#photos taken moments before tragedy

[essektheylyss]

[Ruin by The Amazing Devil playing softly in the background]

showed up to this d&d game to deal AOE psychic damage to every member of the party and then mySELF

[immagods]

Then there are the whispers of a clone frozen in stasis. A medic trying to save his brothers, only to wake up and realise he is the last, all his brothers are gone. They are just rumours. No one's sure if they are true or not, until one day.

One day where Kix sitting in a cantina in the outer rim, where he sees a group of people gathered around a holo. He pays no mind to it at first, that is, until he hears someone say a familiar name. A name he hasn't heard spoken out loud in a long time. A brothers name.

So he gets closer, and he sees what the group of people are looking at. It's the photo. The photo that Rex had hanging on the wall of his office, the one of him, Fives, Echo and Cody. The photo that Fives always said made him and Echo Rex's favourites. Kix remembers that holo, he remembers the battle when it was taken. Remembers it was just after Fives and Echo had gotten back from Arc training. Remembers that he was just behind the camera, waiting to chew Fives out; because 'even if you have ARC training now. It doesn't mean that you can go and do stupid risky shit all the time trying to impress the shinies.'

Kix is drawn from the memories of ghosts when he feels someone tap him on the arm. It's a young girl with big blue familiar looking eyes, and she says that she thinks it cool that he looks exactly like the brave soldiers she learnt about in school. She asks him if his grandfather was a clone, if he knew any clones, if he's heard any stories of the clones. Kix stares at the girl for a moment, thinking about another girl with curious blue eyes, before he answers her. He tells her that he is a clone, that he has so many stories that he can't even count them.

With wide eyes, the girl drags him closer to the holo and pointing at it asks him if he knows the clones in the photo.

And Kix, looking at the holo, thinks of the old mando'a that they used to say; Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. 'I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.'

So he tells the girl.

He tells her how they were his brothers. He tells her how he was apart of the 501st. He tells her how they fought for freedom. He tells her how they were always finding ways to laugh during the war. He tells her how they adopted the jedi into their family. He tells her how no matter how bad things got the clones knew they would be okay as long as they had eachother. He tells her their names.

The more stories he tells the more people listen. And word spreads. The Clones are not all gone. There is one left. And he's telling the stories of the clones, the stories that, when there where millions of clone alive no one wanted to hear. But they want to hear them now, they want to know the clones now. They want to know the worriors that fought for freedom and laid down the foundations for everything after. They clones story may be a tragedy, but it will not be forgotten.

The Vode will be remembered.

[drivinmeinsane]

Witness in the Dark

※ Sierra Six x Claire's Older Sister!Reader ※

{ masterlist } ※ { ao3 } ※ { requested fic }

※ Summary: Don't we all just want to feel the companionable reassurance of another human being?

It only takes a single tragedy to tear your life to shreds and make it to where you're unable to sleep through the night. You tell yourself that you will never trust a bodyguard again, but things don't go according to plan when a man with a number for a name is assigned to the Fitzroy household while your uncle is away

※ Rating: T for suggestive themes and canon typical violence.

※ Content/Tags: Slow burn, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Night terrors, Pining, Unspecified age gap, Movie based - Alternate Universe, No use of Y/N, Obsessive behaviors from both parties, Descriptions of injuries, Mentions of parental death, Mentions of past kidnapping, Mentions of past torture, Implied death of minor character(s)

※ Word count: 12,637

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

※ Author's Notes: I don't know what came over me. This really got uncontrollably out of hand and ended up being wildly self indulgent. Huge thanks for @danime25 for proofreading this. I owe you my life.

"Ladies!" Your sister's nurse calls as she walks into the room. "I want to introduce you to Six. He'll be looking after the house while Mister Donald is away."

You look up from your position next to Claire on her bed only to meet the eyes of the man following the nurse. They're startlingly blue. His face is impassive as he turns away and surveys the room. He carries himself with an easy grace that hints at the violence that his body could produce. He reeks of danger. You instantly don't appreciate his presence. You had fought with Uncle Fitz tooth and nail over hiring a bodyguard for the duration of his trip away from the home. This man’s presence here means you have clearly lost that argument.

"Only the two exits?" He questions, moving past the bed to stand at the ceiling to floor windows. 

"Yeah." Your tone is hard, biting. The nurse gives a small gasp at your rudeness and says your name disapprovingly.

The man, Six, turns away from the window to look at you with a raised eyebrow. You stare at each other silently, sizing the other up. There’s a flicker of some emotion that you might label as respect in his eyes before Claire, picking up on your hostility, throws her hat in the ring.

"We don't chew gum in this house." You've never loved your little sister's faux-snob act more than in this moment. She snaps a photo of him with her Polaroid, staged records forgotten. He doesn't look particularly pleased about it. It’s more exasperated acceptance than anger though.

He's silent for a moment before speaking. "I'm sorry. I wasn't briefed." 

There’s a trace of a smile on his face. It’s irritating and you have to look away from him. You stare at a record sleeve like your life depends on it. He asks for the photo and picks it up. You see a flash of a tattoo on his hand as he plucks the Polaroid off of the bedspread. Poorly done and worn with age. He’s definitely one of Uncle Fitz’s prison recruits then. One of the most morally dubious options he could have saddled you with in his absence. Perfect.

He says his goodbyes to you and Claire before leaving the room. Your heart is beating irrationally rapidly and your mouth is dry. The man with a number for a name is stirring up nothing but bad memories. You know you won’t sleep well tonight. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

“What kind of name is Six anyway?” Claire asks first thing in the morning after she tosses herself into a chair at the kitchen table. The man in question gives her a long look. 

"007 was already taken so…" He says with a relaxed shrug, coffee mug in hand. He's leaning against the kitchen counter in the same suit as yesterday.

You choke back a laugh at the sight of your sister's expression. You accidentally meet Six's eyes over her head. There's warmth in them that douses your amusement immediately. You sober up and turn back to your breakfast. Softness in someone doing his line of work felt… wrong. He isn't trustworthy, you decide, no matter how kind he acts. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You wake up with a start. The coppery tang of blood mixed with the dry powder of concrete lingers in your subconscious. It takes several heaving breaths to clear your airway and bring you back to the present. You shakily sit up. You press your palms into your eyes. You try to forget the sensation of a knife in your skin. You're here. You're safe . You're one of the last people your sister has. You're the stable one.

You get to your feet in the dark bedroom and open your door to step out into the hall. You trail unsteady fingertips down the plaster and paint as you make your way to the kitchen and living area. 

There's a barely audible scuffle and you peer through the gloom to see Six stalking you. You catch the barest glimpse of his face in a strip of moonlight. It's intent. Predatory. There's no hint of recognition, not while you move through the darkest parts of the room.

You feel cold. Your pulse starts to hammer in your veins. Your throat works uselessly. Words won't come out of your mouth. You forge along to the kitchen and fumble for the light. The kitchen is awash in a blinding glow right as you feel heat against your back. It immediately withdraws as the bodyguard removes himself from your personal space. You don't turn to face him while you get a glass from the cupboard and fill it with ice and water at the fridge's dispenser. You stare blankly at the burnished steel while you take sip after sip.

You refill your glass. You blink. You take a drink. You pretend like your mind isn't shattered. You pretend like the man your uncle hired hadn't been about to…

"Are you alright?" Six's voice cuts through the fog in your mind. It's like a lantern has been lit to guide you back into the waking world.

You find yourself then and turn to look at him. You study him. He looks slightly rumpled and tired. There's tension around his eyes and his mouth is set in an almost apologetic frown. 

"Just another nightmare. Sorry for disturbing you."

The frown deepens. "You didn't. I was caught by surprise, that's all."

"Fair warning, me out here like this is probably going to be a regular occurrence." You smile wanly. "I know you want us in bed, but I don't do the whole staying put thing so well most nights."

He just nods. He's accepted your words without protest. The frown fades away.

You gesture with your glass in the vague direction of your bedroom. "I'm going to go ahead and excuse myself. Goodnight, Six."

"Goodnight." 

───※ ·❆· ※───

Weeks go by. The household falls into a comfortable enough routine. Claire ribs him good-naturedly every chance she gets. He's always got a faint aura of amusement every time she takes a shot at him. You hadn't yet seen him get angry. Pretending to be annoyed? Yes, but never actually expressing any negative emotion beyond mild exasperation. Not yet, anyway. 

He sends the both of you to bed every night after Claire's nurse takes her leave. You inevitably get up in the middle of the night after another vivid nightmare. Six is always either watching the camera footage or doing his rounds. He's stopped being surprised by your presence after the night he hunted you. You linger in the kitchen doorway night after night, watching him keep vigil. He's got a soft face, you've decided. There's tension there, likely from worry and lack of sleep, but not cruelty. You've begun to wonder if he has the capability for it. You know he must. Uncle Fitz has kept you in the dark about a lot of the work he does, but you know a kind man wouldn’t have been a candidate for whatever program your uncle runs. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You're woken up a few nights later by the sound of hands scrabbling on your door. Your eyes snap open and you remain frozen for a second before you hear Claire's muffled voice. You're immediately out of bed so fast you stumble and twist your ankle painfully. You fling the door open and next thing you know, your little sister falls wheezing into your arms. "Something's… Something's wrong." She gasps out.

She can't breathe and is clutching at her chest with weak hands. Horror races down your back and you're pulling her into your arms in a clumsy embrace, desperately trying to keep her upright.

"Six!" The name is torn from you in a shout. You never thought you would be screaming for a man you'd told yourself you couldn't trust.

He's there in an instant. He puts a steadying hand on your back before he gently pulls Claire away and lifts her up into his arms. She wheezes again and both you and Six freeze.

"I'm okay." she whispers. She looks so small and breakable in the bodyguard's thick arms. Like a bird plucked from the sky, held the mercy of a giant's hands.

"Can you get the keys for the car and unlock it?" His voice washes over you. Its steadiness anchors you to reality. You manage a "Yeah." and take off through the house to the garage, making a pit-stop to snag the keys from their bowl. Your ankle is throbbing. Six is close behind, his brisk stride and long legs keeping time with your hurried scrambling. You mash the unlock button on the fob and throw yourself into the backseat. Claire is gently deposited in after you. Her head is resting on your lap. You comb through her brown hair with shaky hands. 

"Mount St. Mary's." You tell Six the moment he's halfway into the driver's seat. "They're the ones who put her pacemaker in."

He grunts in response, backing out of the garage. You don't remember when you handed him the keys or when the garage door was opened. You don't think about anything other than your little sister. You can't lose her too. You've already lost so much of your family and of yourself. The ride passes in a blur. You're only fleetingly aware of the passing lights. Your heart is hammering in your chest like it's beating for Claire and you both. You whisper pleas and promises to her, stroking her forehead with shaking hands.

You're pulled out of your trance by Six yanking the passenger door open, and you help guide your sister into his capable arms. The medical team whisks Claire into the back immediately the moment he has her on the stretcher. You're left in a stiff, vinyl chair in the waiting room. Bodies haven't been in it long enough to soften the material. You're filling out intake paperwork on your sister's behalf. Six stands next to you, hands clasped in front of himself. You glance over, checking his watch every few seconds, your leg bouncing in place. Nervousness and fear wash over you in all-consuming waves. 

He catches your glance as your eyes dart over yet again.

"You holding up alright?'' His questions surprise you. He rarely is the one to initiate conversations. His gaze is steady, grounding, blue eyes watching you intently.

"Not really." You admit, inhaling and exhaling jaggedly. He nods. There's tension around his eyes. Is he worried too? You have to look away from his face and instead talk to his watch. "She's my sister. I need to keep her safe. I can't lose her too."

You hear him make a noise in response. You watch the seconds tick by one by one on his watch. The two of you are silent for approximately thirty-seven of them before Six breaks the moment by undoing the metal clasp. He pulls the watch away from his skin, revealing a bar of ink across the underside of his surprisingly delicate wrist before he's handing it to you.

"Here."

You stare at the dangling watch blankly before looking up at his face. "What?"

"Keep it safe for me for a while." His tone leaves no room for argument. You reach out with hesitant fingers and take it from his grasp. The steel is warm in your hand. You swallow thickly and drape the watch over your wrist, waiting for the sickening feeling of having your hands bound to hit you. It doesn't. You clumsily latch the buckle. It's sized perfectly for the man diligently standing at your side, no possibility of tightening it without it being resized altogether. It hangs off your wrist like a loose bracelet and you realize then just how big Six is. 

He hides his mass well. His muscles are concealed discretely enough underneath blazers and tailored trousers. He simply doesn't take up space in whatever room he's in, always the expert at being unremarkable, unobtrusive, and not worth remembering. But this… this is a dead giveaway. You cast a sideways glance at his hands and, for a dizzying moment, you wonder how your hand would look pressed palm to palm with one of his.

"Miss Fitzroy. Your sister is cleared for visitors now if you would like to see her." A nurse's voice cuts into your illogical musings.

You stand up so abruptly that the chair you were just sitting on screeches agonizingly loud on the polished vinyl flooring before it thuds into the wall. The nurse flinches slightly, but Six is steady at your side. He falls into step behind you as you follow the man through the winding hallways to Claire.

The doctor stops you at the door, arm barring you for a moment before letting it drop. "She's stabilized. Tell your uncle there was a programming glitch. We were able to repair it. Non-invasive." She pauses for a moment, giving the man hovering behind you a hard look before continuing. "The remote system flagged it ten minutes before he pulled up."

"You're able to monitor from that distance?" You interrupt. 

"We can keep track of her pacemaker from just about anywhere. You may see her. She can be released later tonight after we have her under observation for a while longer.” The doctor catches your pinched expression and adds. “Just to be safe.”

You nod, gaze bypassing her to focus on Claire. She’s been watching the exchange and, at your attention, she pulls a weak smile under her oxygen mask while raising a pale hand to flash the rocker sign. The doctor finally steps aside but not before blocking Six as he makes to follow you into the room. “Only family allowed.”

You look at her incredulously and open your mouth to protest before Six cuts you off. “I understand. Thank you, Doctor.” His tone is bland, unemotional. He arranges himself to stand with his back to the inside of the open door. He’s obnoxiously in the way of anyone that would need to come or go. He spends the passing minutes as they bleed into hours standing there like a steadfast sentinel. Back straight, hand clasped over his right wrist, left wrist startlingly bare, head lowered in waiting supplication; he’s the very image of patient servitude.

You sit at your sister's side in your own vigil. The three of you wait in tired silence until a nurse finally announces Claire is free to be discharged. 

She fusses as she's helped into a wheelchair. You and Six stand aside, letting the staff fight the battle. They win, but as soon as everyone spills out of the automatic doors, she's pulling herself out of the mobility aid. She gently slaps away yours and Six's reaching hands when the two of you try to steady her. "Don't you dare."

"But-" you start to protest before you're immediately shut down. "I can walk to the car. I'm not that much of an invalid."

Six doesn't even try to say anything, just forges ahead through the parking lot like nothing happened. He's learned by now that there's no arguing with your little sister. The traitor. You and Claire make it to the vehicle after him and you move to slide into the back seat with her but she pulls a face.

"You're smothering meeeee." she exaggeratedly whines. You give her a flat look. "Smothered." she insists. She dramatically points at the front of the car and raises insistent eyebrows.

You end up buckling yourself into the front passenger seat with an exasperated sigh. You look over at Six. The tension has bled away from his face. He looks more relaxed, relieved even. He notices your stare and the two of you make eye contact. You roll your eyes pointedly at your sister’s antics. Six maintains a serious expression until it cracks and you’re rewarded with the bodyguard's smile.

Six's arm brushes ever so slightly against yours when he puts the vehicle into reverse and then into drive. The feeling of his warmth lingers like a brand on your skin. His watch hangs heavily around your wrist. You fight the urge to gently touch the gleaming metal and instead interlink your own fingers together hard enough to hurt.  

You spend the car ride sagged against the leather of the passenger seat, desperately trying to focus on the passing scenery and not the man seated next to you. Not his kindness, not the way he had kept you grounded. You tell yourself he was just doing his job. Any bodyguard would have been tender and careful with your sister…  and with you. You try to not read into what Six offering his watch to you for "safe keeping" might possibly mean.

Soon you're back at the house, waiting in the garage with your little sister while the hired man does a sweep of the building to make sure no one has breached the perimeter while it lay vacant. Claire is tucked against your side. She's bleary eyed with exhaustion. 

"Clear." Six's voice cuts into the silence of the garage.

You tow Claire along with you and sit her down at the table. She slumps with her cheek resting in her hand. You busy yourself with getting a bowl of ice cream set in front of her.

She gulps it down in huge mouthfuls. Six sits to your right at the head of the table while she eats. His eyes are focused on the screen of his laptop. You're sitting across from your sister, half curled up in the dining chair. The adrenaline has long since left your body, leaving you feeling heavy with exhaustion.

"You feeling better?" Six directs at Claire.

"Just another Thursday." She says with a shrug. "Uncle Donald and my sister say this is the best medicine. Ice cream. I tend to agree."

"They're smart people."

"Only family I got." 

Six’s response is instant, like he’ll choke on the words if he doesn’t get them out of his mouth fast enough. “Fitz’s the closest thing to family I’ve had in a long while.”

"Maybe that kind of makes us family." 

You catch the way that he smiles. He ducks his head to hide it, but you see the hopeless spread of it across his face. There’s something so tender and vulnerable in his eyes that you get stung by a pang in your chest. Your heart aches for the people sitting at the table with you. Claire for carrying the loss of your parents and Six for whose closest hint of a familial tie is his boss. You get pulled out of your spiraling thoughts by Claire yawning. 

"You should go to bed." His voice is soft.

You haul yourself to your feet, exhausting hanging on you like a blanket. You whisk Claire’s empty bowl away and gently touch her shoulder. “C’mon, you heard the man.” 

She grumbles a little and stands up with you. You’re about to guide her to her bedroom but she pauses and turns. “‘Night, Robot.”

“Goodnight, Claire.” He sounds exasperated with an undercurrent of amusement.

He doesn’t look away from the screen as you and your younger sister retire for the night. You fall into bed, wrung out from the hospital trip. It’s not until you’re firmly under the covers and settled into bed that you realize you’re still wearing Six’s watch. You stare at it, warring with yourself on if you should scrape yourself off of the mattress to go give it to the bodyguard keeping vigil at the table or to just set it aside to give to him in the morning. You do neither of those things. You fall asleep watching the silver metal reflect the moonlight peering through the shivering curtains. You do not dream of your past captors and their leering smiles that night. Instead, you dream of a comforting hand on your wrist, the gentle hum of a deep voice. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

The three of you settle back into routine following Claire’s hospital visit, but things have shifted slightly following that night. You gave Six his watch back the following morning before your sister got out of bed and before her nurse arrived for the day. He took it from your hesitantly offered hand. His thick fingers gently brushed your palm as he lifted the piece from it. Your wrist has felt desolate, too light ever since you took it off. You try to ignore it all, try to regain the distance you had before. You don’t succeed. Something about Uncle Fitz’s hired man keeps eroding the walls built from mistrust and agony. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You snap awake, soaked through with rapidly cooling sweat. You’re certain you didn’t scream out. Your throat isn’t sore, but your face is wet, moisture clinging to your lashes. You must have been silently sobbing through your nightmare. You uncurl yourself from your tensed position and drag yourself out of bed. You walk through the darkened hallway to the kitchen. You make sure to roughly trail your hand along the wall and clear your throat. It won’t do anyone any favors to startle Six. 

You get your glass of water and make your way into the main sprawl of rooms. The bodyguard is sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open, as he is most nights. You pull out a chair and sit down with your glass. You look at it hollowly, trying to ignore the lingering terror from your nightmares. You can't but notice Six’s eyes flickering over to you now and again. There’s a concerned crease between his eyebrows.

“Rough night?”

“The usual. As Claire says, it’s just another Thursday.” Your voice comes out more bitter than you intend. You tighten your grip on your cup until it feels like it might shatter in your hand. You force yourself to loosen your clenched fingers. 

The man seated at the table with you gives an acknowledging hum, sedately chewing his gum. He doesn’t press, doesn’t try to force any explanations out of you. You relax a little in your seat. Having another human being awake and nearby is a comfort. You rest your cheek on your hand and observe him. He looks tired. The light coming from the screen serves only to highlight the weariness weighing down his face and stooping his usually rigid shoulders. Looking at him like this reminds you of the night you watched this man and your sister interact after he drove you both home from Mount St. Mary’s. 

“She’s happier with you around, you know.”

There's such a long silence following your unprompted comment that you don't think he'll respond but he finally does. "She's a good kid."

"Yeah. Yeah she is." You don’t think you could have clung to life in the wake of the incident without her there to be strong for. Most weeks, she was the only reason you bothered to try to function.

You drain the rest of your glass and stand up. The ice clinks. You dump it in the sink and put the cup in the top rack of the dishwasher. You felt wrung out enough to attempt sleep again. You pause in the doorway and look back at the man at the table. "Six."

He looks up, eyebrow raised. His lips are slightly parted. 

"'Night."

"Goodnight." You can’t decipher his tone.

Your nightmares don’t return that night. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

About a month later, you’re screaming and thrashing in your bed. You’re choking under your captor’s hands, the sensation of soaked cloth over your face. You feel the pressure of those cruel fingers on your throat, over your mouth. Water moistening every ragged inhale. You can’t breathe.

Six’s response is all but instantaneous from the moment he hears your first scream. He pushes your door open, one hand on the knob and the other wrapped around his drawn gun. He’s sweeping his eyes across the dark room, There’s no attacker to find, there’s only you writhing on your bed, plagued by your own mind. He holsters his weapon and goes to your side. He tries calling your name, but there’s no acknowledgement, only your panicked wheezing. He puts one knee on the mattress for stability and grabs your upper arms. He tries to shake you awake. That gets a reaction. You start fighting him. Your hands claw and hit at him. He ignores it and repeats your name, asking you to wake up with an edge of desperation to his voice. He’s wildly unprepared for this. A physical enemy he can handle, but this…

You come out of it, going limp in his hold. Your chest is heaving. You blink away the lingering horrors of your dream and look up at him, horrified. For a split second your panic flares anew until you focus on his face. You remind yourself that you know this man, that you trust him with your sister’s life. He releases his grip on you and leans to turn on your bedside lamp. You wince against the explosion of light before bolting upright to reach towards his face. He’s scratched and you wonder if he’s going to be sporting a black eye. He lets your fingertips rest on his cheek for a heartbeat, something unreadable in his eyes before he’s withdrawing his knee from the mattress and standing at the side of your bed. He’s the picture of composure.

“I’m so sorry.” Guilt is suffocating you almost as much as the man in your nightmare. 

"You don't need to apologize. I should. I wasn't briefed about how to handle it." He sounds genuinely sorry, a touch of distress bleeding into his tone. It twists the knife of guilt deeper. You feel your eyes start to well. 

"No, no it's not your fault.. I don't want to be like this, I'm sorry." The tears spill over. You turn your face away and scrub your hands over your cheeks.

He hesitates and sits down on the bed next to you. There's a yawning span of distance between the two of you. There's not a hint of anger or frustration coming from him, not even pity. just.... sorrow. Understanding.

"Fitz briefed me on your history." It's blunt. matter of fact.

"Then you know about the...." You hesitate. 

"Yeah.” He answers before continuing. “Does he know how bad it gets?"

"No… I never told him all the details. I didn't want to burden him. He's got enough to worry about." You shrink into yourself. Your eyes focused on the items cluttering your nightstand.

"Your wellbeing isn't a burden." There it is. There’s a taste of the anger you’d been waiting for in his tone. You squeeze your eyes shut.

"I'm the stable one, Six. I can't let everyone down again ." You laugh a little, self-deprecating. You press your palms against your eyes. Baring down until stars explode behind your closed eyelids. 

He hums, and you feel the shift of the mattress as he stands up. You think he’s leaving, disgusted with you and your emotions, but the heat of his presence doesn’t go away. The warmth of him bleeds through your sleep clothes. You can feel him looking down at you. You nearly jump out of your skin when he nudges your arm. You look up at him, startled. He quirks an eyebrow.

“Come on.” He says, offering his hand to you. You take it. He easily guides you up onto shaky legs.

He has you follow him down the hallway and to the dining table. A path as familiar as an old friend by now. He motions for you to sit at the table, and you mutely follow his direction. You hear him move around in the kitchen. He returns with a bowl of ice cream and a full glass of water. He sits both in front of you.

"I have it on expert authority that this should help. All the smartest people I know support it." He's so serious sounding. You look at him flatly. He holds his grave expression for a beat before he winks. You crack a teary smile and lay into the ice cream like it personally insulted you.

He settles into a chair across from you while you eat. He occasionally glances over at the open laptop’s screen to check the security footage, but his main focus is on you. You feel a little self conscious under his gaze. You scour your mind for something to say, anything to lessen the intensity he’s directing towards you.

"Do you ever sleep? Like… go to bed sleep?" The question comes out of nowhere. a flash of surprise crosses his face. You'd seen him cross his arms in his chair and tip his head back. Caught him leaning  against the wall, hands in his pockets, hip cocked for stability. But the thought of him actually dressing down into pajamas and tucking himself under the blankets  seems.... implausible. too soft for this man who is alert and buttoned up into his crisp slacks and fitted shirts no matter the hour of the day. You half supposed he showered in the damn things.

"Not as often as I should. I don't sleep easy either." The honesty surprises you. 

"Why?" It's probing but you're too exhausted and raw to care.

"Too many memories. My line of work isn't exactly conducive to pleasant dreams." You wonder if he would have been willing to be so open this entire time or if something changed between the two of you. When would it have changed? Were the moments you found significant also important to him? Was he starting to crave your company in the inexplicable way as you’ve begun to crave his?

You almost apologize to him for prying, but you stop yourself. You nod instead. You understand how it is to have a beast pacing the maze of your sleeping mind, pulling out the threads of your worst memories like entrails for you to witness over and over again. 

"I still think about it… About them." You admit. Your eyes skitter across the table like a frightened mouse, focusing on Six's watch face before darting away. You can’t tell the time from this distance. There is a pressure welling up in your throat. Something is clawing its way out into the open.

“Talk to me.” His request is firm, paving the way for your words. He takes his watch off, a mirror of the other night. It slips free of his arm in the same way, inky black revealed on the underside of his wrist, tendons shifting, the movements delicate. He sets the watch on the table in front of you. The metal links clatter on the polished wood surface. You glance up at his face, shadowed in the dim light. “For safekeeping.” He remarks.

You reach out and lift it from the worn surface, running your fingers over the band. The weight is soothing in your grasp. The seconds tick by and it feels as though your heart is trying to race them. You finally open your mouth and release your burden.

“Claire had her birthday party that day. It was the last good day we had with our parents. It was hard to keep the security straight since there were so many people in the house. I didn’t think anything was wrong when two men came up to me and introduced them as part of the security detail. I still didn’t think it was weird when they asked me to come with them. How could I have been so stupid ?” Your breath catches, anger palpable in your voice. Six twitches like he might reach out, but he stills and you continue.

“They got me out of the house. I wasn’t strong enough to fight them off when they put me in the back of the SUV. They… they kept me for days asking questions I didn’t know the answers to. They didn’t like that I didn’t know anything. They tried to be more persuasive… so I started making up things. I just wanted them to stop but they wouldn’t. The wrong answer or the right answer, it didn’t matter. They offered me in exchange for a ransom and eventually they pulled me out of the basement. My parents were there to do the handoff. The guys wouldn’t let anyone else do it. We made it about three miles down the highway before they caught up with us and shot out the front tires. I don’t think they expected anyone to live after we went through the guardrail, so they just.. drove off. Left. I don’t know how long I was in the car staring at my parents. Claire was too young to understand that I ruined her life. I’ve been waiting for her to realize what I did. She hasn’t yet but she will.”

“How did you ruin it?” Quiet, disbelieving.

“I got our parents killed. I shouldn’t have gone with those men. I should’ve known better.” You hear a noise like a wounded animal. A creature left for roadkill, great heaving breaths rattling in that damaged chest. It’s you, you realize dully, you’re the animal. There’s a large hand enveloping your wrist. It’s Six and he’s holding onto you. 

“How could you know?” He asks. You shake your head, a sob escapes you. You feel shame. Grief. Six’s hand squeezes almost tight enough to hurt. It grounds you, you can’t escape into your own mind. Not with that insistent pressure to stay . You feel the metal of his watch biting into the skin of your palm. It’s a good kind of ache.

“It wasn’t your fault. You trusted people you were meant to trust. Who could blame you for that?” he insists. His eyes are too soft, too kind.

“Uncle Fitz.” It slips out, involuntary. You would bite your own tongue off if it could take back the betrayal. You don’t dare to look at the man seated across from you. You had all but swung a bat at the person who he said was the closest thing he had to family. 

His hand withdraws from your arm, and for a moment you’re certain that he’s going to walk off and leave you sitting here by yourself. He doesn’t, he surprises you once again. He simply leans further over the table, capturing your hands with his before plucking his watch from your ironclad grasp. He lays it over your much smaller wrist. He handles you with so much gentleness it almost hurts. He secures the clasp and simply… holds your hands. He says your name and you look up 

“Your family loves you.” He states simply. He says it like it’s an indisputable fact. Like it’s something as true and honest as the rotation of the Earth. You nod mutely. You can’t argue, not when he says it with so much assurance. He gives your hands a final, comforting squeeze and stands up. He gathers up your dishes, bowl, spoon, and glass. The bodyguard makes a soothing gesture to stay seated when you make a motion to rise and help him. You listen to the domestic sounds of him running the sink and loading your used dishes into the dishwasher. Your eyes start to drift shut. There’s a weight off your lungs, your burden has been dispersed, even just for a little while.

There’s a soft touch to your shoulder. It’s Six and he wants you back in bed. You get to your feet and let him escort you to your bedroom door. You feel oddly nervous, fidgeting with your fingers and avoiding meeting the hired man’s eyes. It feels like the awkward end of a weird date where everyone was too uncomfortably honest.. No matter how delusional that sounds even to yourself.

“Goodnight.” he’s the one who breaks the silence first. You feel relieved. 

“‘Night, Six.” is your response as you put your hand on the doorknob and slip into the room, away from his unreadable gaze. When you fall asleep for the second time that night, you dream of steady hands marked with prison tattoos.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The morning dawns without preamble. It feels like you have barely laid your head on the pillow. You check the time on the watch hanging loosely around your wrist. Less than four hours have passed since your night terror and subsequent comforting via the household bodyguard. Your morning routine feels more laborious than usual. Every movement feels like crawling through tilled soil. 

You’re dressed for the day and walking into the kitchen when you hear your little sister badgering Six. 

“What happened to you, Robot?” she asks.

You pop your head around the corner to take a look at the man she’s addressing. You stop cold. It’s a mess. He’s a mess. The skin around his left eye is puffy and bruised. There's clear nail marks on his cheeks and down to his neck. Any exposed skin had taken the brunt of your panic. You can even see some redness through his facial hair. You feel sick, betrayed again by your body. Your own hands had tried to tear him apart. 

"Well..." he starts and shrugs his jacket off. He folds it and drapes it over the back of one of the chairs.

He's about to go on his outdoor rounds, which you and Claire have secretly dubbed ‘enrichment time’, and continue wearing a trail into the yard. If he’s feeling particularly comfortable, he might sneak a nap in one of the lawn chairs now that the sun is up. Provided that he’s sure the two of you are secure and can survive without him awake for an hour or so. 

"Your sister beat me in a fight. I'll have to hand in my championship belt." It's relaxed and easy. He gives you a conspiratorial wink when Claire rolls her eyes with a scoff.

You match his earnest tone with your own. "You should have seen it, I was about to get the folding chair and everything."

“Ooh-kay, I’ll just assume it was a weird sex thing,” she comments, turning back to her breakfast. “Looks like you already won his watch though. Congrats.” 

Silence follows. Claire smugly scrapes her spoon around in her bowl, capturing every last shred of cereal. There’s a self-satisfied smile on her face. Neither of you protest. Either you let it go and hope she loses interest in the bit, or you launch into a defense that will only get her to double down. No matter what, you’ll be the losers. 

Six pushes a heavy exhale through his nose and walks out of the room. You follow him right out the back door and onto the deck. The two of you stand there for a moment in companionable silence. It’s beautiful out here. The sun is a sedate creature in the sky. She's lazily casting her rays over the yard. The water in the pool is sparkling in it, lapping playfully at the concrete walls. Six’s shoulders are still tense in your field of view. He looks as though he’s holding himself up through sheer force of will.

“I’m sorry again about last night.” You say to his back.

“Please don’t be. Things happen.” He says with a sigh. You falter. He sounds as exhausted as you feel.  You don't want to push the issue. 

He gestures for you to sit in one of the deck chairs by the pool. You don’t, instead choosing to trail him as he does his rounds. He’s lit by the sun. You’re in his shadow. His hair looks like a field of golden wheat. You almost want to run your hands though it in order to feel the softness for yourself. You instead soothe the urge by toying with the band of his watch still loosely encircling your wrist. He looks back at you every once in a while, eyes dazzlingly blue in the bright sunlight. You had never noticed the angles of his face before, the curves of his nose with its distinctive bump, the set of his cheekbones, how his facial hair is darker than the hair on his head. You hate that you're noticing these details now. After the events of last night, any tentative bond feels tainted.

The morning grows warmer as you drift behind him like a ghost. Eventually he rolls his sleeves up to reveal his forearms. You start to understand why people in bygone eras got so flustered at the sight of a lady's ankle. His wrists are bodice ripping enough, you suppose, but the space from his fingertips to the crook of his elbow? That is home to so much previously unseen skin. Had he been rolling up his sleeves every morning? If you had simply looked out one of the windows, would you have seen the sight that you’re witnessing now?  Would you have seen the distinct veins trailing up the insides of his muscular arms? What about the tattoos whose mere existence beg to have a finger trace along his skin? You avert your eyes, not wanting him to notice you staring. You tell yourself that it’s just the novelty of it all, that the surprise at seeing him less buttoned up will wear off.

With the rounds done, the two of you are back at your starting point. The bodyguard settles onto one of the deck chairs. He lets out a borderline obscene groan as he lets his body relax against the wood. His eyes flutter closed. He shifts slightly, another noise escapes his throat as he does. You make your way to the chair next to him on shaky legs, and drop into it. He doesn’t stir. You debate on standing up, you don’t, the thought of leaving his side makes you anxious. You make yourself comfortable in your seat. 

Through the open window, you can hear Claire’s record player. You hear the notes of Feel the Warm. She’s playing Mark Lindsay again. You let it wash over you. The sunlight is dappled across this part of the patio. You cast a glance over at your companion. His arms are crossed and he looks dead to the world. Your own eyelids are drooping, He’s the last thing you see before you drift off.

You wake up gradually, it’s an easy kind of waking. No wild jerk of consciousness, just the soft trickle of awareness. You’ve managed to curl on your side in the deck chair. You squirm upright and feel cloth slide down into your lap. It’s the hired man’s jacket. He must have gone back inside to get it. You touch it with hesitant fingers and look up, scanning for him. He’s currently out of sight, but you do see Claire in the hammock chair across the way. She’s engrossed in her phone and frantically tapping at the screen. You check the time on the watch in your possession before you catch a glimpse of Six coming up the patio steps from the lower yard. He’s got a sandwich in one hand and his own phone in the other. He’s intent on the device. He glances up and accidentally meets your eyes. He jumps slightly as if startled you’re awake. He recovers and gives you a nod.

“‘Morning.” His mouth is full. You know Claire will give him the tongue lashing of a lifetime if she notices.

"It's after twelve." You playfully retort, watching unimpressed as he fights to swallow the bread in his mouth. He’s really struggling for a second before he gets it down, his throat working roughly. You get to your feet, carefully folding his jacket over your arm. You approach him with it. 

"Good afternoon then." He says quietly. You swear you catch the ghost of a smile on his face as he looks at you. 

“Thanks for the blanket.” You say, offering it to him. He takes it with his unoccupied hand before shrugging it on, doing a quick change of hands with his lunch. 

You move to take off the watch and return that as well, but he stops you with a disapproving noise. “You’re keeping that safe for me, remember?”

You pause for a moment, mind racing wildly with the effort to make sense of his words. To find meaning in them. Your hand falls away from the metal and you surrender with a mute nod. If he wanted you to keep it for him for a while longer, who were you to protest? It’s a strange kind of comfort to have it. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

Things come to another disastrous head some weeks later. It happens after the nurse sees Claire tucked into bed before heading home for the evening. It happens after you give your sister your own goodnight wishes. You had gently brushed her hair from her face and gave her a kiss on the forehead even if she scrunches her face in mock disgust each time you do. There’s no telling which moment between the two of you will be the last. You hadn’t had the luxury of knowing that your mom’s wet pleas for help would be the last gift from her in that twisted hunk of metal. You wanted your little sister to have a happy memory of you if a goodnight ever turned into a goodbye. Less nightmares that way.

You had stood up from your seat on the edge of the bed, made sure to smooth her blanket out. “Sweet dreams, Claire.” you said before you extinguished the slow glow cast by the lamp on her nightstand. 

“‘Night,” she had said to you before yelling. “‘Night, Robot!” in the direction of the door. 

You heard a weary sounding response from the ‘robot’ in question. Six was hovering in the hallway, patiently waiting to escort you to your bedroom door. He’s been diligent in performing the action every single night without fail since your impromptu wrestling session with him. He also hasn’t let you return his watch to him yet. You closed the bedroom door behind you, stepped into the hall and nearly brushed against the tall man. He moved back only enough to give you the barest clearance to get past him so he could trail after you for the scant few steps to your own door. It seems lately that he’s been standing closer to you. It also seems like his eyes have been lingering more on your face than the surveillance feeds at night when you emerge from your room, wide eyed and shaken from whatever terror that had gripped you. Your exchanged goodnights haven’t been anything out of the ordinary though, even if his voice was lower… more intimate than it used to be.

The bubble officially bursts for you when you abruptly jerk awake. You assume it was a nightmare you can’t remember, though you don’t feel any of the usual symptoms. There’s no tremors or wild breathing. You’re just… awake. You think about laying in bed and trying to drift off, but there’s a sense of unease you can’t shake. You make up your mind and shuffle over to the door. Like any other night, you turn the knob and walk out into the hall.

Like a snare snatching a rabbit, rough hands seize you. Your mouth is covered, fingers digging in harshly. And with a sudden drop of your stomach, you register the sensation of a gun pressing into your side. The metal’s coldness burrows though the thin layer of your sleep shirt. You’re frozen in shock, mind racing. Where's Six? Where's the bodyguard uncle Fitz had hired? He was supposed to protect you and your sister. Keep you safe. Why wasn't he doing his job? Why was this man in the house? 

Tears start running down your face without your permission. Your sobs are broken off against the inside of your mouth. They can’t escape the crushing pressure. A scream you can’t release is building in your throat. What if this man did something to Claire?

The gun digs in deeper, grinding against your ribs. He drags you down the hall and into the living room. It’s dark and you flinch as you feel something sharp dig into one of your feet. You whimper. The floor is littered with broken glass. The sound of it shattering must have been what woke you up. 

“Shut up.” the man holding you hisses, giving you a tooth rattling shake while he leans over your shoulder to see where he’s steering you. His breath is sour. “Where is he?”  He must mean Six. 

The bodyguard must still be able to present a problem if this man is asking about him. You’re not completely alone in this. It’s enough to sharpen your mind. To direct your focus. Your eyes are straining to make out anything in the darkness. It’s a mess of shapes that are so familiar in the daylight, but they look like strangers in the darkness. You manage to recognize the coffee table before the attacker does and you pull your leg out of the way. He slams into it and stumbles. He curses loudly through the pain of hitting his shin on the corner. You see your opportunity and savagely bite the hand covering your mouth. The saltiness of blood washes over your tongue but you bury your teeth in deeper. The tendons and nerves give way beneath your teeth. You go until you hit bone and hang on. Even if you don’t make out of this alive, you’re going to make damn sure this fucker doesn’t get to keep full use of his fingers.

He’s groaning, blinded by the shock of pain. You dare to release your hold on him in order to slam the back of your head into his face as hard as you can, throwing yourself into a backwards jump to do so. He lets out a wounded noise and clutches his face. He’s completely let go of you to do so. The gun is on the floor now, dropped in the surprise of your retaliation. You skate awkwardly on the glass as you make a run for it. The floor feels wet under your feet as you sprint for the hall. You’re leaving a trail of bloody footprints in your wake. The scream you’ve felt building weakly escapes. It’s a too quiet utterance of Six’s name. You can’t find the ability to yell as loud as you need to. You’re nearly sightless from a lack of light and terrified tears. You’re battering against the walls and furniture like a moth around a lightbulb. You make it halfway down the hall to Claire’s bedroom when you feel it. A brush of the assailant’s hand against your back. He shouts when he misses you, and you jitter to the side, making contact with the wall right as he slams into the floor. You put your back to it and look down, eyes wide enough in terror to make out the shapes of two struggling men. 

Six is on top of the man who had grabbed you. His silhouette is identifiable even in the murky dark. Relief turns your legs into jelly. He’s come for you after all. You allow yourself to go limp and slide down the wall, curling up on the floor. You squeeze your eyes closed so you don’t have to put a visual to the violence you’re hearing. It’s wet, crunchy. Eventually you only hear the heaving breathing of one man. You don’t know how long you sit there shaking. 

You’re coaxed into opening your eyes by Six’s voice saying your name. Your bedroom door is ajar and the light is on, illuminating the hallway enough to comfortably see, but not enough to where you can’t pretend the dark smears and streaks are shadows. The attacker isn’t in the hall any more. Six is kneeling in front of you. He’s got a cut on his cheek but otherwise looks unharmed.

“Are you with me?” It’s said with aching concern.

"Yeah… Yeah I'm here." You’re all too aware of your stinging feet, the ache of your muscles, the pain in the back of your head. 

Relief floods his face at your words. He reaches out but stops himself before making contact with you. You notice that his knuckles are split open and already bruising. His hand hovers in the space between your bodies, trembling slightly like he can’t bear to touch you but withdrawing is equally torturous. You rock onto your knees and shove yourself into his arms instead. They’re instantly around you. He holds you to himself. It’s all you can do to cling to him in kind. If you could nestle alongside the lungs in his chest, you would make a home in his rib cage. 

"You did well. I'm sorry I wasn't able to keep him from you. His pals kept me busy." His voice is full of bitter frustration. 

You shake your head and speak against his collarbone. “Is Claire okay?”

"She slept right through it. She's still asleep. I just checked on her." He soothes, running a hand up and down your back.

“Good…” you respond, unspeakably thankful. You could cry.

“Do I have your permission to pick you and take you to your bed? I don’t want you walking with your feet like this.” 

“Yeah, but I’m too heavy?” You’re surprised and uncertain. Sure, he had slammed around a grown man like a rag doll, but what if….

“Believe me, you’re not.” He sounds almost amused.

He eases you up onto your knees and over his lap. He encourages you to put your arms over his shoulders. It’s startlingly intimate. You can easily see the fine lines around his eyes at this distance. His breath is warm and against your face, smelling faintly of the watermelon gum he chews. You have just a second to try and process it before he’s gaining a foothold. He stabilizes you with one thick arm under your thighs and his hand on your back. You reflexively gasp and clench the back of his jacket in your hands. Each of his steps is steady. There’s no sign of strain even as he navigates your bedroom doorway. He carefully lowers you to the edge of your mattress and withdraws his arm. Your thighs release their death grip against his hips and you settle into place, feet off the ground. You avoid looking at his face, you know yours feels like it’s on fire. 

You notice that he had already moved your trashcan to your bedside and collected the first aid kit and a roll of paper towels. He must have known you’d cooperate with him. He drags your desk chair over and takes a seat. He pats his thigh encouragingly, and you place your heel right above his knee. He steadies you with a firm hand around your ankle. He removes the shards of glass. He doesn't let you jerk away, not with the grip he has on you, even when the tweezers catch on a particularly deep piece. He works in silence and you eventually allow yourself to lay flat on the bed while he does his task. You don't ask what happened to the man in the hallway. You don't ask how Six got detained in the first place. He doesn’t volunteer the information. The time passes and you’re halfway asleep by the time he’s tying off the wrap securing the bandages on your other foot and carefully easing your leg back down from its elevated position on his thigh. 

"Please stay." You ask the ceiling. You feel more than see Six freeze in response to your question.

“I shouldn’t.” He sounds conflicted. You prop yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at him.

“Do you not want to?”

“It’s not that. It’s anything but that.”

You bite your lip and decide to throw all your cards on the table. “I sleep better when I'm around you. You keep the nightmares away.”

He looks surprised, devastated even. His demeanor couldn’t have been any different than if you had asked him to bare his neck and slit his own throat. Resigned, but he would still pick up the knife for you.

"Give me a minute," is his response. 

He gathers up the supplies and turns off the light on his way out of the room, plunging you into the familiar dark of your room. You're not sure what exactly he does while he’s away, but he comes back sans jacket and with his sleeves rolled up. He carries the acidic tang of cleaning chemicals. He settles back into your chair after tossing the laptop on the desk. The two of you watch each other for a moment 

"Are you okay?"

"Emotionally? I've been better. Physically? I'm fine. Just a few scratches and a bruised ego. " He's soft. You nod, reassured.  

You keep your eyes on his face. It’s lit by the soft glow of the screen. It’s become an unhealthy habit, observing this man. You drift off to sleep facing in his direction. He's there when you wake up. He's clearly gotten up at some point to shower, but he did come back to resume his sentence at your side. You greet each other and he excuses himself back to the common areas of the home.

───※ ·❆· ※───

It becomes a thing, you spending time in his presence outside of what follows your nightmares. Something changed in you after the attack. It has culminated in a strong desire to be near him, to be within the frame of his reassuring gaze. Most of the time but not always, you go with him on his surveillance rounds. You walk with him through the yard. It always feels a little like you’re two society members having a chaperoned walk, but it’s soothing. Routine. You’ve also begun sitting with him in the hours before bed. At the table or on the couch while he watches the TV. The two of you simply exist together. 

You rarely return to your room most nights, choosing instead to make your bed in the living room. If you lay just right on the couch, you can spot the bodyguard keeping watch throughout the night. His presence in the room eases your mind enough to allow you to peacefully sleep. You wish that he hasn’t become so essential. You don’t want to think about what your uncle’s return will mean.

He accepts your new routine without question. You notice that he always has the throw pillow moved from the armchair to the couch on the nights you don’t tell him you’re going to bed. There’s no blanket in the living room, but you usually wake up with his jacket of the day draped over you in lieu of one. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

One night, you and Claire manage to bully him into a game of monopoly after the nurse leaves. You’ve been made the banker because Six doesn’t trust your sister and she doesn’t trust him enough either. 

“You just landed on my boardwalk. That’s fourteen hundred bucks.” Claire announces.

Six takes his hand off the game piece and gives her a look . “I thought you owned the brown properties, not the blue ones.” 

She picks up the deeds for Boardwalk and Park Place and waves them pointedly in his direction. “Nope, fourteen hundred. Fork it over.”

Six lets out a genuinely flustered growl. You have to smother your laugh. He counts out the remainder of his money and tosses it in front of your sister. He’s woefully short and out of assets. You and Claire had run him ragged the course of the game until she managed to bankrupt you with some suspiciously underhand tactics. Looks like she got to Six as well. 

“I’m out.” He says, resigned. 

Claire stretches her arms over her head and lets out a satisfied sigh. She then slumps back into her chair in smug victory as the bodyguard extracts himself from his seat at the table to do his nightly check of the doors and windows. She leans over and taps the watch on your wrist. 

“He hasn’t won this back yet?”

“Oh… uh. No.” Your answer sounds flustered, even to you. 

Your little sister raises her eyebrows. There’s a mischievous gleam in her eyes and she opens her mouth to say something before pausing. She instead gets up and gives you a squeeze around the shoulders. You return it with a one armed hug. “‘Night, sis.” 

“‘Night. I’ll see you in the morning.” You return affectionately, letting her go. 

“‘Night, Robot!” She cheerily shouts. There’s a responding grumble from the direction of the garage. Claire flashes you a grin and a thumbs up. 

She’s in her room by the time Six finishes his checks. You’re in the middle of putting up the game when you feel the weight of his eyes on you. It’s just the two of you alone.  He sits back down at the table to help you with it. He’s like a fire against your left side. You’re surprised he didn’t sit in his usual spot at the head of the table.

He lets out a yawn that he can’t suppress. He’s more undone tonight than you’ve seen him yet. He’s wearing a t-shirt tucked into slacks today. No blazer. His hair is tousled, not smoothed into place with product like usual. You think he looks more approachable like this. Your hands touch when you both go to scrape the same pile of deeds off the table. You both freeze. You hear your heart pounding in your ears and with it muffling every other sound, you trail your fingers over the top of his. He shudders when you brush over his knuckles and skim over the dots tattooed into the meat of his thumb. He doesn’t move, staying perfectly still for your exploration. You reach the horse on his forearm and you think his breath hitches in response. You linger on the horse, using your pointer finger to trace its outline. You follow the swoop of its tail, down the outstretched hind leg. 

A soft groan from the man you’re touching makes you remember yourself. You withdraw your hand like you’ve been burnt. He twitches and jerks his own hand towards you like he’s about to reach out and stop you, but he doesn’t. You can still feel the sensation of his skin under your fingertips even as you glue your eyes to the remaining monopoly money and sort it into the tray with unsteady hands. You finish putting up the game in silence. You sleep in your own bed that night. He escorted you to your room. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You wake up weeping the next night. You lay on the couch staring at the living room ceiling while tears involuntarily run down the sides of your face. The imprint of spider webbing glass still swirling around in your mind. You must have made some kind of noise, because Six is making his way across the room. 

You sit up and take a swipe at your face. “I’m sorry.”

"You have to let it out somehow. May I?” He asks, gesturing to the space next at your side. You nod and scoot over to give him slightly more space.

He puts the ever present laptop with its surveillance feed on the coffee table before sitting down. You feel your cushion dip. Against your better judgment, you lean against him. He’s solid. He relaxes underneath the pressure of your body. You instantly feel better. You watch the cameras with him for a while, sighing along with him as the local monkeys throw the lid off the trashcan at the curb in search of a meal. You’ll have to clean up after them after the sun rises. It’s one of the downsides to living in Hong Kong. 

You stay leaning against him for a while, but a stiffness in your neck gets you to change position. Moving slowly so he’s fully aware of your movements, you carefully lay down. He’s taken the place of your improvised throw pillow cushion. Your head is resting on his thigh. He puts his hand on your upper arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He leaves it resting there, heavy and warm. 

You wake up a few hours later. The sun is cascading through the living room, throwing rainbow hues on the floor thanks to the decorative glassware. You’re comfortable, too comfortable you realize. Your eyes widen in horrified surprise. You’re still using the bodyguard as a pillow. He's shifted slightly through the night, more slumped and relaxed. He's slid down further, and your face is firmly pressed against his hip now instead of his thigh. You know that you’re going to have the imprint of one of his belt loops on your cheek. His arm is loosely draped over you with his hand tucked underneath your side, a bastardized attempt at spooning. You crane your neck to catch a glimpse of his face. He’s sound asleep. 

You try to sit up without disturbing him, but his arm tightens around you and applies pressure. You’re locked into place. Your mind races. If the nurse or, worse, Claire comes into the room and sees you and Six like this… You have to get up. You put a hand on his thigh and use it as a support to push yourself up. He’s instantly awake from the overt movement. He lifts his arm off your body and lets you sit up. You turn to say something, but find him already staring. His blue eyes are focused on you, they’re sleepy and confused but quickly sharpen to alertness. He looks vaguely distressed. All you can do is offer him a smile and squeeze his leg. You stand up and he follows. Your day goes as usual.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Your nights are largely the same, except that Six seems more distant. He doesn't linger as closely or as comfortably as he did before. Your interactions with the man are more professional. It’s as though weeks, months , of getting to know each other have been erased and you’re back at the beginning. Strangers again. It hurts. You miss him like hell even though he’s right there. Your sleep is worse. It’s almost as bad as in the weeks following the incident that started them in the first place, but they’re different. Amongst the disjointed scenes, there’s a broad shouldered man with dirty blond hair walking away from you in your nightmares now. You scream for him but no sound ever escapes you, just noiseless air. You never see his face. 

You finally have enough when he escorts you to your room one night. You haven’t slept on the couch for over a week, and he’s taken that as his cue to resume seeing you to your bedroom door. You turn to face him as always in the doorway. Instead of saying goodnight like you do every night, you confront him. It even catches you by surprise.

"You're avoiding me.” He doesn’t deny it and you think that hurts more than the newfound distance itself. 

“Why?” You ask only to get more silence. He won’t look at you. 

”What did I do wrong?” Your voice trembles and you hate it. You fumble to take off his watch, to return that final tie between the two of you. He reflexively clamps down on your wrist before you can undo the clasp, pinning your hand to your own wrist. He releases his near crushing grip almost immediately, but the ghost of it lingers. Point taken. You let your arms fall to your side in a clear display of frustration, willing him to talk.

“It wasn’t you. I  overstepped. Your uncle hired me to do a job and I've stepped beyond my purview. " The confession is rough. Torn out of him. The corner of his mouth pulls down in a grimace.

You stare at him blankly. "What?"

"I allowed myself to be too close with you. I apologize. I was unprofessional." He explains, but he won't quite meet your eyes. He hasn't for a while. Not since the morning following the night you fell asleep on him.

"You were... unprofessional?” You question, absolutely lost.

"Yes. I let my feelings about you affect me and my work.. I’ve become… compromised." It's matter of fact. It’s said like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on you.

You reach out and grab his jacket lapels. He looks at you like a beaten dog might, as though you might strike him. He makes no motion to pull himself from your grasp. You swallow hard and let out a breath.

"What about my feelings for you?" You ask. His breath catches and he shakes his head, disbelieving. 

“It would be better if you didn’t feel anything for me.” There’s heartbreak in his blue eyes even as he looks at you like there’s nothing else in the world he would rather be seeing. 

“Better for who?” Your mouth is unbearably dry as you ask the question.

“You. I’ll only jeopardize you.”

”Six…” 

You pull him down and you press your mouth against his. He's rigid and unmoving for a moment before he's kissing you like a dying man who has just been offered immortality. His hands come to rest on your back. He grips your clothing like it’s a lifeline keeping him from going under. You gently nip at his bottom lip and he gasps against your mouth, a broken little noise. He tastes like watermelon gum.

 You pull away. “Jeopardize me then.

That forces a quietly helpless laugh from him. "Now that was unprofessional." His voice is hoarse.

"I had to give you a proper example." 

"Good job. I feel exampled.”

" Good ." You say and kiss him again. He's ready for it this time. He keeps it slow. His hands gently trace your body. He's slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth against your side. You step back, walking him into your room. His breathing is ragged and he's gripping you with a desperation you can’t put your mind around. You stand there, intertwined in each other. His facial hair is rough against your skin but the burn feels good. Your hands make their way around his neck and you gently card your fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He makes a wounded sounding noise in response before he pulls away. His hand is cradling the side of your face to keep you in place while his eyes roam across your face. It's as though he’smemorizing you, imprinting the fine details of this moment into his mind. As though he’s preparing to say goodbye. He trails his fingers gently down your jaw before he lets his hand drop.

"Will you stay? Can we sleep?" You ask before he can make up a way to excuse himself.

There’s a dizzying moment of silence before his face softens. “Okay. Yeah.”

The two of you are left to navigate the awkwardness of getting ready for bed. You spin your finger around in a circle and Six immediately gets the idea. He puts his back to you while you change into your sleepwear as quickly as you can. You turn around after giving him the verbal ‘all good’ in time to see him pull off his jacket and toss it onto the desk chair he had occupied when you first realized how addicted you were becoming to him. He pulls his belt off, coils it around his hand before setting it aside. You watch him unbutton his dress shirt. His fingers work deftly to slip the buttons through the holes. He shrugs the shirt off and lays it over the jacket. He’s in his undershirt and slacks. He bends down to untie his shoes and sets them aside. He straightens up and there’s nervousness on his face. You’ve never seen him nervous before. Worried? Yes, but not nervous. 

You slide into the bed and fold down the other side of the blanket for him. You gesture for him to come lay down beside you. He approaches warily and settles in stiffly at your side. His head is on the pillow, hands overlapping on his stomach. He looks like a body in a coffin. You gently touch his hands. He jolts.

“Are you okay?” You ask softly, letting your hand rest on top of his.

“I haven’t slept in the same bed as someone since I was a child,” he admits.

“Oh… and that was…?”

“Over twenty-five years ago.”

You allow yourself a moment to grieve for this man before you pull away to shut off the bedside lamp.. You roll onto your back and flop your arms to the side. “Come here then. I’ve used you as a pillow. It’s time for me to return the favor.”

You feel the mattress shift under his weight and he hesitates, hovering over you with arms braced on either side of your body. It’s intimate, having him over you in this way. It’s enough to make you want to kiss him again.You hear him draw breath to raise some kind of concern so you just wrap your arms around him and pull him down on top of you. The weight of him pins you into the mattress. It’s comforting. He’s heavy and warm, akin to a weighted blanket. Granted, a weighted blanket wouldn’t have a muscular thigh wedged between your legs or be breathing against your neck in a way that makes you want to shiver. You fight to ignore your body’s response to him and work on easing the tension that’s holding him rigid against you. 

He gradually relaxes as you trace your hands over his back. You feel more than hear him groan when you pass over a particularly sensitive spot. The rumble feels almost like a purr against your chest. You narrow in on that location, working your fingers into the tight muscle. He allows himself to go limp on top of you, no longer stiffly trying to spare you the brunt of his mass. You run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp as a reward for letting himself relax. It earns you a low moan and an involuntary shift of his hips. You’ll have to keep that reaction in mind for later. 

Six’s breathing soon evens out. Years of exhaustion and sleep deprivation have him rapidly sinking into the oblivion of sleep when offered such a precious comfort. You fall asleep with your hand still in his hair. You have the most peaceful rest of your adult life. There’s no night terrors, no pain, no fear, no longing, you just sleep .

The bodyguard is still asleep on top of you when you wake. His breath is whistling slightly through his nose. Not quite a snore, but it’s a sound that gets a fond smile out of you. You wish you could wake up like this every morning. Just this once has given you an insatiable longing for more. You bite the inside of your cheek at the thought of the future. Uncle Fitz is due to return from his trip soon, which means the dismissal of Six from the Fitzroy home to complete whatever assignment is next on his task board. You don’t figure him for the abandoning type though. That way of thinking about him doesn’t fit in with the loyalty and thoughtfulness you’ve seen him exercise in his time spent with you and your sister. You’re sure that he’ll find a way to stay in contact after this job ends. 

You gently smooth down his hair. He shifts and buries his face against the hollow of your throat more firmly. You pause, hoping you didn’t wake him, but then you hear a sleep roughened voice say, “Don’t stop on my account.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XXX. “gut feeling”

parts: previous / next

plot: in an untoward evening, Bruce gets protective.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, violence, drugging, aggression, description of injury, angst, nausea/vomit, basically Gotham being Gotham

words: 6.7k

a/n: oooowieeee Bruce is really starting to show his more flustered side 🤭

PHOTOS: EMT Says Bruce Wayne “Lucky to be Alive" After Harrowing Crash on Tower Grounds

You'd been walking the sidewalk just before Rai's when you got the news alert. Even with his warning, one that left you for a few seconds when first staring at the phone, it was like being pummeled by a brick. Tethered to your screen, flipping through the photos TMZ posted like they were scripture. After a few heavy exhales, you gathered yourself enough to walk inside. The familiar 'Welcome in!' before a double-take. "Y/N? What are you doing here? You said you left?"

In all honesty you'd forgotten about your last conversation, the last moments before tragedy, and hadn't prepared for what you'd say to people outside of what you were to tell Mar. You did your best to laugh it off, but he wasn't taking it. He walked around the register and stood in front of you, right by the Oreos. "Always been able to read you, friend. Tell me, what's on your mind?"

Ding! The door opened to a cluster of women and Rai gave you a playful finger wag. "Foiled this time."

You joined half of the pack as they perused the drink aisle, then the other that clustered by the deli. He was almost out of tabbouleh, and the second best thing in your opinion—baklava—was being thirsted after by the two people in front. You decided to get some pita and hummus to go.

Rai didn't have time to talk to you with the line of people behind you, and for a brief moment you thought about staying—but your bed was calling your name, so you kept it simple. "I decided to stay for a few more weeks, at the very least. I'll be back soon for more tabbouleh." You winked at him, smiled, and found yourself right back where you had rotted the past 36 hours.

Rai sent you a text about fifteen minutes later. Heard you're a big journalist now girl! How does it feel to be published?

The message stopped you in your tracks; it was the first time someone had mentioned the interview without also mentioning Bruce Wayne. It brought tears to your eyes. He was the first person truly interested in your experience with it, about how it was just a project, not the person, that was the cool part.

I'm staying a bit longer for the election. Especially with how much traction my interview got, I think I carved out some legitimacy for myself to maybe make a difference reporting on the mayoral campaign.

He must've gotten swamped because your next text from him wasn't until an hour later. Whatever keeps you near Gotham and tabbouleh makes me happy. Bouleh on me next visit.

It was a running joke how often you ordered it; it was almost a hyperfixation, the flavor of it orienting you to time and place whenever things got harried. You learned a few months after being here that you needed some routine and, well. That was yours. The glow of your iPad screen was also an ever-present friend:

SEARCH: Marian Grange

Google showed that Grange was the former district attorney, a big-time lawyer taking on some very high profile cases in her time. A handful of years ago she had made her way to Gotham—notably, with just enough years of residency to run for Mayor this calendar year. Since coming to the city, she hadn't taken on any more cases, submitting wholly to the pursuit of... socializing? She was often pictured with the elite, holding hands with a beaming smile, endlessly pictured throughout her public-facing Instagram going to various fundraisers and luncheons. Per her campaign website, she wanted to stop the 'targeting' of the city's rich. Out of the many filler words on her 'issues' page, that was the only information you could glean.

SEARCH: Sebastian Hady

Hady's 'issues' page was a bit more complex: in addition to his position of taxing the churches, he wanted to put out an immediate hit on the batman. He'd attempted to run for mayor in the past two elections, falling short of winning enough votes to make the final matchup, and it was clear why: his politics were inconsistent. Tax the churches, but don't tax the wealthy; increase taxes on the poor, so they could 'bootstrap' their way out of their 'unfortunate predicament'. As out of touch as Grange was, Hady made your stomach flip. He'd been a political science major, with no real experience due to being denied access to Gotham University's Public Administration graduate program. Outside of running incessant campaign ads on late-night television and blaring his oversaturated frame across the city streets, he'd mostly laid low.

SEARCH: Lincoln March

BRRT BRRT. BRRT BRRT. "Mar?"

"Have you seen the news? I didn't have any reception in the lounge."

Every time she went to the Iceberg Lounge you wanted to hold her by her collar and give her a desperate talking-to. You gripped the phone tighter. "It's dangerous, you know the type of shady shit that's gone down there the past few years?"

"So you haven't seen it." She slurped away on a drink. “Sour as hell.”

Ding! You pulled your phone away from your ear to see the TMZ article. Your gut cinched.

"It's all anyone's talking about. People are getting into massive arguments on Scypher about it, it's fucking crazy."

"Arguments?" You bit the inside of your cheek.

She scoffed on the other line. "You're joking, right? Some people are saying he was DOA and had to be revived!"

A lurching clump of bile hurtled into your mouth, forcing you to double over and squeeze your mouth shut. Everything about that sentence haunted you, from the almost incredulous way she delivered it to Gotham's colloquial use of shorthand when describing being killed. He might've been fucking dead? Fuck, fuck...

"Hello? Y/N? Hello?" She groaned. "You're acting weird. Haven't even told me why you're still in the city."

"Don't you think it's a heavy fucking thing to talk about like that? You can't throw around someone being, someone being fucking, dead!" You were more shrill than you meant to be, but you didn't exactly have the resources to control your tone while you clutched your stomach and held your breath, not wanting to taste the vomit you'd just swallowed.

"Shiiit, I thought you didn't like him." If she turns this into a conversation about dating...

"I already saw it earlier."

"Think it'll interfere with your interview?" The sound of background whistling and whooping created an unsettling soundscape.

"I really don't care if it does."

"Pretty rude of the guy, in my opinion. Stealing your thunder like that?"

She's drunk. She doesn't know any better. Hell, might even be wasted. Still, your hand shook with anger to the point you had to set the phone on your comforter and scoot back from it. You pressed your palms flat against your mouth to keep from screaming. Screaming what, you didn't know. You were beginning to understand what it was like for Bruce to talk to you as you struggled to speak through gritted teeth. "That's really disrespectful, Mar."

"I'm jooookingg!" She cackled and you heard a clatter. "Oh shit hahaha, my phone. Hello? Still there?"

Don't want to be. "Yeah. Do you need me to call you an Uber?"

"Nahh, this guy's taking me home."

"What about Gianna?" She always hung around Gianna; you'd only met her once when Mar got picked up, and only for about five seconds, but after a brief look over her socials (and an impressive LinkedIn) you were inclined to think she was a good influence. Gianna had to be with her.

"I haven't asked her to be exclusive yet, you know that." Her words were beginning to slur.

"Who's the guy?"

"Some dude I met at the bar, he's super fuckin' rad."

"I'm sending an Uber to your location. Come up to my apartment, we'll spend the night together." Did she always leave with someone when she didn't go out with you? You pictured her being preyed upon, studied in the pulsing lights of the club. It made you sick.

"Okay bossy. No." She giggled to herself. "His apartment is like half a mile north, he's walking me." She hung up. Jesus. You threw on your sneakers, grabbed a taser, and raced outside, scanning your apartment fob to access the free-use bike garage. Iceberg Lounge was about a fifteen minute walk south.

It was terrifying biking on the streets of Gotham. Half the street lamps didn't work, and the drivers were all fiendish assholes who drove like they wanted to smear bodies on the pavement. You'd almost thought yourself lost until you spotted a glint of her neon pink cami.

"Hey!" You tried not to sound too menacing; maybe this was a rare good guy in Gotham, and he was gonna tuck her in safely to his spare bed and make sure she had a nice, non-laced drink of water at her bedside. No fucking way. "Hey,"

"Y/N?" Mar looked shocked at your arrival.

You dismounted your bike and grabbed her hand. When you did, the man grabbed your forearm. You ignored him and spoke directly to her. “Let’s head back to my place.”

”Interrupting our date.” The man laughed, but it was indignant. He still wasn’t loosening his grip on your arm. Getting a closer look at Mar, she was disheveled; her straps were sliding off her arm, exposing the top of her bra; her belt was halfway undone, yet her lipstick was pristine.

“We have a rule to not go home with people when we’re drunk.” You flashed him a smile, his green eyes dark and menacing. Why do I always notice the eyes?

“Sounds like BS to me.” He tried to laugh again when he said it, which only pissed you off. He probably thought he was one of the ‘good guys’ and didn’t understand why no one ever called him for a second date. You snaked your left arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer to you. A quick once-over noted him wearing a thick leather jacket with white cuffs, and dark blue jeans with rips in the knees. His shoes were a nondescript pair of white Nikes. “You seem perfectly sober, interesting.” Mar was unsteady in your grasp, her weight leaning slightly too much into you, her knees wobbly. Did he fucking slip her something?

You swatted away his hand, which had a butterfly effect; he swiftly grabbed your ponytail, yanking on it so you were removed from between them. He grabbed her by the elbow as you stuttered back, tears springing into your eyes from the tension of having your hair yanked. He couldn’t quite walk as fast as he wanted to, her legs catching on every crack in the sidewalk. In this city that meant a long, treacherous walk anywhere, and an opportunity for you to strike.

You pulled out your taser and ran closer to him before slamming your finger on the trigger. A small catch of electricity came from the tip, then faltered. It’s not charged. Fuck. He turned toward the nearest apartment complex, and you lunged for his neck. He was tall, but not too tall, and there were a few steps he’d climbed to the doorway. You were able to wrap your palm around half of his neck, pulling him down hard on the concrete. Before he’d even smacked the ground you jumped down the stairs and slammed your foot into his balls, as hard as you could, your left foot skipping atop the concrete with the force as it struggled to balance. He cursed, spit flying out of his mouth as he clutched his groin. Mar was barely holding onto the siderails at this point, confirming she’d been slipped something. His legs thrashed wildly, his grunts filling the empty sidewalk. He caught your ankle and you fell back, smacking your head against the bottom stair. For a few seconds all you could do was breathe, the air knocked out of you and your vision blurry, stilted. He rose to his knees, and you scrambled back. By the grace of whatever God may or may not exist, you were able to get back on your feet before he did. The transition made you wildly dizzy, and before you knew it you fell to your knees again.

Mar was barfing off the edge of the railing, crying. You figured she had no idea what was going on, just knew that it was bad; the first and only time you’d been roofied was out with Mar one night. You’d tasted your drink and within a few minutes you were feeling woozy. Make it ten minutes later, and the room was a glowing haze of smoke and mirror—literally. You were seeing double everywhere you looked, locked in your own cage of whatever someone else did to you. Thankfully Mar had enough experience to notice the initial signs of being drugged (at least, in someone else) and had immediately called an Uber and notified the staff of the bar. She’d tended to you the rest of that night, and when you woke up her eyes were buggy and bloodshot. “I stayed up all night watching you. I didn’t want you to like, choke in your sleep or something.”

You attempted to raise your head, but it was pounding, whiting out your vision when you tried to support it with just your neck. You grabbed your phone and managed to open it to your phone app, but he smacked it away. You watched through bleary eyes as it soared into a bit of bark dust beneath some shrubs, landing face-down. All you saw was a gentle emanation of dark blue light. It called someone.

“HELP!” You shouted, hoping that whoever it was would hear you. Most of your contacts (you didn’t have too many) had access to your location information. You’d gotten scared after a few harrowing abduction stories in the Gazette and sent a mass text to the people in it with your info. Someone would call, and it would be fine. “CALL 911.”

Mar slumped to the ground and balanced her head against the railing, tears streaming down her cheeks. This part of town was deceptively barren, of course it was. The man grabbed you by the ankles and you screamed, jerking your legs until one broke free. “HELP!”

A part of you thought it would be okay—until you remembered Batman wasn’t on patrol tonight. Your heart sank as you watched him latch both hands onto your other ankle… and then he dropped you. He turned and walked halfway between the road and the apartment doors—why wasn’t anyone coming out to help?—and faced you, his mouth slobbery and in a slack grin. He shook out his body and flexed his fingers, taking a moment to hype himself up. You tried to sit up again, grinding your molars with the effort, but you nearly blacked out. The only thing that came to mind were the earthquake drills from elementary school, of hiding under your desk with your hands over your head to protect from falling debris. He was falling debris. Inevitable. You wrapped your hands around your aching head. Pressed your elbows together in front of your nose. Tucked your chin, barely, to protect your neck. He took off in a sprint for you, his sneakers connecting brutally with your thigh. You screamed, and he kicked it again. And again. And again. “See how you like it, fucking bitch.”

Mar screamed behind you; weak, but undeniable. “Stop it,” She stumbled toward you as his foot barreled into you with unbridled ferocity. She grabbed onto his arm and he shoved her off. She reached back out, her nails digging into his skin. He shouted and shoved her hard against the railing, turning his attention on her. She had enough bearings now to dodge a single hit, rolling out of the way before another landed square between her shoulders. You were busy incrementally lifting your head from the cement, centimeter by slow centimeter sitting upright. The man wiped the arm of his jacket against his mouth, muttering. “Bullshit fucking cunts.” He slammed his foot between her legs, and she yelped, rolling over onto her stomach. A wave of nausea stormed through you.

She was slowly rising, but he slammed his fists into her back and she buckled. Her face hit the pavement so hard you hoped her nose wasn’t broken. She started coughing, stringy spit dribbling off her lips. At this point he turned back to you with a sneer. “Guess I’m getting double tonight.”

Sick freak. The pain was edging out your fear, and resignation was teetering towards fruition. You only needed a few more minutes to get your bearings. Long enough to heat up a fucking hot pocket. He slapped you across the face, and you fell back to exactly where you were. Flat against the ground. Thundering head. Unable to sit up, arrested by searing pain.

The sound of skin slamming into skin disoriented you. Thudding, smacking sounds pierced the air, peppered with the man’s grunts and yelps. He sounded like a hit dog. What, the fuck? You shoved your palms against the ground to support your weight, but it wasn’t working. You physically grabbed your jaw and the back of your head and tilted it up, holding it there to watch the scene unfolding a few feet in front of you. A horrible hollow sound echoed just as the man was hurled against the opposite railing, his chest nearly touching his shin as his body bent around the metal. His opponent was adept at fighting; fully hooded with a black shirt wrapped around the bottom half of his face, a thick, baggy jacket bulking his frame, gauze wrapped around his knuckles. You couldn’t make out his full face, but the feeling you got told you all you needed. It wasn’t quite fear, not quite comfort, or peace, but an indisputable sensation of safety. You let your head fall back, too fast, as you sobbed cries of relief.

The mystery man kept trying to fight back, but not a single hit landed. You saw it all in the lower half of your vision. Saw the guy try, fight, and run, and the other stoop down to Mar and help her sit up. Once she was in a safe, neutral position he turned to you—Bruce’s eyes were framed with black, paint smearing down his cheekbones and into his brows. He took your arm and attempted to pull you up to the same position, but you squealed. “I hit my head,”

He sat back like he was calculating something for a moment before cupping his left hand at the base of your head. Holding you like an infant, he slowly tilted you upright. He held his hand just above your neck a few seconds longer. “Gonna let go.” Tentatively, he did, and you resisted your torso’s urge to flop back down.

A car pulled up right then, one you hadn’t seen before. It was flashy, but not a sportscar. He noticed your eyes follow it and lowered his voice. “It’s mine. I’ll take you both home.” He paused, gesturing with his head. “Do you know her?”

You tried to nod but you felt like your head would snap off your neck. “Yeah. My friend. I think, she was drugged.” The pulsing in your thigh was violent, and you worried you might have fractured something. He gave you a once-over, then looked back to her. “I’ll help her in first.”

Bruce tried to help her stand, but she shook her head. “Y/N,” she called out weakly, moving to her hands and knees to crawl toward you. She managed to make her way to your side, panting with the effort. “Who is, why,”

Shit. “Um, he’s my friend. I called him when, when the guy, shit,” Your head was in agony. You struggled to form coherent thoughts, let alone speech. How, clear is she? Recognize? Him? Disguise?

“I trust you.” Her voice no stronger than a whisper. She reached her arms out to him, and he walked over to help her up. He wrapped his arm around her back and to her armpit, hoisting her up and steadying her to the car. The side door opened as he walked up, and he helped her sidle in. He waited a few seconds while she adjusted, then grabbed the seatbelt. You heard him say something, but couldn’t… only if you want maybe? About the seatbelt?

You blinked and he was holding out his hands for you. The scarred, dirty hands that now had traces of fresh blood from reopened knuckle scabs soaking through the gauze. It made you faint thinking about him at the… Arkham. All at once you sat up, the motion sending you reeling. “Fuck!” Your hands trembled as pain ravaged your head, all the blood simultaneously leaving and filling it. “No, you shouldn’t, fuck,”

He squatted to your eye-level. His stare didn’t waver once. “You’re, recovering, I don’t, thanks,” Between every word was a gasp of pain.

His tone was firm, leaving no room for disagreement. “I’m glad you called. I’m taking you home.”

“Are you—”

“I’m fine.” He held out an expectant hand for you to take. You anticipated having to pull your own, but to your surprise he pulled you up with you barely feeling the ground whatsoever. He carried the bulk of your weight, snaking his arm on top of your shoulders instead of under, allowing your neck not to bobble as you both walked. The last time you’d been this close to him you hadn’t known his identity. You recalled his hold being so firm you couldn’t escape, how afraid that had made you until you’d realized it was him. You stopped trying to force your balance and let him guide you the last steps to the car; the door opened automatically again, and he helped you slip in beside Mar. She had her head against the back of the seat, eyes half shut.

“Need help?” He had a finger looped around the seatbelt. Your cheeks heated, and you stammered out a no. He shut the door, and you painstakingly buckled yourself. A part of you wondered what he’d do if you refused to buckle up, and how long he would sit there demanding you put it on before you finally gave in, having sufficiently annoyed him.

When Bruce climbed in, you felt like a child who forgot their lunch on the way to school. You asked him to retrieve your phone, explaining it was under some shrubs by the entryway. Not ten seconds later he was back in, wiping dirt off the screen before handing it back to you. He was so fucking fast.

Mar didn’t talk during the drive, and neither did Bruce, so neither did you. You kept one eye on her at all times, making sure she didn’t fall asleep before you could check if she had a concussion or not. You figured you did, and you were not looking forward to checking in the mirror later looking at the damage done to your left leg. Now I match Bruce. A bitter thought.

You’d had the wherewithal prior to leaving to bring your keychain with you, tucked nicely into your pocket. By some stretch he hadn’t kicked just a few inches higher, which would have probably left you with a gaping wound from the jagged ends of the keys fileting your hip. You held the fob out the window when he pulled up to the garage, and in another blink he was helping Mar out.

“Can you stand?” Mar was slumped into his shoulder as he supported her weight. “Might have to carry her.” She looked exhausted, with her eyes glazed over, her face sweaty. You watched her chest with diligence, and per usual he sensed you, reading you like he was superhuman. “Her respiration’s normal. You can check the rest of her when you get your bearings.”

You unbuckled and tried to stand, but even shifting halfway out the car scared you. The ground phased in and out of your vision, the depth completely lost. As much as it burned… You sighed. “Take her up first. I think I need help walking.”

You handed him your keychain and he went on his way. Only after he’d disappeared up the elevator did you question it. I let her go up alone with a man? In this state? You couldn’t berate yourself much though, because a strong swell of defensiveness ravaged you. It was like the you before and you now were dueling. Condemning your judgment and rationalizing it, back and forth.

There was truly just something about him. Maybe you were infantilizing him and the past week was clouding your judgment. Maybe he moonlighted as Batman to cover up his serial killer tendencies. Keep the cops trained on an alternate identity, a vigilante. But he made you feel safe. He always made you feel held. Even when your mind took over and convinced you he was wrong, convinced you you should be afraid, your body never internalized it. That gut feeling you got around other men; the other men at city hall, the other men at the club, some of the men in your undergrad classes, even some of the professors… your stomach never curdled like that around him.

You didn’t think about it any further.

Bruce jogged out the elevator and helped you out. You ignored how your stomach fluttered being pressed so close to him, fought the tears that begged at the edge of your eyes, and let yourself sink into his chest. At some point you closed your eyes and concentrated on the roughness of his jacket against your cheek, and the patter of his heartbeat. Warmth. Alive. Breathing. Secure.

You being so close to him made him keen to his breathing. His body felt tingly and dizzy. He held you tighter. Every exhale fluttered the hair in front of your face, wisping it across your eyelashes. Was his breathing too loud? Were you falling asleep? He rustled you slightly, just taking a step slightly too hard, not wanting you to—your lashes fluttered, having caught you right before slipping into dreamland. He needed to keep you awake, at least long enough to do a proper assessment. Long enough to make sure you weren’t going to die.

Walking through your doorframe was a beast he realized too late; too narrow to both walk through wide, after your left hip caught on the strike plate and you cried out. He hated how much it felt like someone squeezed his chest when he saw you in pain; if you or your friend had been any less injured, he would’ve taken more time on the perpetrator.

He sat you delicately on the couch, instructing you to sit upright as much as you were able. He unwrapped the cloth from over his mouth, shoving it into his jacket pocket. He asked if he could touch the back of your head, and you agreed. His fingers were as gentle as a cat’s whisker, delicately sifting through sweaty clumps of hair that, if it weren’t for even the air moving past it causing flinching pain, might’ve made you soft, weak. You startled when he removed his hand. “Can’t feel any bleeding, no cuts.” His voice was soft, his eyes scanning everywhere but yours. You were glad.

He asked the date, gave you a few words to recall back, and shined a light in your eyes. You recoiled like he’d slapped you when he pulled out his flashlight, the light causing physical pain. On the jump back, your leg brushed the pillow to your left, and he stared down at it. “May I?” You nodded and he pulled up your shorts; you were biting down on your tongue as his pinky grazed the bruise. “How bad is it?” It was at this point, when he didn’t immediately respond, that you realized he’d turned off the lights in your apartment and only left the lamp on in the corner. Thoughtful.

“Already bruising.” He grimaced, seeing the speckled outline of the shoe’s leather binding indented in harsh red streaks along your leg. His grimace made your face fall; he hardly grimaced like that when he had a fucking gaping wound in his leg. “What? Tell me.”

He shook his head. “A bad bruise, that’s all.” He grabbed your shin lightly and asked you to bend your leg. Then put weight on it. Twist left to right. Flex your hip. Everything worked normally. Still, his brow was twisted together, looking like he was gnawing on his cheek. You eyed him skeptically. “What?”

This was the second time he’d pulled someone off of you in less than six months. Your entire thigh would be lit dark scarlet in just a few days. He’d called Gordon the second he got into his car, and whispered an ID to his watch to ping over when he went to get your phone. He was sure they got him, but all he could think about was brutality; he didn’t like the things he was imagining, the drive to crack all the fingers off the man’s hand and shove them into his petrified, quivering mouth, and the equal drive to wrap you in a hug that never ended to make sure no one else harmed you.

You saw the movement of all these thoughts across his face, but the only source you could track them to was hesitation to tell you the extent of your injury. “Do I need to go to the hospital?”

He wanted to scour every inch of you to look for more lacerations, bruises, bleeds. For possibly the first time ever, he didn’t trust his estimation. You needed a professional, just in case. In case he missed something. In case you’d jostled your brain too much, in case the man had loosened a clot in your leg. He nodded. “I think you should.” He could take a back way there, walk you up to the doors and then put you in a wheelchair at the entrance. His mask would cover up enough, probably. He’d bring your friend with you. She could be checked out too.

You looked to his bloodless palms and fingertips that had just explored your scalp. Down to the splotches across your leg. “Why?” You felt like shit, yeah, but…?

“I might be wrong.”

”About what?”

”The extent of it.”

”What, like a brain bleed?”

”Exactly like that.”

You flicked your gaze up to your bedroom door. “I can’t leave her. Is she okay?” You moved to get up, and it was painful, but you managed. You slammed your hand on his shoulder for emergency balance, and you begrudgingly accepted his support across the living area. Mar was on her side in bed, squinting at her phone that seemed to already be on the lowest brightness. You whispered. “I got it.”

He let you go and walked back to the living room, and you shut the door behind you. You limped over to her and sat on the edge, tapping her ankle to alert her. Slowly her eyes moved to yours. The lipstick that had been untouched was now smeared across her cheeks, and her eyeliner bled and cracked off. “Are you, okay?”

”I think so. Are you?” You were doing exactly what Bruce just had; scanning her body at rapid speed, analyzing for any signs of injury. She looked a bit scraped up on the heels of her hands and knees, and you asked her to turn to take a look at her back. There was still the rough, muddied outline of his shoe from where it connected on her spine, but nothing else of note. Some general redness, and when you touched it she groaned, but didn’t shriek.

You looked into her eyes, but knew you had no idea what to look for. “Did he check you out already?”

She nodded, leisurely. “Shined something in my eye and told me to say stuff, I don’t remember what though.” Her words were still slurred, and the top of her nose was scraped, but nothing looked broken. You thought of the kick he’d done between her legs, and asked if she felt any pain there. She almost giggled. “Bastard forgot I don’t have balls. But, how,” She winced as she adjusted, her back rippling with it. “Cool is it he thought, I did.” She sighed and returned her attention back to her phone.

“Do you have pain anywhere?”

She glanced down at her palms and then pointed to her nose. Her biggest thing then was being drugged, and yours was whatever head thing you had going on paired with a throbbing leg. The thought of leaving your warm bed to go to a bright–fuck, BRIGHT–hospital made you want to actually die. You were gonna take your chances tonight. Oh, it was making you sick thinking about it…

“I’m gonna get some meds. Want some?” Whew, just a few steps through to the kitchen. I can do it! I’ve done it a lot! At least half of the journey is carpet, if I do eat shit. She nodded again (you were very jealous she was able to bob her head), and began your slow shuffle to the kitchen. The second you appeared in the doorway, Bruce jumped to your aid. You waved him off. “I think I’ll stay home.” You grabbed the counter for support.

“I’m taking you in.”

Furrowing your brow hurt your aching head. “I’m gonna take some meds, it’ll, be fine.”

“Then I’m staying.”

He sounded like a scolding parent. You shot a look at him and felt the ground wiggle beneath you. You squeezed your eyes shut which only made it worse. Tried to refocus on the medicine cabinet. So high…

“Let’s go.” He made his voice a bit louder, sterner. You finally scooted close enough to reach the handle, and now worked up the courage to grab it. You rustled around in there for a moment.

“You’re not really going to take that, are you?” His tone was biting. Footsteps, then he snatched the bottle of ibuprofen out of your hand. “Do you want to have a brain bleed?”

Shame coursed through you, another one of his thousand cuts. When you were able to look back at him, he had his eyes shut tight and his lips pursed, one hand holding the bottle and the other gripping the counter. He saw you looking at him and hastily turned away. The pop of the plastic bottle on the marble punctuated his apology. “Sorry.” He ran his fingers through his hair, his hood removed somewhere between your bedroom and the couch. He huffed and tilted his head back to stare at the dark kitchen light. His shoulders rose and fell with every cycle of breath, one for every three blinks. The room was silent like that for a minute. He was so angry… no, he was nervous. Upset.

He caught your eye when you turned and his face fell into something softer, more vulnerable. “You’re not going, right?” He gave the smallest shake of his head and flicked the bottle a few inches. He didn’t wait for your answer. “I’m staying.” He made his voice strong, though you both knew you could kick him out and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Bruce,”

“You’re both incapacitated, leaving you here alone, it’s, it’s not an option.” He was getting flustered. You always took him there. He didn’t stutter, he never caught on his words, never caught on the sidewalk, never overlooked a pedestrian, fuck. His voice was raising, only slightly. His breathing got shallower, his fingers feeling chilled. “I need a minute.” He put his hands over his head and walked to the other side of the room, pacing in front of the couch. The fact the silence felt thick made you want to cut it. “I’ll be fine,”

“Please!” He dropped his hands at his sides and stood facing the cushions.

Deep breath in. Hold… exhale. Inhale, hold… exhale. Inhale, hold… exhale. Inhale, hold… exhale. He felt his chest start to release. Inhale, hold… exhale. Hold. Inhale, hold… exhale, hold… the feeling was coming back into his fingertips. Inhale, exhale. Hold… Inhale, slow, hold… exhale, slow, hold. Blink. Blink. Look at the wall. Couch. Hands. Jacket. In, out.

Another big sigh and a small shake, and he looked over his shoulder. He swallowed back globs of saliva that threatened to drown his vocal folds. His cheeks were pink, from what he had no idea. “I’m upset this happened to you.” He figured some transparency wouldn’t hurt, seeing as he’d just watched you get bludgeoned on the sidewalk and the… events of the past weekend. His jaw flexed. “And your friend.” He groaned, feeling frustrated tension fill him again. “I heard your shouting from blocks away. There were plenty of people.” His hands tightened in and out of fists, a motion you never failed to dial into. “No one did a damn thing.”

“Seems about right.” You slowly reached for the ibuprofen and put it back in the cabinet, letting it fall shut with a small tap.

Bruce was facing you now. “You don’t seem fazed.”

You shrugged, but couldn’t raise your shoulders in any meaningful capacity. “People don’t give a shit here.” You winced, as another blow of pain emanated the circumference of your skull. “Of course you don’t,” You flinched, speaking causing coils of pain to vibrate in your head. “Get it.”

He held back the full extent of his response, because he had a full argument sitting on the tip of his tongue. “I’ve seen the worst of it as him. I get it.” His enunciation begged no comment, but it was steamrolled.

“You don’t.” It was going to hurt to push all the words out at once, but the adrenaline of more friction with him was enough fuel to edge it out, momentarily. “You’re only able to be him because of your very unique, situation.” It was suffering to continue talking. “Even if people wanted to, to be you.” You took a small breather, placing both hands on the edge of the counter as the world whizzed by. “We can’t. We have, work, school, people are, shit.”

“We can talk about it later.” He walked to the cupboard and drew some water from the sink. You noticed him rinse it twice before filling. He held it out to you. “Drink. Sips.”

Some muscle in your finger had to have direct access to your brain because when you extended your arm fully to grab it, as soon as your pinky gripped the glass, you shuddered like you’d flicked a nerve. The glass clattered to the ground, exploding shards across the floor. When you ventured to move, he stopped you with a firm hand on your shoulder. “I’ll get it.” He didn’t want you tripping with how unsteady your gait was. He moved to your side and grabbed some paper towels, squatting once more to gather the biggest chunks. “There’s a, broom. In the closet by the door.”

“Y/N?” Mar had made her way out of your room in a drunken shuffle. She’d said your name but her squinted, hazy gaze was focused entirely on Bruce, who was now facing her without his hood, without his mask, almost entirely exposed save the black around his eyes. Her eyes widened. “Is that…”

In your periphery you noticed Bruce’s eyes flick up to yours as his hands slowed. For once he was silent, letting you take the lead–naturally, it was the first time ever you didn’t want to. Fuck.

[daydreamvalley]

October Sunsets (2) - nanami kento

𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧Summary: You accidentally stole Nanami’s phone, unaware about the dire situation he is occupied with in Shibuya.

Contents: Anime-only safe. Angst + mentions of extreme bodily injury & death.

Read part 1

11:36 pm. Way to go. Nanami must think I’m an obsessed freak. One that forces situations to happen, so he’d think about me. You thought to yourself if he didn’t think you were clumsy before, he should now. For the past twenty-two minutes you’ve been goggling at his phone, that had already lost power. Yours, however, could be a saving grace right now. Taking it out of your tote bag you texted Shoko, the only colleague at Jujutsu Tech you were acquainted with. The message was split into multiple inane short texts: Hello. I know you guys are busy right now, but please let Nanami know I’m sorry I took his phone! I promise I only realized, like, right now and-

Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.

Your mother’s contact appeared on your screen, previewing messages that contained videos. She called right before departing to wish you safe travels and the promise of funny videos to help you stay entertained, so you swipe away her texts assuming they were just unfunny skits from somewhere.

Continuing your imploring to Shoko: Please just say that first. That I’m sorry. Also, he can meet me on Monday, November 5th. I’ll return it then fly back to Denmark. Tell him he’ll get lots of pastries and souvenirs! After hitting send, it did register that the last bit of the message was unnecessary, but the nerves of the situation got to you. Going into your mother’s chats, you see an influx of exclamations. “Shibuya is being destroyed!”, “Are you still in the plane?”, “Answer me!!”, “Your uncle sent me this one”, “Please be safe out there, love you”. You watch a low-quality video, hearing your family member’s voice in the background crying out in fear. A plane was being set ablaze mid-air, hurling a loud roar as it dropped from the sky into Shibuya. The tragedy was clear as day, even though the video is taken at night. Highlighting the combusted object. Your hands tremble. Were you safe? Unable to hold the phone upright, you felt like this was wrong to watch. He’s on call, but where? No. stop thinking like that, he’s obviously saving civilians right now. Nanami’s far too competent to be a victim to that destruction. Thumping tortured your head as you catastrophized.

“Miss. Are you feeling ill?” The flight attendant sounded like she was under a body of water. “Hold my hand and follow my breathing.”

The video continued playing, showing a city turning into hell. The lens turned to reveal the shocked faces of people witnessing the horror. It never stopped playing until a pair of hands whisked your device away from a weak grip, then lightly turned your head so you could meet a women’s calm face.

~

8:00 am, November 5th, Monday, Tokyo. You hug Nanami’s blazer tighter against your layered outfit, when then the breeze enters the cafe. A cold gust sings alongside the crackling sounds of an old espresso machine. Elevating the emptiness and lack of conversation in the room. How could anyone start a conversation? It feels like the moment anyone utters a word; we all expect the events of Shibuya to pour out. No one wants to talk about. At least for a little while. Not while the wound is still fresh. In your peripheral you see the screen of a phone turn on, next to you on the leather couch. The red dusk of the sunset on your friends lock screen includes a notification, telling you its fully charged. You unplug and bring it to your face to have a closer at the photo, but the phone unlocks from facial recognition. Taken aback you immediately turn it off, shutting your eyes. You hold a tighter grip on it, because it’s a reminder of how you aren’t ready.

Not yet.

You decide to lean into the couch, to stay longer at the establishment. The jetlag is kicking in and it doesn’t help that you ran into an unwanted conversation with a coworker when you walked in. The one-sided chat consisting of the only depressing topic everyone is taking part in. It left your coffee cold, and now you needed to rest for a bit. If not, you could walk out of the café without a clear mind. Looking either drunk or sleep deprived. Most likely the latter. The insurance company was next door and the possibility of running into more people is a headache. To call your flight back to the city a miracle, would be an understatement. From October 31st, flights coming in and out of Japan were prohibited, just when you desperately needed to come back home. Only five days have passed since the incident.

For four days, you found yourself alternating between locking yourself up in a Denmark-airport hotel, then running around pleading with the airport’s many front desk’s about when you could leave. Not caring if you’d get fired for abandoning your work trip. Your mothers’ yells across the phone would be a comforting reoccurrence, in which she is begging you to stay in Denmark, since the situation was getting worse back home. For four days, only your mother would call, while you unfortunately entertained the thought of your loved one’s death once you came back. Even as you arrive back, the chaos resumes. No warm hugs from a worried family greeted you.

You colleagues were radio silent, dealing with their own grief. Your mother and uncle were evacuated to a different city. Leaving you with one more fear. No sign of Nanami. Shoko didn’t answer your calls from Wednesday to the early mornings of today, until the dreadful call. The call you had with her just one hour ago, which somehow led you to instinctively catch a taxi to this very café.

Just as you settle into drifting asleep, a ring awakens you. It’s coming from your phone. “Shoko”, displayed on the lock screen, and hesitantly you pick up.

“I can see you from here. I’m crossing the light pole to the café entrance.” Shoko says, as you see her tall figure approach, dressed in a lab coat. She stops outside the door to throw her cigarette into a bin. Chimes can be heard as she walks in. You stiffen. Staying seated on the coach, you can’t help but feel nauseous as she walks up to you. She stops above you, striving her best smile. “So quiet in here. Wish it were like this outside.” She gets comfortable next you on the couch. Making sure to observe the blazer as she continues, “You must have been in disarray; your luggage is here.”

You face her in silence, nodding your head in acknowledgement. The two of you stare at each other, competing to see who will address the matter. Inhaling deeply, you try, “Thanks for meeting me here. Why’d- ‘’

You clear your throat to not get choked up. “No.” You straighten your back to speak clearer, “What were you doing when you called me?”

“Sorry?” Shoko inquires, and you stay silent, reading her eyes. “I was…sitting at the park.” She says pointing in the direction behind her, confused.

“So, you weren’t occupied with something urgent or intense?”

“Not really.”

“You didn’t think to wait for my arrival or ask us to meet somewhere. You were just going to causally call me and tell me that “I’m sorry. Nanami didn’t make it”, hang up on me, then leave me to go with the rest of my day!” You shakily burst out.

Shoko looks at you with widened eyes and observes around the room self-consciously. You two were the only customers in the café, now filling the silence. She places her palm on your shoulder, to ease the tension, but you non-aggressively remove it.

“I admit, you didn’t have to hear it that way. I just didn’t know who to call. Everyone was pestering me. They still are and I couldn’t handle it. I only saw your messages yesterday and the burden of telling you the news was too much. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just…a lot.” Shoko was now tearing up. The pressures of her position were breaking her, as each day passed by, with more wounding alerts of her dying colleagues.

You stand up from your spot. “Let’s talk outside, I’m getting dizzy in here.” You respond half-heartedly.

Shoko follows you into the chill winds hoping for a smoother flowing discussion.

“Please, Shoko. Where is he? I know I’m a non-sorcerer so I can’t even enter your facility, but at least tell me-“

“Even if I could. I can’t let you see that- him I mean.”

“That? Shoko help me out here, please! It’s the least you could do. God, this is so unfair.” You lament to her.

“There’s nothing I can do. He’s- its bad. His lower body is the only remaining part we can recover from Shibuya.” Shoko winces and covers her mouth, shocked by her own blunt words.

You bit your lip as tears marked your face. His lower body. Her mechanical way of describing things made sense in her occupational context, but this was too harsh. With staggered breaths you ask, “Where is he?” You ache as you reiterate. You now know the answer. He was still in there. That hell. It was never a possibility in your mind. Nanami not making it back home. While the world just begun to know about sorcery after the massacre, it wasn’t unfamiliar to you. In detail, he’d go over his workday like it were any other mundane job. The stories of the students he so greatly cared for, the loss of his dearest friend in high school, and all the dangers of the mystique of this world he was in. Never, did you imagine you’d have to worry about his potential death. In his eyes, he is someone who simply strives to do the best he can. You wish he could see himself in your eyes.

Jujutsu Sorcerers are shit. He’d boldly reaffirm that to you with sunken eyebags, every time you two would talk about your workday in the café. Yet, he never left sorcery. Everyday you’d be reassured of how hard-working he really is. That same attitude that you admire in him, is one of the many traits that made you want to be a permanent part of his life. Whether he accepted your affections or not, wasn’t the point, everyone deserves to have such a dependable force in their life. Now, you cannot accept that this is happening.

“I understand him now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I hate how the higher-ups do things. What’s happening right now is showing their true colors.”

“You can do unimaginable things compared to most doctors. The ability to reserve techniques, right? That’s what Nanami told me.” You ask her, not expecting a response. Maybe this was a way for you to cope with the fact that even people as powerful as her can’t fix everything.

“Yes. I know there’s nothing I can do to make you feel better. I can’t even begin to tell you why we can’t save the rest of his body right now. I don’t want to hurt you more. I know how much you mean to him, it’s only right that I informed you.”

You chuckle at her words, “The damage has already been done. No?”

She looks to the ground in defeat. Agreeing that nothing was going to assist the emotional affliction.

“You want to know what hurts more? Is that I’ll never know why. You could try to explain it to me, though I doubt you would. Still, I’m too far removed from it all. I don’t want to know who did it, or what.” Wiping your face, you make your back the door, “I’m sorry for raising my voice at you. Take care.” Not looking back, you head straight for the bathroom. Hiding yourself in one of the stalls, you drop down to your knees. One hand on the stall wall, as the other opens the toilet seat while you begin to hurl. His lower body is still there. It’s an unsettling scene. You hurl and cry simultaneously. The chronic exhaustion was making a physical appearance, yet the object of your sorrow was thinking about how tired he must have been. Meeting his end, without getting to grow old, but by the pressures of his sorcery.

~

7:00 pm, November 12th, 2018, Kuantan, Malaysia. The ocean sends shimmering beams of light into your bedroom. You sit on your bed in a daze, taking in your flat’s perfect view of the ocean’s peaking sunset across the horizon. Now it’s been twelve days since the Shibuya massacre and the beginning of a new era of havoc. Other than frequent check-ins with family, you haven’t spoken to anyone else since your last conversation with Shoko. Most of all, you won’t bother yourself with the current events taking place in Shibuya. This isn’t a retreat. You were abandoning your duties to escape, with the illusion of closure. It made you worse. Your way of grieving is running away to the place Nanami raved on about. Where is the closure?

“Jujutsu Sorcerers are shit.”

His words echo when you think about home, but not in a negative way. You just can’t help but recollect these words because they represent your overall memory of him. Nanami always had this weird way of saying bold and sometimes controversial statements but in a well-mannered way. You miss his politeness. How much of a gentleman he was to you and all women around him. You miss the safety. You loved knowing that your coworkers thought he was boring and uptight, because with you the formalities would drop, and you’d be left breathless from his jokes. You would give anything to hear his dry jokes again. You loved knowing that you saw that side of him. When he was not burnt out by work and had the energy to send you two out and about in town to shop, try food, or take aimless walks in the city. You love him, and he will never know.

I think I’m ready.

You grab Nanami’s cream-white blazer from next to you, to take out his phone. He trusted you enough to be another recognizable face on his device. Claiming he had nothing to hide and whatever he had on it most likely was cleaner than yours. You only used this privilege to take pictures of yourself and make it his wallpaper. Every now and then, those same pictures of you would remain on this lock screen. You think back to when you asked him if he wasn’t worried his sorcerer friends would ask who you are, then he’d reply that they wouldn’t ask, because they already know you. Such memories now cross your mind. That comfortability is now missing.

You used to doubt your importance to him. Having each other’s extra apartment keys and phone passwords was not enough for you. When his reason for these two instances was to ensure you both have someone to depend on in case of emergencies, your mind was clouded with romance. You face the front camera to unlock the phone, revealing a typical home screen. Organized and easy to navigate. Since you’ve been in possession of it you never opened it. Where would you even begin. What was the point. Would you forget him that quickly without his phone? His camera roll consisted of you, screenshots of songs, meals and a substantial number of sunsets. Chime. A reminder displays on his screen. It has two exclamation marks indicating it is high priority. Deciding you didn’t want to go into his apps anyway, you read the reminder:

Send the birthday message on notes tomorrow!!

Tomorrow is your birthday. Without thinking you navigate to the notes. You scroll down completed grocery lists and to-do lists to reach one note titled, “Her birthday plans”. In bullet points he writes: Returns from work trip November 12th. Haneda Airport. Plan A, surprise flowers? Cook dinner for her at my place (might seem pushy if she doesn’t feel that way)?

If Plan A fails, aquarium. Obsessed with stingrays. Early Christmas presents! Christmas plans?

Weeps escape your mouth as you read the notes. These notes started to make you feel less insignificant to him than you thought you before. You didn’t just lose Nanami. You lost a potential future of longer city walks, Christmas dinners, and more nonsense-bred conversations. His relatives probably don’t know what has happened. You may have felt unimportant in the midst of his complex and action-filled life, but this circumstance would force you to introduce yourself to his family in the worst way. You aren’t merely an ex-coworker. You are his dependable companion and friend during an emergency. Those emergencies may be mundane compared to the danger he faced daily, but he still trusted you to follow through.

How would you introduce him to your mother? If he was also merely the ex-coworker her daughter hangs out with. Can she understand this profound grief?

You hang around the note app, noticing one more titled, “For her.”

There is no one else more deserving of delighting in this day than you. You tell me you do not care much for today, which I understand the reasons, but I am grateful for another year of you. Every time you feel like abandoning it all because you’re so tired I want you to remember your birthday. Yes, a reminder of the gift of time. When it all becomes too exhausting for you, there is my door. Waiting for its only other owner to arrive when she’s ready.

We are becoming so much more. I sometimes wonder if I carry this desire of wanting to become more with you, a bit more than you. With the gift of time, I will try to express my feelings better.

You bring ease to those of us around you. You are lovelier and more perfect than tranquil seas. A calming force which the drifting autumn leaves cannot try to compete with.

I love you. Wholeheartedly.

You hug at the blazer on your lap. Staining it with tears. Picking up your cellphone to walk to your bedroom balcony, opening the camera app, you hope. As you take an image of the rosy horizon, you hope. You hope that these memories won’t become such a painful occurrence in the future. With every passing day, signs of a day turning into evening would make it difficult for you to forget him.

The end! I'm sorry like really sorry. I wanted to see a realistic story depicting the aftermath of his death but I couldn’t find any. So I wrote it??

I have a happy story in mind if anyone is up to read it<3

Taglist for the sweethearts who were looking forward to to this: @akstormm @rain-moto @salimahbicharara-comun 💕

[mindofsombre]

2001 DALTON HIGH SCHOOL MASSACRE

Date occurred : September 15th, 2001

Casualities : 20 dead (including the perpetrators) 26 injured (24 by gunfire)

—————————————————————

This tragedy occurred September 15th 2001 in Robloxia Springs, Mason County, Colorado, when 17 year old Samuel Steven's and his accomplice, 18 year old Nicholas Colton Sieged their school With guns and other deadly weapons, Their main motive is unknown but it is suspected they wanted notoriety.

(photo taken of Steven's entering dalton high.)

The early mornings of the massacre, the two boys drove to a local diner and enjoyed a breakfast together. Afterwards they drove their blue transporter van to Dalton high and prepared for what was to come. An arsenal of weapons hidden in their cars, wearing black trenchcoats, they observed students as they walked in. Many students stated they seen them wear trenchcoats to the school before and didn't suspect anything. Steven's took his TEC-9 in the cafeteria, and snapped a photo before walking back to the blue van. At 10:12am, Colton and Steven's headed back towards the cafeteria doors and began opening fire on students. Stevens would fire 32 rounds and Colton would fire 9.

At 10:15am, They Would walk back over to the side doors of the school near the hallways and drop their coats. Colton reloaded his rifile and uttered the words "You worthless whore" to Shayna Greene while firing 3 bullets in her head, Stevens would fire 10 rounds into locker doors, afterwards injuring Lewis Chan. Colton joins Steven and walks up to Chan as he lay prone on the ground, he would call him a “f&gg0t” before shooting him 5 times, killing him.

At 10:20am the gunmen enter the library, 35 students and 2 teachers hide among the bookshelves and tables, this is where the worst of their massacre would begin.

(bodies of students among the tables.)

Daniel Turpin, Colton calls him a “computer nerd” before shooting him in the back and shoulder. Afterwards, the pair approach Alexander Engle, asking him if he believes in god. Engle replies with, “Yes, I’m Christian”. Stevens tells him, “Good, you’re about to see him just about… now” And fatally shooting him. Colton approaches his art teacher, Ken Tanner, Colton utters the phrases, "Sorry, Mr Tanner." and shooting him in the chest and neck. 7 people and injured 4 in the library, sparing the 26 others. The gunmen leave the library at 10:41am, they would roam the halls in search of students, One survivor reported seeing Stevens fire gunfire into a classroom as she hid from the perpetrators. Mason County sheriff’s deputies have arrived at the scene and have surrounded the building, The Pair fired at swat and police.

gunmen enter the cafeteria, CCTV cameras capture the infamous image of the gunmen at the base of the stairwell. Stevens was seen at one point picking up a Bloxy Cola off of a table and drinking from it whilst shooting at inanimate objects. The duo walk back up the main hallway back towards the library. Colton tells him to use his camera to take a picture of him before he shoots himself, Stevens would snap a picture of Colton as he held his handgun to his head. Moments later, Colton would fatally shoot himself in the temple with his Walther P99. Stevens Follows not long after and fatally shoot himself in the eye socket with his Beretta 92fs. Nick Colton fired 67 rounds and Sam Stevens fired 158 rounds, 225 in total, striking 44 people in total. Sam Stevens killed 7 students and injured 20, Colton killed 10 students and 1 teacher, injuring 4 others. The massacre ended at 11:4am

(more information on this web page ↑)

[minaharker1897]

Okay, first attempt at a one shot:

(In an alternate universe where Leia said “screw it” and became a crazy rebellious direct thorn in the Empire’s side. Obi wan couldn’t just watch, so he’s been training her)

“Hey, remember that bitch Anakin Skywalker?”

Vader paused his stride, turning to face the bounty hunter.

“…. Yes….” Vader said cautiously, turning to face him.

“Well, apparently he sired a kid. She’s also a bitch, but way smart and a wicked good pilot.”

“Where did you find this information?”

“Oh, it came up in bar conversation…. It’s a rumor but there’s a little rebel pilot girl that really looks like that one senator, Amidala I think her name was… she blew up a base last week.”

“Would she be on the imperial database?”

“Probably-“

“You are dismissed.”

The bounty hunter sputtered for a moment before agreeing to leave. Vader watched him go down the hallway, rolling the information through his brain over and over. A daughter…. How was that possible? He would have to look….

But what was her name?

He opened the door to his quarters and went to his pod, sinking into deep meditation.

His mind searched through the corners of the galaxies, weaving in and out through the brighter force signatures until….

***

She felt light probing around the edges of her shields. Not many force users could do that anymore…. Not many were even alive. What if this was another connection? She tentatively reached out, trying to gauge what she was looking at.

The presence was cold, dark, and foreboding. It washed over her like an icy river, beckoning her towards it.

She pulled back and snapped out of her meditative state.

“Did something happen?” Kenobi looked up at her, his worried expression deepening the lines of his time worn face. She knew he had experienced great tragedy in his many years, but he always shook off any questions she had. He was like a father to her, with Bail Organa being a true afterthought. She loved him, but he hadn’t spoken to her since she had become a pilot.

She would like to think it was for her safety, but she couldn’t fool herself.

“Oh, I just felt something…. I opened up to it but it was dark…. Colder than I thought it would be.”

The color drained from his face.

“Cold? Was it trying to pull you closer?

She nodded, growing increasingly uneasy. “Does that mean anything?”

“Was it far away?”

“Well I don’t-“

“This is very important. Was it far away?”

“It felt pretty far off.”

He sighed with relief. “We still ought to move…. Do you feel it trailing you at all?”

“No….”

“Let’s move out. I’m flying, though, crazy kiddo.”

***

He came out of his meditation, determined. Her force presence was warm, with dark undercurrents and slight hints at playfulness. She felt like she was his…. And hers. Both of theirs. Perfect in every way.

He stood up and went into the control center, requesting the imperial citizen database. The request was quickly processed and a few minutes later he was searching through the registered citizen base.

He first narrowed it down by age. She would be sixteen right now, assuming she was born right before her mother died. That would also put her birthday on empire day, and he put that down too.

There were around a thousand matches, but only one jumped out at him.

Leia Organa.

The force rang with promise as he clicked into her records. She was registered as that infernal Aldera senator’s daughter and her official midichlorian count was 2500, but he suspected that was falsified. He took a moment to look at her ID photo.

She had long brown hair and my eye shape, with some slight blue central heterochromia as well. Her face was almost a perfect mix of our faces with my coloring. She had obviously inherited his curly hair as well.

And she was perfect. He wanted nothing more than to have her in his arms and tell her how much her father wanted her…. And how she was stolen.

Kenobi.

He had taken his daughter and left Padme to die. He seethed with rage at the thought of him simply leaving her body behind as he stole the baby… and gave her to that infernal Organa to cover his tracks no less.

As for his baby girl, all he knew was that he loved her. He didn’t know before but now that he knew she was alive he wouldn’t rest until she was safe within his care.

And suddenly an alarm went off.

They were under attack.

***

Leia swerved and dove through the space battle in her x wing, barely missing the constant barrage of blaster fire behind her. She couldn’t afford to dwell on it, but she knew she was in trouble.

Suddenly, a larger TIE fighter loomed in front of her and she attempted to swerve around it, only for it to follow her.

The other fighters fell back as the new one chased her through the battlefield, attempting to engage her. She was usually able to shake any tailers, but this time she was outmatched.

One of her wings was shot off and she was immediately snapped up by a short range tractor beam eminating from the fighter behind her.

***

He could feel the force presence inside the ship. Careful not to hurt her, he reached inside her mind and put her to sleep. The x wing immediately stopped fighting and he pulled her into the hangar.

As soon as oxygen was available, he opened the hatch.

The girl was lying in the cockpit, asleep. Her mouth was slightly ajar, just like hers was when she was fully claimed by sleep. Her brown hair was in a loose braid down her shoulder, and her outfit was a simple brown tunic with the rebel emblem plastered across the front.

She was perfect. She was his daughter.

He carefully lifted her out of the hatch and took her into the medical bay, where her midichlorian count was found to be 25,000 and she was confirmed to indeed be his daughter. Although she was mostly healthy, her blood showed signs of malnutrition and the scars on her back indicated some undeserved brutality.

He sat next to her and waited for her to wake.

***

She opened her eyes in a bright room and she immediately squinted to preserve her vision. She wasn’t strapped down, but she could feel some slight throbbing in her head and fingertips.

She turned and saw Darth Vader sitting next to her.

“Hello, Leia. I am your father.”

Okay, should I continue this? Should I write an entire fanfic based on this premise? Lemme know pls!

[betta-butch]

photos taken moments before tragedy (the kuhli loach swam too close and scared Marigold).

[capybaracorn]

World Refugee Day 2024: Different Generations, Same Dispossession in Gaza

20 June 2024

Abu Kefah stands on a dune overlooking an IDP encampment. © 2024 UNRWA Photo by Fadi Thabet

This World Refugee Day, Palestine Refugees in Gaza are struggling to survive a humanitarian tragedy that, for the older generations, is a chilling echo of their past dispossession.

Young and old alike continue to survive - holding on to their right to exist - amid unspeakable violence of nearly nine months of war.

Abu Kefah Qadih, is an 81-year-old Palestine Refugee from Khan Younis. He has weathered forced displacement not once, but twice in his lifetime. As a child, he endured the horror of the Nakba – the mass displacement and dispossession of Palestinians during the 1948 Arab-Israeli war.  Now he has been forced to witness the dispossession of his own grandchildren. Together they are currently living through the same ordeal he knew too well as a child. This heart-wrenching reality leaves the elderly man profoundly shaken, shattering any hope he may have held that his family could be spared such a cruel fate.

"The scenes I witnessed as a child are being repeated with my own grandchildren," he laments, his voice trembling with raw emotion. "Watching helplessly as people flee from death, forced to live in tattered tents, clinging to the desperate hope of one day returning home - it shatters my heart to witness this horrific cycle unfolding all over again, this time impacting my own family," Abu Kefah says.

Abu Kefah in an IDP encampment in Gaza. © 2024 UNRWA Photo by Fadi Thabet

His aged eyes reflect the weariness of a lifetime burdened by unrelenting displacement and loss. "Many have been killed, their homes reduced to rubble, but still we remain steadfast, accepting God's will," he affirms as a tear escapes from his eye, a potent testament of the profound sorrow etched into his weathered face.

Hajjeh Zainab sits in an UNRWA IDP shelter. © 2024 UNRWA Photo by Fadi Thabet

Hajjeh Zainab, 88, is another al Nakba survivor from Beersheba. Her family fled the once peaceful grazing land they called home for the Maghazi area of southern Wadi Gaza in 1948.

Before the Nakba, her family cultivated the land and lived off the livestock they raised, such as sheep, goats, and camels. Hajjeh Zainab recalls, "We used to honor guests and welcome them into our homes and on our lands from which we were forced to flee. We always used to say, 'May God grant us a guest before the sun sets,' such was our love for honoring guests. These are the traditions of the Bedouins in the tribes of Beersheba, and we, the good people of this land, lived a simple life filled with love, harmony, and happiness,” she says. “But in one night and one day, gangs attacked us, killed us, slaughtered our children, families, and men, and forced us to leave our homes under the threat of fire, killing, and massacres,” she laments.

Now she is enduring renewed displacements.“We were displaced from our homes in the Maghazi area to schools in Nuseirat. For eight months, we did not leave the school because we could not find a safe place, and we had no options or alternatives. We lived in the school, which [went on to be] bombed several times. We experienced all forms of suffering, fatigue, and fear. Most of us were injured by shrapnel and fire while we were sleeping in our rooms. We believed that the shelters, being run by UNRWA, would be safe, but even the schools were bombed and targeted,” she says.  

“Our homes were targeted, and large blocks were completely wiped out. We lost many relatives, neighbors, and friends. We lost the livestock and poultry we raised, and our lands that we cultivated with our sweat were bulldozed. The most tragic moment was when the school we had taken refuge in was bombed, reminiscent of the fear and horror of our displacement in 1948,” Hajjeh Zainab says. “The remains and body parts were scattered in the schoolyard. It was a terrifying and shocking scene. The cries for help from the injured, the victims, children, men, and women echoed, but we were not rescued until much later, by which time most had lost their lives, lying in the schoolyard, corridors, and classrooms.”

Despite the horrors she has lived through, Hajjeh Zainab conveys a strong message, emanating resilience and willpower, “We call on all countries to stand with us and compensate us, as we have been living through tragedy since the Nakba of 1948. We have lived through calamities since the Nakba until now, we are tired of sorrow, grief, death, and torment. We have lived through the Nakba many times in long and different chapters. Our memories, homeland, and homes were lost during the Nakba. And here is a new Nakba, repeating the same scene but on a larger scale. Our homes and memories are lost, and we have lost family and friends,” she says.

“Until when will we live these tragedies? Do we not have the right, as humans, to live a small part of life? I have reached the age of 88 and have never seen such devastation. There is no difference between one tent and another; we are all in the same misery,” she laments.

Nur in an UNRWA IDP shelter. © 2024 UNRWA Photo by Fadi Thabet

Sadly, yet another generation of Palestine Refugees will carry the trauma like that shouldered by Hajjeh Zainab and Abu Kefah Qadih.  Nur Ziyad, 14, is from Beit Lahia, in the northern region of the Gaza Strip. She recounts her own harrowing experience of dispossession, when intense shelling hit her family home. A neighbouring four-story building collapsed on to her house, and Nur and her family of 10 found themselves taking shelter in an UNRWA clinic in Jabalia refugee camp.

Amid the shelling and fires, Nur was constantly worried for her family’s safety, grasping onto her mother’s hand tightly for fear of losing her. Conditions at the clinic were difficult, more than 80 people crammed into a single classroom, all of them lacking food, water, and basic necessities. After thirty days of continuous fear and danger from the nearby shelling, the family decided to move south, coerced by Israeli Forces evacuation orders.

They walked from the north through a military checkpoint near Wadi Gaza, witnessing decomposed and dog-mauled bodies along the way. After crossing the checkpoint, they continued to Nuseirat and then to Rafah by truck. On the way, she saw children crying from lack of food and water, the journey to Rafah taking two whole days.

When she reached Tel al-Sultan, she had no tents, tarps, or plastic sheets, and while crossed the checkpoint, Israeli Forces ordered her to discard all her bags, clothes, and phone.  People informed her and her family about a school in East Rafah, so they walked for a day to reach it, spending the night outdoors. Someone gave them a blanket that they shared amongst the ten of them, combatting the severe cold of the night. Thankfully, the school in East Rafah provided them with shelter, however food is scarce and insufficient for the needs of Nur and her siblings. They’ve often had to wait in long lines to collect morsels.

Susan in an UNRWA IDP shelter. © 2024 UNRWA Photo by Fadi Thabet

Susan, 12, also carries the burden of trauma of the generation of Palestine Refugees before her. "I will never forget those scattered remains everywhere...I lost contact with my friends and don't know who among them is still alive. I miss my soulmate, Lama,” she says.

“In the early days of the war, Israeli Forces demanded that we leave our home, but my father didn't comply. We didn't know where to go, as we had no other place. When the unpredictable shelling in our neighborhood intensified, we were forced to flee from Shuja'iyya to a school in Khan Younis,” she recounts. “A few days later, that school was bombed. I rushed to search for my father in the corridors, all filled with the dead and injured. I will never forget seeing scattered remains everywhere. I kept calling for my father until I found him. I hugged him and couldn't believe he was still alive!” Susan recalls harrowingly.

“I dream that the war will stop and that we can return to our lives as they were. I miss the gatherings for tea, manakish, and…everything,” she says.

Around 1.7 million people - more than seven out of every 10 people in the Gaza Strip - are currently displaced by the war, with many of them having been forced to flee multiple times.

https://www.unrwa.org/newsroom/features/world-refugee-day-2024-different-generations-same-dispossession-gaza

[spinningwebsandtales]

Dreaming of Eden With You

Nicholas D. Wolfwood X Fem!Widow Reader

Rating: T+

Warnings: Suggestive themes, mentions of death, and angst

Word Count: 4.2k

Requested by @anzaisaki

(A/N:) Okay apparently I cannot write small imagines for Nicholas! XD I had one idea and it rolled downhill until it became this! XD I had so much fun writing it and I hope it’s as much fun to read as well! I adore his character and I hope to see more of him than what was in the original Trigun series! But that leaves us fanfic writers to have some fun and give the readers what they desire! I had a lot of fun with this request and I hope it’s everything you wished for. I tried tagging you so I hope you can find it! So until next time happy reading! ~Countess

When you had started this journey you had thought that it was everything that would make life better. Your husband had agreed instantly, wanting better for you both and the child on the way. He even pushed harder to relocate when the doctor told you both you were expecting twins. One mouth was going to be expensive enough to feed, but he was ecstatic so you couldn’t dread having two kids to look after. He wanted the best for you and the babies, that made you soar above cloud nine. The journey started out easy, despite the heat and the dust. It was until halfway there that the trials became harder and harsher did you finally start to regret leaving the place you had called home for years. Then tragedy struck, your husband gave his life protecting you and the life within from bandits who took everything you both had. The only thing you had left to your name was a small sack with just a few meager possessions, a torn photo, and a little bit of money. You hid your stomach well as you knew some foul criminals would use your state to take advantage of whatever they desired. After your husband had breathed his last you trudged onward, on foot to the next town. It had taken you several days and with no water. By the time you made it, you were dusty, exhausted, and on the verge of collapse. Despite the horrors of the world an elderly couple did take pity on you. They opened their home to you and fed you, bathed you, and promised to keep the life you carried inside a secret.

You didn’t stay long as you didn’t want to be a burden but now as you sat at a rickety table at a less than desirable establishment you were regretting not staying within the comfort of that home. You still had a ways to go until you reached your destination, the last wish your husband breathed was for you to continue on. To arrive and make the life you would build better for the little ones and yourself. You shook your head blinking back tears in frustration as you couldn’t help but feel despair bubbling up. If your husband couldn’t survive. How would you? You had no weapon, no means of transport, you could barely afford the necessary food and water for the journey. You wallowed quietly, unaware of your surroundings until the chair before you scraped the floor and a man plopped down. His shaggy black hair dusting his brow, while sunglasses hid his eyes from view. He propped a large canvas wrapped cross against the table. Without so much as acknowledging you he held up two fingers gaining a waitress’s attention.

“Two waters,” he told her, “and two specials and make the lady’s a little extra portion.”

You opened your mouth to protest but too late the woman rushed away to get the order in. Business was slow and like she knew that you would argue she took off. You glared at the man while he just smiled easily leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t even know you. Get lost,” you snarled as you weren’t really in the mood to deal with any kind of nonsense at the moment. Nor did you have the money to spend on food, let alone an extra portion (despite your babies needing the food).

“Don’t have to know me for me to do a kind deed,” he still smiled easy and it infuriated you more.

“For what kind of payment,” you questioned readying yourself to sprint out of here. “What’s your angle?”

“Let’s just say I’m a sucker for a good sob story and you look like you have one heck of a doozy to tell. Plus I don’t like the way them guys over there are looking at a pregnant lady.”

You jolted up with eyes wide. “You can tell?!”

“Not everyone has the senses I do, or pays attention to minor details but you keep your arms wrapped around your stomach. So either you have a REALLY bad stomach ache or your pregnant. And seeing as you aren’t green in the gills, yet. Gotta be pregnant. Congratulations!”

“What kind of priest are you?”

He grunted leaning forward patting the cross with one of his large hands, “Undertaker actually. But I’m an undertaker with a good listening ear. Mind unburdening yourself, you’ll feel better.”

“My husband was killed about a week ago,” you started, surprised that you were actually telling this man your story. He smiled leaning back in his chair again, readying himself for as long as you would go on.

“My condolences,” he interrupted a sad frown pulling at his lips.

“Thank you. He protected me and the babies and lost his life for it.” You sniffed wiping at the tears that threatened to fall. “He’d do it again, but we were on our way to find a better life and he wanted me to finish our journey to Octovern so the babies would grow up safe and have a good life. But it’s going to be difficult on my own. All our belongings were stolen as well, it’s a miracle they didn’t kill me.”

“Twins huh,” he asked at hearing you say babies. You nodded about to continue when the sudden presence of the returning waitress interrupted you.

The waitress set the two plates down before each of you, yours mounded with a little extra food and a rare glass of clear water. Nicholas nodded for you to eat as he handed the right amount of money to the server.

“My treat,” he said.

“For what price,” you still didn’t trust him. Everyone had a motive behind it if they helped anyone.

He sighed, “Caught me. I’m actually on my way there myself and I’m needing to make money on the way. There’s no better way than escorting a pretty pregnant lady to her destination. All I ask is half up front and I’ll even give you a discount.”

“You’re not a priest or an undertaker,” you scoffed pushing your plate away. “You’re nothing but a con artist and I rather take the chance I won’t make it by myself. Did you not notice the part of my story where I had my things stolen?”

“No I heard that part. No need to repeat yourself sweetheart,” he shoved the plate back. “That’s why I said discount. I promise I’m worth the pay.”

You contemplated shoving the plate back at him and storming off. But he had a point. The chances of you making it to Octovern in decent shape let alone alive was slim to none. The desert world was a harsh mistress that pitied no one. You were afraid he would charge too much for his services as you had to be frugal more than just once so far. Though the possibility of killing him in his sleep later on was the table. You shook your head, horrified at yourself for thinking such a thing. This journey was beginning to change you dramatically and you rubbed your stomach trying to soothe yourself. The stranger watched you with interest and his expression warmed at the thought of your protectiveness of the babies you carried. He remembered his lonely childhood with no parents and knowing not the mother that carried him. You were double blessed as your womb was protecting two new lives. He had the sudden urge to make sure these unborn children had their mom to grow up unlike he did.

“10,000,” he sudden spoke while you chewed thoughtfully.

You hid your reactions well as his asking price would clean you out. You had planned on finding a place to work as soon as you arrived at Octovern, until you had to give birth. But he would leave you destitute, living on the streets. Your mind circled around trying to find some sort of plan where everything could work out in your favor. He waited a little bit before his foot began to tap in impatience.

“Kind of steep don’t you think,” you spoke still trying to buy yourself some time.

“I cut you a huge break sweetheart,” he replied taking a gulp from his water cup. “All I ask is half up front. I did just pay for your meal to, the least you can do is finish it.”

“Stop calling me sweetheart and we have a deal,” you shoveled food in your mouth fighting the urge to throw it at him and storm off in frustration.

“Sure thing,” he held out a hand and you took it shaking it. He paused shaking your hand with a grin still on his face and you noticed the stubble on his chin and cheeks. “Sweetheart.” You groaned it was definitely going to be a long trip.

“I do have a name,” you released his hand before sitting back down. He noticed that you suddenly had a great interest in your plate of half eaten food. Once again he was patient also sitting back down across from you, just waiting for you to feel comfortable enough to speak. “(Y/N),” you finally said. He grinned again while rummaging in his pocket just to pull out a cigarette that had seen better days. Placing it between his lips he lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. Blowing smoke away from you he finally removed his sunglasses.

“Nicolas.” He took another drag. “Nicholas D. Wolfwood and I am your humble servant. Finish up we move at dusk.”

That exchange had happened two weeks ago and now the feel of despair was settling in as you felt like you were never going to make it to your destination. Nicholas did collect half of his fee when you both had left the small town, but despite being paid you did have to admit he was going above and beyond for you. There had been several unsavory people cross your path looking for trouble, he handled them easily. Whether they needed a bloody nose or their graves came in the form of scavenger's bellies he took care of them. You shivered at the memory of the first time you had watched Nicholas kill. But he was beginning to see the alluring life of being pregnant too. Your stomach was growing by the day and now the morning sickness and nausea had started setting in. Though he shuddered every time, Nicholas unfailingly held your hair back every time the nausea came too much and you emptied your stomach on the sand. And every time you finished retching he offered you water, immediately afterwards. Night time was the roughest as you couldn’t get comfortable on the sand due to your swelling belly. You were becoming bigger than most women because you carried two inside. It didn’t help that once the heat seeped out of the golden sand it started sapping away whatever body heat you had in your body and it made your joints start to ache. Nicholas noticed your shivering, he was used to the harshness of the desert alone, but this had to be your first time alone. Your husband most likely had a mode of transportation for you both. Most of the time Nicholas traveled on foot and he couldn’t imagine doing that while carrying children. Though his cross was definitely a lot heavier, but he had gotten used to lugging it around years ago. So he laid next to you every night to help keep you warm. You protested at first but when you saw how much warmer you were all arguments fled and you slept comfortably next to his warmth. 

On tougher terrain he held your hand guiding you from the safest spot to the other. He didn’t talk about himself much at all, deciding to keep most of his story a secret but he asked plenty of questions about yourself. At first you were reluctant to tell him anything, because despite him helping you he was still a stranger. You always worried about betraying your husband, you love him dearly still and you weren’t looking to find another man to love anytime soon or never. You were leaving that up to fate, though you couldn’t lie to yourself that Nicholas is a handsome man. He got a kick out of making you blush at times but he didn’t tease you often and you couldn’t help but grow to like him. You caught him staring several times during the day at your growing stomach. You couldn’t read his expression and the only thing you could guess close to was wistful. One of the big things you knew about him was he grew up an orphan and he didn’t know either of his parents. You couldn’t imagine growing up without the people who created you. It always made you sad when you started to think about how your children weren’t going to know their father. Nicholas could tell something was bothering you while you sat resting your feet and chewing slowly on a piece of dried meat.

“Got something on your mind,” he asked while smoking another cigarette.

“Just thinking about how they aren’t going to know their father,” you sniffed, the hormones making your emotions rage like a storm. You wiped at your eyes trying to give a brave smile but it wavered.

“They’re lucky to have a mom like you,” Nicholas answered. Tapping out his cigarette he moved to sit closer before taking your hand in comfort. He wasn’t one to pursue a woman who just lost the man she loved but he couldn’t help but feel a little attracted to you as you wanted nothing but the best for your children, no matter the cost to yourself. “I didn’t have either of my parents and I turned out fine.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better,” you scoffed.

“I’m trying here.” He rubbed the back of his neck, not really knowing what to do for once in his life.

You felt guilty making him feel so awkward when all he wanted to do was comfort you before the water works really began. “I’m sorry. Thank you Nicholas.”

“Come on,” he got up dusting his pants off before offering a hand to you. “We don’t like too much longer and we’ll make it. Then you’ll be rid of me and you’ll have your babies and your life will be so much better.”

With some effort you were back on your feet, your ankles tender from the weight and your back aching fiercely. “I’m ready to have them. Not just for getting pregnancy over with but I’m excited to meet them. And I think that I’ll have to tell them all about a certain undertaker with a big heart.”

Nicholas scoffed hurriedly hiding his blush as he squeezed your hand a little tighter, “Don’t flatter me.” You laughed leaning against him to show him that you were really happy that you had met him all those months ago.

The outline of Octovern stood out against the horizon a few days later and you could sob from relief. It was getting dark fast and Nicholas wanted to get you in town during the daylight hours, so you both had to camp outside one last time. You had fallen asleep from pure exhaustion and relief that your journey was coming to an end. Nicholas watched you sleep peacefully a sorrow growing in his heart that he wouldn’t be able to see you any longer. Once he got you set up somewhere safe, where you could live in peace and raise your children he would disappear. The orphanage in the town needed his assistance for a little while and then when he was done he would be gone again, until years later when he was needed once more. You had become a welcoming constant in his life and he was dreading traveling alone once more. His heart yearned for the type of companionship you had found with your husband, but that was a life he could never earn. A wife and a stable home didn’t seem to be in the card for him. Though a deep rooted part of him fantasied staying with you, raising your children with you as their father. Working like a normal man just to come home to a family who needed and adored him. He shook his head, reaching for another cigarette. His hands shook and the feeling to do the right thing overwhelmed his more selfish side. Nicholas rummaged in his pocket, taking the money you had paid him and gently placing it back in your pack while you slept. He sat back down keeping watch so you could replenish your energy for the last little bit of travel in the morning.

Octovern seemed really promising and it took your breath away. Nicholas held onto your arm guiding you through the people so you wouldn’t get lost from him. While it was one of the better towns it still had it’s own unsavory characters and there was no way to hide your large belly now. 

“I didn’t know what I was expecting,” you said breathlessly.

“It’s hard to imagine until you see it for yourself,” he chuckled. “But I know the perfect place for you to stay. It will be safe for you and there’s easy places to work not far from it.”

Nicholas and you stood before a large building, compared to others it wasn’t near as dilapidated from the weather like others. You looked to him excitedly and he smiled in return. Apparently he was well known around the establishment as Nicholas was welcomed in with open arms. You laughed when the elderly lady squeezed him tightly making him uncomfortable. You were set up with a room and told where meals were held and what times. Before you knew it your time with Nicholas was coming to an end. You could feel the tell tale sting of tears threatening to breach your wall that you had built. Nicholas nodded at the older lady and she went in the back giving you both some privacy.

“I owe you for the other half of your fee,” you spoke while reaching into your bag. Nicholas grabbed your wrist shaking his head. He smiled softly taking you into a hug.

“I can’t ask for any more payment, you have a lot to get before starting to work,” he fought tears himself. “Take care of yourself.”

You could no longer fight your tears as they streamed down your cheeks. Nicholas tenderly kissed them away, knowing he was overstepping his bounds.

“But...”

Nicholas cut you off with a kiss to your forehead. He finally allowed himself to place a calloused hand on your stomach feeling the two kids kicking at his hand in greeting. He smiled though it wavered and a rogue tear slipped out.

“Be good for your mom okay,” he gazed back up to you. “She’s amazing.”

With one last squeeze Nicholas D. Wolfwood released you and walked away. You watched him leave, cross and all while sobbing quietly as you had grown attached to him. Nicholas didn’t look back walking to his destination, vowing to not make it harder by coming to see you again before he left Octovern, all the while still tasting the salt from your tears on his tongue. That night you found the money he returned in your bag and you couldn’t help but break again. You felt doomed never to see him again and you looked out hoping you could catch one more glimpse of the stranger undertaker.

Five years later...

After the twins were born your life had become less lonely. Missing your husband and then Nicholas took it’s toll on your mental health but once the midwives placed a pink bundle and a blue bundle in your arms everything changed. You found work where you could be home with them every night while the land lady of the housing building was more than willing to babysit during the day. Your life was a whirlwind of giving them everything you possibly could. But on lonely nights when you put the twins to bed you laid awake wondering what happened to the undertaker you had grown fond of in that short amount of time together. Your children asked for stories about their father all the time and you gladly told them, despite them making you a little sad. And while you wanted them to remember their father and be proud of the man he was, you made sure to tell them of the stranger that had protected you and them while they grew inside your belly. They made known their wish to meet the man you thought of fondly, but you knew that the chances of him ever coming into your life again was basically zero. You remembered watching him walk through the door and the overwhelming crushing feeling of being alone once more.

Fate had different plans as you had to take the twins to work with you. Your boss didn’t mind the children as they minded well and stayed in the back out of the way coloring or reading picture books. You served tables with fast efficiency as you noticed the front door swing open.

“Seat yourself wherever you like,” you called heading back to the kitchen with dirty dishes in tow. “I will be with you in just a second.”

“Is that any way to treat an old friend,” the new customer asked in a familiar smokey voice.

Your head whipped around gazing at the silhouette in the door frame darkened by the sun at his back. You caught a glimpse of the familiar mop of black hair that needed trimmed, the dark sunglasses, dusty suit, the cigarette between his thin lips, and the large cross ever present against his back. You dropped the dishes and they shattered upon impact. Everyone asked if you were okay but you rushed across the building, tears and a cry of surprise as you tackled him. Nicholas D. Wolfwood had come back into your life like a heaven sent. He caught you, bringing you to his chest while still holding his cross in a tight grip.

“Hey sweetheart,” he chuckled also blinking back tears.

“I’ve missed you,” you sobbed.

He nuzzled his cheek in your hair the stubble catching on the strands, “I’ve missed you to. I see you had your babies.”

Before you could say anything else, two little voices spoke up in concern.

“Momma!” Your twins rushed towards you and the strange man hugging their mom. Your son glared at Nicholas not knowing this stranger while your daughter looked on in awe up at the man. He chuckled at their expressions seeing you in their little faces.

“Speak of the little devils,” he kissed your forehead before squatting down in front of the two children. “I’m Nicholas a friend of your momma’s.” 

He went to his pocket and you were surprised he would smoke in front of your kids. But he once again surprised you when he held two lollipops out for them. They eagerly grabbed them from his hand, unwrapping them, and then popping the treats into eager mouths. You walked to Nicholas’ again pressing into his side before gesturing towards your children he had yet to meet formally.

Pointing to your daughter, “This is Nikita.”

“She looks just like you,” Nicholas replied smiling at the five year old.

“And this,” you pointed towards your son, “is Wolfe. I guess you can tell where I got the inspiration for their names.”

“Must be one magnificent guy to inspire the names of two cute kids.”

“He’s pretty great, for a lousy undertaker,” you teased.

“This lousy undertaker really missed you,” he whispered while leaning in closer now that the children were distracted.

“I missed the lousy undertaker too,” you whispered back. He kissed you softly, letting himself give in for once since it had been years. He knew he couldn’t take advantage of his feelings with you losing your husband so close to him finding you beforehand. But now that years had passed by and he had taken time away from you, he couldn’t let the opportunity pass him by. Your soft lips pressing against his, it was better than any water he had ever tasted. He held you tighter afraid you’d pull away but you just melted right in. Threading your fingers through his mop of hair. He shivered at the feel of you, losing himself in the feeling. This is what paradise felt like, he was sure. You had become his everything across that desert and now he wasn’t willing to ever let his Eden go ever again.

 Having him back felt like a dream to you. A wonderful dream that would disappear if you let go. He would probably have to leave again in due time, but for now you could have some semblance of happiness and your children could have someone to look up to. He had became your everything after losing a lot and now you were more than willing to open up your heart to him, to see where the new journey before you would take you and him. And you couldn’t dream of a better ending to your story. 

[pareidoliaonthemove]

The Ice Child

The media had gone wild.

Jeff Tracy understood – even while he did not appreciate – the nature of the fame beast. And his family’s tragedy had all the ingredients of a media sensation: successful, famous, newly rich father, luxury holiday, small children, death, and scenic backdrops of snow-covered mountains.

So he understood that there would be no escaping or appeasing the media frenzy, all they could do was try to ignore the flashing lights and shouted questions. Unfortunately, almost all of his family – himself included – had had moments where it had all gotten too much, and the vultures got the reactions they wanted.

Almost all his family.

Virgil hadn’t spoken a word since Jeff had dug him, more dead than alive, out of the snow and his dead mother’s embrace.

That was three weeks ago.

Virgil had been cleared of all physical injuries within a week, and they had been allowed to travel home, his wife in a simple wooden casket strapped down in the baggage hold of the private jet Jeff had chartered for their return journey.

It took another week for the appropriate paperwork to be completed, and arrangements to be made for the funeral, a simple private graveside ceremony photographed for the world to see by unscrupulous paparazzi despite the best efforts of the local community.

The long-lens zoomed in photo of Virgil standing next to Jeff before the grave, staring completely void of expression, and Jeff’s hand on his shoulder graced nearly every newspaper, tabloid magazine and television report and talkshow.

The media gleefully reported Virgil as ‘brain damaged’, ‘catatonic’, or ‘traumatised beyond hope of recovery’, but hastily arranged medical assessments showed the boy was physically fine, and it was too early to call him traumatised, a sympathetic child psychologist told him that Virgil was still trying to process what had happened.

She was starting towards getting him back to a communicative state, only then would they be able to discover exactly how badly he had been affected.

Part of Jeff dreaded it.

Right now it felt, though it might be the beer talking, as if he was waiting to find out if his son had really survived the avalanche.

He had a dim memory of a story he’d heard or read as a child, about fairies swapping babies with wrapped up lumps of coal, magicked to look and act like a real child. The coal baby stayed with the human parents, while the fairies took the real child away with them. After a time, the fairies came back, and if the parents had been good and kind, their child was returned, full of the wisdom and graces of the fairylands. If the parents had been cruel or neglectful, their real child was lost to them forever, and the spell on the coal collapsed, leaving the wicked parents with a cradle of coal and sorrows.

That’s what this felt like. As though he had taken from his wife’s frozen death bed a cocoon of ice and snow in the shape of their son. And now he was awaiting judgement; waiting for the ice to thaw and the cocoon to open and from it would emerge …

What?

His son?

Or the coal and sorrow that condemn him as an unfit parent?

Notes:

Febuwhump Day 16 “Came Back Wrong”.

Anything about mutism as a response to trauma, etc follows story logic here. It works that way, because I say it does in the story world. My apologies to anyone who actually knows about this this and should they wish to share information, I will happily learn.

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the Original Series, the Movies (both Supermarionation and Live Action), or the Thunderbirds Are Go Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

[dahliadew]

Danny Fenton, soul survivor (dp fanfic prompt (maybe crossover))

Over time across different cities in different states, various disasters, both man made and natural, have occurred across America. Each would have been remembered as a tragedy in the minds of the aging residents that experienced them. If not for the strange case of one name littered throughout each event. One Daniel Fenton has seemingly haunted reports and records of each event. Either survivor or soul witnesses to the events, he smilingly is always there, left behind whatever tragedy has occurred.

Ten years before this document's writing, a passenger bus crashed in Fargo, Minnesota, causing the deaths of all those aboard and those in a second vehicle involved in the crash. All involved died before they could reach the hospital except for a young man, only identifying himself as "Danny," After being taken to the hospital, he was only found to have minor cuts and abrasions but was otherwise fine. Not much information could be gleaned from the young man as early on in his stay at the hospital, he disappeared, leaving investigators to fill in the gasps. He was found to have no connections to the other passengers on board, which raised more questions as an unaccompanied minor would have needed more information and documentation to board the bus. But after contacting the ticketing office, no such information could be found. And with the accident easily explained as a mechanical error resulting from poor maintenance on the part of the bussing company, there was little left to investigate. However, one investigator claimed to see the boy once on the edge of town days after the final funeral after the case had wrapped up. Staring off into the sky, snow drifting down onto his face. Neither spoke nor moved, but like before, the boy seemed to vanish again, this time into the snow. It was mentioned at the bottom of the report in a penciled-in line made years after the report had been finalized that in those moments, the unnamed officer had not seen the boy's breath while staring, entranced. He notes his breath drifting on the winds, but the boy stands as still as the breath he didn't breathe.

Accounts similar to this litter the different reports from civilianize and officers alike, some more fantastical than others. But all agree that some part of the boy never left their towns. And these reports are not limited to small-town legends but are extended to federal agencies, as in the case of the crash of flight 187 from New York to Florida.

In a recently unsealed NTSB (The National Transportation Safety Board) document detailing the fate of flight 187 on the night of June 7th, 1968, a single blurred photo with a name scrawled unceremoniously on the bottom lies at the end of the file. The image depicts a boy from 14 to 16 lying on a stretcher in a makeshift triage, presumable on the crash site. The name, like before, says "Danny." When flight 187 went down, a rapid response was organized to assist any of the passengers who may have survived the crash. But as the collision occurred in the middle of the Florida swamps, hopes were not high, and as many predicted, all of those they found on the first day of search and rescue were deceased. But a boy was miraculously found as the sun rose and the cicadas sang on the second day. This time with much more extensive injury but none that those on site believed would lead to his death. With the hope renewed for other passengers and the closest hospital over a day away, it was decided to keep the boy on site with the medical team already present. Unfortunately, no others were found, leaving a solitary, motionless boy on a bed. He had woken up sporadically but never could remain awake. He could identify himself in one of these waking spells, but only his first name. As news spread of the crash and one passenger's survival, the family began to descend to the hospital where the boy had been transferred. But like before, no one could claim the boy, and no connection to any other passenger could be found. Leaving another group of investigators with the mystery of the boy's origin; this time, with the aid of federal resources, they could investigate more leads, but none would result in any concrete information. Three months after the boy had been found and the bodies buried, he disappeared again, with one attending doctor noting how none of the monitors alerted them to the boy's absences.

The oldest record of the boy's involvement in a tragedy lies in an unfinished report of an explosion and fire at a fast food restaurant in the 1950s from a now deserted town in the American midwest. This fire in the town of amity park took the lives of 6 people Jack and Madeline Fenton, their daughter jasmine, friends Samantha Mason and Tucker Foley, and their high school teacher Mr. Lancer. The only witness to this tragedy was reportedly the couple's young son caught in the blaze, Daniel "Danny" Fenton. Little is known about the boy from before or after the accident. And unlike the other incidences, this was the only accident without a definitive cause. It has been proposed that the presence of the mysterious boy and the investigation into him led the investigator to discover the true reasons for these events. In the case of the bus crash, investigating the company's inner workings that allowed for a minor with no documentation to travel led investigators to the company's history of mismanagement and cost-cutting. As for the plane crash, the renewed vigor of finding the boy alive allowed teams to find the plane's black box before it could have been destroyed or lost in a storm that later washed over the crash site. Those preaching this theory have stated that the boy is a Spector that can predict these events before they happen, and while he can stop them, he can’t, at the very least, give the family the answers that he was denied.

However, this is meanly a theory, and as in the 30 documented cases of the boy starting in the 50s up to 2009, wherein it is believed that he last appeared, there are only three photos. One of the original Dannal, the photo as mentioned above taken at the plane crash, and one final picture published in a local newspaper in an unnamed town with what looks like said a familiar-looking boy standing in a crowd watching the unveiling of a marmoreal.

Currently, these are ghost stories haunting the shadows of towns scarred by tragedy; more tales of the boy's travels permeate these files. And under normal circumstances, they would continue to rest in the bowels of their files, but as for last night, a team has begun investigating these events and the figure who resides within them.

(hi, sorry for this being so long; it's a weird plot idea I've been working with for a little while. I think it's up to whoever uses this prompt if they want to make it a crossover because I can see it working for something like supernatural, criminal minds, or maybe the DCU if the writer has batman investigating a recent incident in his city that may have ties to past events. But idk hope you guys like it, and to anyone who wants to use this prompt, have fun and go nuts!)

[acosmicblizzard]

If request are still open can you do how 3 IDV characters would react to the reader being their biological child?

Yup requests are still open! Hope you enjoy! Since the request didn't specify characters I'm just gonna freestyle with some characters I like.

Emil, Ada, & Michiko reacting to reader being their biological child

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, mentions of murder

Characters: Michiko - “Geisha”, Ada - “Psychologist”, Emil - “Patient”.

(for the sake of these headcanons we're ignoring canon and pretending Ada & Emil didn't die at the manor)

Ada & Emil

For Ada & Emil you were most likely a planned pregnancy between them after their marriage. For awhile until Ada got the offer to visit the manor to help with Emil's treatment you three lived a happy peaceful life in a house. They both raised you together and while it was a learning process they were both decent parents.

It wasn't until a tragedy happened on the way to the manor that they lost you, you randomly went missing under unknown circumstances. Ada and Emil were absolutely heartbroken by this and for awhile they didn't appear at the oletus manor to mentally recover but would eventually go over to it.

It was that fateful day they reunited with you at the manor, you remembered their exact appearances and even if you changed yours over the years they knew it was you just due to gut feeling, a strange connection they felt to you.

In that moment both of them ran over to you as fast as possible and embraced you. Panickly asking you about what happened, how you ended up here, and many other things. They're not gonna leave you alone for hours and weeks on end, afraid things may repeat again and you'll be taken away from them.

Emil practically fills the role of a housespouse and knows how to cook, usually making breakfast in bed for you and Ada. Ada is the one who works all the time but whenever she's free she'll definitely make time on your schedule to play with you, read you bedtime stories, and other activities.

Though the bonded couple and their child may meet a unfortunate fate within this bloodied manor, they bonds shall surpass time and space as the gods may take pity on these 3 souls as they ascend to the afterlife.

Michiko

Just like Ada & Emil, for Michiko you were most likely a planned pregnancy between her and Miles. She probably had you before Miles father killed Michiko and she ended up at the manor, meaning Miles was left all alone to raise you when you were still a baby.

When the small you arrived at the manor Michiko felt a strange familiarity to you despite not remembering who you were. Though she longs to return to both you and her husband, to her it would be a very long time until that day were to come.

It wasn't until after you bonded with Michiko as friends you showed her a photo you had in your manor room. It was a photo of Michiko, Miles, and a baby you. The familiar butterfly hair accessory that Michiko sometimes had on her during battles on her in that photo. In that moment Michiko's heart paused and skipped a million beats. She immediately recognized miles, you, and herself in that photo and that familiar butterfly pin.

Tears filled her eyes as she quickly embraced you and apologized for leaving you and miles, for suddenly disappearing without warning, and promising to be the best mother she could while you were by her side. Even if you didn't believe she was your mother at first she brought out the butterfly hair pin and told you information about your father that no one other then close family could know.

Michiko is a incredibly caring mother figure and practically tries to do everything for you. Brushing your hair, making you breakfast, helping you with mundane daily tasks, and other things.

Even though the red butterfly was taken away from her family, she will still flap her wings until the day she can see them both once again. Then maybe one day, fate will reunite them all.

[aeoki]

Atlantis - Amusement Park: Chapter 7

Location: Yumenosaki Auditorium Characters: Touri & Wataru Season: Winter

Touri: “No. It’s precisely because the era and our positions have changed that the noble, elegant and popular ‘fine’...”

“Is now giving food reviews for affordable and delicious food – as everyone can see.”

“Otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to survive in the idol industry that ES had changed.”

“We won’t be able to survive in the future if we just sing and dance.”

“We’ll have nice photos taken of us, act in tragedies and comedies, talk about interesting things…”

“The idols of the future won’t just be singers – the industry now demands idols to have a variety of skills.”

“No. That was what idols were supposed to be originally.”

“But as time went on, our predecessors started to ignore that.”

“They distorted our existence, and that distortion created a lot of strife and misfortune.”

“I think those negative consequences also affected the other courses.”

“I honestly acknowledge that happening and I apologise. I’m sorry.”

“You all suffered because we were useless – because we weren’t like proper idols…”

“For that, I’m truly sorry.”

Amano Hashidate (Wataru): (Amazing.)

(That’s wonderful. It’s because people thought of him as someone arrogant that seeing him bow down and apologise has greatly stirred the hearts of the people watching him.)

(Something that was supposed to be impossible is happening right now.)

(He’s making us really feel that things have begun changing.)

(He’s giving us hope for the future. That’s something that didn’t exist for a very long time in Yumenosaki. Everyone was pessimistic about the future and also powerless against it…)

(Eichi and “Trickstar’s” revolution changed that. You have inherited “that” and will build upon it.)

(You helped us envision that “story” with just that attitude alone.)

(Amazing. Ohh, how Amazing.)

Touri: “Now that the idol industry and the world has changed, Yumenosaki must also do the same.”

“No. I, Touri Himemiya, will be the one to bring upon that change.”

“As the student council president of Yumenosaki Academy.”

Amano Hashidate (Wataru): “That is both beautiful and logical.”

(Now, summon your counterattack! How exciting!)

(I wouldn’t have minded acting like I’m losing and agreeing with what you’ve said, but I’d like to play some more ♪)

“What you said was very convincing. I’m touched.”

“But you mentioned that Yumenosaki must also change as the world has…”

“You haven’t presented any reasons as to why the person responsible for the change has to be Touri Himemiya.”

“In reality, anyone can be the one to wave a flag. Of course, that applies to myself as well.”

“No. Although it is embarrassing for me to say, as the one desired by all and the one who theoretically has the most votes, wouldn’t that role be more suitable for me?”

“Let’s talk about the crucial matter. Is there a reason why the student council president must be you?”

Touri: “That’s because I’m the most powerful here.”

“That’s out of everyone here – including you. No, out of everyone at Yumenosaki.”

“Everyone here has seen what I’ve gone through before standing on this stage.”

“Even the people who are watching the livestream online should know since it’s a pretty hot topic.”

“Right now, Yumenosaki Academy has turned into a strange amusement park that no one has ever seen before.”

“This is the blueprint for the amusement park I’m planning on building in the future – ‘ATLANTIS’.”

“You can see an alternate reality brought by VR by putting these contact lenses on.”

“Well, it looks like fun, don’t you think? It’s an entertainment facility that combines the best parts of an amusement park and an aquarium. Obviously that has to be fun, right?”

“If you feel something’s lacking and wish to complain, then feel free to send in your opinions. We’ll implement them.”

“I think this amusement park, ‘ATLANTIS’, will be a wonderful recreational facility that will make people smile.”

“It’s just an illusion at the moment, but I’ll definitely make it a reality in the future.”

Amano Hashidate (Wataru): “Objection ♪ How is that related to the student council president election?”

Touri: “It is related. It’s proof that the one who will be the student council president is someone who can turn absurd things into reality.”

“I’m Touri Himemiya.”

“I’m sure you all already know but I'm an heir to a wealthy family.”

“I’ll use our excess funds and power for Yumenosaki Academy– no, for everyone that’s here – that, I promise.”

“That’s if you vote for me to be the student council president.”

“I’ll turn all your dreams into reality.”

“I’ll turn this school and this world into an amusement park that will make everyone smile.”

“Naturally, that ‘everyone’ doesn’t just mean the idol course – it includes everyone from the other courses too.”

“I’ll erase the dissatisfaction you all have that Hashidate-san mentioned.”

Amano Hashidate (Wataru): “............”

Touri: “...Adults and idols who are threatened by vested interests might complain.”

“But I definitely won’t let them complain. I’m sure there will be an official announcement made afterwards, but ‘ATLANTIS’ is an important facility for the idol industry.”

“If the project is completed with a high degree of perfection, then I’ll be able to gain an influential voice in the industry.”

“I’d have an achievement under my name – I’ll be known as someone who accomplished a great undertaking.”

“No one will be able to complain if I’m standing on the top as the imperial standard. That goes the same for the obstinate adults, Yumenosaki Academy… and everyone else..”

“I won’t let them do whatever they want on our stage of youth.”

“I’ll turn our school, Yumenosaki Academy, into…”

“A utopia, into heaven – into a paradise.”

“It’s simple. Just vote for me and I can grant your wish.”

“So please. Please vote for me.”

“I won’t ask you to love me.”

“Just believe in me.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ← Previous Chapter ᠂ ⚘ ˚⊹˚ ⚘ ᠂  Next Chapter →

[ash-imagines]

How do you think a relationship between adult Nozomi and adult Karamatsu would go? The thing is that I think that this pair would be wonderful together, but I can barely find anything on them. Any headcanons for them?

It's my personal headcanon that Nozomi is something of a yōkai (kaibyō I think?), because she can appear in human or cat form and was capable of doing so seemingly even after her death. It was ambiguous what her illness was, and we only know that it was terminal, so I think it might have been something spiritual that mortal doctors didn't know how to treat.

While she and Karamatsu were still in school, she wasn't particularly well-liked. She wasn't disliked or anything, but she struck many people as being an odd girl. In reality, she was odd because she's not a mortal. Humans often behave in ways that are difficult for non-human entities to emulate. This is likely what draws her to the Matsunos, and particularly to Karamatsu. Those six are also a bit odd, and Karamatsu was not as social in high school as he is in adulthood. She likely saw a lot of herself in them.

Unfortunately, she wasn't able to get close to them at the time. She was young and shy. Plus, she knew that a relationship with a mortal would likely only end in tragedy. As a sentimental person, she gets very interested in photography. This way, she can capture a moment and hold onto it. In time, everything fades away, even photos. But the photos help you remember longer.

After her physical, human body fades from the world, she visits Karamatsu in his dreams. He's a lot different now than he used to be, and she finds it fascinating to compare who he was to who he is. This kind of stirs up some chaos in his head, though.

She likes the person that Karamatsu has grown to become. Of course, he was cute as a shy high schooler, but he's gained a little confidence that suits him nicely. It's clear he's still a little insecure on the inside, but isn't everybody? At least he's brave enough to stand out. She wishes she had done more of that before her mortal body had deteriorated. Anyone can look good in a flashy outfit if they wear it with enough confidence. At the very least, she knows Ichimatsu secretly agrees with her.

There's always been a degree of separation between her and the Matsunos, and there likely always will be, but she's taken to being one of the strays that occasionally visits Ichimatsu. She likes to keep tabs on the family, to see what sort of goofy antics they've gotten into recently. They're the ones that made her feel like maybe she belonged, like maybe she wasn't as strange as she always felt. Even if she was never fully mortal, their presence made her feel welcome. So they'll always have her looking out for them. Especially Karamatsu.

[justkeepstimming]

Year Seven

Content note for the Day of Mourning, filicide, and a much longer post than I meant to write.

On March 1st, we participated in the Disability Day of Mourning to honor disabled victims of filicide. Every year, a new list of names is shared – adding to the hundreds of names that has been gathered by The Autistic Self Advocacy Network over the years.

And yet, there are names and stories that we will never know. Never reported, acknowledged, or shared.

___

Disability is a natural part of the human condition. It’s not a tragedy or a fate worse than death. Every person is an integral part of the interconnected life we live – by the things they create, the influence on those around them, or the love they hold for the things that give them joy.

Our worth is not measured in salaries, degrees, or suspected IQ points. Life is sacred in whatever path lies before us – even if it’s not expected or the “norm.” The beauty of life often lies in the mundane.

_____

This was my seventh year as a site coordinator for the Disability Day of Mourning vigil. It never gets easier. As I put together a slideshow each year, I look through the photos and their stories.

I see babies as young as one day old, and I wonder what kind of life they could’ve lived. I think of all the things taken away from the young names on the list, robbed of those little moments as we grow.

The warm feeling of sunlight through a school bus window or the comfort in the presence of those we love during a winter storm outside – would they have experienced such things?

What joys would have filled their soul with delight?

What would they have been like as an adult?

_

I see elders over one hundred years old – and I imagine what kind of life they lived. Even in their older years, life was still there to be experienced.

How did they like their coffee – or did they even drink coffee?

Did they have any regrets?

Was there something they were looking forward to?

_____

A list of names doesn’t tell you everything.

It doesn’t tell you that 4 year old Madelin’s favorite color was blue and adored her collection of stuffed animals.

You can’t see that 84 year old Patricia had 8 great-grandchildren – or the joy of 6 year old Leon when he was surrounded by bubbles.

It can’t describe how much 73 year old Mary loved scrapbooking and watching the Guardians of the Galaxy.

We don’t get to see why 35 year old Jack was described as an incredibly loving person, or the art of 17 year old Morgan who dreamed of going to Japan one day.

It doesn’t tell you that little 2 year old Lola was a joyful toddler with a love for butterflies and the outdoors – or that 9 year old Amanpreet loved visiting the park, playing in the swings.

We don’t know what books 63 year old Cheryl was happily reading. We will never see 82 year old Joan’s rose garden.

We don’t get to know 7 year old Lucas’ favorite character in Star Wars, or 12 year old Rosa’s favorite shade of pink.

Names alone can’t tell you that 5 year old twins Ahmad and Ava were in kindergarten; how Ahmad was talkative and outgoing while Ava was known as a quiet observer.

_____

All these years, I’ve never been able to understand these deaths. I can’t explain it, nor can I explain society’s painting of our existence as a burden.

When my youngest brother died in 2018, the remnants of my grief were constantly countered with “encouragement” of strangers, who never actually had the privilege to meet sweet Liam.

Being told we were better off without him as a burden was pure salt in the wound. Over 6 years later, the sting still remains – as does the real burden: grief.

__

The arguments of a lack of supports fall flat as parents all over struggle with the same – and yet never harm their children like this.

The tragedy lies not in the disability, but the violence from the hands of those who the victims should have been able to trust the most.

I don’t have the words to describe the ache I feel in the photos and stories.

But what I can tell you is this:

Disabled lives are worth living.

-Courtney Johnson, @justkeepstimming