#paulina has claws instead of nails

[little-pondhead]

Okay so I know you said you don't want Jazz to have any major abilities like mind control, but what about a passive one? My idea is that she could actually subconsciously influence the feelings or restraint of the people around her. It could even be an ability she has at home that she just never noticed. Her parents have their own immunity to it thanks to all the ectoplasmic exposure, but it's helped a couple times with convincing teachers to look the other way for her brother. Clockwork tells her about it when they go to the DCU, so she has the perfect opportunity to practice using it consciously by causing riots via hundreds of people's misplaced aggression (which helps her get her own anger and stress out too).

Actually, that's a really good idea! Passive abilities in the DP characters could be fun to explore and possibly put a hitch in their plans if they have to work around it. I'm all for crack fics where one side is completely blindsided over and over again, but if someone wanted to make it a little more serious, factoring in possible passive abilities can lead to moments where the superheroes actually have a chance at catching/defeating Fenton and the others if they manage to find out about those abilities and use it to their advantage.

As you said, Jazz seems like the best candidate for this; she could be the force that gets the ball rolling. Because if Jazz has passive supernatural abilities, then what are the chances Danny and the others have some too? After all, they've been exposed to ectoplasm more than Jazz, and she was never tangled up with a ghost for a long time. (Right? It's been a while since I've watched the show. I don't think she was possessed for a super long time by a powerful ghost or anything.) Or maybe she developed that passive talent as a defense against the more powerful ghosts, and the others don't have that kind of ability at all.

Emotional manipulation is a scary ability, after all; maybe Clockwork allowed her to join Danny for the sake of refining her power.

[swifty-fox]

I just wanted to second the love song from a dog anon, I’ve been enjoying it sososososo much (along with absolutely everything you write!!) and the newest chapter was so lovely! Very excited to read the James arc coming up mwah!

auighh you all rock. It's just such a stickier au than my other fics. So much time and thought and probably the most analyzing their characters out of anything so I want people to approve!

have some John psychosexualing himself into not being Gay (and failing)

Eunice is a good girl and even better wasn’t a silly girl. She knew the exact shape of what was on the table and didn’t ask for an inch more. She’s filled out more, wide at the hips and at the shoulders in a way that would be perfect to grip. She’s sitting with her legs crossed and he can make out the wide curve of one thigh sat atop the other. Her hair, dark red, curled over one shoulder in a half-up half-down do that was popular lately. She was entirely different from the tall, slim, blue-eyed Paulina.

John throws her a wink. 

Gale comes up beside him and John throws an arm around his shoulder like nothing’s ever changed. Holds out a ginger beer like Curt used to and introduces Gale to his friends. 

“Buck here’s landed a B-17 with no engines,” John brags, because how many times has he introduced Gale in such a format before? “Boy’s over there called him No-Engine Cleven.” 

He watches Eunices eyes tear from him over to Gale, intent parking anew and he squashes the sudden flare of jealousy. No way was he about to lose the final step in his three part plan to be his old self to a guy who didn’t even like snatch. 

“Engaged to be married though, Sorry Eunice,” John tugs Gale that much closer, “You’ll have to find another Soldierboy to sink your claws into.”

She shakes Gale’s hand instead, who was gentlemanly as ever, and flips her hair at John in a silent tease and he bares his teeth at her in a smile.

“Don’t be sore just ‘cause you never managed to slip those creeping fingers up my skirt in high school.”

There’s the thrum of excitement he’s looking for. Licks at the back of his ear and creeps sickly nails down his spine. John sets his hands to his hips, flexing his shoulders just to feel the broad stretch of them and shows his teeth right back.

“What makes you think I was trying, sweetheart?”

He’s got her back now, eyes off of Gale and back onto more suitable quarry, she leans forward on her perch, plump lips twisting with amusement. They’re painted red. Turned wine-dark by the night and the bottom curve of them is almost as wide and pillowy as Gale’s. 

[bloggerspam]

Chapter 2: Big Man on Campus

Something was watching him. 

Dash isn’t really known for his spatial awareness. 

Why would he need to? He’s the biggest thing around, and if someone was watching him, well, why wouldn’t they? 

He’s the big man on campus, and somewhere deep inside he knows this might be his peak. 

So he milks it. He bullies the usual suspects, he swaggers his way around and if there isn’t room? He makes it. 

People look towards Dash, towards Paulina or the rest of the A-listers. 

Even 3 years after the Fenton’s Portal turned on, 3 years of ghost fights, it always takes him half a second to recognize what’s going on at any time. 

The only place he has it is on the field, and on the field only. 

So no, his spatial awareness isn’t the greatest. He’s too used to being watched. 

But something’s different. Something’s….wrong. 

Dash looked around, almost falling over on his tipped back chair, trying to figure out where the prickling awareness came from. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing full stop, and Dash didn’t like it.

He rarely ever felt like prey.

He tipped forward, his chair making a loud clunk noise, but nobody seemed to be looking over at him. 

“Hey. Dickhead.” Dash huffed, and crossed his bulky arms. He doesn’t hit girls, but Sam Manson really tests his patience so a little intimidation could go a long way. He looked over at his project partner sitting across from him with a mounting irritation–especially since all she looks is bored and annoyed when she should be scared and intimidated.

“Pay attention. I’m not doing this whole thing by myself.” She tapped at the paper on the desk with a claw tipped hand. He blinked. No, it was just his imagination—she just had those long nails like Paulina, just in black and purple instead of pink and blue. 

He scoffed at her, about to retort, before that feeling overwhelmed him again. He whipped around, adrenaline rushing to his head. 

It felt like he was in the tail end of the 9th down. It felt like he was backed up to the edge of the field, their goal a mere foot behind them. It felt like the moment before a linebacker slammed into him with the ball in his hand. 

Something was watching him and Dash—Dash is somehow afraid.

He finds nothing, and tries to calm his racing heart. He pulls on that focus he relies on during games, but it feels like he’s grasping at straws. 

He takes a deep breath, and begrudgingly focuses on the paper before him. The feeling of being watched, of being prey eventually abates, and he zeroes in on the project. They work on it for a good 20 minutes, his heartrate slowly but surely going back to normal. 

Manson leans over the table, close enough he can smell her weird floral perfume. She points at something on his paper, and he squints at it, trying to see but her hair is in the way. It’s gotten longer since freshman year, and so he tries to brush it aside to see. 

The overwhelming feeling of predator falls over him again, but this time he’s prepared. His eyes whip over to his right, and there—for a flash of a second all Dash can see are glowing green eyes, cat-like and dilated as if ready to lunge at him. He flinches back, instinctively trying to avoid the would-be predator, but all that happens is the loud screeching noise of his chair. 

He blinks, and suddenly he recognizes—it’s Fenton. 

Suddenly, it all makes sense now. He lets out a sigh, and sneers at the boy before fingers snap in front of his face, breaking the moment.

“Earth to Dickhead. The bell’s rung. I’m pretty much done with my part.” Manson gets up, stuff already gathered while he was in that weird stare off with Fenton. She taps on his paper again, but this time he can see unobstructed. 

“Do not forget to finish this part up. After that, it should be good to turn in.” Dash then realizes that the bell has rung, and he’s the only one that didn’t notice. Fenton is waiting outside the classroom door, and he leaves with Manson when she catches up. 

He squints after them, but decides if Fenton’s feeling less than human, he’ll just have to remind him later. 

He whistles as he packs his bag, suddenly renewed in energy. He likes playing his part, after all. 

He’ll shove Fenton into a locker later, that’ll do the trick. Call him some names.

Normalcy will be good for him, he remembers someone saying. Val? Wes? Forget it.

The bell rings, and he’s late for math. 

He sighs. 

He’ll add threatening Mikey to do the extra homework to his to-do list.

Chapter 1: Beginning of an End

For @sheabeeprime and @uniasus for this year's @phicphight !

===

The thing about Fenton is that he’s not…..subtle. 

Star thinks about this as she watches him struggle with his locker. Kwan’s just about to offer to help—she can see it in her peripherals—before Fenton groans, looks left and right (completely missing them loitering across the hall directly behind him) and sticks his hand into the locker. 

He’s fiddling around with the lock, trying to unlock it, instead of doing the completely reasonable thing and just. Grabbing the thing he wanted to grab. Why bother with the lock at all if he’s just gonna stick his hand in anyway?

She and Kwan share a look at that. Kwan scratches the back of his head, looking around to see if anybody else could tell him what to do, before settling on her pleadingly. 

She sighs, shaking her head and closing her eyes against the headache that she feels coming on. It’s Senior Year. You’d think after 3 years, Fenton would get better at hiding, not worse. 

But then again…it did take the majority of Casper High a year to even realize something was wrong with the boy.

She thinks about that, before correcting herself. There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s just….not all right either. She shakes her head, walking off to the nearest classroom door. It’s early in the morning so the halls are still relatively empty. Star and Kwan are only here because of morning practice. 

She wonders, idly, why Fenton is so early. He’s usually late, but then again the ghosts have been getting better about leaving him alone these days. Fenton’s lost those wretched eye-bags he kept carrying around like Paulina and her prada bags. 

She opens the door softly, placing Kwan in front of her and placing her hand on his broad back, as if pushing him out. She slams the door behind her, pushing Kwan who blessedly goes with it. 

“Star! What’s the rush?” Fenton jumps, yanking his hand out and inadvertently tripping the locker open. 

“We’re gonna be late to practice.” She says, primly. 

“Alright alright, oh, hey Fentino.” Kwan chuckles, as they pass by Danny. 

He flinches, picking up the books that spilled out. “Hey, Kwan. Star.” 

He starts pulling at his sleeves, always long sleeved nowadays, but no sleeve is long enough to cover the scars that litter his wrists and fists. She gives him a sweet smile, staunchly ignoring the way his answering nervous smile has too many teeth. 

“Morning Danny. See you later.” She stops pushing at Kwan to pull up beside him. He takes her hand, squeezing it gently as they make their way down the hall. Just before they turn the corner she sees Danny stare at his hand in fear. He flexes it, and she notices that it has claws, before they disappear and he breathes out a shakey sigh.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Kwan says softly. She looks up at him, and his sad far away stare. 

She doesn’t want to answer–doesn’t want to face the truth of it. But this is Kwan.

“Yes.” Of all the A-listers, she’s the only one that seems to be on neutral terms with Danny, and the only one who see exactly how many times it’s been a close call. 

His hand squeezes hers, and the rest of the walk to practice is deathly silent. Because what can you say to that? Nothing. 

She squeezes back. 

[angelaiswriting]

The Assistant (11 of ?) | Vladimir Ranskahov x reader

[original picture found on: pinterest]

✏️ Pairings:

(eventual) Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader

Anatoly Ranskahov x OC (Paulina)

✏️ Requested by @kellydixon01 : Y/N–hacker, big mouth, even bigger attitude–is the new addition to Fisk’s team. Sent to help the Ranskahovs, she immediately gets on Vladimir’s nerves. But as time passes, they start to take a liking to each other, even if none of them is willing to admit their feelings. Yet.

✏️ A/N: sorry for the long wait 💔 things are starting to move forward, though, for Vladimir and us Y/N. Special thanks to Paulina for the help with the title! 

✏️ Warnings: mentions of dark past and its repercussion + mentions of violence. Pretty sad in general? I think that’s all, but if you find anything else, just let me know.

✏️ Word-count: 3,943

📚 To read the previous chapters, click on the MASTERLIST link in my bio (unfortunately I can’t put links here if I don’t want Tumblr to hide my post. I apologize.)

CHAPTER ELEVEN: TOSKA

The air in Vladimir’s apartment felt more sacred than that of a church. Or of a graveyard. In its solemnity, Y/N couldn’t help but think that the reason behind such a deafening silence had to be Vladimir’s wish to keep anything and anyone out of his house. And as long as no one disturbed the peace of that place, then he could pretend that that night didn’t happen.

He never spoke once–not after catching her in the corridor, where she had almost fallen to her knees, weakened by the not-so-pleasant vacation in Wesley’s loving care, and not as he cleaned the scratches left on the palm of her hand by the rough pavement in front of their apartment complex.

The only audible sounds, apart from Vladimir’s heavy breathing, were her occasional whimpers and gasps as he dabbed a gauze on the wounded skin of her hands. Those same sounds almost felt like screams in the death-silence of the room.

They had never been this close to each other. They had surely been at each other’s throat in his office on more occasions than they could count, this was no secret, and they had been shoulder-to-shoulder on her couch on Sunday afternoon. But it had never felt this peaceful, this… placid, in the tranquillity of his bare apartment.

It was like being hidden away from the world, nuzzled up in a smoky cocoon. She doubted the walls had been soundproofed, but the thought couldn’t but pop up in her mind at the lack of external sounds. The buzzing late-night traffic of the city didn’t seem to reach their floor and it was almost as though he didn’t have neighbors, for no sound could be perceived from beyond the walls. It was cozy, everything was–his leather couch, the soft pillow he had placed behind her back, even his touch–soft and caring and almost surreal when she thought about who the man kneeling in front of her was.

It was almost intimate.

She gasped loudly at that sudden thought and the sound seemed to snap Vladimir out of his silent trance.

“Izvini,” he muttered, still absorbed too deeply in his own mind to realize he had gone back to some old Russian memory.

It took her minutes to realize the meaning of his words, for she, too, was too lost in her own thoughts. She had spent the last few days hoping and praying that Vladimir Ranskahov–surely not her sworn nemesis, but not even her best friend–would materialize out of thin air to take her out of James’ claws. To no avail, of course–there was no such thing as magic, at least not of the truly useful kind. But the image of his scarred face had never left her mind and-

Her eyes snapped a couple of times between his tattooed fingers, holding her hand with so much unexpected care she herself thought she might break under even a slightly bolder touch, and the focused frown on his face.

Had he just apologized?

It couldn’t be. This was Vladimir Ranskahow she was thinking about–it couldn’t be.

She shook her head, grimacing when her headache made her temples pulse. She could be called anything but not delusional. And yet, that was the meaning of that word–I am sorry.

Had she not been so focused on her own sense of hearing, she would have dismissed it on her distracting memories. And while a part of her almost pushed her to ask him to repeat himself, she found herself biting her tongue, unable–or unwilling–to open her mouth.

For a brief moment, she even considered saying something–thanking him or simply telling him it wasn’t his fault. The truth was, in fact, his touch was so light she could barely feel it above the pulsating dull pain reminding her of how many muscles and bones the human body has.

The unexpected thing was, though, she found herself mirroring his apology out loud. She didn’t look at him as she said those words. Instead, she kept her eyes trained on the huge flat screen of the TV in front of her.

She thought–almost wished–he hadn’t heard her, for he continued in his meticulous attempt of cleaning even the smallest particle of dirt out of the scratches in her palms.

He only spoke after he had finished wrapping her trembling hands in white bandages. “What happened?”

It wasn’t the angry ‘where the fuck have you been?’ she had expected–he didn’t trust her, he didn’t exactly deem her trustworthy. Instead, it was a tired ‘what happened?’ that left her speechless for a minute or two as she watched him get up to throw away the dirty gauzes.

She used that time to collect her thoughts, to try and rationalize why, exactly, she hadn’t said a word to Wesley–why she cared so much about some criminals that would sell her in case of necessity. She also considered lying, saying something just to give him an answer without actually answering him–she didn’t owe him anything, after all. Yet, it was also something she couldn’t bring herself to do. For as much as she liked working solo, she needed someone to have her back and while Vladimir Ranskahov wouldn’t exactly have been her first choice just a couple of months ago, she found herself being drawn to him in a way she hadn’t expected–in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Wesley,” she muttered, voice mechanical as she tasted the fading metallic taste of blood on her tongue.

The irrational choice of trusting him had probably fallen on Vladimir because she knew he could kill just as she knew he could do more than that. And he was smart, cunning, even if prey of his many anger outbursts at time. He had sensed something was wrong with the Hungarians before anyone else and that presentiment must have come from somewhere–some careful ability he had been forced to develop in all his years as a criminal and even before that, in the time he had lived with his abusive father.

If she could trust him, she… There probably wasn’t an ending to that thought, at least not now that she couldn’t seem to be able to focus on one thing at a time.

“He wanted me to tell him what I know about you.”

She didn’t turn to look at him, focused as she was on the shadow of her reflection on the screen of the television.

Such a huge thing, she thought, in such an empty house. It almost felt out of place in that living room with just a couch and a bare coffee table with the surface of thin glass. The elephant in the room.

“You said nothing.” It wasn’t a question, he knew she hadn’t opened her mouth or else, Wesley wouldn’t have done this to her.

He was standing right next to her, staring down at her unfocused face, she could feel it. She could feel it but she couldn’t turn, couldn’t look at him.

The TV wasn’t the elephant in the room, she almost chuckled. She was–or Vladimir was. It was difficult to choose an answer when both of them felt out of place–her in his house and he…

“No.” She shook her head, eyes never leaving the black mirror in front of her. What did he watch on it when he was alone? “I told you, you can trust me.”

Vladimir sighed. It was long and deep, a tired sound that seemed to fade in her mind. “What happened?” he asked again, moving to sit down on the couch next to her.

And she told him everything.

*

Vladimir jolted awake in the middle of the night, at two, probably three in the morning, covered in sweat, his breathing still ragged and wild, his hands still wrapped into fists, nails too short to cut into the hardened skin of his palms. It took him a while to realize he had shot up into a sitting position and a little longer to see the blankets bunched up at the foot of his bed, a minute longer to come to the conclusion that he was still in his house, still in his bedroom.

Just a nightmare. Just…

Just Utkin. There was no running away from that name, not even when he had managed to put years between it and his escape. Trying to avoid its daunting presence in his mind was no good–just as no good could come out of it. That place was so ingrained in his mind that it was all he saw when he closed his eyes, all he dreamed of on the many nights he was cursed to dream.

The eerie silence of the bedroom didn’t ease the tension in his muscles, nor did it even out the scorching rhythm of his breathing. It only put him on edge, one foot here and the other back in Russia, in a dark cell whose damp walls he could still feel closing in on him, cutting his breath even shorter, pushing his mind into override as his whole body tensed to lunge forward, almost wanting to jump out of his skin.

It was like being trapped in that elevator all over again, with the only difference that he wasn’t six and he had no father that could punish him for it anymore.

“Snap out of it.” His sore voice scared him, it pushed him to look around the room to find out who that other man was.

There was no other man, of course, just the echoes of the past, back to haunt him yet again.

“You were screaming.”

That voice was definitely not his and when his eyes snapped up in its direction, the only thing he managed to feel for an endless minute was a never-ending wave of fear wash over him.

“Are you okay?” Y/N asked.

He had managed to convince her to change into the clothes he had brought back from her apartment, after all, he thought as he took her in, dressed in gray pajamas as she stood in the corridor. Its bright lights were blinding him.

“You should be resting.” He wanted to groan and more than that, he wanted her out of his house–out of his cell–but there was no way he was going to leave her alone after what had happened. There was no conscious reason behind his stubbornness on the matter, just that…

“You were screaming,” she repeated, taking a step forward to stand in the frame of the door.

Please, don’t come in.

There was more rationality in the irrationality of his thought than he would ever know. Her presence inside those walls was already too much, it short-circuited his mind and his body, sending them both into a frenzy. But if she entered his room, he… He knew nothing would ever really happen, part of him truly knew, but that was still his safe space–more than the living room, more than the kitchen filled with knives hidden in strategic places, more than the secure confinements of his bathtub. To have someone break the spell and cross its border…

Tanya had done just that, back in Russia, back when it wasn’t that hard for him to trust people. And while Tanya was now dead–while he had been the one to murder her–, he wasn’t willing to take the risk.

“Don’t step forward,” he found himself panting, fighting to regain control of his body and of his mind as his sight seemed to lose its focus. She might have kept her mouth shut, might have kept his secrets, but he was still Vladimir Ranskahov and he didn’t want anyone to see him like that.

She stood still and had her face not been hidden by the shadows of the night in his bedroom, he would have noticed her frown.

“I’m fine.”

His own breathing was deafening him, the raging movements of his lungs and ribcage numbed his other senses as his head seemed to spin.

I’m fine.

It was a recurring lie, one he couldn’t stop telling himself. Because, after all, how else could he feel? Tolik was fine, everyone at the garage was fine, so why couldn’t he? If he pretended hard enough, if he convinced himself that everything was alright, then maybe things would start going the right way.

“I’ll be on the couch if you need me.”

He didn’t answer. He simply stared at her without actually seeing her and wondered what had pushed him to let her inside his house. The wounds, the blood, the unexpected vulnerability painted all over her face–those factors were indeed there, he wouldn’t lie, but…

But he had been upset. Upset she might have turned her back against and sold him and the guys at the garage to Fisk and his men. Upset he had started to trust the wrong person, the first one that seemed to matter after years of isolation. Upset he might have failed, falling for the same trick a second time after the disastrous relationship that had gifted him and his brother with a one-way ticket to hell.

And against his better judgment, against what the monsters growling and hiding in the darkness of his minds pushed him to want and need and do, he had been hopeful. The thought–the hope–that something else had happened had been there. Sergei was his best man and he trusted her, so why couldn’t he do the same? He had been thinking about that as he had unlocked the door of his apartment to drag her inside and he had found himself hoping with all he had that she was on his side.

Now, with the blinding darkness of Utkin still blurring his sight, he realized that actually having her on his side scared him even more, for he would have to be on hers as well.

*

The next morning, the silence was deafening. And awkward.

Y/N and Vladimir sat on opposite sides of the small kitchen table and while they both pretended to be busy with breakfast, none of them could eat. She still had a gnawing feeling in her guts, one that seemed to tell her she had fucked up–and that she had fucked up badly–, while embarrassment and something else, something he couldn’t explain, plagued Vladimir’s thoughts.

It was already hard as it was, to go on when all his mind seemed to be able to do was stay back, bogged down in the quicksands of his past. Utkin, Tatyana, Moscow, the money, the cell, his father, the elevator… Everything still felt so present and real and appalling, almost as though it had only happened yesterday–or a minute ago.

“How did you sleep?” she asked.

He wasn’t good at this, wasn’t good at opening up. Only God knew how much he wanted to tell her–or anyone else, for that matter–how decayed he felt, still drowning in the cold and dark waters of a lake so big he couldn’t leave, couldn’t swim his way to its shores. And only God knew why he could never bring himself to open his mouth, to speak up, to slay his demons the way they were going to slay him sooner or later. Sooner rather than later.

But then he looked up at her, met her gaze, the dark circles under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands, how small she looked in his kitchen, and for a moment he felt at peace. This wasn’t Utkin–nor one of the many cells he had been locked up in. And this wasn’t Tatyana, ready to sell him, nor was this his father, eager to beat him up yet again.

“I didn’t,” he ended up confessing, voice flat and emotionless. If he only managed to forget about his rules for one day–one hour–then maybe things would be easier. He’d tell her how badly decades of unshed tears stung his eyes, how closed-up his throat felt as he choked on his brother’s life, on his brother’s woman, on his brother’s strength. He’d tell her how lonely he felt even among his men, how naked he was in front of his enemies with no one and nothing to call his own. And he’d tell her how much he admired her, how sorry he was for how he’d been treating her, and that it wasn’t her fault–it was his. But as he looked at her, so fragile and already shattered, all he could do was swallow the lump in his throat and clear his voice. “You?”

“I didn’t either.” Her smile was tired, strained, so thin it felt like a raging scream in the blankness of her face. A wiped-clean canvas someone had previously painted.

She seemed to be on the verge of saying something, of releasing the torrent of thoughts she had always kept hidden inside her, all the emotions and feelings and pain and happiness and terror. How alone she had felt when the Barbarians had turned their back to her and her family, how dusty she had felt when her father had been killed, how joyful she had been the first time she had seen the lights of New York City at night. How blissfully naive she had been, thinking she could fool lions when she wasn’t but a flea under their paws.

How scary it was, to fall apart under Wesley’s hands and to get back together in Vladimir’s.

How painfully faraway she felt with him so close–so close she could touch him, so close she could hold him through the horrors of the night.

But she voiced none of that–couldn’t find the courage to, the strength. “Thank you,” she said instead, voice feeble but grateful. “I don’t think I would have managed to be alone tonight.”

I know what loneliness does to a person, he wanted to tell her. He knew it all too well, locked-up as he was in his half-willing, half-forced isolation. It turned you into something else, pressed you into a crystal–beautiful and valuable and at the same time, sterile, cold, so worn-out by what’s inside you that you turn transparent. And you cannot break–you don’t want to break in fear of what’s inside–and of what’s outside. You live in your shell for so long that you forget what the world is like, what people are like, how deeply moving and human it feels to be touched and loved and held.

“I called Tolya.”

They had somehow managed to finish their breakfast a while ago, forced cold eggs and even colder coffee down their throats, and the plates and mugs had been put away to dry.

The elephant had yet to leave the room.

“You will be staying with him and Paulina until I fix this.”

Until I fix this.

She looked at him, standing in the doorframe of the kitchen as she stood near the couch in the living room. Universes apart. And even worse than that, universes that were universes apart. “I don’t want to stay with him.” Her brows furrowed, her heart sank deep into her belly.

I want to stay with you.

She hadn’t prayed for Anatoly to come and rescue her–she had prayed for Vladimir. In his ruthlessness, in his blood-thirst, his anger, his unbreakable fragility–or his fragile façade of stone–, she knew she could trust him, she could… put her life in his hands.

But she couldn’t say those words. Couldn’t say to the nightmare that she wanted to revel in its darkness a little longer, that the light scared her to the bone.

“We are neighbors, we are…” she tried to reason, the silence of the room screaming in her ears, pounding on her eardrums, seeping into her bones until they brittled. “Friends.”

“Friends,” he repeated, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

No, they weren’t.

But God, damn, did he want that. Needed that. Needed to close the shutters of his mind to step into the world for an hour–a minute.

“I protect my friends,” he stated. “Is safe, with Tolya.”

“But I trust you.” It cost her all she had, to say those words. To admit such a secret out loud–and to the last person she should be confessing it to. It was scary, to trust him. To realize that such a thought wasn’t a thought, that it was something more, something she couldn’t explain nor rationalize. To look at herself in the mirror and say: “I trust the criminal.”

Vladimir looked taken aback–and the surprised expression on his face didn’t go unnoticed. Even after all the things he had said to her, the insults and the furious tantrums, she was still standing with her back facing him, sure that he wouldn’t stab it. “You shouldn’t.”

“I’ve spent my whole life refraining myself from trusting people, stupidly thinking that I could survive on my own, turning myself into the mole my father failed to be. Life doesn’t work like that, though.” She grimaced at the memory and looked down to the ground for a second before lifting her head to stare at him again. “It almost feels like months have passed, ever since he dragged me along to meet you and your brother. And in the time I spent with you, after all the fights we’ve had, the strong words, the suspicions, the insults… You showed me your true face and I trust no mask.”

He stared at her and it was suddenly hard to breathe. He had spent so much time trying to push her away and out of his cage that he had ended up blinding himself. And as the demons’ claws seemed to maul him from the inside, the realization that she would stay hit him like a bucket of ice-cold water.

“You don’t have to trust me back. I just… I don’t know who the real Anatoly is and not even who the real Paulina is. And until I figure it out, I’m not…”

Leaving you. I am not leaving you.

She didn’t say those words, couldn’t bring herself to, but it didn’t matter, for he still understood.

And while part of him was crying and sobbing, thrashing in his mind, begging him to kick her out of the safe confinements of his apartment, all he could do was take a step forward. And then another. And another. His hand trembled on her shoulder when he touched her.

God, he needed a cigarette.

And a drink.

“I want to trust you,” he admitted, staring beyond her for he couldn’t–he couldn’t–look at her in the eye and show her how vulnerable he was–how fragile, like a ticking bomb ready to go off at the slightest movement. “I do, but I…”

“I know.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t step back. Didn’t push his hand away. She couldn’t, not when his warmth proved her stupid thoughts wrong, for he was alive. His warmth felt as thick as honey as it seeped through her skin, spread up her neck and down her arm, burning the feeling of Wesley’s apartment away.

It was like coming back to life, like walking out of the darkness of the night and into the bright light of day. Stupid, for Vladimir wasn’t light. But true. And as she stood there, bare and vulnerable, she knew she’d do whatever he asked her to. And it wasn’t important, whether he trusted her or not–whether he said so with real words, whether he knew it in the first place–, because she knew he’d have her back.

“Am taking you somewhere tonight.” He looked at her when he spoke and she could see, in his unfocused gaze, the internal struggle he was going through. “After that you decide if you still trust me.”

 *

Please, leave me feedback. I feel like this chapter isn’t as focused as the rest of the story, but it was truly my best. I wanted to show, or at least give a glimpse of, Vladimir’s vulnerability, struggles and, generally speaking, his ‘real self’, hopefully I managed to ?

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