile. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t”

"At least someone likes my attitude,” you say after chewing and swallowing a mouthful of soup. “Sebek certainly doesn’t."

"The boy is stubborn as well. When two equally stubborn individuals cross paths, you will witness nothing but discord between the two."

"Add the fact I'm human into the mix, and we'll be exchanging fists instead of words sooner or later," you scoff. "I get that some faes don't like humans, but what's his deal with acting like he’s got a vendetta against me?"

"Sebek doesn't hate humans for the reasons you might think," Malleus admits. "It’s more like he finds them difficult to think that highly of. Did you know that he is half-human?"

You nearly choke on your own breath over the sudden revelation. "Really?"

"Indeed," Malleus finds amusement at your disbelief. "Have you ever wondered why his ears aren't pointed like Silver, but his eyes are like mine and Lilia’s?"

"Damn,” you scratch the back of your head with embarrassment. “Now I feel stupid.”

"You aren't. Given the way he speaks, not many would assume he had human blood in his veins. His mother was highly regarded within her social circle, but her marriage to a human man tarnished her reputation a great deal. She's happy and does not seem to care what others think of her these days. However, when Sebek set out to be a knight, his mother's marriage and his lineage were often brought up as a way to scrutinize his character and capabilities rather than any of his actual shortcomings as an individual."

"Poor kid," you sigh. "Lilia told me those sorts of things still happen in The Valley, but it sounds so outlandish that I couldn’t take it that seriously."

"Many faes hold old traditions above all else, to a degree that the purity of one's blood stands above all other merits." His eyebrows pressed together in annoyance. "Even my grandmother thinks it's archaic, but as the reigning queen she has to embody a persona of neutrality between the social divide."

"It sounds like you have your work cut out for you in the future," you say, almost apologetically. "What do you plan to do about it once you're the king?"

There's a brief flash of surprise over your question, but Malleus easily answers it as usual. "I think my first course of action as king would be to properly knight Sebek and Silver."

"Bet my rifle that Sebek is going to cry the entire ceremony!" you remark with certainty. "That's all he ever goes on about, being a knight and all."

"He's devoted countless hours and efforts since he was a child. If there's anyone who deserves to join the knighthood, it's him."

"Definitely," you nod to further cement your agreement with him. "He could stand to lower his voice a bit. He'll give you tinnitus before long.”

"At least we won't have to worry about losing him in a crowd," Malleus jests.

"That's to say we'll lose sight of him to begin with," you remark. "He'll gladly lose me in a crowd. You? You'd be lucky to get out of arm's length."

"You underestimate me, dearest," Malleus smirks. "Ever since I've met you, I've perfected the art of avoiding Sebek's insistent searches."

"Have you now?" you razz back. "Don't let him catch onto the fact. He'll have my head."

He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Each second his skin touches yours makes you tingle. Time slows down ever so briefly if only to savor the small instance of physical connection for as long as possible. "What of your aunts?" he inquires. "Are they as overprotective of you as Sebek is of myself?"

"They’re a trio of mama bears," you proudly admit. "I'm old enough to drink and well equipped to fend for myself, but in their minds, I'll always be the little tyke that couldn't even eat their meals without looking at them for approval. Especially my aunt Gia."

You have three aunts. There's your aunt Marisol, the mother of most of your cousins and the main caretaker of the household. Your second aunt Lucia was well into her studies at university when you came to live with them, but her stress and long hours of mulling over her course materials paid off in the long run. Your gardening skills wouldn't be what they are now without her expertise in agricultural botany.

Then there's your aunt Gia. Oldest of the three. An absolute tank of a woman. No spouse. No kids of her own. She lived off the land like an absolute titan. The woman raised you as if she was the one that carried you for nine months and not your actual birth mother.

How would you describe your parents? If your parents were told to list out their priorities in life, their careers would be at the top of the list and you would be put at the very bottom. Why they carried you to term is beyond your understanding. You later learned that Gia had even offered to take you under her care well before your birth, knowing that your parents might not be well-suited to take care of you in the way she thinks would be beneficial for you. It was a convenient offer that would have saved everyone the trouble years down the line when you had your accident. They worked in a cutthroat industry and were constantly moving up the executive echelons. They had no time for you, yet their pride as a pair of young, successful business magnates made them incapable of seeing past the reality of the situation. That left you mostly in the care of last-minute caretakers and your aunts, but only if they had time from their own busy and preoccupied lives to come out into the city and visit.

You were eight years old when things started to get better, but it was upstarted in the worst possible way. Your parents had to go away for the upcoming weekend for work and left you in the care of a babysitter as per the norm. The babysitter never showed up however and your parents apparently couldn’t be bothered to check up on you even once the entire trip. Their silence wasn’t surprising. You just went on about your business for the next three days on your own like nothing was wrong. Your aunt Gia had even called at one point to check up on you, but you didn’t bother to tell her that your parents had left you to fend for yourself. She would have exploded if you did, but not as much as she did when you woke up in the hospital after falling down the stairs and lying helplessly on the ground for several hours with a dislocated shoulder and a compound-fractured leg. You were lulling in and out of consciousness due to all the medication pumped into you, but what little you do remember seeing and hearing when you regained consciousness will forever stick with you for the rest of your life.

If people think your level of swearing is bad, they should have heard your aunt that day. She swore so viciously that it could set an innocent bystander's eardrums on fire. What will forever stand out the most to you was the fact that your parents didn’t even look the least bit apologetic or regretful. They didn’t even approach you once your aunt was done giving them a piece of her mind to check up on you. They simply talked with the awaiting social worker and doctors and then left. It was for the better, but the small part of you that continued to hold onto the desperate belief that your parents would come around one day sent you into a thrashing frenzy and you had to be sedated before you could hurt yourself anymore.

The next year was spent recovering from your injuries, meeting regularly with your caseworker, and going through therapists like a pack of cigarettes. By the time you were back on your feet and the legal proceedings of your custody case were concluded, all you wanted was to move on with it all. Nearly a decade of neglect left you this unattentive, uncertain husk of a person who couldn’t take a single step forward without looking for some sort of guidance or assurance. Your family was exhausted by the entire ordeal and over speaking with third parties. Your aunts took it upon themselves to help you regain your sense of self in the comfort of your new home, no matter how difficult or demanding it was going to be.

“It took some time, but eventually it clicked in my mind that I was in a better place and I started to get better. As for my parents, I have no clue what they’re up to these days.” You lean back into your chair and let out a shaking yawn. “I like to think they’re getting on well like I am.”

“I don’t understand.” Malleus looks at you with unbelievable confusion. “Your parents treated you poorly, yet you don’t sound the least bit resentful. Why is that?”

You shrug your shoulders. “What’s the point? I'm in a better place now, so I've let bygones be bygones. 'Doesn't mean I don't harbor any anger against them anymore. I do, but getting upset won't change what's happened to me."

Gunter, having sensed your discomfort over the matter, trots over and rests his head on your lap. You gratefully rub the top of his head, carding your hands through his thick, coarse hair. "I'm just glad they let me go without a fuss. Family court was hell for my family.” Your eyebrows knit together. “Expensive too.”

Crackling wood fills the momentary silence that befalls the small cottage. What you've recollected to Malleus is a lot to take in, and if you're being quite honest you'd prefer if he just dropped the subject and talked about literally anything else right now. You hope he doesn't say he's sorry or any other type of apologetic comment. That's all you were ever told that entire year it all happened, during court proceedings, your rehabilitation, by both strangers and distant family members alike.

"I'm so sorry. What happened to you was unfortunate. You didn't deserve it."

No shit you didn't deserve any of that. You were a kid. You don’t need one pity party after another to realize that what took place then had fucked you forever. But as you said earlier, you're in a better place now, with a loving and supportive family that's moved on alongside you. A family you need to get back to as soon as possible.

"I love you."

Well, if he was hoping to take your mind off the past. that certainly did it. How can it not? It came out of nowhere and as good as you are at holding your composure when need be, you're sure you look no less like a gaping fish when warm and plush softness presses right against the corner of your lips. A kiss. His kiss.

"What's wrong?" Your voice sounds shaky. You’re nervous.

"Nothing," he smiles reassuringly. "I simply said what I felt needed to be said."

"Fair enough" you concede easily. He was going to say it sooner or later. He already has actually, now that you think about it. Yet here you are trying to process his words like it’s rocket science.

"Am I going about this too fast perhaps?" he genuinely asks. His hands that have been busy massaging your calves that have settled across his lap somewhere during your long retelling gradually slow down, but his hands never go completely still. "This is my first time experiencing something like this."

"What?" You sit up a bit straighter. "A relationship?"

"Yes."

Your head tilts to the side. "Really?"

He nods hesitantly "Yes?"

For a moment, you go completely quiet. "I don't believe you,” you doubtfully say, head shaking to further showcase your refusal to believe him.

He must not have liked your remark, frowning with clear offense in his eyes. When he dislikes something, the vertical slits in his eyes contract into a thin line. "I cannot lie, yet you still doubt me?"

"I know you can't lie, but I find it hard to believe you haven't been with anyone else before," you explain. Before you can consider the appropriateness that was your newfound curiosity about Malleus's apparently non-existent love life, you blurt out, "Are you still a virgin?"

You slap your hand over your mouth the moment those words come out of it. He's equally caught off guard and nearly drops his warm cup of coffee. Even Gunter is surprised by your question, olive-colored eyes looking at you as if you've lost your mind. It's an invasive question, inappropriate even. You and Malleus have been dating for a little over two days. A question like that is way too early to bring up just yet.

"You don't have to answer that," you tell him behind your palm. "I shouldn't have even asked it. Forget I ever brought it up-”

"I'm not," he interrupts you, leaving you even more shocked than you already are. You’re practically gaping like a fish by now. "I'm not a virgin,” he further insinuates.

A deafening silence, but it’s eventually broken by yourself. “I still don’t believe you.”

Malleus gets further annoyed at your refusal to accept his truth. "I'm not lying!" he insists.

"Bullshit!"

"Do you want me to recount my history to you?" he asks, exasperated as you are at the shift the conversation is taking. "Will that satisfy your doubts?"

"You know what? It will!" you loudly declare. "Who'd you sleep with?"

"He was a young page at the time,” he reminisced. “It happened before I was a century old.”

Your eyebrows raise with intrigue. "Was he cute?"

"Yes," he hushedly agrees. The disconcerting admittance paints his face a pinkish-red glow. "But that's not why I bedded him."

"But surely his looks are what made you interested in the first place?” you make blatant regard of the fact.

“You’re not wrong,” he acknowledges, expertly avoiding agreeing with you outright. “But his looks aren't the sole reason I was drawn to him. He was bright-eyed and ambitious, to the point you’d think him insane given his position in the court. It was also the first time I ever truly met with a group of humans, and my young mind was eager to get a more accurate perspective of humans that wasn’t through the lens of my tutors.”

“An ‘accurate perspective’?” You make playful air quotes, eyebrows wiggling because you know the fact that he knows what you’re implying. The playful comment is met with a sharp pinch on your leg that makes you jump and shriek out in pain. Did he have to dig his nails into you? Apparently so, and now you have small crescent indents on your skin. “I bet Lilia had a good laugh when he found out.”

“He doesn’t know, actually,” he admits to you with what is obviously a proud smile.

“Now I know you’re lying to me,” you scoff. “Nothing escapes the old man’s radar.”

His hands begin to rub out the marks he’s left on you as a form of apology. “Lilia is sharp, but he had lost most of his vigor by the time I was born.”

You go wide-eyed again. “You mean his hearing and eyesight was better than it is now?”

He nods affirmatively. “From what I’ve been told, terrifyingly so.”

Lilia is already frightening as is. His short stature and boyish looks make him perfectly unassuming to those who don’t know any better. You once watched him beat up a couple of bulky, twice-his-height students from Savanaclaw without breaking a sweat, yet moments before he was jokingly scolding himself for dozing off so easily. You never once thought he was ever out of his elements. A cold chill runs down your spine thinking how much more perceptive the older fae may have been back during his prime years.

“Wonder what Lilia’s gonna think,” you ponder out loud in a quick effort to banish out the skin-prickling mental imagery your mind was invoking. “About us, I mean.”

Malleus seems surprised that you would change the topic to that of all things, but his initial shock goes away as quickly as it came. “As you may have guessed, he’s an open-minded individual, but he’s also very realistic and unafraid to say what’s on his mind.”

“So what does that mean for you and me?” you question with a bit of hesitation.

“Well,” he trails off and ponders for a moment. “He’ll surely like the scandal our relationship would invoke. However, as my caretaker and mentor, he won’t hesitate to put an end to it if he feels it necessary.”

Had it been anyone else sitting beside you, you’d have found that comment way too extreme and outright ridiculous. However, you are not speaking to anyone ordinary. You are not sitting before someone normal. It doesn't matter how well you get along with him. It sure as hell doesn't matter how deeply in love you are with him, and him of you. The moment you have been deemed a shortcoming, the outings, the closeness, it all stops. All of it will come crashing down and both you and him will be left wondering what could have been done differently.

Malleus is truly your best friend, because already he can tell that your mind is beginning to spiral even when you go quiet. He calls for your attention by gripping his hand around your bare ankle and carefully tugging the end of your limb. “Don’t fret over it too much,” he soothes, yet also sounding like he’s scolding you for letting your mind wander off so negatively. “Lilia is an exceptional judge of character. From what I’ve gathered, you’ve well exceeded all his marks. He trusts you, and to gain such a thing from someone as old and wise as him is an extraordinary feat.”

You brew over the attempted compliment he tried to pay to you. Unfortunately, it doesn’t snub out all these festering thoughts in your head. It doesn’t even give you temporary relief. Perhaps it would have brought you a sense of peace a few months ago, but with everything that has happened thus far, you doubt even Malleus can alleviate the storm that rattles inside you, even if what he speaks is without a doubt nothing but the truth.

Surely he can see that you are still having some hangups. When you lift his hand and plant a chaste kiss on the back of his hand, you hope he can decipher the gesture as a pitiful request for his forgiveness for dampening the once energetic mood. He is not at fault for your loss and inability to think optimistically at the moment and you need to make sure he knows it.

Today is about him, not you. Even if it’s just for today, you’ll put on a pleasant facade and worry about the rest at a later date. It’s just you and him, and for now, that’s enough.

You do a mental countdown starting from three, before finally giving him a late response to the three words he uttered in confidence to you earlier. “I love you too, by the way.”

You love him. You love him. You love him. That’s all his mind can think of for the rest of the day. He replays your reciprocation over and over like it’s sacred and all-powerful.

He had planned to return to his dorm before the sun began to set, but he found the mere idea of detaching from you deeply unwanted and made the last-minute decision to spend the evening at the Ramshackle dorm. He already has a few articles of clothing and personal essentials set up in one of the many empty rooms, so neither Lilia nor you had any objections at his sudden request.

“Don’t worry!” You shout across the room so that Lilia can hear you over his phone. “I’ll make sure he gets to bed on time!”

“You have my gratitude!” Lilia’s muffled voice responds gratefully. “Don’t cause too much trouble now, you two.”

“No promises~” you sing in jest before Malleus hangs up. Once the call ends Johnny, Benji, Franky, and you turn their attention back to their ongoing game of poker. Malleus watches and occasionally laughs to himself over the friendly banter shared between the quartet. At the end of every round, the winner is assaulted with colorful profanities whilst they take their newly won gambling chips with ebullience. Yet with each new dealing of cards, the animosity goes away and they’re all back to being friendly. He finds your interactions with your incorporeal roommates more entertaining than the book he’s been reading to pass the time.

“Hey, fairy boy,” Franky informally calls out toward him. “Don’t be a stranger now. Play a few rounds with us.”

“I’m afraid I’m not well versed in card games,” he admits, yet he still finds himself setting his literature aside and moving over to join them.

“Don’t worry,” you give him a reassuring smile. “They’ll go easy on you.”

“For how long?” he knowingly asks.

You give him an impressed smirk at his quick uptake. “I give it three rounds before they start to pull back their sleeves.”

Malleus is well-adjusted to the need to quickly learn a new topic and the expectation for him to fully comprehend it in full. None of them are harsh on him for his minor mistakes like some of the tutors he’s had in the past. Answers that he believes may be obvious or not as complicated as he thinks they are being answered with enthusiastic patience. The smallest achievements he makes are met with a proud response. When he makes a surprise turnabout and wins his first game, he’s rewarded with an encouraging round of applause by everyone.

“Not bad,” Benji praises as he shuffles the deck of cards. “You’re a fast learner.”

“So I’ve been told,” he humbly replies. “Is this the part where you all stop going easy on me now?”

“Don’t provoke them,” you half-heartedly warn. “Otherwise we’ll be up all night duking it out otherwise.”

Franky sets his glass of iced liquor down on the edge of the table. “Don’t you little lovebirds worry. We won’t take up too much of your well-needed time together.”

Annoyed at the clear jab at his relationship with you, you throw one of your chips towards his head. It passes through his body and clatters on the floor behind him. Your fawn Blossom jumps down from their spot on the couch and goes to sniff it, thinking it to be food, but walks away with a disappointed strut when he realizes it isn’t anything edible.

“I didn’t tell them a damn thing,” you defensively clarify. “It was so obvious what was going on between us that they figured it all out before we made it official.”

He lets out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “That’s...I can’t say I’m too pleased to hear about that.”

“We won’t say anything,” Franky reassures. “Just make sure to put a sock on the door whenever you guys want some alone time.”

“Franky!” you hiss at him. “What the hell?!”

“What?” he looks at you, unbothered by your clear embarrassment. “Do you honestly expect us to think you guys went out just to look at a bunch of statues?”

“Oh, I’m sure they were looking at something,” Johnny smirks. “It wasn’t made of stone though.”

“I hate you guys,” you growl out, arms crossing and leaning back into your seat with an angry huff. You don’t mean it. He can see the tremble of your lips as you try to contain the urge to grin. “Even if we did end up rolling around in the sheets, I wouldn’t be yapping about it for all to hear, much less you guys!”

“What happens in the gargoyle graveyard stays in the gargoyle graveyard, eh?” Franky winks at both Malleus and you, nudging you with his elbow.

“Exactly!” you affirm, batting the large ghost away from you for some much-needed distance. “Now stop being so damn nosy.”

They cackle one last time and everyone seamlessly goes back to their ongoing game. Conversations like the one that just concluded are commonplace in your dormitory. Even if he contributed next to nothing to the discussion, he enjoys watching them interact. You come from a world where ghosts are hardly as overt as the ones in this world. Ghosts are said to entertain themselves by picking on the living, to the point that it can be fatal. Your ability to come up with witticisms at a moment's notice is something he enjoys seeing in action. He feels great satisfaction not only knowing that he has secured your love but to also see you in a state of tranquility and within your elements.

As Benji and you have a hushed conversation on the sidelines, he reaches over and places his hand on your knee beneath the table. You quietly reach over and put your hand over his, stroking the back of his hand with your thumb like it’s instinctual. Unfortunately, the heart-fluttering moment is ruined by the sudden buzzing of his phone. He has half a mind to ignore it, but when he gives the screen a glance he realizes ignoring the caller is not an option.

“I’ll be out for a moment,” he excuses himself once he sets his hand down and stands himself upright. “This shouldn’t take that long, hopefully.”

They all stop to look up at him inquisitively for half a second. In unison, they ask, “Sebek?”

“Sebek,” he affirms.

There are simultaneous displays of annoyance, pity, and silent wishes of good luck directed at him. He’s tempted to ask where all this contempt for the boy comes from, but then he remembers the many times Sebek barges his way into their dorm at the worst possible moments. It is either when everyone is beginning to settle down after a long day or in the middle of an important house project, the former more so than the latter now that the dorm is much more stable and in need of less restoration. Malleus learned the hard way how ill you and the ghosts will react when your peace is unwantedly interrupted and your space invaded by an unwanted guest.

Sebek is also quick to scrutinize whatever he sees out loud without a filter. You never seem to mind half of the time, merely rolling your eyes and moving past Sebek’s ill-meaning remarks as if you never heard them. As you are someone Malleus highly regards and holds close to his bosom, he hopes Sebek can one day set aside his strife with humankind and give you the due diligence you deserve.

...Though, he completely understands that reaching that point will take time. While you can endure Sebek to a certain degree, there are times where he, unfortunately, pushes you past that threshold and, without flinching, you will tell him to “Shut the fuck up”. Your words, not his.

“Young master!” Sebek's transmitted voice peaks and he has to half pull it away to give his pained eardrums some relief. “I was informed by Lord Lilia that you will be spending the night over at the Human’s dorm. Have you all your accommodations at their estate? If not, I will swiftly-”

“That won’t be necessary,” he half laughs at his enthusiasm over such a small task. “I have enough to keep me comfortable and well for a few days. Your offer is still very much appreciated.”

“Y-Yes, of course,” he stutters. “If there’s anything you should ever find a need for, please inform me at once! I will fulfill your every wishes no matter the hour!”

He’s enthusiastic and ready to act at a moment’s notice, even during the middle of a cold and dark hour. Malleus doesn’t necessarily dislike this part of Sebek, but he’s starting to understand why someone like you would find such subservience difficult to deal with. At any moment, Malleus could ask Sebek to grab some insignificant item of his and tread through the thick snow to deliver it to him, and the boy would do so with jubilation and utmost timeliness. You on the other hand wouldn’t be caught dead ordering someone to do something on your behalf when you believe you are well and capable of doing it yourself.

You don’t put expectations onto the backs of others, choosing to trust yourself first before anyone else. He knows now that it’s a result of the one instance where you expected something from someone, only to be thoroughly let down and left wondering if it was you who did something wrong.

Malleus cannot make up for the pain you’ve been subjected to, but he hopes that he can become the outlier in your life that surpasses any preconceived notions you may hold onto others. He hopes...No, he absolutely will be the one who brings you your well-earned and deserved joy and repose, just as you have done for him and continue to do so.

You love him, and he will ensure he is worthy of every last drop of your fidelity.

[celosiaa]

steady, love (chapter 5)

Summary:

Martin is not doing well.

Jon is there with him through every step.

(because I became obsessed ™ with the idea of Martin dealing with the physical and emotional aftermath of leaving the Lonely)

Chapters 1-6 are up on ao3 under the same username!

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

WARNING: martin's sick! and I describe it a little more in detail here. no vomiting or anything, mostly just coughing.

After fumbling with the doorknob around the large grocery bags in his arms, Jon is not surprised to find that Martin has presumably retreated upstairs for the time being.  Closing his eyes, he allows himself a deep, centering sigh.

A bit of separation ought to do us both some good.

The contents of the bags shift awkwardly in his hold, forcing him to prop them up at a strange angle.  He crosses the room quickly and sets them down on the kitchen table with a heavy THUD.

Sunlight filters in through the kitchen window, highlighted now in the absence of electrical lighting.  From this angle, Jon can see ribbons of dust framed in the sunbeams, undoubtedly landing to coat every surface in the small kitchen.  He sniffs reflexively.

Time to get to work.

He flicks on the lights and throws open the windows, willing the stifling air out of the cottage.  After taking out the cleaning supplies he’d purchased and wiping down every kitchen surface, he turns next to the array of vegetables.

Where do I start?  How does soup…work?

He ponders this for a few minutes, setting all the potential ingredients on the countertop and rearranging them periodically in an attempt to draw some method from his memory.  With some doubt, he decides to chop the onions, celery, and carrots first.  Luckily, he is not left to flounder for long— in a single moment, he finds that he Knows exactly what to do.  His hands begin to work with the rhythm of a seasoned chef, his movements fluid and sure.

Soon after, the aromatic soup bubbling on the stovetop floods the cottage with a kind of lived-in presence previously unknown to it.  As he works, Jon smiles to himself, beginning to hum some half-forgotten tune.  He pops the baguette in the oven to warm it.

At last, Watcher, you give me something useful to work with.

While he waits on their meal to finish, he takes out the mountain of medicines he’d purchased and lines them up on the countertop.  Placing his hands on his hips, he stares at them intently, unsure of his next move.

Should I go up there?

He might be asleep.

…or he’s climbed out the window.

As if on cue, a creaking stair from behind him causes him to turn around quickly.  There stands Martin, pillow creases on his left cheek, smashing down hair that had been standing on end and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Their eyes meet, and both freeze for several seconds, staring at each other, neither willing to shatter the uncomfortable silence.  Eventually, Martin breaks eye contact, pulling a chair out from the table and slumping into it unceremoniously.  He props his head on his hand, staring into the middle distance.

Jon’s heart fills with hope as Martin sits down, and he hurriedly sets the table for two, ladling out generous portions of soup and placing the sliced baguette on the table.  Taking his seat, he sets a glass of water in front of Martin, back ramrod straight, and anxiously studies the man before him.

Martin looks up then, meeting Jon’s eyes, expression giving nothing away.  Jon worries at his bottom lip.  He wants to say something, anything to break this awful silence.

They inhale simultaneously.

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m sor—”

They pause, mouths hanging open momentarily, before Jon continues, words pouring out of him in a rush.

“You were perfectly in the right, Martin.  You—”

“I shouldn’t have snapped.  I—heh—I can’t really understand what this—” he waves his hands vaguely. “—feels like, to you, but…I should have given you a chance to explain.  It’s only fair.”

At this, Jon drops his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable.

“It’s alright, Martin.  And…I’m still sorry,” he replies in a soft voice.

A corner of Martin’s mouth turns up, and he chuckles briefly.

“I can tell,” he says, motioning at the colorful spread in front of them.

“Y-yes, well…I did sort of plan this before my actions necessitated apologies.  I hope it’s alright.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely, dear.”

Dear.

Martin’s words draw heat into Jon’s cheeks, and he grins into his soup.  It is quite good, actually—full of flavor that Martin praises enthusiastically, though his senses are undoubtedly a bit muddled by congestion.

They eat in contented silence for while.  Jon’s heart bounds when Martin starts to get up for seconds, bowl in hand.  Snatching it from him quickly, Jon delightedly fetches him another steaming bowl full.  As he places it in front of him, Martin smiles fondly, and thin grey wisps travel out with his breath.

“We should probably talk about that,” Jon says, taking Martin’s glass and watching the rising plumes.

“Yeah, maybe,” Martin laughs, which turns hastily into coughing— substantially deeper-sounding than they had been earlier.

“And that,” Jon says pointedly, filling Martin’s glass with water.

“It’s not that bad,” Martin replies, even as his eyes begin to stream.

Jon huffs sharply.

“Well, you’re going to take something for it anyway, now that you’ve eaten.  Here—”

He shakes two fever-reducers into Martin’s hand, which he swallows obediently.  Jon then turns to flick the kettle on and leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely in front of him.

“How do you feel?”

Martin has the audacity to simply shrug as he takes a bite.  When Jon sighs loudly in frustration, Martin looks up, setting his spoon down and swallowing.

“Alright, alright.  I’m…better than this morning, I think.  Least I’ve got my voice back a bit.”

“Fever’s still there, though.  A bit higher, even.”

At this, Martin chuckles again, shaking his head and stirring his soup.  Jon holds his hands out to his sides palms up in questioning.

“What?”

“You’re fussing!”

“I most certainly am not!  I’m being perfectly reasonable, thank you.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Hmf.”

Jon turns back to making tea, pouring a mug for each of them, adding plenty of honey to Martin’s for good measure.  As he sets them down on the table, he continues his line of questioning.

“And the…Lonely stuff, then?  What should we do about it?”

At this, Martin lets out a heavy sigh, congestion crackling audibly in his chest as he does.

“Dunno.  Seems to come out more when you’re being sweet, though.”

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair.

“And I wouldn’t complain about having more of that,” he continues with a sunny smile, tipping his head onto his hand again, eyes full of amusement.

Jon returns his gaze with a sidelong glare, and watches as Martin’s shoulders begin to shake in silent giggles.  His own face melts into a smile, even as he tries to stop it from doing so.

Oh.

I think…I might love him.

Somehow, the thought does not alarm him.

Walking over to Martin slowly, he runs a hand over his hair where it still sticks up.

“Don’t push it,” he says tenderly, planting a soft kiss onto Martin’s scorching forehead.

Satisfied with the beet-red flush he’s pulled onto Martin’s cheeks, Jon sits down in the adjacent chair, taking Martin’s hand in his.  They enjoy the peace and quiet for hours, sipping at their tea and simply taking joy in each other’s company.

The fog rolls out of Martin in billows.

Jon awakens with a start, sitting up immediately, causing his head to rush.

What…?

Something had woken him, but listening now, he hears nothing but the house creaking around him.  Running a hand over his face, he tries to wrestle his sleep-laden thoughts into something resembling competence.

Something is…

He turns sharply to the right side of the bed, finding it empty.  Alarm rings through his head as he passes a hand over the Martin-shaped indentation on the sheets—already gone cold.  Breath quickening, he runs through worst-case scenarios in his mind, preparing to fight whatever had found them here, grabbing the knife he keeps at the bedside.  He slinks out of bed with cat-like grace.

From downstairs, he hears Martin’s deep hacking, urgently trying to clear his lungs.

Fuck.

Jon drops the knife to the floor, flooded with relief that he will not have to fight anything other than illness tonight.  Dropping back onto the edge of the bed, he doubles over, allowing his heart a moment to slow as it pounds in his ears.   Martin’s fit continues for nearly a minute before mercifully ceasing.

He must be miserable.

Jon winces in sympathy before standing again, pulling on his dressing gown as he heads down the stairs.

Upon entering the living room, he finds Martin once again on the sofa, curled up as tightly as his long legs will allow.  Jon can see his shoulders shaking as he desperately tries to hold back the coughs bubbling up in his chest, his face pressed into a tissue.  He turns away from Jon as he enters his peripheral vision, shaking his head rapidly.

“Martin?  What’s—”

He’s cut off abruptly by sneezing, loud and wet, that morphs quickly back into rattling coughs.  Jon’s chest aches as he watches, hearing whatever nastiness occupies Martin’s lungs refusing to loosen.  With a determined grimace, Jon steps over to him, placing a hand on his back, and begins rubbing circles with a gentle pressure.

Unfortunately, this does not seem to help, and Martin continues his half-drowned hacking with no respite in sight.

Biting his lip, Jon makes his decision and begins pounding the heel of his hand over the ribs protecting Martin’s lower lungs.

At last, this seems to break some congestion free, deepening Martin’s cough before he finally manages to get something up.  Looking into the tissue for a moment with disgust, Martin balls it up and throws it into the bin he’s dragged near the sofa, sniffling exhaustedly. He drops his head to rest on his hands.

Jon walks around the coffee table to sit beside him, resuming the slow circles on his back.

3͙̋̎9͓͂ͫ̆.̣̖̿6̩

Christ.

“I’m sorry, Jon.  I’m so sorry, it’s disgusting.” he rasps, voice wobbling with effort.

“Don’t—don’t apologize, Martin.  You’ve done nothing wrong,” Jon replies in the gentlest tone he can manage, continuing his ministrations for several moments in silence.

He looks up when he feels Martin’s shoulders beginning to shake, thinking he needs to cough again.

To his dismay, Jon sees hot tears threatening to spill over Martin’s cheeks.

“Oh, Martin, no.”

At his words, Martin immediately chokes out a sob, hiding his face in his hands, now unable to stop them from coming.  He gasps and heaves as Jon continues rubbing circles on his upper back, eventually coming to kneel in front of him, one hand resting on his knee as the sobs give way to shaking.

“Look at me, darling.  Look at me.”

Jon gently pries Martin’s hands away from his face, fever-glassed eyes meeting bright green.

“Listen to me.  I want to look after you.  I want to.  Please…please let me.”

Martin’s breath hitches, tears spilling out again, and Jon pulls his head to rest on his shoulder, stroking a hand through his faded curls.

They stay just like that for a few minutes, before Jon curls back up on the sofa next to him, hand still moving through his hair as he drifts off.

After several hours of fitful rest, Jon had managed to coax Martin into some breakfast and medication before dragging him back to bed for some proper sleep.  Basira and he had planned to speak at noon via the phone box in town, and he had told Martin as such.

Jon had left a note for him near the bed anyway.  Just in case the fever stole his memory.

He has just made it to the outskirts of the village, where sits the phone box.  It’s a bit dilapidated, peeling paint showing some hastily covered old graffiti beneath.  Jon smirks.

Martin would love this.

Stepping inside and closing the door, Jon dials Basira’s phone.  She answers almost immediately.

“Jon?  Is that you?”

“Y-yes, hello Basira.”

She exhales a long sigh of relief.

“You made it then.  Thank God, I was starting to get worried.”

Jon can’t help but smile at this.

“Yes, we’re here.  I don’t think we were followed, so we should be relatively safe for the time being.”

“Good.  That’s good.”

They pause as Jon carefully considers his words.

“Have you���have you found Daisy?” he asks in as soft a tone as he can muster.

Basira sighs heavily.  When she replies, her voice is lower, each word measured.

“I’ve got some leads.  But…I don’t want to go after her in earnest until I find out whether or not there’s any way she could…be the old Daisy again.  The real one.  I’ve been talking to some ‘experts,’ as it were.”

“Experts?  Wouldn’t that be us?”

Basira huffs out a laugh.  “You know, there are other people in the world outside of the Institute, Jon.”

“No, there aren’t.”

She fully chuckles at this, before they slip into a brief, but comfortable silence.

“And you?  How are you doing?” she asks, her question heavy with implication that Jon chooses to ignore.

“We’re fine, we’re…managing.”

“Are you, though?”

Jon sighs at this, knowing he has never successfully hidden anything of import from Basira, and he was unlikely to be able to start today.

“The Eye is…getting hungry.  Harder to control.”

“Thought as much.  You’ve been feeding on innocents again, then?” she asks waspishly.

“N-NO!  No, Basira, I’ve been able to resist.  I just…don’t know what to do going forward.”

“I’ll send you some statements then.  Should tide you over until…well, until the next horrible thing happens, I suppose.”

Jon feels he could cry with relief.

“Thank you, Basira.  Really, thank you.  You’ve got the address then?”

“…yeah.  I’ve actually been there before, you know.  With Daisy.”

Her voice grows muffled with emotion.

“It’s a lovely little spot.”

“It is.”

Their grief hangs in the air like a curtain for a few moments, and they decide to let it be.

Breathe it in, and let it go.

Just let it go.

Basira clears her throat and continues, voice stronger.

“Is Martin alright?  Is he…still Martin?”

“Yes, yes he’s been…more Martin than I’ve seen him be in a while.  Which is saying something, given that he’s quite ill at the moment.”

“Ill?  Ill how?” she says, her voice ticking up in concern.

“It’s…complicated.  Some kind of dreadful chest cold or flu or something, certainly.  But…sometimes, when he feels—”

Jon cuts off, embarrassed.

“Sometimes he breathes out this…fog.  It looks like the fog that was in the Lonely, so he thinks it’s a sign of the Lonely leaving him.  That it’s a good thing.”

“And what do you think?”

Jon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I think he might be right, but…I also think it might be what’s making him ill.  He’s…gotten much worse, even just since yesterday.”

“Hmm.”

Another silence falls, both pondering.

“Well.   Something else I can look into, I suppose.  You’re at the phone box in the village, right?”

Jon chuckles, looking around at the smudged glass.

“Of course.”

“Right.  Let’s plan to talk again in a few days.  Half past one on Thursday okay?  I’ll rush you the statements in the meantime.”

“That sounds perfect, Basira.  Thank you.  And…”

He cuts off, softening his voice.

“Good luck.  I hope you can find a way to get her back.  And…that we’ll see each other again, soon.”

Basira sniffs audibly, leaning away from the speaker for a moment.

“Right.  Be careful, Jon.  I mean it.  Call if Martin gets worse.”

The receiver clicks.

Jon gets back to the cottage just in time for Martin’s next round of Dr. Sims-prescribed medication, his hair tossed wild by the Highland winds.  The downstairs lights are still off, just as he had left them.

I hope he managed some decent sleep, at least.

He grabs the meds from the kitchen counter along with a fresh glass of water, and ascends the stairs on tiptoe.  Swinging the bedroom door open, he finds Martin sprawled across the bed, mouth open and propped up on every pillow they had managed to find.  Jon smirks fondly.  He then sets the meds and the glass of water on the nightstand as he sits on the edge of the bed.

3̗͒ͩ9̬̖̊̔.̳̰̓3.

Jon frowns the moment he places his hand on Martin’s flushed neck.  It’s down from earlier, but not by much, and still on the border of worrying.

Dammit, I’ve got to wake him.

Stroking his arm, Jon calls his name softly.

“Martin.  Hey, Martin.”

He brushes the damp fringe back from Martin’s brow.

At this, Martin lifts his eyelids halfway, heavy with sleep.  After a moment, he turns his gaze to Jon before groaning and scrubbing at his eyes.

Poor thing.

Jon holds out the pills and the water glass to him.

“Do you think you can take these?”

Martin stares blankly at them for a moment, as though mesmerized by their colors, before reaching out with shaky hands.  He pops the pills in his mouth successfully, but as he reaches for the glass, his hands shake so badly that Jon is forced to keep a hand over his as Martin tips his head back to swallow.

His breaths are shallow and crackling when Jon takes back the glass, and sweat begins to bead his brow.  Grimacing for a moment, Jon rubs his shoulder briefly before standing.

“I’ll be right back.”

He walks quickly to the bathroom, finding a clean washcloth and dampening it with the coldest water he can coax from the tap.  Deep, rattling coughs echo from the bedroom as he does, and he shakes his head frustratedly.

Why isn’t any of this helping?

As he returns, Martin has reached the bitter and unsatisfying end of his fit, his chest still crackling with each inhale in spite of his efforts to clear it.

“Christ, Martin.  You sound awful.”

But Martin has squeezed his eyes shut again, leaning back against the pillows in exhaustion and rubbing painfully at his chest.  Jon perches near his elbow and begins gently sweeping the cold cloth over his face, eliciting a contented sigh from Martin as soon as the coolness hits his skin.  Jon moves lower, stroking his neck soothingly before depositing the cloth on his forehead.

As he does so, Martin reaches up, grabbing his hand lightly.

“What is it?”

Martin does not reply, merely gazing at his hand with half-lidded eyes as he begins to massage it, much in the same way he had done the previous morning on their drive to the village.

Oh, Martin.

Jon smiles and runs his free hand through Martin’s hair.  Martin’s fingers work over the length of each of Jon’s, before Jon’s gentle motions relax him enough that he falls asleep halfway through his ministrations.

Chuckling fondly, Jon lifts the towel from Martin’s brow just long enough to plant a few lingering kisses there before replacing it.

“Sleep well, darling,” he whispers, moving the tissue box within his reach on the bed and patting his arm before slipping out the door.

[marvul-imagines]

Oceans Away

Chapter One

Three months ago

The room was dark, grainy, with a little bit of sunlight filtering in, barely making an impression through the amount of dust, filtering and dancing through the air. Asia Monroe, Agent of Shield, lay on the thin cot beneath her for a moment, unmoving, simply taking in her surroundings. She didn't want anyone to know she was awake yet, not until she figured out where she was and why she was here. And why the fuck her head hurt so badly. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the pain, and the musty scents of dust, and trying to feel for anything at all, anything familiar. She stretched her senses out, feeling for any bit of water, the water that composed a human body, that she could.

Before she even got the chance to do so, a door creaked slowly open. Asia forced herself to take slow, measured breaths, not wanting to give away that she had woken up quite yet. Not that she would even get the chance. "So, you're awake," a familiar, deep voice spoke, a weight touching the edge of the bed as a man sat down. "How's your head? They had you pretty messed up in there."

The brunette slowly opened her eyes, the jig was up anyways, to see Clint Barton, wearing all black, sitting at the foot of her bed. "Clint? What are you doing..here? Where is here, by the way?" She asked all at once, trying to prop herself up, but a blazing pain raced through her head before she could do so.

"Ehh, you probably shouldn't try and do that just yet. You're going to be pretty out of it for a bit. What do you remember?" Clint asked her, brow furrowing as he looked down at her.

Asia tried to think about it, tried to remember where she was, what she had been doing. Why was she out with Clint? Where was Nat? Where was the rest of her usual team? Thoughts, inklings of them, started to slowly drift into her mind. They had been on a mission for....something? Whenever she tried to think about that it was like someone had cut the footage, there was nothing but empty black. "Mmm....Coulson sent us...you and me and Natasha out here, for, uh, for something?" She said, trying once more to sit up, rubbing at her left eye with the heel of her palm. "We're in Eastern Europe, I think? I guess it's hard to tell from in here but I'm....pretty sure that's where we were. Where are we?"

"A little place called Hell. And, you've got that much right," Clint grinned, adjusting the curtain to let a little more light in for her, "Looks like the Red Room didn't fuck with your mind too badly. Shame, now I'll still have to deal with your annoying jokes," his words were teasing, but there was still that intense look of studying her, making sure she was okay.

"The Red Room?" Asia asked groggily, the words causing her brain to ache when she tried to think about it. "What...what was I doing there? What were we doing?"

"Deep undercover, Monroe. You were pretending to be their latest initiate. Was going great, till they clearly caught wind of what we were doing," Clint sighed, shaking his head. "I should have done something more. Something...." he looked like he wanted to punch something. "They had started a basic mind-wipe on you. Thankfully, I got there in time. You should, hopefully, be back in tip top shape shortly."

"What about Nat? Where is she? Is she okay?" Asia asked, finally managing to sit all of the way upright. If she was hurt, Nat should be here. She always was.

"Calm down, kiddo, she's fine," Clint said, standing up and placing a pillow behind Asia's back. "She's just doing a little bit of...clean up. Eliminating the rest of the Room's operatives who were there, getting the kids out safely. She'll be back soon, I'm sure. Until then...want some soup or something?"

On queue, her stomach growled. "Yes, please," Asia muttered, her head still pounding. What else had she forgotten? She didn't like the idea of being unmade. Hazily, she reached for the phone on the wooden table beside her cot, looking at the time. 17:39. The man on the background of her screen, she knew him instantly. Leo Fitz. At least she hadn't forgotten the people who mattered. At least it was just the details of this mission.

But, unfortunately, she did remember the familiar ache of her screen, empty of all messages. He hadn't reached out to her, not once, not to make sure she was okay, to make sure he was alive. He had been far too busy as of late, too busy for her, too busy for anyone. He spent all day, every day, in the Lab, in the basement, in the Library, trying to find any sort of hint as to what happened to Jemma Simmons. And his leads were starting to run dry, just like their relationship was starting to run dry.

It felt like he hardly paid her time of day anymore. They hadn't had sex in weeks, and he barely kissed her ever. She got it, he was busy, dedicated, wanting to make sure that their teammate got home alive. But she couldn't shake the feeling it had something to do with the grand confession of her emotions that Jemma had made to Leo literally days before her disappearance.

And she understood it, she did, she really really did. The desire to save a friend. She got that. She felt it too. Of course, she wanted Jemma back. But did she have to lose him along with it? That hurt more than her fucking head did right now. She looked over at Clint, her friend, her partner, her mentor. He seemed to have a fine relationship with Harper, even when he was gone for a long time. How could he make it so easy?

The shirtless man, the assassin turned Avenger turned part-time Avenger turned dad, gave her one last grin, before disappearing out the door he had come through, presumably off to make the soup. God, she wanted food. And she wanted to sleep, more. Her body begged for it. She let the phone drop back to the table, pretty damn sure she wouldn't be getting any messages on it any time soon.

She would sleep, she would eat, and then they could fly back to base and give a debrief to Coulson, if he was around and not too busy. And she was sure Daisy would want to see her. They had been up to their ears in work lately, with the Terrigen getting out into the ecosystem, causing an influx of people to turn Inhuman. They were pretty sure it had to do with the crystals dropped into the ocean, and somehow being consumed by fish. Most of the people who had turned had been taking Fish Oil pills, so it seemed like a likely answer. Too bad their best scientists were otherwise occupied.

As she leaned back down to let herself sleep, she found that the desire to rest was gone. Of course. Her mind was moving far too much now. Slowly, she swung her legs one by one over the edge of the bed. She wanted her ice bath. Back at HQ, she had started using an ice bath to absorb and heal her wounds. It also made her feel stronger, much stronger. She had found that, just as her body was able to control water, it was also able to make a space underneath the water for her to breath, separate the water from the oxygen. Sometimes, she even slept in there. She looked down at her arms, covered in green sleeves, and slowly rolled them up, revealing the bruises beneath. Yea, she could use an ice bath right about now.

Cautiously, she stumbled out of the makeshift bedroom and into the equally dimly lit hall of whatever shack they had rented for this mission. The cement floor was cool and clammy against her bare feet. She could hear the sound of water boiling on a stove just a door away, feel it bubbling if she tried hard enough, smell the soup in the pot, smell tea that Clint was making. She pushed into the kitchen, wincing at the bright light coming from the bulb above.

"God, whatever the hell they did feels like a hangover times a thousand," she groaned, dropping herself into one of the wooden kitchen chairs, feeling it groan beneath her weight. "Soup almost ready? I could kill for food right now."

"Funny part is, I'm pretty sure you would kill for food," Clint joked. "About two more minutes, so just hold your horses. Nat will be back soon, and then we can all fly home."

The two minutes went by quickly, and, in silence, the two Shield agents slurped their meal, waiting for their third member to arrive back safely.

And she did, safely and silently, which was quite a Natasha thing to do. They hadn't even heard her enter until she spoke. "What, ate all the good food without me while I'm out there cleaning up after you two?" Her tone was teasing, lighthearted. The redhead was still wearing her black suit when she walked into the kitchen, hugging Asia tightly from behind. "I'm glad they didn't hurt you too badly. Next time, I won't let them lay a finger on you." She said seriously, and Asia believed it. There were few people Natasha hated more in the world than the Red Room and their operatives.

"It's okay, it was worth it," Asia shrugged in reply. "If we were able to shut down one of their locations, then it was all worth it. Did you get the kids out?"

"Yea, to a Shield monitored orphanage," Natasha replied, setting her guns down onto the counter and pouring herself her own bowl of soup. "It may not be the best life, for now, but it's a hell of a lot better than what would have happened to them there. Plus, I talked to Tony and he's going to make a donation, help spruce things up a bit." She shoveled the soup into her mouth, and Asia took this as a sign that she didn't really want to talk about it anymore. The brunette nodded, going back to eating her own food.

"Well, now that we're all here and the jobs done, what do you guys say? Shall we blow this lame excuse for a Popsicle stand?" Clint asked, putting his bowl in the sink and rinsing it for a moment.

Nat and Asia looked at each other, before looking back at Clint and both nodding enthusiastically.

"That's what I thought," Clint grinned. "Plus, I'm sure Monroe here is excited to see that boy whose waiting for her back at base," Clint winked at her, causing Asia to roll her eyes and plaster a smile to her face. As good as spies as the two were, Asia had gotten pretty good at lying to both of them, at least when it came to her feelings. Yea, she was excited to sleep in her own bed. But she was pretty sure no one was there waiting for her.

[builder051]

Alice’s restaurant

If you haven’t heard this song, go to YouTube and listen to it.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m57gzA2JCcM

This story takes place in my Steelbridge Sixties AU ‘verse, featuring Vietnam War-era Stucky.  It’s not 100% necessary to read the novella that sets the scene, but it’s here if you’re interested.

_____

Walk into the shrink wherever you are, just walk in, say,"Shrink, you can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant", and walk out

You know, if one person, just one person, does it, they may think he's really sick and they won't take him

And if two people do it, in harmony, they may think they're both faggots and they won't take either of them

And if three people do it! Can you imagine three people walkin' in, singin' a bar of "Alice's Restaurant" and walkin' out? They may think it's an organization!

--Arlo Guthrie, Alice’s Restaurant, 1967

_____

Bucky wakes with his head aching.  He supposes he should be used to it by now.  He doesn’t think he’s gone a whole day without pain since before the war.  The days when he was too fucked up to be aware of his body don’t count.  And he’s supposed to be getting clean anyway.

The alarm clock on the bedside table begins to ring.  Steve reaches out of the cocoon on blankets to silence it.  Then he rolls over and grins at Bucky.  “Morning,” he says sleepily.

“Morning.”  Bucky tries arranging his face in a smile, but it feels awkward.  He isn’t sure he’s achieved the desired result. He stops worrying about it when his jaw stretches into a yawn.

“Sleep ok?” Steve asks as he sits up.

Bucky shrugs.  It’s easier to sleep in Steve’s bed.  He’s gotten used to the mattress.  It no longer feels gooey under his spine, and it’s a definite improvement from an Army-issue bedroll or a hospital cot.  It helps to have another body tucked in with him, too.  A peaceful face one pillow over to remind him of where he is in time and space.

“It’s a big day, right?”  Bucky rubs the grit from his eyes.

“Yeah.”  Steve opens the dresser drawer and starts pulling on a pair of jeans.  He tosses another pair onto the bed for Bucky.  “You remembered.  Ready to wield a serving spoon?”

“I remembered…”  Bucky echoes.  Most of the time he knows what day it is, but it’s especially important today.  It’s Thanksgiving.  A happy day.  But he doesn’t feel happy.

Bucky mulls it over as he slips out of bed.  Everything at the forefront of his mind is solid, like the surface of a frozen lake, gleaming and ready to run across.  He’s safe.  He’s home.  He and Steve have plans.  But a dark shape lurks beneath the surface, reminding him that all it takes is a single crack for things to turn dangerous.

Steve helps him through the process of getting ready.  They’ve fallen into a routine; Bucky struggles with his clothes while Steve disappears to the bathroom.  He finishes up as soon as Bucky’s ready to join him, leaving the faucet running and Bucky’s toothbrush on the counter.

Bucky wants to ask him for an aspirin.  Ideally something stronger, but he knows that won’t fly.  He hasn’t touched anything beyond weed in almost a month.  Which is a good thing, Bucky reminds himself.  He sticks his toothbrush in his mouth, cringing at the bitter tang of chemicals under the artificial mint.  Too late now.  He won’t want to swallow anything for at least half an hour.

They hold hands as they walk to the shelter.  “No one’ll see,” Steve murmurs as he interlaces his fingers with Bucky’s.  It’s a holiday, and early morning to boot.  The neighborhood is completely still, and even the main roads are devoid of traffic. There may as well only be two cars in the entire town, both parked on the curb in front of the soup kitchen.

It’s warm inside, and already full of the aroma of cooking food.  “Hey, guys!”  Scott looks up from the antenna he’s wrestling into place atop the ancient TV set.  “There’s coffee in the back.  And pie.”

“Pie?” Steve shakes his head.  “A little early for that, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t just for breakfast anymore.”  Scott fiddles with the knob to change the channel, and a view of New York City appears in grainy black and white.

“Nice one, man.”  Steve claps him on the shoulder, then leads Bucky through the swinging door to the kitchen.

Sam appears to be in command, stirring a huge pot of potatoes while talking T’Challa through the turkey.  “It’s pre-cooked, man.  Stop messing with the oven or you’re gonna dry it out.”  His eyes alight on Steve and Bucky, and he greets them with an enthusiastic, “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Most wonderful time of the year,” Steve says.  He pours himself a cup of coffee, then raises the carafe and makes eyes at Bucky.

“Sure,” Bucky mumbles.  The kitchen is comforting, both at the shelter and the house.  Like the bed, it’s not a place Bucky’s been lately, so he’s at ease there.  Mostly.  His hackles are up today, nagging at him like the throb behind his forehead, reminding him again of the fragility of his situation.  He takes one sip of the coffee, then decides he’s jittery enough and leaves the mug on the counter.

Steve won’t let him touch the knives, supposedly because his one-handedness keeps him from being able to hold steady whatever he’s cutting.  Bucky knows it’s for safety, too.  He agrees that it’s probably smart.  Sam puts him in charge of the gravy, first stirring the pot bubbling on the stove, then ladling it onto trays when the clock strikes 11 and the customers start streaming in.

Steve’s a chatterbox, too excited for his own good.  He makes conversation with every person in line as he doles out potatoes and stuffing.  Some of the scruffy men reply in kind, but most just mutter “thanks” and look at the floor.

Bucky doesn’t blame them.  He has a hard time lifting his gaze from the oily sheen of the gravy pan.  Making eye contact leaves him exposed, staring down the humanity in the other guy’s soul, just as they stare down his.  It makes it harder to act.  Harder to kill.

“Pour a little extra on here for me, will ya, boy?”

“Huh?”  Bucky blinks down at the slice of apple pie and the shaky hand holding out the dessert plate.  Then at the face behind it; the grin and the eye patch.

“Ugh, really, Nick?”  Steve laughs and wrinkles his nose.  “Gravy on potatoes, gravy on turkey…but gravy on pie?”

“Hey, I don’t comment on what you get up to,” Nick says.  “Come on.  Help a brother out.”

Bucky lifts the ladle slowly.  His heart beats hard and fast, but everything around him is too still.  The extended second of levitation before free fall.

“Who cares?  It’s just gravy.”

It’s just gravy.

I don’t care.  They’re not your rations.

He ain’t gonna eat ‘em.

He ain’t your fucking problem.

Don’t speak for ‘im.  Whadaya say, Barnes?  You gonna eat?

He isn’t hungry.  He doesn’t want to open his mouth, either.  His stomach’s in knots.  Everything in this godforsaken country smells like sweat and shit, even the food.  Even the food they shipped in specially, as if the government needed a federal holiday to give the troops abroad a sharp kick in the ass and call it thankfulness.

“Buck?  You alright?”  Steve’s hand closes over Bucky’s, stilling its quavering.  There’s gravy all over the counter, and Nick’s pie is swimming in it.

“Sorry, Nick,” Steve says.  “Scotty, you wanna grab him a fresh slice?”

“No, no, it’s ok,” Nick says with a chuckle.  “Got what I asked for, didn’t I?”  He takes his food and shuffles to a table.

“Just put it down, Buck.”  Steve murmurs.  He pries the ladle out of Bucky’s grip.  “Alright?”

Bucky’s teeth are chattering.  But he’s warm.  Too warm.  His head hurts.  And his arms.  The one that’s been stirring and scooping for the past four hours, and the one that’s not there.

Steve tucks Bucky’s hair behind his ear and presses the backs of his knuckles to his cheek.  “You feel ok?”

Bucky means to say “yeah,” but instead he mumbles, “People are gonna see…”

“It’s fine,” Steve says.  “Like he said, nobody cares what we get up to.”

Nobody cares.  Rations are rations.

Bucky takes a breath and tries again.  “I…” he starts.  “Um…”

“How ‘bout you sit down and have something to eat,” Steve suggests.  He pats Bucky’s shoulder and turns to get him a plate.

It’s the last thing Bucky wants, but he isn’t in the position to argue.  All he can do is try not to watch as Steve dishes him up.

“Here, come sit.”  Steve finds him a place at a table in the corner between Darcy and Nat.  Some deep recess of Bucky’s brain acknowledges the small miracle of veterans and protesters enjoying dinner in the same room, but the thought is impossible to hold.  It’s on top of the ice, and he’s trapped beneath it.  He’s stuck here, in his body and his memories, while the rest of the world spins without him.

Bucky picks up his fork because that seems like what Steve wants.  As soon as his blonde head bobs back into the kitchen, though, Bucky stands up again.  Somebody asks what’s wrong, but he doesn’t reply.  He can’t.

He leaves through the front door and circles around the back of the building.  A dumpster takes up most of the narrow alley, but there’s a pile of plywood and a soggy-looking mattress jammed into the corner.  Bucky makes for it, tripping over his feet and going down harder than he intends.  His knees smart, but Bucky doesn’t care.  He has to focus, to spit out the words before they turn to rocks in his pockets and pull him down.

Beds didn’t exist in Vietnam.  They did before, and they do after.  Nothing else matters.  Not food, not Thanksgiving.  Just safety.  And Steve.

“You’re…here,” Bucky grunts.  “You’re safe.”  He embeds his hand in his hair and stares at the dirty pavement between his feet.  He pulls in a half-dozen breaths that taste like garbage and winter sunshine.  It’s cold out here.  It wasn’t cold in Vietnam.

“There you are.”  It’s Steve’s voice.  Steve’s shadow approaches, and his shoes edge into Bucky’s visual field.  “Not feeling so good?”

“Hm.”  Bucky sighs.  “’M here.”

“And you’re safe,” Steve finishes.  He sits on the edge of the mattress and lays the flat of his palm between Bucky’s shoulder blades.  “Do you feel like talking about it?”

“Nah.”  Bucky searches for a sentence to capture the gist of it, but the more he thinks about it, the more nebulous the feelings become.  “Just…memories.  And…hurt.”

“What hurts?”

Bucky runs down the list.  Head, stomach, arms, ribs…  The tension in his shoulders holds an exhausting sort of pain.  He usually relaxes into Steve’s touch, but this time his muscles are locked in spasms, sending a nauseating tightness into his throat.  “My arm,” he says.  “My arms.”

“You probably used some muscles you haven’t worked in a while.”  Steve squeezes Bucky’s bicep and runs his hand over the top of his back.  He gently touches the crest of Bucky’s stump shoulder.  “Over here too?”

“Hm.”  The scars are healed now.  Nothing’s wrong with his skin, save the jagged pink marks that have yet to fade.  But something’s off on the inside, phantom pins and needles that prickle like surgical implements accidentally stitched inside. They come and go, fading for weeks then suddenly popping back to remind Bucky of how far he is from truly recovering, how any little thing can ruin him.

Like gravy.

“It’s ok, Buck.  You’re here.  You’re safe…”  Steve says something else, but Bucky doesn’t hear it.  His fingers hit the underside of Bucky’s stump, and the world turns upside down.  The tension in Bucky’s body drops, then reengages in the blink of an eye.  His entire left side tingles.  His vision erupts in stars, and a dry heave bursts from his chest.

“Whoa, ok,” Steve murmurs frantically.  “Ok.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, Buck.”  The pressure of his hands disappears, leaving Bucky unmoored and drifting.  Bucky blinks a few times, but it does nothing for the sick vertigo playing around his ears.

“Ugh.”  Bucky wishes he could say something more definitive, something to insinuate he’s ok.  Which he isn’t, but he’s going to be, as soon as he gets his bearings again.

Steve’s breath is quick and concerned beside him.  He’s going to work himself into a tizzy if he isn’t careful.  Bucky lifts his trembling hand and drops it on Steve’s knee to reassure him, to make him feel a little better.  He thinks he feels a little better too.

[prissypickle]

Caius’s Mate Chapter Eight

Two weeks had passed and I was just barely able to make it to the bathroom on my own. Derek had moved shifts so I had a new physical therapist and he wasn't -- encouraging.

Jonathan was my nurse today he was super kind. He came in with some papers handed it to me. "No more ensure drinks! We're going to try some real food today," he said enthusiastically.

"Hell yea!" I said taking the menu.

"Alright. No solids or hard food. Think mashed potatoes... ice cream. Soup... beans --"

"Can I have some tomato soup and a milkshake... or some mashed potatoes and gravy?"

"How about mashed potatoes and gravy and if you can keep it down a milkshake?" He said.

"Sounds perfect," I said and smiled looking at the clock. Well my visitors are late.

I looked up at the ceiling. And heard a knock on the door. It was a girl I never had met before.

"Hi.." she said smiling coming in.

I looked at her curiously. "Who are you?" She asks.

"Im Jane. Im Alec's sister ," she said. "He talks about you... a lot."

She smiled sitting next to me.

"I came to visit when you were in the coma..." she said.

"Thank you," I looked down.

She nodded.

"Izzy. I know you probably think that Aro is an ass but he isn't all that bad," she said.

"He's the most inconsiderate person I have ever met," I mumbled.

"Why do you say that?" She watched curiously.

"I..." I paused, "He wont let me talk to my mom. I have to make secret calls to her. I... I need her. He wants to take me back to that hell hole, I can barely walk.." I sighed.

"He... he does that for a reason Izzy. He has had a rough past," she said. "He has to protect our kind from humans... you are a threat. So we must keep you at the castle. Every day you are here is a day closer to someone finding out about who we are," she said lowly.

I just looked down not responding. Jonathan brought my my tray of food. "Thank you," I said feebly taking a small bite of the mashed potatoes.

"Take small bites. Don't rush it," he said and left.

Jane sighs watching me. I took the small bowl of mashed potatoes and took a bite. "How come he's so inconsiderate?" I asked

"It's not my story to tell," she bit her lip.

"Maybe not, but I might be able to understand why he is such an ass," I mumbled. "This is the best thing I have ever eaten,"

She chuckled a bit.

"Hey when you don't eat for two weeks anything probably tastes like heaven" I sighed.

She nodded.

"So about that story..." I nudged.

"Fine. But dont. Dont tell Aro I told you," she said.

I nodded taking another bite.

"Aro was born in 1300 B.C," she started.

"Woah. Woah. No way..." I interrupted her. "No way in hell..."

Jane chuckled at my reaction. "Yes. He is very very old," she said. "And wise," she paused.

"You know being old doesn't make you wise," I raised my eyebrow.

She chuckled a bit. "May I go on?"

I nodded.  "He grew up with a brother and a younger sister. His mother died in childbirth with the third child. Aro was around ten when that had happened. He was happy... but things changed when his father died of an illness when he was fifteen. He was left to provide for the family," she paused. "He had to scavenge for food... hide. Move from place to place. He would steal from the local market place," she paused.

I listened very carefully.

"The first time he got caught they just gave him a warning. The second they brought him to the center of town and had him whipped," he said. "It happened multiple times. But he continued to steal just for his family," she paused.

I looked down. "Is that why? He punishes people. Because he learned it?" I whispered.

She shrugged. "I guess. He was still human at this point... when Aro was 17  his sister died of illness...  him and his brother separated and lost contact," she said looking down.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"He met a girl... they fell in love immediately and got married 6 months later and had their first kid. They moved far away and built their own home.  Aro had a job at the market place. Every day he would walk into town just so he could make money to support his family," 

"Thats cute," I smiled.

"Yes..." she said. "They lived happily and his second kid was on the way. Aro was 20 when he was changed. He was on his way home from the town when he was attacked. He was bitten. He forced himself all the way home through the pain. And laid in bed for three days. Not able to move or get up. His wife had went to town to getting the doctor. They could not figure out what the illness was but they suspected that he would die. So his wife began to dig a grave. But three days later he woke -- his skin ice cold. His throat burning. He had completely changed. He had no idea what he was. He heard his wife talking to his child. 'Your father is dead son..' she said to him. Aro was quite surprised because he was very much alive. He went out seeing his wife holding his boy who was only three. The closer he got to them the more his throat burned. When she saw him she was in complete shock. "I'm alive" Aro told her. He held his wife close. He was so confused on why his throat had burned.  His wife was in shock while his son only clung onto him..." she took a deep breath. "A few days later the doctor came and he seemed healthier than ever. Other than his ice cold skin... and his burning throat... and his eyes... his yes were a blood red... when the doctor had checked his pulse there was none. He was completely frozen on the inside. His heart had stopped. But Aro had no idea what he had became until one night when he went out. He smelt blood.  He found someone and he killed him. He fed. Aro told me that he never felt so guilty in his entire life... he had killed someone. But it made the burn go away.  But only three days later the burn had came back. He went to talk to his wife saying how he had changed. His wife just brushed it off saying it was just the illness but when he showed her that he had no heartbeat she was realized something was seriously wrong," she paused.

"He headed out to the town paranoid. He could hear everyone's conversation. He hated it. When someone tapped him on the shoulder that was the second time he fed. It was daylight. But he was so thirsty he killed the man right there not caring who saw. He finally realized what he was. He drank blood. He was a vampire. He ran home needing to talk to his wife and he told her everything about the attack. About killing two people. About being a vampire," she said.

"Did she leave?" I asked.

"No. She loved him. And supported him... but people saw him... people saw him and figured it out. People from the town grabbed her and his son... they got them to the center of town... and were going to execute them. Aro was out hunting and didn't see either of them home.... went to town seeing it. He saw his pregnant wife and his three year old boy, a noose around their neck... "

"D-did he save them?" I said tears dwelling.

"No... as soon as he got there men grabbed trying to pull him to be burned... his family was executed right in front of him... they were hung right there while he was being pulled away,"

Tears fell onto my cheeks.

"Aro lost it... he was devastated... he used his newborn strength and killed the whole entire town... he didn't want anyone of them living," she looked down.

I wiped my eyes.

"He let down his wife and child and immediately tried to bite them but nothing happened. He listened to her stomach but the fetus was dead," she said.

More tears fell. I wiped it with my shirt. "Im sorry... I'm so sorry," I whispered.

She paused for a long while.

"That's why he started the Volturi..." she said. "He met Caius... and Marcus along the way. And he saved me and Alec from being burned at the stake..." she said.

"Did he find anyone else?" I whispered feeling horrible.

"Yes... one day a woman came into the castle after the Volturi was started.... it was pouring rain... she came into the throne room wanting warmth. She saw Aro. They have this thing called a mate bond... someone's true love. Her name is Sulpicia," she said.

I nodded and smiled a bit. "He's not a bad man.... he is just scared..." I said.

She nodded. "Yes. Scared for our kind," she said.

"Thank you Jane," I said hugging her gently.

[the-sonic-cafe]

Hot Chocolate- Fan Fiction

Here’s a Sonic fic I wrote a few weeks back for the winter prompt of hot chocolate. I am hoping to do more Christmas prompt Sonic stories and have them all somewhat connected, but we will see.  Without further ado, the story:

“Mama, look, you can’t even see the front garden bed!” Cream gasped, her hands planted against the window pane as she stared wide eyed at the raging blizzard outside.

Vanilla smiled and stoked the fire. It certainly was a spell of bad weather they were having. Putting the poker back on its hook, she crossed the earth colored carpet until she was standing next to her daughter, “You’re certainly right.”

Cream withdrew her gaze from outside and looked up at Vanilla, “When will it stop snowing so we can play outside?”

“Probably not until tomorrow, baby. Remember what the weatherman said?”

“Oh, yeah…” she said, deflated.

Vanilla placed a hand on Cream’s shoulder, “Don’t look so down, sweetie. There are still plenty of fun things for us to do inside.”

“Like what?” she asked, tugging at a loose thread on her sweater.

“Well, I was thinking maybe we could make some hot chocolate?”

The six-year-old perked up immediately at that and clasped her hands together, “Can we?” At her mother’s nod, Cream whipped her head over to Cheese who was currently wrapped in a wool blanket on the couch, “Cheese, did you hear that? We’re going to make some hot chocolate! Do you want some?”

“Chao, chao!” he replied enthusiastically and untangled himself from the blanket.

“Alright, let’s go make some,” Vanilla said gesturing to the kitchen.

Cream sped on ahead with Cheese right behind her and immediately went to work dragging the stool she used to help her mom cook over to the counter. Vanilla followed in after her, glad her baby was content being indoors at the moment. Unfortunately, making hot chocolate wouldn’t take up the whole day. She was unsure what they would do after, but she’d have to think of something lest she deal with Cream moping around in boredom until tomorrow.

The mother and daughter duo set to work heating a pot of milk and preparing the cocoa powder all while singing Christmas carols in matching aprons. Cheese seemed content flying about the kitchen waiting with great anticipation for the warm beverage.

Vanilla was stirring the contents in the pot together when a knocking sound echoed into the kitchen. She shared a look with Cream, wondering if that could have possibly been the wind or branches hitting the roof. The sound emitted a second time. It was coming from the front door!

“You keep stirring, Cream,” she said, passing the wooden spoon, “I’ll go check the door.”

She quickly walked to the front entrance. If anyone had fought the storm to get to her house, it must be an emergency. Why didn’t they just call? Were the phone lines down? All these thoughts vanished from her head the moment she opened the door and saw Sonic the Hedgehog shivering on her doorstep.

“Sonic!” she gasped, voice barely carrying over the howling wind as the cold bit at her face, “What on earth are you doing out in this weather?”

“F-freezing, actually,” he replied. She could tell he meant it as a joke, but his chattering teeth ruined the effect.

“Come inside this instant!” she fretted, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him through the door. Quickly, she closed it, efficiently stopping the snow flurries from filling the entrance hall. Turning back around she gave Sonic a one over. His arms were tightly wrapped around his chest and his quills were covered with snow. “Why aren’t you wearing a coat? Or a scarf at least?” Sonic opened his mouth to answer, but she cut him off, “Oh never mind that right now, come this way. You need to warm up. I’ve got a fire going in the living room and you’re going to sit right in front of it!”

“Mr. Sonic?”

Vanilla looked behind her to see Cream peaking around the corner with excited eyes. Her daughter adored Sonic. Anytime the young hero was in town, Cream would insistently ask when he’d be stopping by to see her. Vanilla would usually remark that Sonic was very busy and might not have time to visit, but he almost always made time, even if it was just for an hour.

“Cream, aren’t you supposed to be watching the hot chocolate?”

“It’s done, Mama. I turned off the stove,” she said absentmindedly, eyes not leaving Sonic.

“H-hey, Cream,” he greeted with a stutter.

“Sonic has been out in this horrible weather, dear,” she said, lightly encouraging Sonic to continue moving forward by placing a hand on his back, “I need you to come help me.”

“What can I do?” she asked with a look of determination.

“Go get a towel from the bathroom.”

Cream disappeared down the hall while Vanilla guided Sonic to stand next to the fire.

“You stay right there,” she said sternly, before moving over to the plush chair that sat in the corner of the room. Grabbing it by the armrest, she tugged it across the floor.

“Th-thanks, Miss Van-nilla. S-sorry ‘bout the carpet,” he said, shoes shifting on the now dampened floor.

Vanilla shook her head, “No trouble at all, sweetie, and that’s nothing to worry about. It will dry.”

“Chao!” Cheese flew around Sonic’s head twice before stopping inches away from his face, “Chao chao chao!”

Sonic chuckled, “I’m fine, Cheese. J-just a little cold s’all.”

Cream reappeared from the hall, “I got a towel!”

“Thank you,” Vanilla grabbed the cloth from her and gave it to Sonic, “Wipe that melting snow off before you catch your death of cold.”

As Sonic started wiping at his quills, Cream came and stood by his side, “What were you doing outside in the snowstorm, Mr. Sonic?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Vanilla said, giving him a reprimanding look.

“I was comin’ back f-from visiting a friend in Shamar. I didn’t kn-know the weather over here was so b-bad ‘til I was running in it.”

Vanilla retook the now damp towel from Sonic’s hands, “That’s why it’s important to pay attention to things like weather!” Sonic winced as her maternal side took over. Cream just gave him sympathetic look, “You keep not thinking before you act and you’re going to end up hurt! You could have frozen to death out there! And you’ll be lucky if you don’t get sick, young man!”

Sighing, she allowed her tense form to relax. Worry sometimes caused her temper to flare a bit, but it was just because she cared. Besides, if she didn’t scold the world-renowned hero every once in a while, who would?

“But I suppose all turned out well. I am glad you managed to find the house,” Vanilla said, grabbing the blanket Cheese had been using earlier off the couch, “Now, sit down. We’ve got to warm you back up.”

Sonic complied and stiffly sat down in the chair. Carefully, Vanilla placed the blanket over him, “Now, how about some hot chocolate? I believe it will do you good and help stop the shivers.”

“Hot chocolate s-sounds great,” he said, grinning.

Patting his shoulder twice, she moved back into the kitchen. She grabbed three Christmas-themed mugs from the top cabinet and the pot off the stove. As she poured the drinks, she could hear Cream laughing at something Sonic had said. She chuckled.

Sonic was a good kid, but sometimes he got so caught up in helping others that he’d forget to take care of himself. Vanilla shook her head. Even though she was a mother of one, she sometimes felt like a mother of twenty.

Reaching into the fridge, she pulled out a can of whipped cream and squirted a dollop into each cup. Perfect!

Taking hold of the steaming mugs, she made her way back to the living room. Cream had her hands resting on the armchair clearly hanging onto every word Sonic was saying, “—fessor Pickle said he was going home to Spongonia to spend the holidays with his daughter.”

“Here you are, you two,” Vanilla smiled, passing both Cream and Sonic a mug, “Be careful, it’s hot.”

“Thanks, Mama!”

“Thanks, Miss V!”

“So, what are two talking about?” she asked, taking note that Sonic’s teeth were no longer chattering.

“Sonic’s visit with Professor Pickle!” Cream answered before blowing on her hot chocolate.

“Ah!” Vanilla said, taking a seat on the couch, “I am surprised Tails didn’t go with you. Isn’t he close with the professor?”

“Oh yeah! Those two love to talk ancient stuff.” Sonic said adjusting the blanket, “But it was actually an unexpected drop-in. I was just in the area and decided to check in on him. You know, make sure he’s not dealing with any maniacal mad doctors or robots.”

Vanilla hummed in response, cautiously sipping at the drink. It turned out really good, she had to admit. Chocolatey and smooth.

Seeing her take a drink must have prompted Sonic, for he immediately brought the cup to his lips. He made a loud slurping sound which caused Cream giggle. Vanilla simply shook her head good-naturedly, choosing to ignore the lack of manners.

“Mm-mm! That’s good!” Sonic said.

Cream’s giggles turned into a high-pitched laugh, “Mr. Sonic! You have a whip cream mustache!”

“Huh, I do?” he questioned, eyes going crossed in an attempt to catch a peek, “Well what-do-ya know? Do I look more sophisticated?”

Cream nodded, her eyes twinkling in delight.

Putting on an accent, he grabbed Cream’s hand in one of his, “Excuse me, Miss, but did you help make this exquisite hot chocolate?”

“I did with my Mama, Mr. King Sonic,” she said playing along.

“I dare say it is the best hot chocolate I have ever tasted! I hereby declare you and Miss V to be the royal hot chocolate makers!” then he bent his head down and kissed Cream’s gloved hand, succeeding a wiping a little of the whipped cream off.

“You got some on me!” she gasped.

“A thousand pardons,” he winked.

The two broke out laughing and Vanilla couldn’t help but join in.

They continued to talk about Sonic’s visit to Shamar, Cream’s Christmas list to Santa, and the Amy’s upcoming Christmas party until all their cups were empty.

“I suppose I’ll have to start cooking lunch in a little bit.” Vanilla said standing back up and grabbing everyone’s glasses, “Do you eat creamy broccoli soup, Sonic?”

“Yeah, actually, but I’m staying for lunch?” he questioned.

“I assumed you’d be staying the rest of the day, unless you want to go back out in that storm again,” she said, giving him a playful smile.

“Nah, I’d rather stay the rest of the day.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Cream said bouncing up and down, “We can play all kinds of games together! Do you wanna play Candy Land?”

“Sure! How about you, Miss Vanilla? You in?”

She nodded, “Sounds like fun. I’ll go put these in the sink and you two go and get the game.”

“Come on, Mr. Sonic! The game’s in my room!” Cream said, grabbing him by the hand and pulling.

Sonic chuckled and allowed himself to be pulled up off the chair. The two vanished down the hall, leaving Vanilla in the living room. She had a feeling she wouldn’t have to worry about Cream being bored for the rest of the day.

[promiscuous-jalapeno]

Songbird-Ch. 5

Mystic Messenger Mafia AU 

║ch1║║ch2║║ch3║║ch4║║ch6║

Word Count: 2,407

[Violence/Murder]

~A/N: I was going to add the smut in this chapter but I decided I would separate it into it’s own, that way people that don’t want to read the NSFW can just skip it! Sorry it’s been soooo long, guys! My life is just hectic so it’s hard for me rn but I hope you enjoy this chapter! 

     "I heard you the first time, Saeyoung,” V spoke softly, his hand gripping the head of his cane as he sat unmoving in the chair.

     “Y’know, a good way to indicate you’ve heard someone is to actually reply. Just a tip,” Saeyoung snapped. “You’re being alarmingly calm about this, considering the shit storm that’s decided to roll it’s way through us.”

     V sighed, though his vacant gaze was unwavering. “I’m anything but calm. However… acting out in hysterics isn’t going to solve our problem. Talking like adults…deciding our next course of action. That’s what gets things done. Point a finger at me again, Saeyoung, and I’ll pop you in the mouth myself.”

     Though they both knew he would never, but still Saeyoung slumped down in the nearest chair with a sour face. V could barely make it out, but he knew the expression well. It had been the same since he was a child. The corners of his mouth pulled down and his brow pinched together with fury, like it’s the last face he’ll ever make, and V tried to hold back a fond smile.

     “Do you have any inkling on who it might be?” Jumin finally spoke up.

     “If I did, I wouldn't be here talking to you, now, would I?” Saeyoung huffed, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

     “Sorry to interrupt,” an unexpected voice found its way into the room.

     “Jaehee, what is it?” Jumin straightened up as she closed the door behind her.

     Her face held hesitancy and she cleared her throat before finally speaking.

     “It’s about the latest bootleg shipment. Apparently, it’s gone missing,” she reported.

     “What the fuck do you mean, missing?” Saeyoung sat up from his chair.

     “I don’t know how to make it any more clear…” she made a quick glance at Saeyoung before returning her eyes to V. “The truck never made it to the drop point. No one has seen it or heard from the driver.”

     “This is not good,” Jumin hinted.

     “No shit,” Saeyoung said, the look on his face making it clear that his gears were turning.

     The room was silent as a church, everyones eyes on each other as if thinking the same thoughts. They were in good standing with the neighboring families. Everyone knew their territories and happily stuck to them. Plenty of police force names lined their payroll…so why now?

     “It could be the coppers,” Saeyoung said with a serious face.

     “It could,” said V, “it could be a number of things.” Jumin nodded in agreement. “ First things first. Jaehee, bring me more info on this missing shipment. I don't care if you have to knock down the drivers’ mothers’ door, I want info. Find Frank, see if he’s heard of any recent booze busts.”

     “Of course,” Jaehee nodded and left the room as quickly as she could.

     “Saeyoung,” V continued, “you know what to do. I have my hands full as it is with this wedding situation.”

     “Oh yeah,” Saeyoung peeked through the blinds onto the courtyard. A crew of men were still setting up tents and tables in preparation. “Is this really the best time for this?”

     “It’s Marcos daughter, of course it’s a good time. When things get rough…that’s when we need celebration. There’s no better time to boost morale. Besides, he’s one of our best, and I seem to remember him saving your ass from a pinch more than a few times,” V smiled.

     Jumin decided to chime in. “Like his first soup job?” Both V and Jumin gave a hearty laugh. “Driving around the whole damned city with the safe in the struggle buggy,” Jumin continued, “before Marco showed up to save your ass. And how much did you end up cracking for, again?”

     “You know damn well how much,” Saeyoung sneered.

     “Then there’s no reason you can’t say it. Go ahead, hot shot. Remind us how much you swiped.”

     Saeyoung’s face turned sour, like the words were bile in his throat. “…Ten dollars,” he finally barked.

     Both of the men roared with laughter for a moment at the memory, so much so that Jumin seemed to wipe a tear from his eye.

     “Okay, okay,” V breathed in deeply when he stood from his chair, “leave the poor kid alone. Come on, let’s get some dinner.”

     He began to trail behind Jumin but paused for a moment, placing his hand firmly on the shoulder of Saeyoung and squeezing just once. His body was stiff and serious.

     “I’m trusting in you, Saeyoung. Find that son of a bitch,” V’s voice was almost a whisper, and as quickly as he had faced him he was now turned around, satisfied with his message.

     Saeyoung watched as they left, taking note of the fact that V seemed to be favoring his cane a lot more in the last few days. The weight of what that could mean fixed heavily on his shoulders, but his body remained stiff and strong with his resolve.

****

     There were joyous smiles all around as the sound of Zen’s singing filled the tent. Suddenly everyone was a hoofer, even the tough burly men could be found rolling up their sleeves and dancing with their gals to the music. It was strange to see the cities most dangerous criminals laughing and jabber-jawing, seemingly carefree. You had to admit, even you couldn't help but get out there, taking Yoosung for a time as your partner. Now you took a break, fondly overlooking the bride with her done-up chestnut hair, her and her groom with goofy smiles as he spun her around.

     “How about that food,” Jaehee walked up beside you.

     “Look at you, all dolled up!” you smiled as you grabbed at the lace of her dress, “is it because…” you gestured with your eyes to Zen.

     “It’s a wedding,” she huffed but a pink tint spread on her face, “last I heard, you were supposed to dress nice,” she said matter-of-factly. “Besides, you don’t look half bad yourself.”

     You gave her a shy thanks before she thrust a bottle into your hands.

     “Say, do me a favor and bring that bottle to my table? They’re dry but…I wanna sit and listen to the rest of this song,” she mused.

     “Whatever you say, boss.”

     The table was half empty, two women you didn’t recognize and a guy you’d seen before on various jobs. He was portly with a kind face, practically jumping for joy when you placed the bottle on the table.

     “Join us, have a drink!” he shouted and poured you a glass quickly, sliding it in front of you as you sat.

     “I’m Betty,” the blonde girl to your left produced a perfect smile. “Isn’t this party just swanky? I’d love to get a look inside that house,” she sighed, sloshing the liquid in her glass before taking a sip.

     “She means inside the bedroom, particularly,” the brunette piped up. She had quite a bit of rouge on, or perhaps she was just that drunk, you couldn’t quite tell. The waves of her hair pressed neatly against her oval face.

     “Will you quit razzing me, already,” the blonde stuck her tongue out.

     “Anthony!”

     The source of the voice was none other than Saeyoung. He and two other men approached the table in earnest.

     “Boss,” Anthony stood from his seat at once.

     Saeyoung gave him a few enthusiastic taps on the cheek as a greeting.

     “You haven’t come to say hi! Now I see why,” he laughed and winked at the ladies sitting in their seats, their bodies leaning in interest at the exchange.

     Saeyoung snatched the glass from Anthony’s hand, draining the contents into his mouth with one solid gulp. He gave an immediate look of disgust, shaking his head as he placed the cup on the table.

     “How can you drink this foot juice,” he pat the man’s broad back, “come on. I got the good stuff inside. You don’t mind if I steal him away, do you, ladies?”

     “Rhatz! No…go ahead,” they both nodded despite their pouty expressions. They were clearly hoping to be invited.  

     “Excuse me, then,” Anthony remarked before being led off by the men.

     Saeyoung tipped his hat to you before joining the other three in a laugh about something you hadn’t quite heard, their voices trailing as they made their way to the house. Something about the way that went made you feel cold. You’d never seen them interact much before. So, while everyone got lined up, occupied with giving their gifts to the happy couple, you decided to sneak off and see what they were up to. You couldn’t miss and opportunity to hear important information, and if anyone caught you, you’d just say you were looking for the powder room.

     Sure you had seen them go around this exact corner, but the grounds among the house were vast and confusing. You’d been here less than a handful of times, and never were you allowed to just wander around V’s house. The sounds of the music and chatter faded more and more, until you found a door slightly ajar.

     Your chest tightened with adrenaline and you stilled your breathing before peeking in the crack. The first thing you saw was Anthony, bloody faced and curled over on the floor, followed by a low hum of voices. A swift kick landed on his chest, the foot belonging to none other than Saeyoung.

     “It’s just like I said,” Antony hacked between his words, “the c-cop is my neighbor…our…our daughters play together…that’s all,” his hand gripped at his chest and his large frame began to shiver with pain. “I don’t know n-nothin about-“

     Saeyoung cut him off, bending down and grabbing Anthony by the collar.

     “You know what I think? I think you’re a fucking liar. I think you know a lot of things, things you might have told that cop friend of yours. And I just can’t have that,” he puffed a heavy breath of air before bringing his fist down thrice on the side of the mans face. “You fucked with my money.”

     It was a pain like no other creeping inside of you. Watching another person get beat, knowing it could be…should be you, instead. The guilt of it all was too much to handle. This man had a wife…a daughter. Sickness threatened to rise up and spill from your mouth.

     Saeyoung pulled a gun, his fingers readying it with a harsh click. Piss soiled the front of Anthony’s pants, streams of pleading words jumbled together through tears. However, the gun pointed swiftly towards the door. Towards you. All you could manage was a gasp before the trigger was pulled.

     The bullet blast through the door just above your head, raining shards of wood into your hair. After taking a moment to remember how to breathe, you kicked the door open, letting your rage take over.

     “Did you seriously just fucking shoot at me?!” you let out an exasperated scream.

     “Depends,” he stood up, dropping a now passed out Anthony back onto the floor and facing you with a calm expression, “did you seriously just fucking eavesdrop.”

     “Are you out of your fucking mind?” you said shakily.

     “Relax,” he drew the word out in a joking manner, “it’s not like I hit you,” he said casually, shrugging his shoulders.

     “She’s right,” another man spoke up, “what if V heard…we’d be in a shit load of-“

     “Ugh,” Saeyoung groaned, “you guys are too serious. No one heard, the music is too loud and they’re all drunk anyway.”

     He nudged at Anthony with his foot, the body still limp and unmoving.

     “Get him out of here and finish him, he smells like piss,” Saeyoung said.

     The two men each carried an end, hastily removing him from the room. And then it was silent for a moment.

     “Are you gunna keep staring at me or you gunna say what you wanna say?” Saeyoung broke the silence.

     “You have blood on your sleeves,” you quietly pointed out.

     Saeyoung inspected his arms. “So I do,” he rolled them up to conceal the stains before grabbing a towel to wipe his knuckles.

     More silence hung heavy in the room.

     “What if you’re wrong?”

     “About?” Saeyoung replied curtly.

     “Anthony. What if you’re wrong…won’t you feel bad?”

     “Now why would I go and feel something like that?” he smiled quizzically.

     “You can’t possibly be that cruel.”

     “And how do you know what I’m like,” he threw the towel before turning to you. “One mans life means nothing in comparison to what we have built. I’ll do what I have to to keep us alive.”

     “Even if that means killing the innocent?”

     “Doll, none of us are innocent.”

     That may be true, but it didn’t mean someone deserved to die. Laws are in place for a reason. The way they operated was barbaric, but of course you couldn’t say that. Not unless you wanted to end up in the same body bag as Anthony.

     “You’re too trusting. That’s how you end up dead, don’t forget that. Why do you care so much how I feel, anyway?” Saeyoung asked, stepping a bit closer to you.

     “I…I don’t know,” you admitted.

     Why did you care? You had a desperate need to know he had some good in him. Something about his character drew you in. Sometimes, when you were together, you could even forget that you both were on opposing sides.

     “Why are you here?” his voice was bold, his feet carrying him even closer to you.

     “I don’t know,” you said once again.

     His hand brushed the soft skin of your cheek, wiping at the rouge. “Are you stuck on me?”

     His face softened and the corners of his mouth formed a small smile. He held still, waiting for you to say something, anything. As much as you wanted to deny it, you couldn’t ignore the rapid beating of your heart at his touch. The look on your face must have said it all.

     Ever so slowly he pressed his lips against yours into a surprisingly gentle kiss. When you didn’t pull away, each kiss became rougher, all the built up tension releasing into this single act. He pressed himself against you and you moaned softly, realizing you had wrapped your hands around his neck at some point and pulled him closer.

[solivar]

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka the one where  Hanzo Shimada is an expatriate student of the Fine Arts, attending college in what he assumes to be a reasonably sedate corner of the American southwest. Jesse McCree is an occasionally leather-clad NPS ranger whose duties extend somewhat further than shooing lost tourists back onto the clearly marked hiking trails. Something weird is going on in the desert south of Santa Fe and their lives unexpectedly come together in the middle of it.

The bit in which Hanzo has a frank and meaningful conversation with Tekhartha Zenyatta.

The UMN annex was four hoverbus transfers and one short stretch on the rapid pedestrian transit speedwalk which, this time at least, did not result in any form of grievous bodily harm, not even a bit of unscheduled nipple-surfing across the raked-stone-and-succulent-beds lawn at his point of exit. Given that his last trip out to the annex had resulted a) missing the exit, b) attempting to return to the exit by the expedient method of hopping over the lane separator, and c) being sent to the hospital via ambulance because having one foot going one direction and one foot going the other direction and each moving at roughly twice the average human walking speed was a recipe for tragedy, he considered this at least an unqualified success. In his own defence, the last time he traveled out to the annex was also his first, carrying Zenyatta’s forgotten lunch since he was the one who didn’t have any scheduled classes or studio time or anything resembling work that day, and had not expected what he found upon arrival. In the world of his childhood, buildings called “annexes” were either ancient, crumbling cinderblock-and-sheet-metal edifices that would probably exist until an earthquake strong enough to topple them came along  or else post-Crisis modular prefabs of recycled and poorly insulated plastics meant to be replaced by more permanent construction but which never seemed to rate high enough on anyone’s priority queue to quite get there.

This annex, by way of cruel and distracting contrast, was a Pueblo Deco Revival architectural masterwork purpose designed and built as a showcase piece for the style, as well as to house the off-campus professional enrichment classrooms and offices for the chosen few among the faculty. His research, conducted while he was spending six weeks with his left leg in a full immobilization brace, suggested that being assigned space there was generally the result of a member of the faculty either dying or moving on and the survivors engaging in the sort of academic heft/staff seniority knife fights only spoken of in shellshocked whispers by TAs and adjuncts who’d had the misfortune of witnessing them first hand. That Tekhartha Zenyatta, known by all for his thoroughgoing gentleness and fundamentally mild nature, occupied a prime chunk of that real estate suggested that his publish-or-perish game was thoroughly on point or he knew where a substantial number of bodies were buried and probably both. His office was a second-floor corner, not quite as desirable as some spaces, significantly more desirable than others, gifted with more than adequate storage and sitting space as well as enormous windows in two of the four walls and a view of the city and the mountains beyond that could genuinely be described as a vista.

Zenyatta was sitting at his desk, silhouetted against said vista, when Hanzo arrived, having missed him in the classroom by a double handful of minutes, and knocked on the frame of the open door. He looked up and never was the praying mantis resemblance more acute than when the westering sun caught the shaved curve of his skull and the highlights in his hazel eyes as he blinked a slow and vaguely astonished blink at the apparition that appeared before him. Hanzo held up a thermos. “I have soup.”

Zenyatta smiled and his eyes glinted with unconcealed humor. “And this time emergency services were not involved in the delivery. Come in, my friend.”

Hanzo stepped inside and closed the door behind him. By the time he turned around, Zenyatta had retrieved two bowls from the depths of his desk and shut down the holoscreens of its internal workstation. Hanzo sat, and poured, the soup still warm enough to steam, and a for a moment the sat together in companionable silence and drank.

“Ah.” Zenyatta finally said. “Grandmother Sumiko’s miso soup recipe. Never tell your brother this, but I am of the opinion that no one in the household makes it better than you.”

“You flatter me.” Hanzo replied, but couldn’t help the smile that grew across his face. “And I would never break my brother’s heart that way, I assure you.”

A warm chuckle. “I hope you do not mind me saying it, but you also have the look about you of a man who wishes to unburden himself without having to spend the next two hours talking his excitable, wildly overprotective little brother out of shipping him back to Japan tied up in a crate marked live cargo, do not taunt.”

“You...are not even a little bit wrong about that,” Hanzo admitted, and set his bowl down. “I -- “

He opened his mouth to speak, and for a long, long, horrifyingly long moment, absolutely nothing came out. Zenyatta’s pale silver brows, always startling against his dark skin, rose questioningly as he finished drinking his soup and set the bowl aside. Hanzo closed his mouth, breathed deeply, exhaled, breathed deeply again, and found words absolutely failing to emerge from his word-making hole despite the ardent desire burning beneath is breastbone to expel the tale of every weird-ass thing that had happened to him over the last four days, unpleasant, pleasant, and enjoyment-neutral. His throat worked fruitlessly with the effort to produce them, his brain chased itself in fully coherent narrative circles, but the only thing to emerge from his throat was a thin, wheezy whine not entirely unlike the pitiful utterance of a woodwind whose reed was so hopelessly saturated with saliva it was utterly incapable of effective vibration. With a wordless moan of despair, he collapsed against Zenyatta’s desk and buried his head in his arms.

“I have the sense,” Zenyatta said, gently, “that this is not something you have done very often. Or perhaps at all. Ever.”

Hanzo found he could not raise his head from his arms and so he lifted a hand in a complex gesture he hoped Zenyatta would interpret as agreement.

“Would it, perhaps, be easier for you if I asked questions?” Again, oh so very gentle.

“...Maybe?” From the depths of his defensive stronghold, Hanzo managed to force out a response.

“Very well.” Zenyatta’s tone became, if anything, even more serene. “I understand that you intended to visit Shiprock. Was it all that you expected it to be?”

“...Yes.” He very much wished, at that moment, to wax rhapsodic at length, to utter self-condemnatory words for never having visited sooner, despite having the time to do so more than once over the years, to describe how it was impossible to fully appreciate the place in all its stark beauty without standing in the cool of its shadow, and settled for croaking into the crook of his arm, “I’ll show you the pictures when we get home.”

“Hanzo, my friend, are you comfortable with this? We can stop if -- “

“No,” Hanzo muttered, lifting his head enough to catch a glimpse of Zenyatta looking down at him, naked concern on his face. “No -- I wish to continue. Please.”

“As you wish.” Zenyatta leaned slightly closer, his hands folding together atop his desk in a fashion Hanzo was inclined to call mudra-ish. “I also understand that you intended to visit the Omnic graveyard in that area, as well. May I ask why? The two goals seem entirely divergent from one another.”

“Part of my Visual Thesis.” Hanzo admitted to the surface of Zenyatta’s desk. “A...comparison and contrast between natural forms of desolation -- the desert, particularly now that winter is approaching -- and the wreckage left behind by the collapse of modern civilization, the towns abandoned during the Crisis and never reoccupied, the scars left behind by hubris and war. I thought the graveyard, and the town closest to it, which was also called Shiprock, would make a striking example.”

“I tend to agree.” A little smile touched the corners of Zenyatta’s mouth. “I would very much enjoy seeing those photographs, I think, and to visit the your thesis exhibition next spring.”

“Iwillmakecertainmyadvisorhasyouonthelist.” He could feel all the blood evacuating his extremities and heading directly to his face and so he positioned his otherwise useless hands to hide it as much as possible. “The whole experience left me feeling...melancholy. There was -- there is -- an intrinsic sadness to the whole thing, even now, thinking of how much death and destruction could have been avoided, how much more could have been done in the aftermath, the appalling waste of it all.”

And now was the weird part. Where the emphatically Not Normal stuff began. He could feel the urge to beg Zenyatta’s forgiveness for wasting his time welling up in his throat and the even stronger urge to stand up and flee even if it meant risking death or dismemberment on a snow-slicked speedwalk taking up residence in his legs, pleading with him to retreat from what was certain to be a scene of pure humiliation. You should really spare your brother’s boyfriend the necessity of calling the hospital and having you admitted for psychiatric evaluation -- that’s the sort of thing that can put a strain on even the best relationships, a little voice that seemed to partake of rationality murmured in the back of his mind, seduction spiked with reproach because, really, what kind of asshole would do that to Zenyatta? He absolutely did not have to be forced to make that sort of judgment call and --

“And then where did you go?” Zenyatta’s voice, warm and smooth as oil, poured through the cracks in his internal monologue and caused how now-slippery thoughts to skid away like an unsteady but enthusiastic two year old on a particularly lubricious skating rink.

“Cerrillos,” Hanzo blurted out, before the voice of rationality could reassert itself. “Well -- eventually. This is where things become...strange. Very, very strange. I would humbly ask that you listen first and then, if you think me thoroughly irrational afterwards, we can discuss...options?”

Zenyatta’s hands lifted away from the table and took on a second, even more mudraish posture just below his chin. “Agreed. Though I should also tell you that, having lived and worked here for a number of years my standards for strange are quite liberal.”

“My car’s GPS began malfunctioning even before I left the vicinity of the graveyard -- I believe I was technically still within Shiprock town limits.” He retrieved the second thermos and jiggled it gently; Zenyatta brought out two tea bowls this time, and he poured for them both. A few sips and he was fortified to continue. “It refused to hold the route I indicated. I had to reset it several times and it misdirected me all over the hills until I reached what used to be Route 14, where it showed me a course back to Santa Fe from the south. The car itself was sputtering for miles and it finally died completely just after I made that turn.”

“I have heard of this sort of thing before from both students and colleagues.” Zenyatta informed him, meditatively. “Global positioning devices frankly refusing to function properly in certain regions south of the city, that is. The theories I have heard in relation to why this may be tend to extremes to say the least.”

“Oh?” Hanzo asked, somewhat more warily than he liked.

A certain mischievous sparkle came into Zenyatta’s eyes. “The most reasonable suggest some form of localized, persistent geomagnetic disturbance in the Earth’s atmosphere, though how such a thing could both exist and completely defy conventional forms of detection is a debate all by itself. Some of the others...well. Roswell is only two hundred miles away, and well within the observed radius of GPS disturbances.”

“Roswell?” Hanzo asked, blankly this time.

The mischievous sparkle was now a mischievous gleam. “Aliens, my friend. Visitors from another world. One of my students is involved in the production of a journal of amateur UFOlogy and swears with a great deal of passionate conviction that the United States government has been covering up the existence of extraterrestrial life since a vehicle not of this world crashed in Roswell in the late 1940s.”

“I...believe I read about that at some point.” Hanzo leaned back in his chair. “A crashed weather balloon?”

“A crashed nuclear test observation balloon that spawned thousands of conspiracy theories, some of them more plausible than others.” He shook his head slightly. “But I agreed to listen first. Please...continue.”

“Yes. Uhm.” And now came the Really Incredibly Strange Parts and before his rational mind could start whispering helpful advice, he pushed himself all the way up into a normal sitting position, gripped the armrests of his chair and said, “I think there were coyotes. Actual real, living coyotes. At least one. When the car died, it was almost dark -- the road I was on barely existed on the GPS and from what I could see it wasn’t traveled regularly at all. My cell had no reception, not even the emergency contact signal. I knew that waiting wasn’t really an option, so I gathered my things and began walking north along Route 14. I saw their eyes from a distance at the edge of my light and for at least a few hours, I was convinced I was going to be eaten.”

A smile curled Zenyatta’s mouth, but he mercifully said nothing.

“I reached Cerrillos -- I want to say near midnight? I lost track of time while I was walking. It was cold, I was exhausted, and at first I didn’t realize I was looking at real lights, an occupied building. The ranger’s...station, I should probably say, but it was more like just a house? I think he’s lived there a long time, is what I’m saying. He took me in and I sort of passed out on his couch and the next morning he gave me breakfast and can I just say that if you and he got into a gently soothing smile contest, I am legitimately unsure who would win? He’s just so -- “ Hanzo’s hands, he realized with dawning horror, had released their grip on the armrests through no conscious direction of his own and started talking for themselves; he hastily stuffed them under his thighs. “Anyway, the next day he took me to my car to see if anything could be done for it and there was...something...more than one something...not a coyote...lurking around it. Nearby. We heard them first -- they howled, like a pack of animals communicating with one another.” He found he could recall that hideous, unearthly sound with horripilating intensity, a shudder running the length of his body as he did so, and Zenyatta’s sympathetic listening face took on a hint of genuine alarm. “Jesse -- that’s the ranger’s name, Jesse McCree -- told me to get back into our vehicle and as we were driving away there was something else, something louder and closer and I --”

The sensation that gripped him now was less a shudder than a convulsion as, for an instant, he nearly remembered what he saw -- the outline, the contour, the texture, the stomach-churning awareness that none of those things were born of any sane world, or even the one they both now occupied, and he deeply regretted everything he’d eaten thus far that day. He clamped his jaw and his eyes shut and swallowed hard and, as he did so, a pair of warm hands cradled his face. At a vast distance, he heard Zenyatta saying his name. With an almost superhuman effort, he forced his eyes to open and ground out, “I saw it. Something unnatural. It saw me, too, and it tried -- “

“It tried to devour your soul.” Zenyatta finished it for him.

“How -- ?” Hanzo croaked, not quite certain how many possible permutations of that question he actually meant, but he knew it was more than one.

“Did I know?” The kindly smile had a slightly sad tinge to it. “I sensed the change in you when you returned home last night, but I wasn’t certain how or when to approach you about it. Your spirit has always been wounded, for as long as I have known you, but this is...more. Not so deep nor so old but more immediately serious. Your soul was severed from your flesh?”

“Yes,” Hanzo croaked again, his stomach still seriously considering rebellion and his mind now beginning to get in on the uncivilized revolution action. “How -- ?”

“The ranger saved you? He must have, he was the only one close enough to do so. How...unusual.” Zenyatta’s eyes gleamed again, almost with a light of their own, golden welling up from beneath gray and green. “And he protects you still. I can see his aegis wrapped around you like a cloak of crimson and gold, holding you while you heal, hiding you from...the thing that saw you.”

“Really?” It came out sounding horribly, pathetically needy and he tried to cringe away, but Zenyatta refused to relinquish his hold.

“Yes.” The smile that curved his lips held more than a trace of impishness; Hanzo found that bizarrely comforting. “I would like to meet this ranger of yours. Other professional craftworkers are so hard to find outside the specialized academic sphere, and those assholes would never dirty their hands with actually rescuing someone.”

“I’d like to see him again too.” It was nothing more or less than utter honesty and it fell out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“Excellent. We shall have to make a day of it.” Gently. “Can you stand? Walk?”

Hanzo tested his legs and found his knees wobbly but not so much he wouldn’t risk getting out of the chair. “I think?”

“Good, because I am not certain I could carry you.” Zenyatta leaned back, resting on the edge of his desk. “I realize this has been several sorts of shock to you, my friend. I will do what I can to help ameliorate that, and assist in your recovery however I am able.”

“He gave me a medicine. A kind of tea? It’s supposed to help.” Hanzo took a deep breath, forced his racing thoughts to slow, and then to organize themselves into at least one coherent utterance. “Professional craftworkers?”

“A term of relatively modern provenance, I must admit.” Zenyatta reached out and grasped his hand gently. “I understand that you were, in essence, studying to be part of our kindred order once.”

Hanzo swallowed with some difficulty, his own grip involuntarily tightening. “Oh.”

“Yes.” He glanced out the western window at the sunset beginning to blossom in scarlet glory over the city. “We should go home -- it’s my night to cook, after all. If it is not objectionable to you, I would like to examine the medicine you were given?”

“Of course.” Hanzo replied, numbly, feeling as he did so the ache of that older wound again, for the first time in ages. “Genji. Did he...did he tell you what…”

“No.” Zenyatta’s smile softened into something close to sorrow again. “Only that you left your path for reasons of your own. We may discuss that also, if you wish.”

“No.” It came out more curtly than he wished and he squeezed Zenyatta’s hand in apology. “No -- I...do not wish to...visit that again. Not right now.” Never, whispered that silent ache, and he pushed himself slowly to his feet. “I...would like to be home before dark, if we could.”

“Of course.”

*

[illyrian-bitch-queen]

Constellations

Here’s the promised continuation of my modern Feysand au that @feysand17 and a few anons requested! 

You don’t have to have read the first part, Cooking, to understand this one, but I would suggest it just for some back story. You can find it here.

**

Our boys’ night out had turned gossipy rather fast.

It never came as a shock when Cassian used the time he, Az, and I got together at the bar without the girls to talk about the girls.

Usually, when we went out the girls went with us. But tonight, Feyre had said she was feeling pretty tired and had stayed home, insisting that I still went out and had a good time. Our friend Mor--Azriel’s girlfriend--had apparently insisted that she needed to keep my wife company, although Feyre had told her that she intended to sleep, not stay up watching crappy movies for six hours.

Amren had stayed with the two girls, and I assumed that the three were probably all sleeping now, since Feyre really had seemed exhausted for the last week.

But apparently, Cassian was more ready than usual to make our guys’ night a girls’ night.

As soon as we got our drinks, he was opening his mouth and promptly sticking his foot in it.

“So what the fuck is up with your wife lately, man?” He asked, turning to me with a raised brow as he sipped his beer.

I frowned, feeling defensive already. “What do you mean?” I asked, forcing my tone to remain mild rather than showing my slight temper. Cassian was one for complaining about his girlfriend with us, but I wasn't going to sit here and bad-mouth my wife, even though I knew he was never too serious when he was talking about Nesta.

“He just means,” Azriel interrupted, always the diplomat, “that she's been acting kind of strange lately. Is everything alright?”

My brows furrowed, but I knew what they meant. I sighed, tapping my fingers on the side of my glass.

“i mean, yeah, I guess. I know she's been a little...off lately. But she hasn't said anything to me.”

Cassian grunted and Azriel made a small humming noise in the back of his throat.

��Well, there's gotta be something up,” Cassian said, shaking his head. “I haven't had my drinking partner for like over a month now. And she's no fun to pick on when she's acting weird. It's like kicking a puppy.”

I rolled my eyes. “I'm glad your concern runs deep, all the way to drinking and having someone to bicker with.”

Cassian laughed while Az smiled a bit. “Oh, you know what I mean,” Cassian said, setting his glass down heavily as he turned on his stool to face me fully. He held up a hand and began ticking off fingers. “She hasn't been drinking, which is strange considering how much she usually drinks, she hasn't gone out near as much lately as she usually does, she wouldn't eat the pizza we ordered last week, which--”

“Yeah, I know,” I sighed. “She loves that pizza. I thought it was weird too, but you've been complaining about that for days.”

Cassian raised his brows and continued as if I hadn't spoken. “She's always darting off to the bathroom when we're out anywhere, she hasn't gone in to get that tattoo filled--”

I waved a hand when he brought up the tattoo. Honestly, it'd been on my mind as well. She'd been talking for a long time about getting a tattoo on her right arm to match the half-sleeve on her left. The pattern complimented the ink on my shoulders and upper chest. Her original tattoo had been designed to pair with mine, after all.

She'd finally gone in to get the outline done a couple months ago, and she'd been ecstatic once it was done. During the process of having the ink injected into her skin she was a little less enthusiastic, but she'd been thrilled once she saw the dark lines inked onto her flesh. She had another appointment to have the outlines filled in, and the lines looked rather hollow now while the pattern was incomplete, but she'd still been positively giddy to see the design finally coming to life.

Which made it even stranger that she had cancelled her appointment to get the outline filled last month, and hadn't rescheduled it. I figured that the outline, coming years after her first tattoo, had reminded her how much it hurt, and she'd chickened out of getting it finished. Feyre had never been cowardly before, but I had to admit that tattoos were painful as all hell. Especially since hands were exceptionally bony, and the tattoo reached all the way to her fingertips.

The way I saw it, she would forget about the pain in a few months and book another appointment.

“I get it, Cassian. She's acting funny. I've noticed. She's my wife, for god's sake.”

He shrugged. “I'm trying to help you figure out what it might be. Just saying, it's like she's been on her period for over a month.”

I scowled and Azriel elbowed our friend in the ribs at the comment. “Really, Cassian? Very mature.”

After a moment of silence, I sighed. “But, to be fair, you're right. She's been moody as hell, too.” I scratched idly at my temple in thought.

Azriel cleared his throat. “As much as I'm sure you don't want to talk about Feyre and your private life, and as much as it's none of our business, how much do you guys talk about birth control? We all know she doesn't want kids yet.” I cringed.

Yes, they all knew because she'd blown up on Cassian last year when he kept pestering us about it. We'd talked about it already before and had talked again after that, and agreed to wait and see if her mind changed over the years. But as of right now, she didn't want kids.

“I'm just saying, maybe she's on new medicine for...that,” Azriel said rather lamely. But it made sense.

The first time she'd switched birth control since I'd been with her, she had thrown up every morning for a week due to the havoc the pill wreaked on her body. Then, whenever she'd taken it on an empty stomach, it had made her nauseous. And she'd been sick this morning…

“I think you're right,” I said, blinking at Az. “I remember last time she started taking a new pill, she was sick and really moody at first. And some of the pills, you can't drink on, right?”

Cassian nodded, swallowing the last of his beer and gesturing to the bartender for another. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, I couldn't drink when I was on those antibiotics last year. So alcohol must react with pills.”

We all looked at each other a little unsurely before agreeing that the birth control must be it. What else could it be?

The rest of the night went on with little mention of the girls. We talked mostly about work, which had abruptly taken over our lives the past few weeks.

A station in the county next to ours was having trouble with a new jurisdiction and we'd all been forced to pull extra shifts to help cover their patrols while they sorted themselves out.

Things had just calmed down finally, and we were all thankful that we could go back to working normal hours.

By the time I decided it was time to head home and make sure Feyre was feeling okay, it was nearly eleven.

My wife was asleep when I got home. The other girls had gone home already, and Feyre was stretched out in the middle of our bed in one of my shirts, her hair spread around her like a halo.

I smiled as I began to undress for bed, more than ready to tuck myself in beside my wife. Once I'd brushed my teeth and stripped down, I slid into bed beside her on my back, being careful not to wake her.

She stirred anyway, blinking at me sleepily as I pulled her into my arms. She smiled lazily, resting her cheek on my shoulder and wrapping an arm around my waist. I kissed the top of her head.

“Goodnight, darling,” I murmured as she closed her eyes again and relaxed against me, curled into my side.

It took me only moments to fall asleep with her warmth against me.

**

When I woke the next morning, it was with mild panic. Feyre wasn't beside me, but the sheets were warm, thrown haphazardly across the bed. I got up quickly at the sound of her retching from the connected bathroom.

I knelt by her side in front of the toilet, pulling her hair back and running a hand up and down her spine while she was sick.

When she was done, I helped her up and stayed with her while she rinsed her mouth and splashed cool water over her face.

“Are you alright?” I asked gently. She nodded, turning to press herself into my chest, groaning.

I kissed her forehead. “Was it a nightmare?” I asked, hoping that she'd deny it and tell me about the birth control she must have switched to.

But she just shook her head and stayed silent, stepping away and back into the bedroom. I didn’t press her for information, figuring she just didn’t feel like talking about it.

She pulled a pair of leggings on and left my shirt over them, then went to sit on the edge of our bed while I dug out a pair of my sweatpants for the day. It was a Saturday and neither of us had anywhere to be today, so I saw no reason to get properly dressed.

She watched me with still-sleepy eyes as I pulled some clothes on, and only got up when I promised breakfast.

I chuckled and grabbed her hand when she tried to rush past me to wait in the kitchen. She grinned, tugging me along impatiently. Her eyes were bright, despite the poor wake-up and her apparent exhaustion.

I kissed her firmly as I nudged her towards a chair in the small table we kept in the kitchen. She sat, watching while I got ingredients out for pancakes.

As I began to prepare the food, I was reminded of the night that she'd dressed up and cooked for me. A fond smile slipped onto my lips as I stirred the batter.

It had been only two months ago, and she had tried cooking again only once after that. When she set the fire alarms off while trying to cook a pot of soup, she'd declared that she was never cooking again.

Now, she stepped up behind me while I poured batter into a pan, wrapping her arms around my waist and pressing a soft kiss to my spine. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment as she turned her face, pressing her cheek against my shoulder.

“I love you,” she murmured, squeezing my waist a bit tighter. I turned to look at her over my shoulder, kissing her softly as she rose up to her toes to meet me.

When our lips parted, she chuckled a bit before nodding towards the pan in front of me. “You're going to burn our breakfast,” she teased.

I turned back to the food quickly, tossing her a mocking glare. She just smiled and rested against me again. After a few minutes of cooking with my wife standing behind me, she cleared her throat slightly.

“So, there's something I need to talk to you about.”

“Oh, you mean the reason you've been so odd lately?” I felt her pick her head up curiously. “I already know about that.”

She grabbed my shoulder, tugging on it for my attention. I flicked the burner off and flipped the last pancake onto a plate before turning to face my wife with a smile.

Her eyes were wide, her expression much more serious than I would have expected for a conversation about which birth control she'd switched to.

My brows furrowed. Had I missed something? “Feyre, darling--”

Three solid knocks on the front door cut me off. I saw Feyre’s exasperated look just before she tossed her hands up in temper and stomped to the door. I had to cough to smother my chuckle at her sudden mood.

I followed her, not expecting anyone to be here at ten in the morning. Feyre looked through the side window before grumbling under her breath, unlocking the door and yanking it open with a bit of attitude. I chuckled and she rolled her eyes playfully at me as she stepped aside to let Elain and Lucien in.

“What are you two doing here so early?” Feyre asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

I smiled when I realized that she was still only in my shirt and her leggings. She glared at me when she caught my expression, but her eyes weren't in it.

“I wanted to bring you some of the new flowers I've been growing,” Elain said, sending a bright smile in Feyre’s direction as she held up a case of brightly colored blooms.  

“Oh,” Feyre said, passing her sister with a brief smile. “Well, thank you.”

She grabbed a hoodie--my hoodie--from the back of the couch in the next room and slipped it over my shirt.

It fell halfway to her knees, and she was obviously more comfortable in that than just my t-shirt. I was happy either way--as long as she was wearing my clothes, it felt like a little victory.

“Did we interrupt something? You two look a little guilty,” Lucien chimed in with a taunting glimmer in his one good eye, looking between Feyre’s flushed face--more likely from guests arriving when she didn't even have a bra on than anything--and my broad, proud grin.

“I think that your good eye might be going bad, too, Lucy,” Feyre snapped back with a raised brow, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You're seeing things. All the two of you interrupted was breakfast.”

Lucien immediately looked to me, his eyes pleading. I rolled my eyes at him. Elain was as bad a cook as Feyre was. The difference was, Elain wasn't aware of it. And because Lucien, over the year they'd been dating, hadn't said anything to her about it, and forced smiles when he ate the dinners she cooked, she hadn't discovered that she had more to learn.

I knew that he wanted a chance to eat food that wasn't burnt or raw, and I took pity on the bloke.

“You two are welcome to stay, if you'd like,” I offered. “I can cook up some more pancakes pretty quickly if you're hungry.”

“Sounds great,” Lucien said, clapping me on the back as he passed to get to the kitchen. Feyre shot me an incredulous look from behind Elain’s back. Her sister, much more politely than Lucien, accepted the invitation and followed her boyfriend.

“What?” I whispered to Feyre when she moved to follow them, irritation seeming to leak from her pores. She turned a sharp glare on me.

“Why would you ask them to stay? We were kind of in the middle of talking about something, if you don't remember?”

She had a hand held oddly over her stomach as she looked at me expectantly. I blinked at her. “Are you not feeling well? I can send them away if it's making you too sick,” I said, reaching out to place my hands on her shoulders.

She sighed, running her hands down her face. “No, it's fine,” she said softly, looking up at me with a small smile. “I'm going to go get dressed. I'll be back out in a few minutes.” She narrowed her eyes, looking to the kitchen. “Give them the pancakes you already cooked. I want the fresh ones.”

I laughed and kissed her on the forehead before letting her go so she could get changed.

I followed the couple into our kitchen, noticing for the first time the flowers Elain had placed at the center of the table.

Elain owned a flower shop and was always toying with new strains of flowers in her greenhouse. She was shockingly good at it. She really could have gone to school for botany, but their family had grown up in poverty. Like with Feyre, school hadn't been an option for Elain.

Lucien could probably afford it now, could send Elain to school if it was what she wanted. But Elain was rather content with a smaller life, a simpler one. And she'd learned her trade particularly well without paying thousands of dollars to do it, just like Feyre had.

Feyre and I had talked about her taking classes at an art school, but she'd insisted that anything she could learn there she could learn on her own. Maybe not as quickly, but she could do it. And I had no doubt she was right.

Elain toyed with one of the blooms when she saw me looking, smiling proudly. “Aren't they gorgeous?” She cooed, running her fingers over the wavy petals. “It's a new hybrid of rose. I crossed it with a flower that had curly petals and this was the result. They're bunched together a lot more loosely than a normal rose, too,” she said excitedly, her eyes sparkling.

Elain, in some ways, reminded me a lot of my wife, although they truly didn't look much alike. They had the same shape to their eyes, the same nose, and the same bright smile.

But Elain had warm brown eyes while Feyre’s were a stunning blue-grey color that reminded me of the rainy days we'd spent curled up together inside. And although both girls were natural blondes, Elain’s hair was more gold than Feyre’s brassy waves. The most distinct difference between the sisters was the way their faces were built. Elain’s features were a lot softer, more rounded. She looked like the youngest of the Acheron sisters, rather than middle child.

I complimented the flowers Elain had created while I began to mix up more pancake batter, offering the already finished ones to our guests.

I talked casually with the two while I cooked, waiting for Feyre to come back out from our bedroom.

She popped back in just as I finished up the last of the pancakes. She was dressed in a fresh pair of leggings and a long, flowy tank top. She smiled at us all when she came in, kissing me quickly before going to grab a plate of food.

She filled my plate with pancakes and syrup while I cleaned up, flooding the plate like we both tended to do when we had pancakes.

I kissed her on the cheek when I sat down and she turned to me with a smile. She seemed to be in a particularly good mood now, and even Lucien appeared to be affected by her happiness.

When the couple finally left, Feyre still seemed to be fairly cheerful. She helped me clean up the rest of the dishes before heading into the room we'd converted into a studio for her, saying that she was feeling the urge to paint.

I joined her after a few minutes of trying to read and finding that I couldn't focus enough on the words when my wife was just in the other room.

She had music playing when I walked in, and didn't hear me approach until I'd surprised her with my hands on her hips.

She jumped a bit, turning to give me a playful glare, swatting at me with a paint-stained hand. I smiled, resting my chin on her shoulder and looking at her painting. The night sky, one of her favorite subjects, was half-formed on the canvas she was working on.

“So,” she said after a moment, “how did you find out?”

Her free hand came up to clasp mine over her shoulder. She kissed my fingers before swiping her paint brush over a section of the misty clouds in the corner of the painting.

It always amazed me to watch her paint. She was so relaxed, so free. And her resulting work was always a masterpiece. She had a beautiful way of planting emotions in her pieces. Once, a couple months after the violent implosion of her engagement with her ex, she had painted a portrait of him. It had, truthfully, been a beautiful painting. But it held all the emotions she'd bottled up for so long about him.

It was the dark glint in his eyes, the tightness around his smile, the way his chin was tilted down, his brows up as if he was laughing at the viewer, looking down on them. All while he appeared completely innocent when the painting was viewed as a whole, when you didn't look too deep.

Now, she rarely painted so darkly. The midnight skies she was blending now held the light of promise, of happiness. I pressed my lips to her neck when she repeated her question, light laughter in her voice.

“I talked with Azriel and Cassian.” She turned to frown at me over her shoulder, and I continued quickly. “I know it's none of their business, but they knew something was going on. They talked with me, and with all our heads put together, we figured it out. You've been acting strange enough that both of them had already noticed. Cassian said he misses his drinking partner, by the way.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “You boys are too nosy and gossipy for your own good. And Cassian’s going to have to suck it up for about six more months.”

It was my turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

She set her paint brush down, turning to face me fully, a pleasant smile on her lips. She cupped my cheeks, running a blue-stained thumb over my cheek. “It's been about three months. Six more to go, Rhys. I can't drink until--”

“Wait, wait,” I said, feeling my eyes widen, my breath stilling in my lungs as I did the math in my mind.

Three...then six more. Nine months.

“I don't think we’re talking about the same thing here,” I choked out, looking into Feyre's suddenly wide eyes.

She released my face, her hands falling to her side as her lips parted in surprise. “But you were saying--”

“Birth control,” I gasped. “I was talking about birth control, not birth.”

Her lips closed and parted again as she seemed to search for words. But she just threw her arms up before seeming to lose control of her shock.

“Then what the hell were you thinking?” She asked, her voice raised sharply, a bit of hysteria creeping into her voice. “You were talking about the drinking, Rhys!”

“We figured you couldn't have alcohol with your new birth control!”

She looked incredulous now, putting her hands to her head. “Rhysand, what fucking birth control can you not drink on?”

“But we thought that it would react with something in it,” I said weakly, still trying to get the truth to sink in.

Nine months. No drinking. Moods, cravings, morning sickness.

“Oh fuck,” I groaned. “Oh fucking hell we’re all idiots. Complete fucking morons.”

Feyre had closed her eyes, her hands now running down her face. Her shoulders were tense and her jaw was tight, every inch of her appearing distressed.

I pulled her into my arms. “Feyre,” I breathed. “I'm sorry. I just--” I broke off, unsure.

“What the hell,” she finally said, her voice muffled by my chest, “were you thinking, listening to that idiot? And since when is Az just as ignorant as the rest of you?”

“I mean, in our defense, we've never taken birth control. How were we supposed to know?”

She groaned into me, her hands still covering her face. After a long moment of silence, I nudged her. “Darling?”

“I thought you'd be happy,” she said quietly, pulling away slightly to look down at her feet. “I thought that was why you were so relaxed with it. Although, to be fair, I was hoping for a bit more enthusiasm than just being chill about it.”

I stuttered for a moment, trying to find the words. She thought I wasn't happy about it? Hell, the only thing stronger than my sudden nerves right now was the elation running through my blood at the thought of her being pregnant with our child.

“Feyre.” I tipped her chin up so she would look me in the eyes. “I know how you feel about it. You wanted to wait. I can't expect you to just...be okay with it all. I don't want to take the choice from you or try to convince you one way or the other.”

Her eyes softened, the fear in them melting into something happier. “Rhys, you fool,” she said, her voice fond. Her hands came to rest on my hips as she smiled at me. “Why would I have been so happy when I thought you knew if I didn't want this? Hell, why would I have gone off birth control if I didn't want it?”

My eyes widened at her admission. “You...you planned it?”

My hands had trailed down without my knowledge, resting over her nearly flat stomach. I had noticed over the last few weeks that the muscles that had been visible in her abdomen for the last couple years had faded, but I figured maybe she was just working out less frequently. Now, it made sense.

She was pregnant. She had a baby inside of her. Our baby.

“You didn't tell me,” I whispered. “You didn't tell me when you went off birth control. Or when you found out. Three months…”

Her smile was soft, but the joy was evident in her expression. “I wanted to surprise you. I know how long you've wanted children. I was waiting for you to catch on. I thought you finally had, but apparently I overestimated you.”

Her eyes were twinkling with humor and joy. The blue was brighter in them now, looking more like clear skies than storm clouds. And I laughed.

It was breathless and disbelieving. But it was genuine, and my heart was beating out of control as I slipped my hands under her shirt, pressing against the firm, barely noticeable bump in her lower abdomen.

Her smile spread into a wide grin. She went up on her toes to press her lips firmly against mine, her arms around my neck.

I broke away after a moment, looking down at her stomach in awe. She was carrying our child.

“I'm going to be a dad,” I murmured, looking up to meet her eyes again. She was still beaming, her hands on my shoulders. “You're going to be a mom.”

She laughed, nodding. Her eyes were shining, but I knew it was from the same overwhelming joy I felt. “That's how it works,” she said, her wit not failing her, even now. “A mother, a father…”

I just shook my head and pressed my lips to hers briefly. “Don't be a smartass,” I chuckled. “You had warning. I'm still trying to figure out if six and three really add to nine.”

She tipped her head back as she laughed heartily. Her hair fell in loose waves down her back, the brassy gold shining in the light from the windows, her skin glowing with her joy.

I pulled her tightly to me, wrapping my arms around her back and holding her tight. I released her after a moment, looking down at her stomach in concern. Had I held her too tightly?

I saw her raise a brow at me. “Rhys, I’m perfectly capable of receiving a hug still. I'm just going into the second trimester. It's fine.”

“Second trimester,” I murmured, my eyes widening. “Three months. Feyre! We don't have anything ready--”

She laughed again, wrapping her hands around the back of my neck. I couldn’t understand how she was so calm. This was such a monumentous thing. I’d wanted children for as long as I could remember, but now that it was becoming a reality, all I could think of was how badly I could fuck this up.

“It's fine,” she said, her tone soothing as she noticed my panic. “It's fine, Rhys. We have plenty of time before we have to be fully ready.”

She looked at me slyly through her lashes. “I wouldn't object to you helping me paint the nursery sometime soon, though.”

The nursery. I felt my lips pull back in a grin, despite the worry that was beginning to grow in my chest. Nursery. We were going to have a baby and she was going to have her own perfect little room. I could help Feyre paint it with the night sky to make sure that our baby loved the stars as much as we did.

“We can put constellations on the ceiling,” I said excitedly. “She'll always be able to pick them out at night.”

Feyre’s smile softened, becoming more gentle. “She?” She asked quietly. I nodded, determined already that we would be having a little girl.

“She'll have your eyes and my hair, and she'll be a sweetheart but she won't put up with anyone’s bullshit. She'll be perfect.”

My wife grinned at me, trailing her fully inked fingers down my chest. She tapped her other hand on my shoulder, the dark, empty swirls inked into her skin catching my eye. I smiled.

“That's why you cancelled your appointment to have your tattoo filled in,” I murmured, grabbing her hand. “You can’t get a tattoo while you’re pregnant.”

She nodded, rolling her eyes. “Cassian’s called me a coward for it more times than I can count.”

“Hmm. Well, he’ll shut his mouth when he figures out that it's his niece you cancelled the appointment for,” I said. “And if he doesn't do it on his own, I'll make sure he shuts the hell up.”

She laughed quietly, pressing her cheek against my chest, over my heart, and sighing contentedly.

“I love you,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “I love you so much, and I'm so thankful that we’re going to have this child together.”

She squeezed her arms tighter around me. “I love you too, Rhys. And I can't wait to see what an amazing father you're going to make.”

The words warmed my heart, melting the last bit of icy fear that had resided there. Maybe Feyre would be right, and I would make an amazing father. Or maybe I would fuck up every now and then. Either way, we would figure it out.

Thinking about my own parents, they hadn't been perfect. But they'd loved me, and that was enough.

“We can do this,” I said, my cheeks beginning to hurt from smiling so broadly. “We’re going to do this.”

My wife laughed, nodding with glistening eyes. “We are.”

We stood there, wrapped up in each other for a long, peaceful moment. The happiness and warmth swelling in my heart was impossible to ignore, and I basked in it while I held my pregnant wife in my arms, that is, until she looked up at me with a wicked glint in her eyes.

“Rhys?”

I hummed, still smiling, waiting for whatever teasing remark she had for me.

"Let's agree to never listen to Cassian again, okay?"

I chuckled, but didn't hesitate to nod along in pretend seriousness.

"Of course. I'll cover my ears every time he enters a room, just to be sure I don't get any ideas from him."

Feyre only rolled her eyes. "Please. That would only encourage him, and you know it."

"Oh, without a doubt. Imagine how much fun it's going to be to tell him, though," I said.

Feyre raised her brows. "He's literally going to lose it," she agreed. "You think he'll tear up?"

I nodded quickly. "Oh, definitely. But Amren will be the one to bawl, I think."

Feyre tipped her head to the side curiously. "Amren? She's probably the least likely to react at all, Rhys. She’ll clap us on the back and say ‘congratulations, you had sex’."

I shook my head with a slight smirk. "No, she's tough and all, but you're her soft spot. You're like her favorite niece or something, which is weird since she's only got a few years on you, but still. She's totally going to cry. If not out of happiness for you, then in mourning because it's my kid that you're pregnant with and she'll see it as a great tragedy."

My wife just snorted in amusement at my exaggeration. "I'm surprised you didn't cry, honestly. Mor and I had bets on it," she admitted with a chuckle. "She's the only one I told," she added when she saw me frown slightly. "I thought someone ought to know just to be safe. Besides, she's so nosy that she would've figured it out within a week after I knew. I owe her ten bucks. She said you wouldn't cry."

I huffed. "I'm still debating the whole crying thing, honestly. This is...overwhelming in the best way."

Feyre beamed. "I would hope so. You should at least be happy right now. It's only supposed to get worse from here until the baby is born. I only get bigger and moodier and hungrier and--"

"And more beautiful and strong and lovely," I interrupted. "Feyre darling, I'll be with you through it all. I don't care how volatile your moods are or how strange your cravings get. It's all going to be worth it, and I plan to enjoy every moment of it."

"Especially if we can make Cassian cry?"

I laughed. "Definitely if we can make Cassian cry."

[cathygeha]

The Beast & The Sibyl Excerpt

Chapter Four: Siv      They stood around me, giving me a good kicking.      “Die, Beast!”      I felt one of my ribs go.      “Kill him!”      Another went.      “Let me at him!”

Whoever it was, he was enthusiastic because I passed out. When I came to, I was locked up in a cage. Right, just like an animal. It was made of metal bars an inch thick. Old and rusted in places but solid. Lifting my head, I could see a large key hanging on the opposite wall. It was well out of reach. There was also the matter of the hog tie.      My arms were aching, my legs were screaming, and my trashed ribs meant every breath was liquid fire. I could still feel the skin on my wrists and ankles burning with the pull of the rope, but it wouldn’t be long before I’d go numb with pain. Once that happened, I would be deader than last week’s catch.      I was alone. They feared me so little that they’d not bothered to post a guard. Clearly they thought the rope and the cage would hold me. I’d show them they were wrong. I’d get out, kill every last hrafnasueltir and burn the place down. But how?      Looking at the rusted bars gave me an idea. Rust is soft, but it leaves rough metal underneath. If I could wear down the rope on my wrists, I’d be free of the hog tie. The cage was small, and there was a rusty bar right next to me, so I only had to force myself onto my side. Once I was free, I’d use the rope to lasso the key.      Right. The words were simple, but carrying out the plan was hell. I rocked up and down, forcing myself onto my broken side. Then I started sawing the cord around my wrists on the rusted bar.      It was agony. Every muscle in my body was strained to screaming point, and my ribs were on fire. But I kept at it. I thought it was sweat running down my face and into my eyes; it turns out it was blood. It dripped all over the place, pooling underneath the bars laid on the stone floor.

“I want a word with the Beast.” The Patriarch’s voice came floating through. “He may have information about that settlement up north.”      He came in, carrying a bucket of hot coals. He set it down, closed the door and growled, “You cursed Beasts cost me a fortune!”      You see, last year when we burnt down Brighthelme, we also emptied the armoury and raided the smiths’ guild. Their craftsmen are famous for their new invention, the musket, and we found out later that the Patriarch had invested heavily in their venture.      By the look of him, he was still furious at his loss. The Patriarch rolled up his sleeves, picked up tongs and selected a coal. It flared red in the draft of the window. “You’re going to pay!”      So much for wanting to talk to me. He didn’t even ask me what our defences were. He just went for it, touching the coal to my shoulder. It burnt white hot, searing me to the bone, making me snap like a fish on the line. As one, all the smashed ribs seized as I gasped. I bit my lips till they bled but when he did it again, I couldn’t be silent; I screamed.      “Feel Ullr’s wrath!” the Patriarch roared.      The coal touched me again. And again. And again. I knew I had to stay conscious. I had to move through the pain. Then, when the rassragr left, I’d get out of the hog tie. Once I was free, I’d kill him first, and slowly.      More agonising pain.      “Repent, Beast!”      “Go suck Odin’s spear!”      I think I said it, or maybe it was just a thought. I fought him but I couldn’t breathe. As the world went black, my last thought was that I’d failed. Again.      “Fucking bastard! Poxy whoreson!”      I opened my eyes. The room swam around me. I blinked, an effort of pure will, and it settled. The cage was open. The window was wide, too, allowing in a blast of cold air. I could smell the sea. Freedom was so close but I’d never reach it. The thought made me furious.      “May the Lady shove her wand up his arse!”      It was her. The ice-haired wolf maiden. Except she swore like a drunken Llanfaes mercenary. She didn’t like me much by the sound of it. Still, being a whoreson and a bastard is better than being called an animal.      I thought the treacherous bitch had come to gloat, but then she was kneeling next to me. “May Ullr the glorious one give him boils!” She was spitting mad, but not at me. “He’s made a right mess out of you, hasn’t he?”      So she was raging at the Patriarch. But why was she here?      She was examining me, the blue eyes glowing as they looked into mine. She touched me, just a hand in my hair, and then I was floating.       I rubbed the rope against the rusted bars beneath me, used it as a lasso to pluck the key off the wall, and then I was out.      The vision flickered and died. I was gazing into those swirling eyes again. She smelled of the forest, clean, cool, and fresh, delicious but without warmth.      “Freyja’s sweet will be done,” she whispered. “You are a tough son of a bitch, aren’t you?” She took out a little bottle and then stilled. Her eyes were locked on mine, wild as the summer skies. I was floating, lost in them, but then she sighed, bumping me back to earth. “So much for best plans. I’m getting you out of here.”      A rescue? So she wasn’t a traitor after all! I tried to speak, but I was beyond words.

 She put the bottle at my lips. “This should help. Just a tiny sip, though.”      It smelled of fields, and it tasted like piss. Sharp and sour, it ran down my throat. Before I could protest, I’d swallowed.      “There.” She tucked the bottle into her skirts. “You’ll feel better soon.”      I couldn’t feel my body. There was no pain, no sensation at all.      She pulled out a knife, the blade shining sharply. It swept out of my sight, over my back. “I’ve cut the rope,” she said. “I’m going to pick you up, okay?”      She was clearly delirious. There’s no way a woman can lift a full-grown man.      “It’s going to hurt, but you must keep quiet. Your life depends on it.”      I don’t know how she did it, but one second I was lying on the rusted bars and the next I was rising in the air. She’d hauled me up over her shoulder. I was dangling uselessly, looking down at her arse. It looked pretty good. Firm yet rich.      I must have growled appreciatively because she shushed me, adding, “Quiet now, Beast.”      The bitch! Calling me a Beast! I was fuming, but at that moment a ripple of fire ran through me. After hours of the hog tie, my tortured muscles were knotting. It was like being burned all over again. I wanted to scream like a weak-willed girl. Instead, I buried my face in her hair. It was soft, silky, and smelled of flowers. It was comforting, but it was also damn infuriating. Being powerless was killing me.      “Come on. We’re almost home free.”      We were out of the cage, and then she was lowering me out the window and into a small cart. “Wait a moment.”      As if I could do anything else. I was as useless as a barren mare. Even twitching a finger raised waves of agony.      As I bit my lip, I heard small sounds coming from inside. A door closing. A lock scraping. Then she was climbing out the window and closing it.      “I locked the cage and put the key back. That should fix them.” She took one look at me and frowned. “Poor Beast. You’re a sorry sight, aren’t you?”      She patted me on the head, as if I were a damn animal, and before I could tell her to stop it, we were on the move. We trundled past a snoring guard and through the village. Not a soul stirred. It was as if there were a spell on the place.      The wolf appeared out of the shadows, padding silently beside us. It was so unreal that I wondered if I were seeing things, the way I had when I was floating in the ocean. Except that had been comforting, while this was filled with pain. The feeling was flooding back in agonising waves. I didn’t let a sound escape me, but she knew.      “Have another sip.”      More of the foul stuff went down my throat. It hit my guts, burning briefly in foulness. I wanted to protest, but then the foulness dissolved into a warm glow. It suffused me, wiping out the pain.      The blue eyes were gazing into mine. “Good. It’s working.” She put a gentle hand through my hair again. “Let it do its stuff, Beast. In a few minutes, you’ll feel better.”      I was sinking into a cloud of warmth, so delicious that it softened even the insult. She was Eid, the Valkyrie famed for her healing skill.      As we moved on again, I faded into a half dream, watching the village houses go by, dissolving into a country lane, then fields. We went through them, into the velvet night and into the forest beyond. There was no path but she went straight through the trees. I was in and out of it, finally coming to as the wood opened up into a meadow. In the light of the moon, I saw a hunting lodge and stables. I could hear a brook babbling nearby.      “Home.” She didn’t seem too pleased about it. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”      She dumped me on the grass, sweet and fresh smelling, stripped off my leathers, stiff with salt where they weren’t ripped, and then she poured bucket after bucket of water over me. She was right, all the muck of the sea and that cursed village was washed clean away. I was feeling better just being clean again.      “Up and inside now.”      She gripped me by the upper arm, and then I was up on my feet. Kind of. Truth be, she carried me into the house. She had some evil habits, but this was a strong woman. While I resented her for it, I was secretly grateful.      The house was as unusual as the ice maiden. From the outside, it looked like a hunting lodge like the ones owned by Prydain nobles, but it was furnished like a farmhouse. There was a plain wooden table, big sofas marked by clumps of wolf fur, and the walls were lined with shelves crammed with glass jars and bottles. Herbs hung from the rafters in bunches, and there was a cauldron hanging over a low fire.      “Soup should be done.” She piled me onto a large chair. “Food first. We’ll fix you up after.”      I hadn’t realised I was starving, but the scent of onions, carrots and meat made my stomach growl. When she put a bowl to my lips, I was gulping it down. The wolf was watching me, sitting on the rug by the hearth. It had a look in its eye that told me I was eating its supper.      “You’re black and blue.” She was looking me over. “I need to see how bad this is.” Her eyes were glowing, shimmering like the summer sky. “It may hurt.”      The second she touched my side, the vision of the gentle Eid faded. I hissed at the fire her touch set off.      “You’ll have to suffer.” She was completely matter-of-fact. “I need to know what we’re dealing with.”      She went over every inch of me, poking and prying mercilessly. It shouldn’t have bothered me, in fact, I should have been grateful, but it was damn humiliating. I didn’t get why until she casually rolled me onto my side and put her hand on my balls.      The goddamn cheek of her! Prodding me as if I were a steer at market! Humiliation swept through me. I wanted to yell at her, but all that came out was a low growl.      “Stop grumbling,” she snapped. “I’m just looking!” The eyes were mocking. “Don’t be shy, Beast, I’ve seen it all before.”      As the degrading examination continued I stayed determinedly silent. I’m a warrior. A disrespectful bloody woman feeling me up is something I can deal with easily. Except that I wanted to kill her.      Eventually she was done. “Broken ribs on both sides, two broken fingers on your right hand, and the left wrist is sprained. Burns on both shoulders and the tops of your arms.” She sat back and considered. “You’re a lucky Beast. Thank the gods you wear leathers. If not, that whoreson would’ve torched your balls.”      I was crossing my legs as she spoke. “Stop calling me Beast!” is what I intended to say but it came out like a snarl. The wolf was up in an instant, teeth showing and growling.      “Lie down, Saga. He’s harmless.”      The evil she-wolf! I wanted to slap her.      She knew it, too. “Don’t you rage at me, Beast! I should’ve kept to the plan, overdosed you with poppy and left them to burn your corpse.” She got up and started messing about with a jug and bowls. “I’m too damn soft for my own good!”      Right. Soft as rock. So she’d been planning to put me out of my misery. Like an animal. But my common sense kicked in and told me that despite it all, she’d intended to be merciful. Yet I couldn’t like her for it.      She didn’t care what I thought, I could see that. She was totally intent on her task. The wolf was making puppy sounds now and dancing on tiptoes with excitement. “Here you go, Saga.”      She put down three bowls filled with milk. I could smell it, rich and sweet. The wolf lapped it up, its eyes closed in ecstasy. I was wondering who the others were for when two cats walked in.      Thule has always been too cold for them. I’d seen them in Prydain’s cities, but they were small creatures, ankle high and skittish by nature. These beasts strolling in were huge, with long fur, gigantic paws, massive pointed ears, and wide slanting eyes. I recognised them as kisa, the big cats that hunt in the forests.      “Just in time for supper,” she said to them. “Did you have a good time in the woods?”      The cats made straight for her, head-butting her knees as she rubbed their backs. It really took me aback. First the wolf and now the wildcats. This was an unusual woman.      I should have been grateful, but to be completely helpless infuriated me.      “Want some milk?”      I’d let my feelings get the better of me and growled at her, but she’d interpreted my anger as a whine for food. Like I was as dependent as that damn wolf of hers.      “Have some.” She immediately poured out a mug and put it at my lips. I should’ve refused, I wanted to, but milk is a luxury we’ve never had in Thule. When she put the cup to my mouth, its rich buttery goodness was irresistible. I gulped it down, and it was nectar.      “Well, you’re clean and fed, but now we have to fix you up.” She was setting out needle, thread, bandages and splints. It looked like she knew exactly what she was doing. “We’ll set those fingers first.”      I can’t remember the first time I had a bone set because we Skraeling begin scrapping as soon as we can walk. I’ve broken plenty of them since, and so I knew what to expect. It was going to hurt.      “Want something to bite on?”      “No.” Treating me as if I’m a cursed coward who squeals at a bit of pain!      “Hmmm, so you can speak? Good.”      Then she touched my hand, and all thought of snapping at her died. A broken finger or two is nothing, but setting them hurt like hell because every touch made me suck in my breath, which set off my ribs. Cleaning my face and setting my nose wasn’t great, either. By the time she was done, I was dizzy from keeping determinedly silent.      “Come on, Beast. Lie flat so I fix your back.”      Her words were cold and practical but her hands gentle. She flipped me over, and I was face down on the rug, being observed by the wolf and cats. We stared at each other as the witch cleaned and dressed the burns and stitched the whip cuts.      “Sage and yarrow will help you heal,” she said cheerfully, “and comfrey will give those ribs a boost.”      While I bit my lip and pretended it didn’t hurt, the wolf ended up lying against me, its nose by my face. It was a female wolf, and now I was in trouble, her instincts were to soothe. Women are like that. Good ones, I mean. The one that was working on me didn’t even make an attempt at nurturing. She went to work like Odin and his brothers ripping apart Ymir’s body and brain to make the world and the sky.      I buried my face in the wolf’s neck, breathing in the musky scent, and held onto my pride. By the time she finished, though, all I had was silence. I couldn’t move. In fact, I was as weak as a kitten—and I don’t mean those hulking cat brutes that attended her.      They were watching me with slanted green eyes, their looks as cool and measuring as hers. The wolf at least had some compassion. She was nosing my hair, her breath puffing in my ears. I’d never heard of a tame wolf before, but I decided I liked Saga.      “Poor Beast.” I thought she was determined to insult me, but when I looked in her eyes and saw they were concerned, I understood that the ice maiden was trying to be kind. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”      It smelled of her, and it was soft. I sank into feathers and was covered in flannel sheets and woollen blankets. I should have slept, but I was too strung out. I lay there, watching her.      I couldn’t figure out what or who she was. She was a Skraeling, but she lived with the Prydain. That made her a traitor to us. She called me a Beast at every turn, too. Yet bringing me here meant she’d betrayed them.      It made no sense, and in my weakened state, all I could do was gaze at her. She was the first woman of my own kind that I’d seen in years, and I didn’t know if the pain in my heart came from hurt or joy.      She was staring into the fire. The flames illuminated the ice-coloured hair and made the pale skin glow. She was totally still, and just like the first time I’d seen her, she seemed like a creature from another world.      Outside there was a patter of rain. It fell in sheets, the rhythmic clatter of it smothering the cackle of the flames. Time stopped. I felt as if I were floating in the sea, adrift in blankness. Then she sighed, and the world flowed again. The rain switched off abruptly, and the birds began to sing.      “Freyja’s purse! What the hell is going on?” She looked surprised, shocked even, but it was a puzzle what was bothering her.      She stood and stretched, showing off trim waist, long hair, and delicious breasts. I almost growled like her wolf in appreciation. Whatever she was, she was beautiful.      I must have said something because she came to me, straightening the covers and tucking them in. “Keep quiet,” she said, “and stay put.” She was staring out into the night. “They’re coming, but they won’t find you as long as you’re quiet.” Her eyes were shimmering again. “Whatever happens, don’t confront them!”      She set up a little wooden rack, dug into a dresser and quickly piled underclothes into it. Soft knickers and silky looking shifts in blue and green now hung in front of the bed. She opened all the cottage doors and windows, took a basket of herbs, and sat down on the stoop.      Very soon the sun was inching over the horizon, sending golden light flooding over the meadow and highlighting the trees beyond. An hour later, just as I was about to fall asleep, a rider appeared. It was a Citizen, dressed in a velvet habit and riding a beautiful white horse.      I was minded to get up and kill him, but before I could move, she whispered, “Stay down!” The small sound went straight through me, reverberating in my mind. I stayed down.      “Courtney,” she stood up and called out. “Something wrong? Was someone injured during the hunt?”      “No.” He swung off the horse. “I’ve just returned.”      “Then you’ll have heard from the Patriarch.” She sounded cool.      “Only the bare bones.” He stood in front of her, almost as tall as her, but not as imposing. He had red, weather-beaten skin, and he was too fat. He looked like a peasant dressed up in a noble’s clothes. “The Beast is gone. He escaped!”      Behind him, a dozen men appeared, all carrying pitchforks, spears, and nets. They had dogs, too, straining on leather leashes and barking at the wolf. I’ve taken on a dozen soldiers at a time and creamed the bastards, but even I knew that I was in no state to take on this lot.      Luckily for me, she was more than a match for them. She put her hand on her wolf, who sat obediently, and then addressed the peasant in velvet. “Really? How?”      She sounded surprised. If I hadn’t known, I would’ve believed her. She looked like an honest Skraeling, but she was a typical lying Prydain. I should’ve known, but it seared my soul to see such pure beauty addled by poison.      “We can’t figure it out! The cage was locked, and the key shut safely away. It’s like he walked through the bars!”      “And you came here to warn me?”      “Erm. Yes?”      I could only see her back, but I knew she was giving him full-on ice. “And you brought twelve men with you to help you give me a heads-up?”      “Erm, well. Erm…”      “Oh, I see! I suppose I’m the one who set him free?”      The yokel actually shuffled his feet. “Well, you did speak up for him.”      “I did not!” she snapped. “I said this was the duke’s business!”      “Erm, right, yeah.” More shuffling. “Erm, I guess some of us thought, well...”      “That I crept out at night and took the Beast?” She sounded colder than a glacier.      “Well, you see, the dogs followed the scent through the village but then it began to rain, and well, uhm, we thought we should just come and see.”      “Right, and when do the dogs not want to come and see Saga? You know they’re always fascinated by her.”      “Yes, right. That’s probably it.”      He was looking miserable, and she was scathing.      “Probably? What is this? Do you think I’m hiding him? Why don’t you go check my bed?”      I was open mouthed at her brazen dishonesty. This wasn’t lying; this was taking deceit to an art form.      Courtney glanced into the lodge, doors and windows wide open, spotted the shifts and looked away hastily. “No, no, of course not!”      I was a dozen steps away from him, and he didn’t have a clue. She was a liar, but a part of me admired her. She’d taken them on all by herself and defeated them easily. This was more cunning than even Loki’s plots.      “I suppose the Patriarch sent you here?”      “Yes. No.” Courtney was looking miserable. “He said you defied him.”      “He has no rights here. His place is the Vale. It’s you who are in charge, and I reminded him of that.”      “Yes, yes of course.”      “I have warned you before about the Patriarch. You know he longs to usurp your position.”      “Bliss, I’m sorry. I guess I just forgot. He got me all riled up.”      “I have been a loyal friend to you, but one word from that dirty, bearded fat gut and you ride here to accuse me?”      “No! Well, yes, but it wasn’t like that!”      He might as well have spoken to the horse. Now the woman had the yokel at her mercy, she set about beating him down. “I wonder what will upset our liege most?” she mused. “Not informing him that you found a Beast? Or letting his enemy escape?”      “It wasn’t me! It’s all the Patriarch’s fault!” the coward cried.      “As he’ll claim he’s Ullr’s servant, I’m sure the duke will forgive him.” She was stirring nicely, gutting the rassragr with every nasty word. “Not sure he’ll let you off the hook, though.”      The man finally found his balls. “You can’t speak to me like that!”      “When you don’t do your duty, Freyja demands that I do!”      The squire went white, then red, and then, filled with rage, he turned around, got on his horse and rode off.      “What an arsehole,” she grumbled. As the birds settled back into their song, she came inside. She closed the window and instantly the room was dark, like a soothing, warmly scented cave.      She was talking to me as if I were a child. “You’re perfectly safe, Beast, don’t worry.”      “Hey!” I actually snarled at her. “Stop that!”      “Be nice.” She actually patted me on the head! “Stop grumbling at me.”      Bitch! After calling me Beast to my face! “I could snap your neck in an instant!”      She was shaking her head at me, looking coolly superior. “You can’t stand up or hold a cup of milk by yourself, but you’re threatening me?”      Damn all women! They insult you and then turn every little thing against you. As if I were the kind of blackheart who would hurt her after she’d helped me. “No!”      “Then stop snarling at me and go to sleep!”      She marched off before I could answer. She sat down on the stoop, the wolf at her side, and went on sorting her herbs. “Arsehole,” she grumbled. “Like all bloody men!”      Lizbeth always raged at me that way, too, she’d call me Beast and animal, knowing it infuriated me but that I wouldn’t—couldn’t—retaliate. Not after I’d promised to care for her.      “You see, Saga?” I could hear the ice maiden talking to her wolf. “You feed them, bind their wounds, and even then, men are ungrateful buggers.” I heard the wolf moan. “Well, we’ll treat him the way we did that bear cub we found. We’ll ignore the bad-mannered snarling, get him on his feet and send him on his merry way.”      A traitor and yet my rescuer. Maybe it was all a crazy dream, wolf included. A wave of exhaustion hit me. The bed was comfortable, and my body was at its limit. I decided I would think about what it all meant afterwards.      “Men are villains, Saga, never forget that.”      Yes, I’d sort it all out later. After I slept. I settled down under the covers and was out like a light within seconds. Buy Links:   https://books2read.com/u/bxgyQP

[patientsisavertu]

So much like me when it comes to the hyperfixation/space out cycle...

I've read several ancedotes in this book about Robspierre that make me convinced he was autistic, and then read about this hilarious incident the other day on Tumblr, and felt compelled to draw a silly comic about it.

[solivar]

WIP Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka the one where Hanzo Shimada is an expatriate student of the Fine Arts, attending college in what he assumes to be a reasonably sedate corner of the American southwest. Jesse McCree is an occasionally leather-clad NPS ranger whose duties extend somewhat further than shooing lost tourists back onto the clearly marked hiking trails. Something weird is going on in the desert south of Santa Fe and their lives unexpectedly come together in the middle of it.

In which Hanzo tries to spill his guts and his guts aren’t having any of it.

The UMN annex was four hoverbus transfers and one short stretch on the rapid pedestrian transit speedwalk which, this time at least, did not result in any form of grievous bodily harm, not even a bit of unscheduled nipple-surfing across the raked-stone-and-succulent-beds lawn at his point of exit. Given that his last trip out to the annex had resulted a) missing the exit, b) attempting to return to the exit by the expedient method of hopping over the lane separator, and c) being sent to the hospital via ambulance because having one foot going one direction and one foot going the other direction and each moving at roughly twice the average human walking speed was a recipe for tragedy, he considered this at least an unqualified success. In his own defence, the last time he traveled out to the annex was also his first, carrying Zenyatta’s forgotten lunch since he was the one who didn’t have any scheduled classes or studio time or anything resembling work that day, and had not expected what he found upon arrival. In the world of his childhood, buildings called “annexes” were either ancient, crumbling cinderblock-and-sheet-metal edifices that would probably exist until an earthquake strong enough to topple them came along  or else post-Crisis modular prefabs of recycled and poorly insulated plastics meant to be replaced by more permanent construction but which never seemed to rate high enough on anyone’s priority queue to quite get there.

This annex, by way of cruel and distracting contrast, was a Pueblo Deco Revival architectural masterwork purpose designed and built as a showcase piece for the style, as well as to house the off-campus professional enrichment classrooms and offices for the chosen few among the faculty. His research, conducted while he was spending six weeks with his left leg in a full immobilization brace, suggested that being assigned space there was generally the result of a member of the faculty either dying or moving on and the survivors engaging in the sort of academic heft/staff seniority knife fights only spoken of in shellshocked whispers by TAs and adjuncts who’d had the misfortune of witnessing them first hand. That Tekhartha Zenyatta, known by all for his thoroughgoing gentleness and fundamentally mild nature, occupied a prime chunk of that real estate suggested that his publish-or-perish game was thoroughly on point or he knew where a substantial number of bodies were buried and probably both. His office was a second-floor corner, not quite as desirable as some spaces, significantly more desirable than others, gifted with more than adequate storage and sitting space as well as enormous windows in two of the four walls and a view of the city and the mountains beyond that could genuinely be described as a vista.

Zenyatta was sitting at his desk, silhouetted against said vista, when Hanzo arrived, having missed him in the classroom by a double handful of minutes, and knocked on the frame of the open door. He looked up and never was the praying mantis resemblance more acute than when the westering sun caught the shaved curve of his skull and the highlights in his hazel eyes as he blinked a slow and vaguely astonished blink at the apparition that appeared before him. Hanzo held up a thermos. “I have soup.”

Zenyatta smiled and his eyes glinted with unconcealed humor. “And this time emergency services were not involved in the delivery. Come in, my friend.”

Hanzo stepped inside and closed the door behind him. By the time he turned around, Zenyatta had retrieved two bowls from the depths of his desk and shut down the holoscreens of its internal workstation. Hanzo sat, and poured, the soup still warm enough to steam, and a for a moment the sat together in companionable silence and drank.

“Ah.” Zenyatta finally said. “Grandmother Sumiko’s miso soup recipe. Never tell your brother this, but I am of the opinion that no one in the household makes it better than you.”

“You flatter me.” Hanzo replied, but couldn’t help the smile that grew across his face. “And I would never break my brother’s heart that way, I assure you.”

A warm chuckle. “I hope you do not mind me saying it, but you also have the look about you of a man who wishes to unburden himself without having to spend the next two hours talking his excitable, wildly overprotective little brother out of shipping him back to Japan tied up in a crate marked live cargo, do not taunt.”

“You...are not even a little bit wrong about that,” Hanzo admitted, and set his bowl down. “I -- “

He opened his mouth to speak, and for a long, long, horrifyingly long moment, absolutely nothing came out. Zenyatta’s pale silver brows, always startling against his dark skin, rose questioningly as he finished drinking his soup and set the bowl aside. Hanzo closed his mouth, breathed deeply, exhaled, breathed deeply again, and found words absolutely failing to emerge from his word-making hole despite the ardent desire burning beneath is breastbone to expel the tale of every weird-ass thing that had happened to him over the last four days, unpleasant, pleasant, and enjoyment-neutral. His throat worked fruitlessly with the effort to produce them, his brain chased itself in fully coherent narrative circles, but the only thing to emerge from his throat was a thin, wheezy whine not entirely unlike the pitiful utterance of a woodwind whose reed was so hopelessly saturated with saliva it was utterly incapable of effective vibration. With a wordless moan of despair, he collapsed against Zenyatta’s desk and buried his head in his arms.

“I have the sense,” Zenyatta said, gently, “that this is not something you have done very often. Or perhaps at all. Ever.”

Hanzo found he could not raise his head from his arms and so he lifted a hand in a complex gesture he hoped Zenyatta would interpret as agreement.

“Would it, perhaps, be easier for you if I asked questions?” Again, oh so very gentle.

“...Maybe?” From the depths of his defensive stronghold, Hanzo managed to force out a response.

“Very well.” Zenyatta’s tone became, if anything, even more serene. “I understand that you intended to visit Shiprock. Was it all that you expected it to be?”

“...Yes.” He very much wished, at that moment, to wax rhapsodic at length, to utter self-condemnatory words for never having visited sooner, despite having the time to do so more than once over the years, to describe how it was impossible to fully appreciate the place in all its stark beauty without standing in the cool of its shadow, and settled for croaking into the crook of his arm, “I’ll show you the pictures when we get home.”

“Hanzo, my friend, are you comfortable with this? We can stop if -- “

“No,” Hanzo muttered, lifting his head enough to catch a glimpse of Zenyatta looking down at him, naked concern on his face. “No -- I wish to continue. Please.”

“As you wish.” Zenyatta leaned slightly closer, his hands folding together atop his desk in a fashion Hanzo was inclined to call mudra-ish. “I also understand that you intended to visit the Omnic graveyard in that area, as well. May I ask why? The two goals seem entirely divergent from one another.”

“Part of my Visual Thesis.” Hanzo admitted to the surface of Zenyatta’s desk. “A...comparison and contrast between natural forms of desolation -- the desert, particularly now that winter is approaching -- and the wreckage left behind by the collapse of modern civilization, the towns abandoned during the Crisis and never reoccupied, the scars left behind by hubris and war. I thought the graveyard, and the town closest to it, which was also called Shiprock, would make a striking example.”

“I tend to agree.” A little smile touched the corners of Zenyatta’s mouth. “I would very much enjoy seeing those photographs, I think, and to visit the your thesis exhibition next spring.”

“Iwillmakecertainmyadvisorhasyouonthelist.” He could feel all the blood evacuating his extremities and heading directly to his face and so he positioned his otherwise useless hands to hide it as much as possible. “The whole experience left me feeling...melancholy. There was -- there is -- an intrinsic sadness to the whole thing, even now, thinking of how much death and destruction could have been avoided, how much more could have been done in the aftermath, the appalling waste of it all.”

And now was the weird part. Where the emphatically Not Normal stuff began. He could feel the urge to beg Zenyatta’s forgiveness for wasting his time welling up in his throat and the even stronger urge to stand up and flee even if it meant risking death or dismemberment on a snow-slicked speedwalk taking up residence in his legs, pleading with him to retreat from what was certain to be a scene of pure humiliation. You should really spare your brother’s boyfriend the necessity of calling the hospital and having you admitted for psychiatric evaluation -- that’s the sort of thing that can put a strain on even the best relationships, a little voice that seemed to partake of rationality murmured in the back of his mind, seduction spiked with reproach because, really, what kind of asshole would do that to Zenyatta? He absolutely did not have to be forced to make that sort of judgment call and --

“And then where did you go?” Zenyatta’s voice, warm and smooth as oil, poured through the cracks in his internal monologue and caused how now-slippery thoughts to skid away like an unsteady but enthusiastic two year old on a particularly lubricious skating rink.

“Cerrillos,” Hanzo blurted out, before the voice of rationality could reassert itself. “Well -- eventually. This is where things become...strange. Very, very strange. I would humbly ask that you listen first and then, if you think me thoroughly irrational afterwards, we can discuss...options?”

Zenyatta’s hands lifted away from the table and took on a second, even more mudraish posture just below his chin. “Agreed. Though I should also tell you that, having lived and worked here for a number of years my standards for strange are quite liberal.”

“My car’s GPS began malfunctioning even before I left the vicinity of the graveyard -- I believe I was technically still within Shiprock town limits.” He retrieved the second thermos and jiggled it gently; Zenyatta brought out two tea bowls this time, and he poured for them both. A few sips and he was fortified to continue. “It refused to hold the route I indicated. I had to reset it several times and it misdirected me all over the hills until I reached what used to be Route 14, where it showed me a course back to Santa Fe from the south. The car itself was sputtering for miles and it finally died completely just after I made that turn.”

“I have heard of this sort of thing before from both students and colleagues.” Zenyatta informed him, meditatively. “Global positioning devices frankly refusing to function properly in certain regions south of the city, that is. The theories I have heard in relation to why this may be tend to extremes to say the least.”

“Oh?” Hanzo asked, somewhat more warily than he liked.

A certain mischievous sparkle came into Zenyatta’s eyes. “The most reasonable suggest some form of localized, persistent geomagnetic disturbance in the Earth’s atmosphere, though how such a thing could both exist and completely defy conventional forms of detection is a debate all by itself. Some of the others...well. Roswell is only two hundred miles away, and well within the observed radius of GPS disturbances.”

“Roswell?” Hanzo asked, blankly this time.

The mischievous sparkle was now a mischievous gleam. “Aliens, my friend. Visitors from another world. One of my students is involved in the production of a journal of amateur UFOlogy and swears with a great deal of passionate conviction that the United States government has been covering up the existence of extraterrestrial life since a vehicle not of this world crashed in Roswell in the late 1940s.”

“I...believe I read about that at some point.” Hanzo leaned back in his chair. “A crashed weather balloon?”

“A crashed nuclear test observation balloon that spawned thousands of conspiracy theories, some of them more plausible than others.” He shook his head slightly. “But I agreed to listen first. Please...continue.”