#quitting papers please timelines in the middle so i no longer remember what kind of run i was trying to do

[anaalnathrakhs]

i don’t know what it is with me and video games but no matter how fun or interesting a game sounds, i almost never boot it up and even when i do i play like thirty minutes and then give up.

like i guess it’s because i’m a internet-addicted little gremlin and the second i open an browser i have a System to get me five different kinds of doomscrolling on hand at once, so unlike irl hobbies that i can do away from the computer or in tandem with my doomscrolling of choice today, i need to have my cozy usual setup just a tiiiny bit out of reach but avoid using it to focus on my game.

i don’t usually have that problem with games on my phone or handheld consoles back when i had one of those, but also i’m careful to pick games that aren’t disturbed by me watching a video at the same time, like wordless brain puzzles or pokemon hunting yknow, if the game starts a story segment or ambiance is important i play that on its own, away from distractions.

even when i play flash games on the computer while watching a video, i feel like i switch back and forth still pretty often. and even when i play a “proper” game with friends and focus on it for a couple hours, i can tell it wears me down and at the end all i can think about it the skin-crawling need to go listen to music really loud and scroll social media for two hours, even though that’s also because of the socialization aspect.

but switching back and forth between a solo game and my usual setup isn’t really an option cuz my computer struggles with it depending on the game, and also even if i did find something on my phone that could fill that role, most computer games are still more involved than mobile games that i can play while doing something else. i wouldn’t want to take away from the experience of a game bc my stupid brain needs to also be doing sudoku and listening to 2000′s pop at the same time. because honestly i kinda already do that when i watch movies and series. which i feel somewhat conflicted about. but that might mean there’s just yknow, no way to get over it, at least in my current circumstances.

[nostalgic-pancakes]

Room 73- Chapter 4/8

Summary: D&D is planned, two characters get their very own breakdowns, Thomas reminisces, and Virgil has one good day

Pairings: (eventual) QPP’s Remus and Patton, Pre-Relationship prinxiety, sibling-y Virgil and Original Character, Creativitwins

Read on AO3

Word count: 3326

Warnings: Questionable parenting, period-typical homophobia, the foster system, semi-graphic (?) depictions of violent death, rage breakdown, nervous breakdown, minor arson.

Other notes: None!

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Logan quite frankly had no idea what Janus meant by ‘friendly hissing’. All hissing was a warning sign to potential prey, and wasn’t friendly in any incarnation! How could certain kinds of hissing be friendly? They all sound the same!

This was a level of insanity nearly topping Neil DeGrasse Tyson playing Merlin in the fucking Sharknado movies. But not really. That would top everything. Either way, Janus, someone who also hissed rather often (information citation being Patton) was likely the superior authority in tonal hissing. Logan’s a bit too sleep-deprived looking up resources for ghosts and surviving midterms to care too much.

Either way, the Dungeons and Dragons planning session was starting today. Everyone would be there at lunch this time and that meant that one, he would get to see his brother for the first time since homeroom (no common classes on Wednesdays was not ideal), and meeting with the rest of their newfound friends.

(Logan had never had anyone other than Virgil, and the rest seem to be alright. Janus knows, anyways, and he didn’t hate Logan for it, so it’s probably alright. He hopes it’s alright.)

“Lo-Lo!! Over here!” comes a friendly voice from his northeast. It’s Patton, who’s waving at him, glasses crooked, big smile. Logan fixes his glasses, and tries to smile back. It works, and even feels real.

Patton from up close certainly looks a bit tired, but he’s still happy enough, so Logan refrains from pointing it out.

When they reach the lunch table tentatively labeled as ‘theirs’, Virgil scoots over to let Logan slot between him and Roman, while Patton curls up next to Janus, relishing being with their siblings again, as much as friends are ‘neat’.

(Maybe he’s been getting back into Welcome to Night Vale. Maybe Amma cried and hugged him, calling it progress and Mom sat next to him and listened to her own show, the Magnus Archives and held him close. Maybe Virgil squeezed him tight and brought out the ‘What the Fuck is Happening in Night Vale’ board they’d made when they were twelve. He’d never tell)

Remus starts to hand out sheets of paper, asking everyone to draw their characters while he and Virgil work on plot, and it’s quiet in that little space of three pairs of siblings sketching out D&D characters, later talking about little things, big things and everything in between in the courtyard because the senior kids had exams and therefore none of them had last period. It was pleasant, and they’d all be paying their third ever group visit to Thomas later in the afternoon, too.

This was nice.

…

“Hey, Vi?” Hildi asked from behind him. They were sitting back-to-back, on her bed listening to a new album from All Time Low. The name didn’t matter too much yet.

“Yeah, Di?”

“Wanna do low level arson?” she asked, turning to face him and reclaiming her earbud. This was probably a terrible idea, but Hildi was the one person he wasn’t scared of acting out horrific ideas with. He smiles, and it’s reflected in Hildi’s eyes, dark green like the forest she lives in.

“Sure, why not?” he gets up, and Hildi turns around again for him to take his binder off and put on a sports bra, before putting his jumper (that Patton had given him for his birthday last week) back on, and patting his jean pockets for his phone. Once he knew everything was there, Hildi turned back to him, took his hand and led him outside. - “Okay, so how did you possibly, in any fucking timeline convince me to set fire to your old ‘Secret Diaries��� in the middle of the very flammable woods as if it was, at all, anything REMOTELY RESEMBLING a good idea?!”

“The power of friendship, Virge. Don’t fret, the damages are going to be well hidden in a week.”

“Oh my god but this is how forest fires start, were we crazy?!”

“Virgil calm down, nothing is more than slightly scorched, nothing is dead, and we caught every last ember! You’d know!”

“How would I know? Isn’t that more your department?”

“Spend enough time with a witch, and this is what happens. I regret nothing.”

“I regret so many things.”

“Sadness.” - “Hey, scaredy-bro, Love you.” Hildi whispers into the night, and Virgil remembers nights like this in middle school, when he started to realise that not everyone was as scared as him all the time, and he’d become more scared because everyone was watching, and laughing, and--

And Hildi had been there, a casual acquaintance from primary school becoming his best friend becoming his kind of sister because what other word is there (?), offering him trash earbuds that made the grunge music sound that much grungier, and holding him close on the nights Logan came home, unable to speak, covered in bruises, never letting Virgil tell their parents even though Logan was their twin and Virgil was so scared-- She caught him as he fell, and he hopes that she knows that he’ll forever be grateful for it.

“Love you too, you fucking danger noodle.”

Hildi chucks a throw pillow at him. It misses by at least three feet, falling off the shared bed. They both giggle, loud enough that Hildi’s mum ‘ssh’’s them from her own room, audible even with the closed door.

Three hours later, knowing full well that Virgil’s been on tumblr this whole time, Hildi whispers again.

“Hey, let’s look for Kelpies in the creek tomorrow”

This is an awful idea. But it has fewer environmental ramifications.

“Sure, why not. After December break?”

“Fuck yeah.”

They don’t last a lot longer after that.

…

Virgil wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find when he went to check on Roman, after it was ten minutes past final bell and he still hadn’t shown in the chemistry room after going back to pick up his papers.

Having a minor breakdown was not on that list, even though murder was. Virgil’s brain needed new priorities.

“Ro-Ro, Roman, what’s happening?”

“I-I can’t Virgil, I can't do it, please, I’m sorry” Virgil’s hands clenched tighter onto Roman’s shirt collar, knuckles white from the worry.

“You can't do what, Roman?” he asks, as gently as he can

“I-I’m so scared, Virgil. Mom’s not doing well, Dad’s doing the opposite of helping, and Remus and I don’t know what to do, Virgil. They keep f-fighting. The last time we tried to tell, it was by accident, and Mom had gotten so mad, and she’d said “If you keep talking about how Mom and Dad fight, then there won’t be a mom and dad’ and I can’t-- I can’t live without her, I can’t, Virgil!” Roman blubbers into his shirt, staining his hoodie and and pressing against his (currently unbound, but no big deal) chest, but Virgil literally could not give a shit about his hoodie right then, pulling him closer and cradling Roman’s head in the crook of his neck, one hand in his (fluffy, holy shit is this cotton?) hair, the other cradling his back. Roman smells like wood and some kind of flower.

“Have you told her any of this, Ro?” Virgil asks, and Romab lets out a bigger sob, burying himself into Virgil’s torso. Virgil knew that Roman’s parents weren’t on the best of terms right now, even though they kept trying to be good parents, but this? This was new.

“I c-can’t because-hic- She’ll get more upset, and she’s alsways so close to snapping and i can’t tell dad because he’ll get angry and I can’t tell Remus because he knows but he doesn’t, he doesn’t---fuck”

“Doesn’t?” prompts Virgil, softly into Roman’s hair, muffled by the soft chestnut curls.

“know, not same as I do, he doesn’t get sad, he gets mad, and he doesn’t want to become like dad but he stops talking and locks himself in rooms to not yell at people and I don- I don’t wanna make it worse.” he says softly, and Virgil starts stroking his hair, as a way to try and calm Roman down, trying not to cry a bit himself. He wishes, in a horrible way, that this was a panic attack. He doesn’t know what to do here.

“Could you find a way to maybe more quietly tell her to stay, perhaps?” asks Virgil again, even quieter this time. Roman more feels the words than he hears them, a soothing sort of humming.

“But it’s so selfish, isn’t it? That I think that? She deserves to be happy, and if being without us is happy, then she should, right? But I can’t do this with just my dad- he’s trying, but I can’t, help, please.”

And Virgil doesn’t know what to do, or what to say anymore. So he just holds Roman tighter in that very small corner in the 9-D classroom, and Roman clutches back until he’s cried it out entirely, and is ready to face everyone else. It’s been a few minutes, but they can clean up real quick.

Virgil takes out his spare hoodie and changes into it, Roman with his back turned in the boy’s bathroom, while Roman fixes his hair and washes the drying tear tracks off of his face, which were starting to feel like a mask on his face. He tries for a smile, and it’s small, but at least it’s real.

Virgil passes him a granola bar, and Roman hesitates for a second, before smiling again, taking it in hand and pocketing it. Roman offers his hand for Virgil to take, and he does, feeling the softness of Roman’s hands in comparison to his own, long and calloused with fidget rings on both hands. He squeezes.

Virgil looks up at Roman again, and they share a small smile, before walking out of the bathroom, hand in hand.

Wait- why are his hands glowing?

“Fuck you, Hildi.” he muttered under his breath.

“Huh, what?” Roman looked back at him, questioningly.

“Uh, nothing. Just thinking. ‘Cmon.” he smiles again, and he means it. With Roman, it feels like all his fears can be kept aside for another day.

…

“Oh my god, Remus, no you cannot make yourself a dwarven stripper this is a PG-13 D&D game oh my god--”

Remus looks up from the (probably very gory) conversation he’s having with Patton to reply to Virgil. “And why not? Minnie could be a stripper in the way back!”

“Just… no, thanks.”

“UUUUUGH, you’re no FUN, Virgey.”

“C’mon Bro, you could be… I dunno, a taxidermist?” Remus gets the manic glint back in his eye, snatching his sheet back from Virgil to add in the new information, scribbling frantically. His handwriting is already nigh impossible to read on a good day, so he’d better be able to read his own character sheet.

“Hey Thomas, what do you want to be?” asks Janus, undoing his loops to start a new string game, having finished his character profile- a Tiefling Wizard, about ten minutes ago while Logan became his work partner and roommate (Oh my god they were roommates), a human wizard. Virgil was the DM, therefore without a character other than an ominous voice with anxiety and a god complex at the same time, and Patton and Roman were both Elves, though Patton was an Artificer and Roman was a Bard.

Logan quickly jotted down Thomas’s responding morse code, chuckled, and read it aloud. “He says, and I quote: Can I be the thing that goes bump in the night? But also offer tea and biscuits to wayward travellers.”

Virgil smiles in Thomas’s vague direction, trying to make eye contact with the static. He fails, but Thomas thinks it’s quite nice of him to try.

“You’re too nice, T. I’ll write it down for you.”

You’re too nice

He was too nice to not let them get away with it, to stop them from killing him, to stop them from--

”Oi! You fruitcake, too nice to go running to your boyfriend, huh? Get a taste of this and see whether you’re nice enough to take it.”

He was. He didn’t object to the stuff in the bottle going down his throat, burning up his organs and destroying his body from the inside.

He didn’t have enough vocal chords left to scream, even as the other boy, final year, shook him as if trying to see whether he’s wake up, even as a hole formed in his throat, bleeding and burning and burning and burning--

It’s the last thing Thomas remembers.

“Thomas? Thomas? You’re making static-y noises again. You okay?” it’s Virgil, and it’s been nearly a hundred years and they’re dead and he’s dead and there’s nothing left of anyone he remembers but memories and he pushes aside his last memory, the worst one, to try and think of Valerie, his amazing sister who got to go to his school, sit in the same chemistry room once it was converted into a public school. Terrence, his family friend who came to his gravestone specially when segregation ended, and he could finally come and visit.

Everett, his boyfriend, who kept visiting, every day at four P.M on the dot until he was twenty and left town for college. It feels better to remember them as they were, in loose clothes playing in the woods, hide and seek and dolls and Valerie-the-Nurse and Everett-The-Soldier and Thomas-The-Film-Star and finding ways to get Terrence away to play with them too, as Terrence-The-Mechanic who could fix anything, even emotional problems as their Mom’s tittered and their fathers scowled but they didn’t matter because they were having fun.

He snaps out of it proper when Virgil manages to locate his hand, semi-visible ...

Patton’s pulling at his hair, not enough to fall out but enough to hurt, Sarcastrophe by Slipknot raging through his headphones and he knows that this is bad for his hearing, but at this point if it can drown out the absolute rage pounding in his mind, then going deaf is worth it.

He doesn’t even know why he’s mad. It’s just there and he’s screaming into his sleeves, tears caking on his face for moments before the anger arrives again and there’s a new layer of saltwater on top of it, endlessly endlessly going and he can’t stop it and why can’t it just stop--

There’s someone calling. It’s Remus. And Patton has to be happy and he thinks he might just implode with the… everything building up in him, but he has to do this so he picks up the phone.

“Hi Patty-Cakes!” The nickname makes him want to puke, even though he doesn like it, but he swallows the imaginary bile in his throat and replies.

“H-Hey, Remus.”

“Patton? You alright?” No, not at all he wants to scream and kick and cry but also freeze and never move again and his head hurts and there’s a pit in his stomach that won’t go away!

“YEAH! Uh, yeah. I’m good.” he sniffles, and he hopes Remus didn’t pick up on it. Judging by the silence on the other end, he probably did.

“Pat, please, tell me what’s wrong. I won’t say anything. Just let it out. It usually works for Roman and I, but just- see for yourself, okay?” Remus sounds a little concerned, a little desperate, and Patton thinks Remus can hear him trying to stifle his crying. He tries a little harder and all that comes out is one long moan with hitches for cries and the tears are drying, and Remus starts again, concerned, but Patton can’t hear, because the tears are catching up again and he’s screaming again and his fingernails have cut little red crescent moons into his cheek and it drips a little and Remus is still talking, soothingly and Patton latches onto that voice like it’s the only thing that could possibly carry him through this because it damn well feels like it.

He hears footsteps but not really, too focused on trying to regain control of his breathing, following Remus’s count.

When it's been a few minutes of following the count, and Patton’s breathing has evened out, he wipes off his face in his old faithful broom skirt, always ready for days like these, and he buries himself a little further into his hoodie, covering with it the phone on his ear.

“Patty--”

“No, not that, please.”

“Patton, Do you want to talk about it?”

Yes, actually, but he doesn’t really see the point, since nothing lasts for him. He’s a fucked up foster kid ™ style. Good things don’t happen to him. (Maybe to Janus. Janus deserves good things, good people, better than him--)

“Why wouldn’t this last? And you’re a foster kid?” fuck, he said that aloud? Well, rest in fucking pieces, brain to mouth filter.

“Yeah, f-foster kid here.”

“Janus too?”

“Yeah.” he whispers, throat too tired for anything else. He’s not ready for the universal ‘how’ question, but he’s not been prepared for any of this so far, so maybe he should just not bother.

“Okay. Do your foster parents show any signs of wanting to let you go?” no, not really. In fact, he’d seen Remy and Emile trying to quickly hide a sheaf of papers any time Patton or Janus entered a room, and Patton’s been pushing down the hope as much as possible, even as he sees Janus start to believe it eventually. Patton has to be ready for something to go wrong, he can’t afford to let down his guard, lest he can’t protect Janus anymore. He has to make sure nothing can faze him.

But he wants. He wants so, so badly that sometimes he lies in bed for hours, pushing down the want and trying his best not to cry, until it’s morning and he’s waking Janus up even though he could barely push himself out of bed. He says this to Remus, because he still wants. He wants to stay near Remus forever, recite oddly dark facts and binge-watch the Sharknado movies again while Logan and Janus screech in betrayal and huddle up close and he wants to have this. He wants this so badly.

“Pat, I didn’t know how to say it, but I want to be with you forever too. You like my weird facts, and you stay by me when I’m mad and I want to be there when you’re sad, Patton. I want this too.”

“R-really?”

“Of course, Patton. I don’t lie. Especially not to you.” Patton laughs, somewhat wetly, and Remus’s tone brightens when he hears it, and Patton can feel the smile on the other side of the line, manic-looking but inherently full of kindness, and everything feels a little more okay.

The hurt isn’t gone, but at least he isn’t forcing it down into his large intestine anymore.

“Thanks, Re. I-I’ll talk to Emile and Remy when they come home, okay? I’ll tell you what happened. See you in school tomorrow?”

“Course, Patton. Now I’m gonna go get something for Roman to eat before his stomach acids digest his entire body, eyes and all.”

Patton laughs. “Okay! Just don’t miss your therapy appointment, okay?”

“Never do. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The call finally cuts off, and the timer reads 37:19:73, and he probably spent a good chunk of that time having a breakdown, but strangely enough, Patton doesn’t feel super bad about it. The want is there, and he’s still not super sure about what to do with it, but he knows that he wants it to be real, and even if something does go wrong, he’ll still have Remus’s number.

The door swings open as Janus enters the house, and creaks closed downstairs, and Patton flops onto his bed, eyes still a little red, putting his phone on charge to take a nap. He’ll have emotionally charged conversation, but after this nap, thanks.

[zecretsanta]

FIC: Never Have to Say Goodbye

to: @juricha-art

from: @interabangs

Happy Holidays, juricha-art! I chose your Sigma/Diana prompt because they deserve so much happiness together after everything they’ve been through! Just to let you know, there is some angst in here, and a couple mentions of Diana’s ex and Delta. but I made sure to give the lovebirds the happy ending they deserve! Bonus D-Team family feels at the end, too. Hope you enjoy!

Sleep had become more of a passing acquaintance to Diana in the past few years. Between her duties at the hospital – and her fitful tossing and turning before heading to DCOM – she hadn’t been getting much of it.  She would’ve been surprised at how quickly she slips into dreamland, if she weren’t so exhausted. She vaguely registers Sigma gently lowering her into bed, and lifting the thick, cozy comforter over her as he tells her, “Everything is going to be all right.”

When her eyes open, slowly taking in the small, dark room she’s in, she blinks a few times, and rubs at her lids.

The first thing she can tell is that she’s alone. She’s in a single queen-sized bed, and in what she gradually remembers is a motel room.

Her attention turns to its layout: door and window facing her with the curtains spread out, tiny television resting on a small cabinet just shy of five feet away from the foot of the bed.

Lifting her head from the soft downy pillow, Diana half turns around, still waking up as she looks at the bathroom and closet behind her.

It all comes rushing back to her as she sits up in bed, clutching at the collar of her red sweater.

After Carlos had shot Delta, Diana fainted right there in the desert. She’d known Delta had imprisoned her, imprisoned all of them. She didn’t blame Carlos for making the hard decision. But she couldn’t fully process her son’s death, and she had barely felt Sigma picking her up as the others argued what their next step was.

The rest of the day is a blur as Diana tries to recall it, sifting through her memories like holding a pan and trying to look for gold. She pulls her legs out from under the motel bed’s comforter and draws her knees up to her chest, breathing deeply like Rebecca had advised her, what felt like several lifetimes ago. And technically, it was true.

One breath in through the nose, hold it for five seconds, then exhaling through the mouth. It’s a technique that had helped calm Diana when she stayed with Rebecca, trying to find her footing and escape from the man who had caused her so much pain.

Try to look at the positives, she tells herself, continuing her breathing exercise in her large motel bed. And she walks through each of them: she’s alive. She’d found her daughter and love of her life, who are both also still alive. All the Decision Game participants, except for Delta, made it out alive. There is no Radical-6 in this timeline. Diana would never have to worry about that, or… him, again. She hadn’t been able to stop Delta from achieving his twisted plan with the Decision Game, and even though she had felt some instinctual maternal instinct toward the elderly man, she knows, as much as it pains her to admit it, that Carlos had made the best and safest decision for the group.

The fact that Diana, and the others, had all lived, is a miracle. They’d formed a shared goal in the aftermath of Delta’s death: stop the terrorist in this timeline. Diana knows she can begin her new life with her family, the family she remembers losing in a timeline she doesn’t want to dwell on right now.

She brushes her hair behind her ears, wondering where Sigma and Phi are. Searching through her murky memories of the previous day, she senses the bumpy ride of the van from DCOM, out in the middle of the desert, to civilization.

Diana recalls snatches of conversations in the van ride: some heated words from Eric to Akane, Junpei snapping right back at Eric, Sean’s questions from the middle seat, and Carlos’s calm, measured tone from the driver’s seat.

Diana remembers Sigma holding her hand as the van speeds over sand first, then pavement, and how warm his touch was, how his sturdy frame supported her as she sank against his side, half-awake, wondering where they were going.

“We need to hole up somewhere for a bit,” Phi had assured Diana when she could hear other cars driving next to the van, the occasional honk, and more conversation from up front as Mira tells Eric and Junpei, “Oh, knock it off already.”

“That’s going to be fun to deal with,” Diana remembers hearing Sigma mutter to Phi, and Junpei had said, “Hey, I heard that, back there!”

Diana laughs a little in bed, interrupting her own breathing exercise as she realizes the absurdity of their situation.  She takes in another breath, and finds the last piece of gold, the last memory of the previous night.

Sigma had carried her from the van to her room, whispering to Phi, “We’ll explain everything to her in the morning, okay? Right now, she needs to get some sleep.”

“Are you really going to sleep with her tonight? Don’t you think that’s a little… forward?”

Sigma had paused in the middle of the hallway, and his stance changed, his shoulders slumping a bit. Diana had stirred then, opening her eyes, and Sigma said, “Sorry, Diana. We’ll let you get some rest.”

The last thing Diana remembers is Sigma tucking her into bed and closing the door quietly behind him. Phi had said something outside the room, but Diana can’t quite remember it.

She chews on her lower lip, chasing down the memory and trying to uncover it before she goes looking for Sigma and Phi.

Just as she’s still trying to remember, she notices something on the floor in front of her door, that hadn’t been in the motel room when she’d woken up.

Her eyes now adjusted to the dim light, she peers at the object half illuminated through the crack by the exterior hallway lights.

It’s a piece of paper.

Then, all at once, Diana remembers what Phi had said when Sigma closed the door:

“Do you really think things will work out between you two?”

Diana swings her legs out from under her, and she takes the six steps to the note under the door.  She’d been so preoccupied with trying to calm herself down and remember how she got from the desert to the motel room, that she wasn’t even aware of anyone stopping by her room and sliding the note under her door.

With slightly trembling hands, Diana opens the folded note. She flips on the room light, blinking rapidly and wincing before peering down at the note.

Diana,

I’m sorry for everything that has happened to you. I wish I could take it all back, somehow, even though part of me will forever be grateful to have met you. If only it had happened under better circumstances.

Please understand I want all the best for you. Take care of Phi (she needs it.) I’m sure you both have a lot to catch up on.

Lo All the best,

S.

When she finishes reading it, Diana steels herself to take another calming breath or two.

Then she slips on her shoes – Sigma must have taken them off before tucking her in – and she wrenches the heavy motel door open, dashing out into the cool night air.

Her skirt is wrinkled all over, one of her flower clips is halfway down the back of her hair, her shoes are back in the room lined up neatly next to the door – Sigma had probably taken them off before laying her in bed –

– And she realizes that she doesn’t have the keycard to her room just as the door slams shut behind her.

But Diana doesn’t care about any of that.

She races down the hall, around a corner, and then, all the way down the end of the longer hall, she sees Sigma standing in front of an elevator.

She calls out his name, but her voice is nearly unrecognizable from recent lack of us.

Then, after clearing her parched throat, she tries again, “Sigma!”

He turns, and his eyes widen.

“Wait!” Diana cries out, and runs over to him as he stares at her, completely shocked. “Where are you going?”

He blinks once, then again before saying, “Diana! I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No, I was already awake. And then I saw this.” She hold up the note. “What does it mean? Are you… are you leaving me? Are you leaving Phi?”

Sigma looks away at her question, glancing up at the floor the elevator is on. They’re on the fourth floor, and the elevator is still on the first one. “Should’ve taken the stairs,” he says, as if talking to himself. “So that’s what I get for being lazy, huh?”

“Answer the question,” she says, a little more harshly than she meant to, so she adds, “please. Where are you off to?”

He stares at her for a few more seconds before he schools his stunned expression into an indiscernible one, looking up at the elevator numbers on the top of its metal frame. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not? Are you leaving for forever?” Tears spring to Diana’s eyes, and a pit forms in the bottom of her stomach. “I thought maybe we could…” she trails off, then, not really certain how she wants to finish the sentence.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry Diana, but I don’t think that would be a good idea right now.”

“What? Why?”

He sighs, pushing the button for the elevator again. “I thought I’d be the type of person who could never yell at you the way I did, when we were in the decontamination room. I…” His voice drops to a decibel just above a whisper as he shuts his eyes. “I thought I would never be the kind of person that could hurt you.”

“But I hurt you too!” she protests. “And I had less of a reason to.”

Sigma rakes a hand through his hair. “I was just as bad for you as… he was.”

“No!” Diana takes a step forward, raising her free hand to put it on Sigma’s arm, maybe in some desperate attempt to anchor him to the floor. But she stops, when she looks at his face, at the combined mixture of guilt and self-loathing twisted in his usually handsome features.

She puts her hand down. “That’s not true, Sigma. I remember what happened too. We were both so scared, and confused… And I remember you said you were sorry, and then you comforted me when I needed it the most.”

Sigma doesn’t answer, but Diana notices that the elevator is still stuck on the first floor, so she keeps going.

“Do you remember how patient you were when we found out that I was… expecting? You gave up half your rations for me, for months. You were so stubborn about giving up your portions that I had to feed you a couple times so you wouldn’t pass out. You gave me footrubs when I complained about walking, you let me have my own time in the healing room when I said I needed space.” Tears streak down her cheeks at the memory of his kindness.  “And you did… so much for me when I couldn’t think about anything else but touching you. I couldn’t have survived in there without you, Sigma. You did more than I could ever ask for, you did everything you could for Phi and…” Diana’s eyes burn a little as she shut them, unable to say Delta’s name. “For them.”

When she looks up at Sigma, she can see his own eyes watering.

“That doesn’t make my actions right,” he says, lowering his head. “You’ve already been through too much pain. I don’t want to risk the chance of putting you through any more of it.“

The elevator arrives on their floor with a rapid ding! that makes Diana crush the note even more.

Then, before she can stop to think, she dashes into the elevator, and turns to face Sigma before he can enter.

His hard, resolute stare softens into curiosity. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t want you to go!” she protests. “After everything we’ve been through, you can’t just leave like this!”

His mouth curves up into a half-smile, and that gives Diana a bit of hope. “Technically, I can,” he says, thumbing the elevator button before the door can close between them. “It doesn’t mean I want to leave. But if this is what it takes to help you recover from everything you’ve been through, then so be it.”

“Do you remember what I said, about you being a coward?” she asks, and Sigma’s smile vanishes, instantly answering her question with his haunted expression. “I was completely wasted when I called you that,” she continues, stepping forward. “I wanted to hurt you. See? I wish I didn’t say those things either, or treated you horribly when you were just trying to make sure I was eating. But I did. And now we’re here. Now we can fix it, Sigma. We can put that all behind us, and move forward, together.”

She takes a step toward him, standing between the elevator doors.

He takes her free hand, the one not crushing the note, and pulls her out into the hall without hesitation.

More tears roll down her flushed cheeks as she squeezes his hand, letting the elevator doors close behind her.

“I don’t know what to do if you leave,” she says. “Phi’s here, and I’m so grateful for that. I’m glad that we found our daughter. But I still want to be with you. Do you… do you not want to be with me anymore?”

He looks at her for a long moment, that stretches as far down as the motel hallway, and Diana’s heart sinks into her stomach as she begins to think that he -

“Of course I want to be with you, Diana,” he says, enveloping her with his arms as she sobs out of relief. “I’d love nothing more than getting to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“I feel the same way,” she says, sniffling, her voice muffled by his chest. “We can work through this, all our crazy time traveling problems, together.”

Even though she can’t see his face, she knows he’s smiling again, and they sway on the spot in front of the elevator, crying as they tighten their embrace.

“I’m glad you didn’t take the stairs,” Diana whispers to him, clutching his back.

“Me too. Apparently, laziness and outdated wiring does pay off sometimes.”

She laughs, then looks up at him. “Um, Sigma?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you get a room tonight too? I kinda… locked myself out of mine.”

“Oh.” His eyes widen in realization. “Oh! Well, uh…” His face flushes a little, exactly how she remembers it did when she kissed him in DCom, and he clears his throat. “Uh, yeah, I got a room, though I wasn’t planning on stay in it for long. Akane has your keycard, since she figured you would be sleeping all night. But since she’s with Junpei now, we probably shouldn’t bother them.”

Diana laughs a little at Sigma’s bashfulness, despite them having spent many nights together themselves in another timeline. “Don’t worry, I don’t have any funny business in mind. Not tonight, anyway.”

“Not tonight,” he agrees. “But it would be good for us both to get some rest. Is that all right?”

Diana sighs happily as she hugs Sigma once more, then lets him lead the way to his room. “Most definitely.”

—————————

When Diana wakes, she’s delighted to feel Sigma pressed up behind her,  his strong arms embracing her around the side. Not too tight to give her enough space, but in a comforting way, and much more secure than the blanket in her previous room when she’d woken up alone.

She shifts eventually, turning over to see him as he begins to wake up himself. “Hi,” she says.”

He leans forward, pressing gentle kisses into her hair. "Hi.”

“Wanna go downstairs?”

“Yeah, I just need another minute.” He stretches, and she laughs at the sight of his large form nearly taking up the other half of the bed. He relaxes, and hugs her to his chest again, enveloping her in his warmth as she breathes in his scent. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

She buries her face in his chest. “Me too.”

“I’m not so sure I can get up now,” Sigma tells her.

“Ew, perv.”

“Ahhh!” Sigma yells, and Diana sits right up.

“Phi?”

Their daughter shuts the small cabinet under the TV at the foot of the bed, rolling her eyes. “Knew I should’ve waited until you both came down for breakfast,” she grumbles.

“What are you – are you trying to look for my wallet?” Sigma asks.

“Actually, it’s not your wallet I’m looking for,” Phi says with a smirk. “Akane got it for you yesterday with her Crash Keys funds, remember?”

“Well, yeah,” Sigma says, sitting up in bed along with Diana, “but didn’t she give you some money too?”

“I’m afraid not,” Phi says, shaking her head as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Akane said that the cash she gave you last night should be enough to cover all three of us, and I wanted to get a soda from the vending machine. So where is the wallet, old man?”

“Oh, so this is where it starts, huh? Now you’re asking me for allowance?” Sigma asks, reaching behind him to fumble around in the bedside table drawer. He pulls out a brand new wallet, takes out a twenty dollar bill from the thick wad of cash, and holds it up.

Phi groans, “Please don’t tell me I have to go over there and get it. Not if you’re both naked under there.”

“We’re not naked, Phi!” Diana says, flipping the comforter off her and Sigma.

“No, my eyes!” Phi cries, holding her arm up to shield her vision.

“Don’t worry, Phi – look, we’re wearing clothes!” Sigma says, and Phi slowly lowers her arm.

“Okay,” she says, trying to pretend she hadn’t lost her cool and collected demeanor. Diana can’t help but stifle a giggle as Phi rolls her eyes and stomps over to Sigma’s side of the bed, snatching the money out of his hand as he grins at her smugly.

“This means you’ll be mowing the lawn, right?”

“Hah hah. Last I checked, you don’t even have a lawn to mow.”

“Oh, we’ll have one eventually,” Sigma says, turning to Diana with a soft smile, his eyes filled with hope for the future. 

When Diana returns his smile, there’s a moment of silence before Phi asks her quietly. “So, um… does that mean you want us to be a family?”

Diana turns to look at Phi, and, seeing her daughter’s face, the mixture of guarded longing and incredulity, she can’t help but jump off the bed, rushing to join her and giving her a hug.

“Oh, Phi,” she says, her voice breaking, “of course I do!”

Phi stiffens for a second, then relaxes into her embrace. “Good,” she says. “I’m glad you do too.”

“I thought you didn’t want us to be a family,” Sigma says to Phi from the bed.

“Well, of course I did, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to!” Phi says as she hugs Diana back.

“But the way you were talking last night,” Sigma says, stumbling over his words, “I just figured you wanted me to leave.”

“What?” Phi blinks at him, and laughs. “No, I didn’t want you to leave, you old geezer. I just wanted you to make sure you know that this is what you really want. I don’t… I don’t want either of you to end up getting hurt. Not again, not after everything we’ve been through.”

“You don’t have to worry about us, Phi,” Diana says. “We’ll be fine. But I don’t think we’ll all be able to settle down until we stop the terrorist and save everyone.”

“She’s right,” Sigma says, getting up off the bed and joining Diana and Phi. “I don’t know if we’ll ever be anything resembling a ‘normal’ family. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe we don’t need ‘normal.’ Maybe we can just be… us.“

Diana clasps her hands together, tearing up. Sigma puts his arms around her and Phi, and Diana’s chest swells with all the love she has for him and their daughter..

“Okay,” Phi agrees, sounding as relieved as Diana has felt since Sigma decided not to leave. Then, Phi adds hurriedly, “Let’s just… try to keep it to the three of us for now, all right?”

Diana laughs as Sigma hugs both her and Phi closer to him. “Promise.”

[dansedan]

I threatened on the Disco Writer’s Nook server to share my notes from this latest fic, but since they’re wildly incomprehensible and kind of silly I thought maybe I’ll just... chuck ‘em on here instead, under a readmore where they can pass by easier so uhhh xX WeLcOmE To My TwIsTeD mInDXx !!!1!!

(warning for LONG LONG post- I write full sections and asides from the universe that aren’t even in the damn fic within the same notes document a lot... I’m also insufferably pretentious on notes I KNOW and I cull it on the final as much as I can, as well as mild possible spoilers for a fic I haven’t written in the same au-timeline-thing I suppose and NSFT stuff)

(also a lot of this gets discarded because it’s so stupid and I write it at terrible brain moments)

"Por la mañana me di a la estúpida tarea de esconder mis cigarros por los rincones de la casa. Los encuentro, claro, pero fumo poco, fumo menos, hago esfuerzos por mejorarme de una vez."

meditative cigarettes and quitting fic.

Harry smokes less than he drinks, because he smokes to keep sharp and he usually wants to be numb, down to zero, space-based. but after going tee-total and opening up on his quest to actual-human-persondom he finds himself chainsmoking constantly. A concern in his volition is raised, a thought project ruminated on, and strategems laid out.

Harry grasps at the first half at a low point in his attempts to get better without anyone knowing or helping. He wonders about Kim's life, Kim's control. The electrochemistry in him fantasizes about a free-wheeling party-boy sort of Kim, still cool, still quiet, but free and soft and in control of his lack of control- the aviator, the flying ace, at the mercy of the elements and gliding by by choice- lands on the question of the one-per day, the Kim he knows, who takes what he needs with trepidation and preparation.

The truth is that last one- Kim was a social smoker, an after-dinner-if-the-date-is-pleasant smoker, an after-sex smoker, a bumming-cigarettes-to-gague-his-interest smoker (it all started with a boyfriend) but police work and his neverending stint in Juvie drove him to once-per-day, a creature of obsession. He used to heavily resent it- until Harry came along and joined the ritual.

"bebiendo mate con el ademán gracioso de los novatos. Es lo que hago ahora cuando siento ganas de fumar, dijo, con una sonrisa."

Kim and Harry not so close together- the idea of Kim and Harry not knowing everything about each other, because that's just not how you survive, but somehow Kim aching to be up-to-date on Harry all the time.

Harry and his funny little excursions around town. Kim visits and finds cigarettes hidden around the house, smells them in fear of finding drugs, or Harry has to awkwardly shuffle around for one when Kim invites him to smoke. Harry tries to join a book club, starts cooking lofty meals for his yoga class, tries being vegan for a week, checks out a bunch of books on the history of the Coupris Corp (SUZERAINTY ERA MARK OF AUTHENTICITY BABEY) as a way to help him wean off substances but also off Kim. They want each other but they know they need to stand on their own </3

Harry starts going to this novelty/gourmet supermarket and buying one new thing every paycheck like furikake that says it has lead on it and mate and all that. He spends his ex-drinking, smoking money on it.

Harry makes Kim huevos rotos :'-)

You're barely holding it together- how the hell did you get to this newsstand? Is it a newsstand? This structure- round, metal, iron-wrought frame and squat stature- was once a newsstand. How do you know it isn't? What is it now? You feel yourself point someplace on a menu you can't see past the dew of heavy crying- the clerk does not react, he's seen you like this- slam your wallet on the counter. You receive a paper parcel slightly larger than your fist, long. It's warm through the paper, and you can feel the dryness of a light dusting of flour passing through it. Food.

Your legs and arms are moving on their own again, wallet shoved this way, steps stumbled past the other, clumsily bringing whatever it is to your mouth and feeling crumbs fall into your beard- like a shark. That's one of the first things you remember, the beautiful old ultraliberal woman, like a shark, on her boat. The joy of your first- no, second- idiom. The first was up on Marvel Hill where you can't live. Kim said that. Kim's gonna be there, when you do it like a shark and don't stop any of this on your way to work and you stop crying so nobody thinks you did what you're avoiding doing. Is there anyway you can forget the frittte? There's so many locations in your mind, what kind of man are you, remembering the placement of a store that's meant to vanish and appear out of convenience like it's a fucking pitstop (would a flask not be enough? A single habit to get rid of, easy- but you're never easy).

You feel dark-dark-light-darkness and then light again, and smoother flooring and your coat being too warm. You're at the precinct- fuck, you're at the precinct- and it's late, real late, but you are here and there's too many people to fuck up here and at least you aren't crying. Your red face and eyes blend perfectly into too many years and days of red and puffy eyes to call attention. Perfect, perfect- god bless the innocence (or is innocence god? You can't forget- Remember- something.)

"You're late, shitkid." At some point Jean appears beside you. He's walked the other way and stopped- he's grimacing- but more importantly you see his left arm raise and still and clench itself, like a restricted movement, natural instinct. "You smell like shit- is that fish?" You do not know if that is fish because your throat hurts so bad already that you cannot know if you've been swallowing bones for this past hour (minute? Minutes? The walk feels like forever and never enough. You're swearing like a pig now that you're standing, how adequate.) 

You want to say it's agony, the end of days, the end of you- you want to say reprise, and sorry, and oh god I didn't want to see you please I don't deserve it Jean please leave and go away from me and also please oh god please hold me up I don't know what I'm doing but I'm trying to be better but I ate this thing that might as well be sawdust and I do not know what time it's been for several days.

Instead you say "it's my GOD-GIVEN RIGHT, VIC" and you move along like a fucking idiot.

"An image arises in your mind's eye-- a baby, dirty, hideous, its skin mottled and raw and red, peeling, stretching almost impossibly. The baby cries from pain- in it's brief stay on this earth it has already suffered more than some men do in their entire lives. He is built for it- thick skin, quite literally. He is being held by a slight, pale, ugly nurse- a nun in bloodied white rags with a terrible smell of herbs permanently attached to her. The scene is a caricature of mother and child- the hideous thing, held up to her chest, is drinking from an amber bottle, clouded over. In ten years, the contents of this bottle he will be legally too young for-- is this the reason you became the way you are? Are you just born-and-bred this way, surviving off of alcohol where most people had blood and human kindness?

-- It's not. The little pastiche you've thought up for yourself is half propaganda and half racist idiocy. Despite what the supposed "race-realists" may say, not everyone from the Insulindian is thrown on the bottle the moment they're weaned from the tit. In truth, you were barely even medicated, and those bitter, herbaceous spirits are not the cause of your current addiction. It's still on you harry, it's always still on you.

"Wake up- time to listen to the radio.

You love the radio. You really, really love the radio. You think the radio was the greatest purchase you have ever made- drunk you was horrible, and traumatizing, and entirely undebatably subhuman, but he did buy this radio, and by god fuck if that isn't his saving grace (a story comes to mind- a Dolorean allegory from your childhood- about a selfish rich woman and a lazy cheating bum both ferried up to heaven by a single onion that she'd given him during their lives as charity. You choose to ignore the part where they fight and fall back into hellfire). It's the thing that broke you off from your mazovian monk-like refusal to buy anything for yourself other than flour for a week after THE HANGED MAN, it's what got you into cycling and hanging out with the neon eyebleed catsuits crew, it's what reminded you that public libraries exist and nobody will ask you why you're in there reading about suzerainty-era motor carriage manufacturing and the homo-sexual underground. It's the greatest thing since communism, since disco, since-- since-- since cigarettes and kebabs and- and--

... And idolizing someone to the point of crucifixion. Which you aren't supposed to be doing.

Good thing the radio cranks up real loud! 

"You've read everything in this section- theory, history, photography, even, notably, the single romance novel, comically bad, about a middle-aged Vespertine businessman travelling north to the harbour where he had experienced his first teenaged love-- and the young, strapping man he gets to know there. (There are boats involved- it's very biblical). All in all, you read it twice,  meticulously rewrote its horrifyingly vague and unsafe sex scenes (in pen, inside. Not like the librarian's gonna check it) and masturbated at your efforts, winning you a very sore wrist and about 30 minutes of crying because you remembered being in a bookshop with Kim in Martinaise while you were remembering what books were, and then remembered Jean's apartment having a secret stack of equally terrible heterosexual novels bequeathed to him by an ex that you made fun of him for (rabidly, for years).

"Harry's apartment is no longer clean, but not as dirty as before, and its stalwart light-green walls seem, in the summer light, less queasy and foreboding than what they are now, almost dainty in the contrast of the sparse few frames and piles of knickknacks on the floor. 

Believe it or not, this is good-- sometimes, life with Harry makes you feel like a zoologist, intricately analysing an animal's pile of leaves and refuse and knowing, despite all human standards, what these habits mean for the foreign species. And for Harry, mess like this is good. It means he's kept busy by any one of his million little projects,  picked up and put down at a dizzying speed and constancy, each one increasingly out of left field in

Kim and harry talk about the radio, kim thinks about it "radio, what's new? Radio- some-one still loves you"

Harry talking abt agenda + library bc you can't smoke + planning for dinner with Kim :-)

Gotta go to the library so you don't chainsmoke

Gotta shower to go to the library 

Don't wanna shower bc executive dysfunction

Grab a smoke before you shower 

Oh wait you've been chain-smoking fuck (insert meditation on sharp vs smooth)

Hide all your cigarettes around the house feeling pathetic about it

You still don't feel like showering

But you just chainsmoked and you know you'll do it again because you JUST hid your smokes and the hiding spots are fresh in your mind

Birdbath (why are you so fucking dysfunctional that you can't shower like a normal adult) 

Introspective rubber ducky selfhate momence

Rubber ducky encourages you through the power of nihilism and Kim

Thought project gain

Go to library and need comfort so you're going thru all your usual shelves (insert le funny homo shelf joke here) 

What does he read about? Smoking? Idk

Kiiiiiim. Kimmy kim kim. Think about Kim

Maybe he reads recipe books to woo kim

        INSERT EXISTENTIAL BROTH EPISODE HERE to talk about how you've never actually seen Kim cook (he told you it was good soup, clearly lying, you told him it was broth, and that you could teach him how to make soup out of it if he wanted...)

(broth episode was another note, inserted here: 

ANOTHER harry coping fic. Miserable housebound weekend nights because he can't party but the house is horrible to be in and he keeps dunking his hands into more and more ice water and taking like half-body cold showers and he's like "maybe this is bad for my skin!!! I gotta get out holy shit" and he's like uhhhh fucking. Can't go to work. Let's go to the supermarket. And then he's almost there and he's like OH FUCK NO THERES ALCOHOL AT THE SUPERMARKET and he straight up bolts out of there and muscle memory gets him to a shady ass butcher shop in some random immigrant neighborhood and he buys so much fish because of a failed check and he goes home and basically he makes so much fish stock. He makes just so fucking much fish stock and Kim comes to pick him up the next day and panics because it genuinely smells like the dead in there but it's just harry making fucking. fish broth or something. Just harry coming up to the door in his work clothes with way too much cologne on and a thermos of fish soup like "uh... Do you want some Broth kim?" And Kim can't fucking cook but he takes some Broth anyway and he's trying to figure out why harry would do that but harry is being a little edgy about it and Kim is like oh god I need to help him a little and they have a sit down about it and he's like wanting to say "hey if you need somewhere to go I'm here for you" but it's hard and I don't even know if he ends up actually saying it. Okay bye)

Talking about the sexiness of supermarkets and how they make reptile brain go brrr

Think about alcohol vs smoking. Think about kimmy kim kim (insert european drinking joke here)

Have that get stuck in his head. Kim kimmy kim kimmy kimmy kim kim. Kimster. Kimbo. Kitsy. Kitty. Cutie. Oh god no fuck oh god I need to stop.

He goes home and still rlly wants to smonk

You hide the cigarettes around the house. It feels stupid, and you know you’ll be embarrassed having to pull the Jamrock Shuffle in your own apartment, that you’re a grown adult who could just *buy another box of cigarettes* whenever you wanted to, but you feel like it helps. Drag the killing thing away from the crappy little animal even for a couple moments more, let yourself get tired out like the old man you are below all the disco scaffolding. You can’t really bring yourself to shower, but you drag the radio into the bathroom with you and wash yourself in the sink. You try to be good about it- stay away from the mirror, really lather up and clear away the sweat that’s caked to you throughout the night and morning, feel the warm graze of the water on your skin. You brush shampoo through your hair and work it in in cycles, focus on the humming feeling of the bristles on your scalp, trying not to think of much of anything, just the smell of the cheap powdery soap and of what clothes you’ll wear today, try to settle into a better memory of this instead of picking at the shame you feel about how hard it is for you. ducking your head into the stream of the water in the sink and forgetting everything except the whishing, scratching sounds of cleaning.

Being clean feels good, and being dressed again feels maybe even better (knit sweaters are a revelation- who could’ve known polyester satin wasn’t made for seaside winters), so by the time you walk your way into the Jamrock public library the morning’s incidents are nigh-forgotten. The dry warmth of the old library is a reliable balm- the yellowed fluorescent lighting washing out the rows and rows of slate-grey plastic bookshelves lined up like soldiers over prerevolutionary tile, with its woven edges and dark, jeweled pinwheels of color, stretching out endlessly full of books, reels, and the rare intricate portrait hanging overhead. Before them, long wooden tables dotted with mismatched lamps, flickering in and out of use, occupied by antsy juveniles and sleeping hobos. It feels effortlessly like home, like a shared worldly past that welcomes everybody- and maybe that just means that it's generic and a little overdue for renovations, but you love it as it is.

Shuffling through the tall shelves of books, you weave through mindlessly to find your favorite sections- the history (both common and infra-cultural, with a surprisingly competent collection of industrial works and a predictably miserablly little shelf of homo-sexual underground interest), the art, and the meager offerings of political literature. You can hear your off-tune humming echo back to you somewhat feebly off the high, painted ceiling, done up in some lame facsimile of early Dolorian excess (therriers, noblewomen, forget-me-nots crowding the edges of each filligreed panel, dead-eyed faces in doleful expressions, pale and empty smiling). You've got all of daylight ahead of you, which is more than enough time to browse around as usual before you have to get yourself home and start cooking.

You turn the corner smoothly into the very back of the library, into a wider set of dusty and anachronistic wooden bookshelves-- history trends unpopular, considering the fact that all the books within are horrifyngly outdated due to a miserable municipal budget, maybe that's for the best. There are better places for students to get this information now, like the private library a couple blocks away at the Cycle Universitee, or from library dial-stations tuned in from the south, where the Bibliotheque Nacionelle Des Travailleures is run by Coalition-approved volunteers. The first thing to catch your eye is the pillar of works of infra-cultural expression and documentstion- essays and short stories from New authors, studies and zines on Disco, and of course, the particular political darling of the 20s, the homo-sexual underground.

You've read everything in this section- theory, history, photography- even, notably, the single commercial romance novel, comically bad, about a middle-aged Vespertine businessman travelling north to the harbour where he had experienced his first teenaged love-- and the young, strapping man he gets to know there. (There are boats involved- it's very biblical). All in all, you read it twice,  meticulously rewrote its horrifyingly vague and unsafe sex scenes (in pen, inside. Not like the librarian's gonna check it) and masturbated at your efforts, winning you a very sore wrist and about 30 minutes of crying because you remembered being in a bookshop with Kim in Martinaise while you were remembering what the world was, and then remembered Jean's apartment having a secret stack of equally terrible heterosexual novels bequeathed to him by an ex that you made fun of him for (rabidly, for years). You shudder, now, at the sight of its cracked spine looking you from the middle sill. Its gaze feels hefty and judgemental, and you do not like it.

There are  

KIM CHAPTAAAA

"you'd like him to take care of himself. You'd like to be there to do it for him when he can't"

"He opens the door, and immediately there are a million little things that test you (hell, with that thick-knit sweater he's wearing, any weakness in you would have him writhing on the floor in seconds). The half-up style of his now-so soft looking auburn hair, split across to reveal the pale white of his nape between the raised collar of his sweater, the kind wrinkling of his open smile upon seeing you walk in, the light, jazzy music of the radio backing his belly-deep laugh and the heady smell of incense in the room are all exhilaratingly Harry to you.

What to do with jean:Standalone fic for him?

Starts when he sees Harry with the eyebleed crew and he's the one who goes up to him like "WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING SHIT KID" and harry is like. Oh god oh fuck jean uh let's be... Cordial! Optimistic! (What jean sees is one of his signature pauses but like. Yeah it's the skills talking) and he's just like "oh it helps me stay sober and make friends, I found out about it on the radio🙂" and Jean is like holy fucking shit this is absolutely insane.

            1) bc Harry used to be so repressed he was basically homophobic with his macho act

            2)bc Jean originally didn't believe the amnesia thing but then when Harry genuinely did shit like this and never told him (which, if it was a cruel joke he would've tried to make it very public and obvious and drag jean into it to embarrass him)

            3) because JEAN was his friend and why the fuck does he just. Run off with random people with a radio ad instead

            4) because he's doing so well. He's like, fully at the sort of "this-side-of-pudgy" bear level that's hot enough to get him positive attention over the damage of the alcohol and he's wearing the sort of clothes that show it and he's got all these crew buddies where Jean is stuck with his hellish depression workouts where he sometimes works until he pukes and then feels like shit about self-harming like that. (what he doesn't know is that Harry is basically doing that same exact shit just he's using his swag alcoholic skills to lieeeeee about it. rip)

Maybe harry apologizes in their conversation about the romance novels. Like it blurts out.

eventually add in the previous consideration fic you were thinking of &quot

starting with bitter porno kimbo/viccy catfight bullshit

"no that's pathetic and he'd never go there." dynamic where kim cares quietly and jean is bitchy about Harry

then "no, he's dealt with harry so much already, I can't imagine." so it's all concern for him

and then that backslides into "how could I comfort him? how could he understand my need for comfort? "

we stan a mildly nonaccepted himself Jean so he's like "WAIT UH GAY THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS GUY TOO? FUCK FUCK FUCK"

gotta make it panic horny. it's a Dan Gat fic. how would kim look.... yknow......

since the only other guy who's been like that with him has been harry -> third wheel dynamic going to ->

horny ot3 dynamic. old men doting on him because it's his fantasy and he gets to be the pampered one goddamnit

end somehow

THIS IS THE EXACT DYNAMIC WE'RE GOING FOR Jean liked Harry premart and Harry was unbearably machismo repressed homophobic bullshitero man (I need to decide if he was stupid enough to be like AS LONG AS IM ON TOP IT ISNT GAYYYY or smth sex/intimacy related like that maybe he just kinda. ""comically"" hit on Jean or said suggestive shit to him but never fully acted on it) and then he comes back from Martinaise all loyal puppy dog or whatever for Kim and Jean is like "??? OKAY SO I GO THROUGH ALL THIS BULLSHIT AND HE TALKS SO BIG ABOUT LOVING MUSCLE DUDES AND NOW HES GONNA FUCK THIS GRANDPA?" but then he's like self-aware enough to know that's stupid.(Jean's problem is that he looks for wounds on Kim and not Harry, so he's all like "damn this bitch stole my mans when he's actually good...." meanwhile Harry is like Very Obviously Self Harming All The Time and not even really with Kim so often rip)

Harry wants to reach out and ask him about his thing with Kim because he has memories of Jean either being gay or being less homophobic or just having Gay Energy that he was an asshole about or whatever plus it just feels natural to work through shit with Jean but he stops himself because he's like "well DRINKING also felt natural that doesn't mean we should do it..."

maybe they get into it because Jean makes an offhand comment about "stop ogling kim" and harry is like (computer warmup noises) and jean just kinda forces him to spit it out RE: meme description

Harry's whole deal with avoiding Jean is "some things are unforgivable and I'm fairly sure I've done things bordering on that to you for so, so long, and now I don't even know what they were or who I was when I did them, to me that person is dead, and I know then that I can't apologize to you thoroughly, genuinely, and I don't want to insult you by presuming that I ever could, at this point. I don't want to insult you by assuming I can just go back to what we were before, to each other, without an apology or an actual understanding of what went wrong. I can't speak for certain about his mind-my mind- but at least in some part that guy killed himself because of what he did to you, and to everyone around him, sure, but mostly to you. And now I'm here, and it feels horrible to try and go against that and push myself into your life. It feels horrible to see I've done something to you worth killing myself over and then still insist on coming back to bother you beyond the grave"

And Jean's response is "you thought everything was bad enough to kill yourself over! And you're still alive, you're still him, and fuck, yes it'll take a long ass fucking time for me to ever really forgive you, but you were my best friend and you're still fucking alive- I see you every single day, Harry, do you know what that's like? To see your best fucking friend every single day and watch him flinch and try to act like he doesn't exist every single time he sees you? Fuck you and fuck what you wanted before, *I* never wanted you dead, and your little stunt here with pretending you're finally fine and then keeping everyone at an arm's distance is just another, slower grave you're digging" etc etc "if this is the upswing at last, I’d better be there for it.**”

Jean is a frat boy that you do not expect to be a frat boy. He unironically gets along with mack and chester. He's only just started to grow out of it through dealing with Harry's horrible downfall

sequel to geste drole des debutantes but it's just a 3 chapter PWP masturbation fic..... of Kim and Harry after the dinner and then SHOOKETH SURPRISE IT'S JEANGST YEARNING TIME!

Kim trans.... Good for him...

Stroker shit

He wants to fuck Harry basically

     ...slow tease? Or fast and desperate?

Dry kissing

Hair pulling...

Youre hard, and you're wet, and you can't help but think of that smile on his face as you left and you want him to taste it, to get on his knees for what he's done to you and swallow it all down, feels the soft brush of his beard on your thighs.

 Harry also trans... Good for them good for them...

Handkink shit

Wants kim to absolutely wreck his shit

... He's new at this

Slow....

Jean

Jeangst

Want to wreck harry's shit... Mouthfuck stuff maybe

Power bottoming?? Idk

Whoops my hardcore dom revenge fantasy has slipped into a getting bossed around by the guy I thought I disliked for taking away my partner UHH.... LETS NOT UNPACK THAT....

Some idiot makes like a homophobic stupid "ah the fucking lieutants off scissoring or something" comment and then jean is like "oh god what if that but sexual instead"

Gym shower...

Jean has a big dick too bad bitch

When harry du bois ruined his life, thinks satelitte-officer Jean Vicquemare- he might at least have had the decency not to also curse his dick. This shit was weekly and only getting worse, now that the shitkid didn't constantly smell like despair and carrion had scored a threesome with a bartender's manual.

[gunnerpalace]

[future|past]perfect

This could be more, as it’s as much narrative outline as story, but I think it’s still something. For @ichirukimonth Day 18: A Perfect End (August 24). 2,571 words, with a song:

I asked myself: was I content, with the world that I once cherished? Did it bring me to this darkened place to contemplate my perfect future? I will not stand nor utter words against this tide of hate. Losing sight of what and who I was again

It is Christmas, 2032. Kazui started college in 2023, and an already ambivalent marriage that had been kept together in his name started quietly coming undone. By the time he graduated in 2027 it simply dissolved, just another statistical casualty. Last Ichigo heard, she was with Uryū.

He is 47 years old. He's as grizzled as his father now, but lacks any of his affected cheer. He's long past allocating blame. Lately he merely wonders: why not a Santen Kesshun or Sōten Kisshun here, or a memory replacer there? How did he wind up in such a circumstance when it could've been changed at any time?

I'm so sorry if these seething words I say Impress on you That I've become anathema of my soul

He's been binging movies the past few days. It's Christmas after all, so there's It's a Wonderful Life. There's Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, because, well, he could always go and have it all erased. It wouldn't even have to be her who did it... There's Looper and Donnie Darko and... You know, maybe he and his memory aren't the things that need to be erased. Maybe. Maybe...

He goes to Kisuke.

I can't say that you're losing me I always tried to keep myself tied to this world, Though I know where this is leading Please No tears No sympathy

Kisuke has never been happy about how Yoruichi left, and Kisuke still owes him.

"I want to go back," Ichigo eventually says over tea.

"... Back to where, Kurosaki-san?" Kisuke asks with confusion. Soul Society? That would be easy, but...

"... The beginning. No... just a little after then..." Ichigo muses, considering it more carefully.

Kisuke raises an eyebrow.

Ichigo explains.

"Out of the question," Kisuke objects.

"Are you saying it's impossible?" Ichigo demands.

Kisuke looks down and to one side, his hat obscuring his face.

"I remember Aizen bragging about how his Kurohitsugi would warp space and time..." Ichigo continues.

"We can't," Kisuke says gravely.

A small eon passes.

"What do we have to lose?" Ichigo asks, with all the light airiness of a falling feather.

I can't say that you're losing me But I must be that which I am Though I know where this could take me No tears No sympathy

It is Christmas, 2037. Preparations are complete. Kisuke has finished the machine. Ichigo has ended his training.

He is 52 years old.

Kisuke somberly passes him the device. It looks something like a smart phone, seemingly  rather innocuous. He presses it into Ichigo's hand firmly. "You just click the button on the side and confirm the data on the screen."

"Right."

Kisuke doesn't let go. "You'll have to make sure."

There's a long pause before Ichigo quietly says "I know," and heads for the senkaimon.

A moment later, he's in Soul Society. He can feel it hum in his bones.

The guards start at his sudden appearance, but his profile is known to them, even if he hasn't been through the gate in 35 years.

Ichigo strides forward into the middle of the plaza to wait patiently below a light snowfall. He hasn't seen her since things started getting tense, shortly after he turned 30. She'll show up sooner or later.

Gracefully Respectfully Facing conflict deep inside myself But here confined Losing control of what I could not change

He doesn't have to wait long.

Rukia drops out of flash step casually some 20 minutes later a few meters ahead of him.  She's youthful as ever, her hair long and braided here and there, her haori fluttering elegantly. It seems hardly a day has passed for her.

Her eyes widen as she takes in his appearance—he sees it all before she brings her expression under control.

"Ichigo?" He looks so much like his father, though his hair is long like that time, after the fight with Aizen.

"Yo, Rukia," he ventures with an awkward but natural smile.

Her brows knit together in confusion. "What are you doing here?" Soul Society doesn't celebrate Christmas, but...

"Uh..." Ichigo begins. He closes his eyes and rubs at the back of his head. All this time and he never really thought of what to say.

They stand in silence for a time before he exhales and drops his head. "Hey. If we could do it all over again, would you want things to end up like this?"

Rukia squints, then frowns, and finally turns away, crossing her arms at the directness of the question. "After all this time, you come here now to ask something like that? Don't expect me to answer that kind of thing," she says with a quiet voice.

Ichigo studies her back intensely. Something about the way she said that... No, you wouldn't. He closes his eyes and draws in a breath, basks in her reiatsu one last time. I'm sorry, Rukia, but... I already know your answer. At last he turns away, pitching his voice up with mirth. "Oi, Shinigami. I'll be back."

Rukia blinks again and furrows her brow in recollection. "It is not Shinigami—" she begins, turning around. Her eyes go wide as Ichigo is nowhere to be seen or felt. There is only the faintest distortion in the air, like a heat shimmer. She immediately looks around in alarm, but there is no sign of him. He's just vanished.

Gracefully Respectfully I ask you "Please don't worry," Not for me. Don't turn your back Don't turn away

It is late June, 2001.

He is both 15 and 52 years old.

Ichigo the Elder stands within the Soul Society of the past for only an instant, his reiatsu suppressed to the maximum. In the blink of an eye, he uses Shadow to slip into the Schatten Bereich. He doesn't care whether he was noticed—his presence was simply too brief to be anything but a hallucination.

He glances about with disinterest before jumping up far above Wandenreich's rooftops, quickly locating Silbern.

A second longer and he is there, inside its halls.

He pauses long enough to quickly look around, and then the screaming starts and doesn't end.

By the time Ichigo arrives at the throne room, the halls are slathered in dripping, viscous crimson.

He advances into the room methodically, spotless for his prior speed. Sure enough, there are Yhwach and all the Sternritter. Ichigo looks down at the floor in thought.

There is a deathly quiet.

"Who are you?" Haschwalth demands.

"... Kurosaki Ichigo?" Yhwach soon mutters. But that's impossible, that boy is only 15, and...

A sinister grin creeps to the corners of Ichigo's mouth. "I am... the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come." His voice distorts ominously as he finishes the sentence; his skin blanches to a pallid white; his hair flies back as if in the wind, suddenly long and flowing; and his eyes glow like embers before a horned skull mask forms over his face.

The room is cast in an altogether different red from the hallways, one of pure rage, before it gains that other color, splattered and splayed across the walls and floor and ceiling as judgment is rendered upon the Quincy once more.

I can't say that you're losing me I always tried to keep myself tied to this world Though I know where this is leading

Sometime later he is atop Karakura Hospital, once more wreathed in a shihakushō. Locating Ryūken is easy. He's in the man's office in a flash.

Ryūken looks up from his paperwork with a frown. Something about the face is strangely familiar, but... "Shinigami aren't welcome here."

Ichigo grins and casually tosses something onto his desk. "You should tell your son the truth."

Yhwach's head lands upon the desk with a wet thud, rolling to face Ryūken with an expression of mute terror as it oozes red ichor onto the papers.

Ryūken's eyes go wide in alarm and snap up toward the coldly arrogant face that he now all too clearly sees resembles Isshin's. For the first time in quite a while, he grasps for words.

Ichigo slowly lifts a finger to his lips in an exaggerated gesture of "Shh," raising his eyebrows. "Don't tell him. Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, now would we?"

Ryūken isn't able to blink before Ichigo turns and opens a garganta, disappearing.

Please No tears No sympathy

Ichigo is less thorough in Hueco Mundo by choice. He's already in his Hollow form by the time he enters Las Noches and he doesn't dally. He liquidates Yammy and Szayelaporro in a perfunctory way, leaves Grimmjow thrashed but alive on his way to terminating Rudbornn and Zommari, and viciously crushes Ulquiorra to within a millimeter of his life. Perhaps it's a mistake, but perhaps they will have utility. He only needs to make sure of two targets, after all. Everything else is... sporting.

He gives Aaroniero all of his attention, because their meeting is personal.

By the time he's confronted by Starrk, Baraggan, and Harribel, he's already satisfied and sated. The rulers of Hueco Mundo may keep their crowns of sand. He departs as quickly as he arrived, leaving them perplexed but warily grateful in the shattered ruins of Las Noches.

I can't say that you're losing me But I must be that which I am Though I know where this could take me

Ichigo is again back in black by the time he steps out of Soul Society's senkaimon, but he has no time to tarry. In an instant he is at the doors to the Captains' Assembly Hall, knowing them all to be there. He stops to shove the doors open theatrically with both hands, standing squarely in the entryway.

He has enough time to look up and down their ranks before Yamamoto can even begin to rebuke the interruption. He has never been affected by Kyōka Suigetsu—would it even matter anyway, since it's a different timeline?—and easily ascertains that yes, Aizen is really there.

"What is the meaning of—" Yamamoto begins.

Ichigo has already stopped in front of Aizen, and stabbed him through both the soul sleep and binding chain. There are no errors in it—of this he is absolutely certain. He follows up by snatching his glasses with his off-hand and upper-cutting him backwards through the wall with his swordhand.

The Captains have enough time to widen their eyes in shock, but not to track the events, when Gin and Kaname are each kicked through the walls in turn.

Once they can move, Ichigo has already grabbed Byakuya and disappeared.

No tears No sympathy

They pop back into existence in the lair of the conspirators.

Byakuya stands tall after being flung toward a computer bank, reaching for Senbonzakura's hilt. "You—"

Ichigo holds up a finger to silence him and begins working a keyboard, his every motion showing his utter disinterest and lack of concern. "Do you really think that tormenting Rukia for 49 years was what Hisana had in mind?" he asks quietly.

Byakuya falters but for a split-second, but for him, that is more than enough. "What..."

"You made two promises you shouldn't have: to your parents to defend the rules, and to her to protect your sister. Which will you keep?" Ichigo muses.

"Who are you?!" Byakuya demands, letting his temper flare through.

"I'm..." Ichigo begins as he enters the final keystrokes. A pedestal emerges from the floor in the center of the room, rising up, bearing the glittering form of a Hōgyoku. He walks over and takes it, studying it for a second before pocketing it and turning to face Byakuya directly, looking him dead in the eyes. I really want to use that 'the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come' line again, but... "You think that if you don't obey the rules, who will? Well, I'm a Shiba. And if I was you, I would definitely... fight the rules."

Byakuya's eyes widen before he narrows them down to slits. "Shiba...? What do you want?"

Ichigo watches him placidly for a moment. "'Dying to exterminate great evil. Know that this is the spirit of the Gotei 13,'" he recites, before glancing at the computers. "You'll find proof of the crimes of Aizen, Ichimaru Gin, and Tōsen Kaname in these."

With that, he turns away.

"What is your given name, Shiba?" Byakuya asks.

Ichigo smiles to himself. It'll make things more amusing. "Ichigo," he says, and disappears again.

No tears for me, no sympathy

It's early afternoon when he appears at home. He can immediately tell that Karin and Yuzu are at school as are... he and Rukia. He frowns at the thought and heads into the clinic.

Isshin is at his desk working on a report. Something tells him it's Ichigo that's just entered, but... "You're home early?"

Ichigo casually tosses Aizen's glasses onto the desk such that they slide to rest in front of his dad, the lenses cracked from how he grabbed them.

Isshin blinks at them in confusion, then recognition, before turning around. His face falters in shock.

"You should tell your son the truth," Ichigo repeats solemnly, studying his father's eyes for a second. He turns and adds "This weekend," before walking out.

He takes a glance around the living room before teleporting to the roof. He'll have more than enough time to eliminate Ginjō, Tsukishima, and Giriko, grab Yukio and Riruka, bring them to this Kisuke, explain everything, and be back here before he has to move on. I should probably help him out and get him a present to give Yoruichi when she shows up...

No tears for me, no sympathy

By the time Ichigo returns, it's after midnight. He knows the other him and Rukia are asleep even from outside. Appearing in his bedroom, he ponders Ichigo the Younger for a time. Producing the Hōgyoku, he begins the kidō ritual to seal it within his younger self's soul.

Once he finishes, he goes to the closet door and cracks it open to consider Rukia. The wan light casts a fine line across her face, but she doesn't rouse.

Ichigo contemplates her timelessness for a while, then his younger counterpart, and back again. They're a matching set now, in every way. Perhaps they can do something new with it—something more.

He quietly closes the closet door and departs for the Urahara Shop, whispering "See you around, Shinigami."

The rest of his journey is largely uneventful, until he's standing atop the Vestibule Road in the Soul King's Palace, surrounded by the Royal Guard and Divine Soldiers.

"Identify yourself, intruder," Senjumaru commands.

Ichigo throws his head back and laughs, resting Zangetsu on one shoulder. He eventually returns his gaze to their plane, tapping the sword against his shoulder as he proclaims "A horse! A horse!"

Zero Division exchange small, confused looks.

Ichigo gestures about with his free hand and swings the sword around to point it at Ichibē, waggling it slightly. "My kingdom for a horse!"

All weapons rise against him.

"Bald Guy, I thought you were the 'Monk Who Calls the Real Name'!? I am..." Ichigo grins for effect, "the Soul King!"

[dinas-y-cerrig]

Chapter I (rough draft, 1846 timeline) ~7 pages

After nearly a month of perfect service, the trains were running late once more.  Today, of all days. Margot was half-convinced that those idyllic three weeks of flawless service had simply been to lull her into a false sense of security, just so that life in its unceasing cruelty might extend a leg to bring her future crashing down.  Not content only with its vicious jape with the trains, but at her transfer station she had forgotten her coinpurse behind at the coffee stand when her connecting train had arrived earlier than expected.  She had been forced to make a mad dash through the commuter crowd, both purse and tepid station coffee left on the booth's sill.

Now, pressed up against a fogged window and squeezed tight between a man who reeked of sick and sweat and another who smelled arguably worse of oversaturated cologne, Margot lamented.  Her bleary, frazzled mind could not decide which she regretted abandoning more, the purse or the coffee.  As the man to her left let out a noise somewhere in between a belch and wet vomit, Margot firmly decided that at least the coffee might have given her the mental clarity to have wedged herself elsewhere.

(etc etc trains suck, margot's thoughts wander along the lines of “didn't they just finish two months' worth of renovations holy fucking shit fuck!!!” eventually gets off at her stop and wanders around slushy icy gross as shit winter and winding streets of city central aka what is fondly & accurately referred to as “tangled sheep's entrails” until she finally arrives at the address given. Front of the building is a great façade of veined marble in a state of obvious neglect, goes in, sits and waits to be seen)

When the second hour had come and gone, Margot despaired again at the thought of her lost coffee and purse.  Certainly, Captain Eirwel must be a busy man, but could he not have notified her of the delay, or at least have an aide sent out to let her know how much longer she might be waiting?  She put her watch away and stared gloomily at her boots.

"It's been a while, May."

The chipper voice shook Margot out of her reverie.  She looked up to see a tall man with a clipboard and shining hazel eyes.  He wore the black uniform of the brigade with its owl insignia.  His hair was brown, yet despite his young age there was a considerable amount of grey peppered in.  While his long face had a comely cast to it, his nose had a noticeable kink in it, turning slightly to the right.  Margot stood and reached out to shake his hand, but stopped short as she noticed it was occupied by a mug. The man laughed and lifted it slightly towards her.

"Actually, this is for you.  It's coffee, although if you'd prefer I can get you tea instead."

"No, please--I mean, thank you. Coffee would be lovely," Margot said.  She accepted the mug with eager hands and took a sip of the still-hot brew.  "Thank you, Mr., ah..."

The man blinked a few times, and then a strangely familiar, lopsided smile came over his face.  All at once Margot put the pieces together.  She had been so out of it that the nickname he had called her by had gone in one ear and out the other, but as he gave a self deprecating chuckle it clicked in her head. The embarrassment of it all turned her face red to her ears.

"Fritz!?"

"That is indeed me."

Margot took another look.  It had been so many years since she had seen her cousin, and despite the letters they exchanged she had been taken by surprise.  The last she had seen him, she had been twelve and her cousin had been about sixteen, short for his age and still padded by baby fat.  Now he had to be easily over six foot, slim and fit.  The greying hair had not helped.

"Though, er, most everyone just uses my middle name these days.  I have the captain to thank for thank," he added with a sheepish grin.  "Ah, and speaking of the captain, as much as I'd love to catch up, he's expecting us. If you'll just follow me, and do feel free to bring the coffee with you."

Margot nodded appreciatively, although her face still burned.  While Fritz--Lucian, she made a mental correction--did not seem terribly bothered, it had to be an incredible oversight to not even recognize one's own family, no matter how long it had been.  His transformation was quite something. She wondered at the late bloomer.

As they walked down the narrow hall with its creaking floorboards, Margot glanced about at the sparse furnishings.  There were a number of branching hallways off of the main one; obviously the spacious interior of the church had been converted into some ramshackle interior.  They passed outdated portraits of the late Emperor Friedrich III, as well as of the imperial twins Rudolf and Claudia--albeit as toddlers.  Other than that, the hallway was quite bare.  Even the carpet was faded and well-worn, mimicking the look of decrepit grandeur that hung over the ancient church.  However, she did not have long to dwell over what she saw, and her attention was drawn back to Lucian as he spoke up.

"I'm really quite sorry about the delay.  The captain had some, er, sudden visitors he had to attend to."

"Oh, it was no bother at all," Margot lied.  "The trains were delayed this morning, so I arrived a bit late anyway.  Honestly peaking, I was worried that perhaps I'd missed my chance and he'd decided not to see me."

"Ah yes, the good old city rail, eh?  You'd think that after all of the money that's been put into renovating it they would at least be able to run on time."  Lucian sighed, obviously another victim of the horrors of public transportation.  "Well do I remember those thankless morning commutes!"

Margot nodded in agreement.  A question that she had pondered when first her cousin had sent her notice of this job popped into her head.

"So what exactly do they have you doing here?  You weren't very clear in the letters.  I get that this is some kind of specialized police force, but..."

"Well, I am supposed to be a lieutenant, however the captain seems to think that means 'secretary'.  We've been trying to fill the position, but every new hire seems to leave after no time at all.  Not that I blame them..."  Lucian caught himself, putting a hand over his mouth. "Ah, please disregard what I just said.  Just a silly joke."

He coughed slightly and continued.

"As for what we do, well, it's not something I can exactly discuss with you just yet.  I'll let the captain explain, as we've arrived."

They had stopped in front of a pair of ornate wooden doors framed on either side by tapestries of the von Rosenbaum family crest and the Arthasian flag. As Lucian knocked thrice upon the carved mahogany, a wave of anxiety pricked at the back of Margot's head.  She took a deep breath as Lucian opened the doors, giving herself one last pat down and hoping that she did not look too haggard.

She couldn't help but gasp as she stepped in.

The room was, to put it gently, a wreck.  Papers littered the floor and were piled up among hazardous towers of books and folders.  Margot was so mesmerized by the utter chaos that it took her a second to notice the man seated behind the desk in the center of the room.  He was framed on either side by more haphazard constructions of books and paper, and his appearance reflected the disorder that plagued the office. His black hair was a mess of tangles and loose strands, and it looked as though it had not seen a comb in months.  He had his head bent over a sheaf of paper and one finger tapped out a staccato rhythm against the cover of a thick tome beside him.

It was Lucian's voice that broke through Margot's baffled yet rapt concentration.

"Sir, your appointment is here," he said with a salute.  Margot waited next to him in silence, but the captain showed no sign that he had heard, instead jotting something down as he ran his other hand through the rat's nest disguised as hair.  Lucian cleared his throat and repeated himself, albeit, Margot noticed, considerably louder and with a slight edge.

"Your interview, sir?"

Captain Eirwel's eyes flashed up and fixed first Lucian, then Margot, with an icy stare.  Margot couldn't help but notice, even in the dim light, just how intensely blue those eyes were.  His mouth curled downward, and he waved his hand.

"Yes, yes of course," he said with something of a huff.  "Dismissed, Lieutenant."

"Sir."

Lucian saluted and stepped back, closing the doors behind him.  Margot was left in this stuffy warzone with the man who was supposed to be the captain of this police force.  She marveled at just how little Captain Eirwel fit the idea she had had in her head.  Her cousin had mentioned that his childhood friend turned captain did not quite fit into the noble society around him, his letters had obviously diminished the extremity of Eirwel's image.  There had been a time many years ago that her parents had gone to Brynwal when a young Kain Eirwel had had a particularly bad fever and a snowstorm had trapped them there.  She wracked her brain, trying to remember what he had been like at the time, but it had been so long ago that she could not picture it. She was certain, however, that he had grown into quite the unique adult.  As he was the bastard child of the previous emperor, an honor student of Lindenburg, and the captain of a specialized police force, she had imagined someone with regal bearing and an intimidating air.  However, the only thing intimidating her just then was how someone could manage to make such a complete mess of a room.  Indeed, it must take a spectacular talent, she concluded.

As she was taking in the scene around her, the captain narrowed his eyes and gestured to a chair near the desk.  It was, like every other surface in the room, stacked with so many books and boxes that Margot wondered at the ability this man had for keeping them from toppling over.

"You can just set those wherever," Eirwel said with a dry voice, not budging from his own seat.  Suppressing a sigh, Margot carefully removed the clutter and set it aside; the floor was almost completely hidden, so she settled for simply adding the objects to other towers.  After a minute of rearranging, she brought the chair forward and sat.  She was about to speak, but Eirwel had disappeared behind the mountains of papers on his desk.  Margot waited awkwardly until he straightened back up, a torn and crumpled sheet in his hand.

"Quite the impressive resume you have here.  It says you graduated the Royal Medical School with honors, and a year early on top of that," Eirwel said in a disinterested voice.  "All of your references check out, and your experience is laudable for someone so young."

When she had realized that what he held in his hand was her letter of introduction, Margot had been unable to stop herself from flinching.  She supposed she should count herself lucky that the captain had it at all, but never had she seen someone so totally disregard basic etiquette.  As well, despite his apparent praise, Eirwel's voice seemed bored and condescending.  He was only a few years older than her, yet it was as though he were speaking to a child.  Margot grit her teeth and bit back the many things on the tip of her tongue.  Eirwel did not seem to notice her tension and continued.

"Well, it's good enough for me. When can you start?"

His comment caught Margot completely off guard.  She had been practicing possible interview questions and responses for the last few weeks with her cat, Pisica, and even had her friend Rufus help her prepare.  For her references she had even gone out of her way to visit them personally to receive documentation of her work experience, going so far as Bridgetown at the outskirts of Mercia.  She sat speechless; she knew she should be overjoyed, yet she felt like the rug had been swept out from under her feet.  Eirwel leaned his cheek against one hand and looked at her expectantly.

"Your answer?"

"Sir, I am flattered, but... is there nothing you wish to ask of me?  Or check, or..."  Margot fumbled for words.

"To be completely honest, I don't really care.  Everything here looks fine, so why not?" Eirwel said, slapping at the ratty missive.  "So are you going to accept the job, or have you come here just to waste my time?"

Despite his scathing and hypocritical comment, Margot could not work up the energy to get mad.  Well, it pays well, and it's quite the position, she thought in resignation.  She nodded curtly.

"My apologies sir.  I would be honored to accept.  I can begin immediately."

The captain leaned back in his chair and nodded.

"Welcome to the Strigoi, Miss Merryweather."

After everything that had happened, Margot did not even have the energy to correct the captain on her name.

Captain Eirwel had taken Margot's offer of immediate work quite literally.  He sent her out to fetch him some documents from the storeroom, where she met a tall, spindly woman named Cosmina Belu.  From the few things Lucian had told her about the Strigoi, she knew that their ranks were a bit unusual in comparison to the City Watch.  Indeed, she had seen a number of women around, and more than a few people of different nationalities and backgrounds.  Belu was evidently the manager of the archives, and her image fit exactly what one might expect of someone in that position.  She had horn rimmed glasses and her black hair was pulled tight in a bun.  Her outfit was black as well and cut much like the robes of a librarian.  She gave off every impression of severity, however when she spoke her voice was surprisingly warm and friendly.

Unlike the captain's room, the archives were notably clean and well organized. Catching Margot's surprise, Belu smirked.

"We make it a rule to ban the captain from so much as setting foot in here.  I'm sure you can see why."

Although Margot could agree wholeheartedly with that decision, she was a bit shocked at the casual comment berating Eirwel.  As her surname suggested, Belu was of a common background, and to hear her openly chide a noble--even a noble such as Captain Eirwel--was something Margot did not expect.

Margot left the storeroom with the materials requested and returned to the captain's office, where Eirwel just shuffled her off once more, this time to deliver the folders to a certain Corporal Tahoma Niyaani.  With Lucian's help, she found him in the large, open room full of desks where most of the force were.

Corporal Niyaani was a large, muscular man with short cropped hair and a large tattoo down one side of his face.  His brow was furrowed and his dark brown eyes focused intensely on a set of blueprints before him.  However, despite his imposing appearance, when Margot cleared her throat and presented the materials Eirwel had sent with her, Niyaani's face broke into a friendly smile.

"Just what I am waiting for," he said with a heavy SaaLyni accent.  "You are the new one?  I am Corporal Niyaani, the masochist."

Margot stared at him, not sure if she had heard him correctly.

"It's machinist, Niyaani. How many times do I have to tell you," a man at the desk across from Niyaani said with a wide grin.  Niyaani's eyebrows knit together.

"This is what I said, Maddox."

The other man, a tan and wiry man with curly black hair, just gave an exaggerated sigh and dramatic shrug.

"Please do forgive our good man.  He's only been in the Empire for five damn years now."

Niyaani frowned and waved Maddox away.

"It is not being five years here, only one, before I am in Lidia.  You are knowing this, Maddox."

Maddox stood up and slapped Niyaani on the back.  They seemed to be good friends, despite the verbal sparring.

"It's good to meet ya," Maddox said as he turned to Margot.  "I'm Corporal Parsifal Maddox, and this big lug, despite his appearance, is our very talented machinist and tinkerer.  You wouldn't think it to look at those bear paws he calls hands, but he's got the dexterity of a fox."

"Pleased to meet you as well," Margot said, accepting Maddox's outstretched hand.  "I'm Margot Mayweather."

"The captain sure is a slave driver, huh?  I'd heard there was a new interview for secretary today, but to think he'd have you running hither thither already."

"Ah, no, I think you're mistaken.  I'm here as a division medic," Margot corrected him with a gentle smile, but something about his comment sent a needle of doubt through her head.  Maddox and Niyaani looked at each other, then to Margot, and that needle became a sharp blade.

"No, really, the captain was just saying that our new hire was the secretary.  He even let Gartner do his actual damn job."

The smile on Margot's face stiffened, and a vein stood out at her neck as she clenched her jaw hard.

"If you will please excuse me."

She left the two bewildered men and walked with brisk purpose back out into the hallway.  As she increased her pace she nearly bowled over Lucian as he passed her, but she did not so much as slow down.  Reaching the large doors to the captain's office, she slammed them open without warning and stormed up to his desk.  Before Eirwel could utter a single complaint, Margot slammed her hands as hard as she could against the mahogany, sending a small hurricane of papers flying. The captain opened his mouth with a scowl but Margot cut him off.

"Your fucking secretary? Are you kidding me?  What in the nine hells is this?  I waited for over two hours this morning, I spent weeks gathering references, I have bent over backwards for this damned job, and you have me as a secretary?" she shouted, unable to stop herself.  "Is this some kind of joke?  Is this your idea of humor?  Because let me tell you, it is in very fucking poor taste.  Do you have any idea how hard I have worked to get here?  And you're just treating me as some errand girl?"

Her loud voice had brought Lucian into the room, his face concerned.  As Margot took a deep breath to continue, however, Lucian placed a hand on her shoulder.

"May, please, what is--"

"Don't you dare talk to me like some kind of child!" she snapped at him, swiping his hand away.  "I may be a woman, but I am not here to just run around playing secretary."

When she saw Lucian's confusion, she finally relented.  Her cousin suddenly shot a look at Captain Eirwel, and his face turned stern.

"Captain, is what she's saying true?" he said in a low voice.  "Please forgive me for speaking out of turn, but this is just cruel, deceiving someone this way..."

Margot was surprised by the disappointment in Lucian's voice.  She turned her gaze toward the captain.  Once again he had a bored look on his face, and she felt the rage bubbling up again when he finally spoke.

"Just what exactly is the issue here?"

That was the last straw.

"I answered a call for a doctor, sir, not a secretary.  As you yourself said, I graduated with honors, I have field work, I have worked through blood, sweat, and fucking tears to get to where I am today, and you expect me to accept a job with the salary of a simple clerk?"

"Well, yes, a simple clerk wouldn't receive the same pay of a skilled worker.  That stands to reason.  But why does that bother you?  You're to be paid half again as much."

"Why does that bother me?" Margot's voice lowered but the poison in it grew only more toxic.  "Great, so I can get paid what is still a fraction of what I'd get just working at a bloody medical outpost?  Oh, how very gracious of you.  But I am a doctor, and I plan to work as such."

Captain Eirwel's eyes clouded over, and he furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean?  Of course you're working as such.  When did I ever say you weren't?"

Both Lucian and Margot stared at the captain, mouths open.  When the silence stretched on, Eirwel ran one hand through his unruly hair and leaned back.

"Then what was all this about a secretary?" Margot finally managed.

"Well, it's not as though you're going to be setting bones or stitching wounds or whatever all the time.  Wouldn't you rather get some extra pay to assist with clerical duties in the downtime?"  Eirwel's voice was exasperated.  "You'll get half again what your salary would be otherwise.  It's a considerable amount just for some light clerical work.  I'd say that's a pretty damn good deal."

The wind went out of Margot's sails with such rapidity that she felt herself deflate.  This man who sat before her was, quite possibly, one of the most frustrating people she had ever met, or indeed ever would meet.  There were a number of choice words that came to mind, but all of today's mental gymnastics left her drained and finished. She was sure that she had managed now to lose the job she had started that very day, yet she felt no remorse over her actions.  This all could have been avoided had this dense man just spoken directly.  Ah, four hours.  That must be a world record for getting let go from a job, she thought bitterly.

"If that'll be all," Captain Eirwel said, returning to his papers.  "Then you may return to work."

Margot's head snapped up.  Just when she thought this day could get no more convoluted, another twist had been tacked on.  She felt a hand on her shoulder, and this time did not smack it away. Lucian gave her a smile that spoke of heartfelt apology and led her back out.

"Ah... I'm really sorry about him.  He's, uhm, how should I put it." Lucian stared at the ceiling as he searched for the proper words. "Well, let's just say that our captain may be very capable at his job, but when it comes to speaking to people he sometimes doesn't quite get his point across."

"You don't say," Margot replied wearily.  She had no more energy to spare for Captain Eirwel.

"Head on home for today, May," Lucian suggested kindly.  "I promise you he really isn't always quite so difficult."

Something in Lucian's voice made Margot suspect that he was not being entirely truthful, but she decided to take him up on his suggestion and head home.  She needed to give some serious thought to what she had just gotten involved in.

And Pisica was probably hungry, anyway.

After seeing May off, Lucian turned and headed back to the captain's office.  He knocked and entered without waiting for a response, careful to shut the door completely behind him.  Behind the desk, Kain Eirwel shrunk back ever so slightly, glowering warily at his lieutenant.

"Look, it's not my fault that she didn't--"

"Don't even try to excuse yourself here, Kain," Lucian said.  "You can't take out your anger from this morning on everyone around you.  I understand that the Minister's hound threw you off today, but we desperately need trained medical staff.  After what happened last week... Petrescu would still be alive if you hadn't put this off.  And now you want to drive away the one doctor willing to work here despite the reputation we have?  She may be my cousin, but I will not force her to stay if she decides she's had enough of your childishness."

It was rare indeed for Lucian to speak so harshly toward the captain.  They had known each other since childhood, but it still took Kain off guard when his mild friend lost his temper, and the mention of poor Officer Petrescu sent a sharp twist of shame through Kain's chest.  The boy, barely even twenty, had joined only weeks earlier, but he had been stabbed while out on patrol, and in the time it took them to locate him and then find a clinic with any staff around at that late hour he had died of his injuries.  The nature of their jobs meant late nights, and it had become obvious that they needed proper medical staff on call.  Due to the negative reputation of the Strigoi, though, they had had a difficult time finding anyone.  Even one person was better than none, and someone with the qualifications that Margot had was rare to come by.  

Kain looked away, his face flushed as he realized that he had indeed crossed a line. However, his pride did not let him simply apologize and move forward.

"Well, you were the one complaining about being treated like a secretary," Kain said peevishly.  "It was giving me a headache.  In fact, you should be thanking me for being so resourceful!"

The deadpan stare Lucian directed at Kain shut him up.  He sighed heavily and threw up his arms.

"Fine. Fine.  I promise to apologize to her tomorrow."

"For your own sake, I pray that you do."