#she definitely caught a case of something that caused severe brain damage or something

[resident-gay-bitch]

sick little victorian boy energy>>>

reg>>>

sirius>>>

which other sick little victorian boys can you think of?

(im totally making sense rn)

No no I get this. I call this the timothee chalamet effect. Literally any character he’s played has that energy, and even him in real life.

May I also bring to the table young Gru from Despicable Me (I’ve not seen the minions movies with his backstory I’m only taking from the flashback scenes in Despicable Me)

[kikis-writing-world]

Love is Blind

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (her hair is described in that it is long enough to braid, and it is brushed by another character. Sorry if that alienates anyone)

Word Count: 8.4k

Rating/Warnings: Mentions of dead bodies and glossing over of canon-typical violence, injury leading to temporary blindness, talks of medical procedures (vague descriptions cause idk what I’m doing,) mentions of pregnancy (Whiskey talks about his dead wife) If I missed anything please let me know. It’s a long one and I tried to mark down anything that might need warning.

Summary: The mission was going perfectly until you were caught by a stupid trap, spraying some kind of toxin in your face. Now you’re (temporarily?) blinded and have to find out what that means for your future with Statesman.

The dust settled over the room as the chaos gave way to silence. You waited a beat, taking a deep breath before speaking out.

“Clear.” You spoke softly, knowing the message would be transmitted to your partner. Despite your confidence that you’d taken out the men on your side of the room, you kept your pistol firmly in your grasp.

“Clear.” The response came through your ear piece, the voice tinny in your ear. The bass tones were missing, but it was unmistakably Agent Whiskey’s southern drawl. You stood from your cover behind a large, leather sofa and surveyed the mess. Whiskey was standing behind the bar in the corner of the room doing the same.

“Nice work.” You nodded at him, noticing several bodies elegantly cleaved in half from his lasso.

“Same to you, ‘Rhett.” Whiskey returned the compliment, stepping around the bar. You glared at him for shortening your name - he knew you hated that - but you were stopped from responding as a third voice joined the conversation through your earpieces. “Intel puts the plates in a safe behind the painting. The landscape behind the desk” Ginger’s voice instructed from HQ, watching the scene through the micro-cameras you were both wearing: Whiskey’s in his bolo tie and yours on a broach on your vest.

You and Whiskey both turned to look at the large painting on the far side of the room. It, and the desk it sat behind, were riddled with bullet holes and other damage from the fray. It was still hanging askew on the wall. You crossed the room easily, stepping over the various bodies on the way. Whiskey let you take the lead, keeping a watch while you turned your back to the room.

The painting fell with a nudge from the barrel of your gun, revealing the safe tucked into the wall. A 10 digit keypad with a small screen kept it locked. You leaned in, making sure your broach was pointed at it. “Ginger?”

“Got it Amaretto. Analyzing.” You could picture the woman typing away, executing different commands as she analyzed the image you broadcast back to her computer. You knew she was using possible heat signatures, wear on the numbers, oil deposits, not to mention the tech you didn’t understand to crack the code. You could hear Whiskey shifting around the room behind you as you waited.

“7298,” Ginger instructed. You entered the code and the lock clicked, the door swinging ajar.

“Thanks, Ging.” You acknowledged before addressing Whiskey. “We’re in.”

“And?” He asked, looking over his shoulder at you, but keeping himself angled out into the room in case of trouble.

You pushed the safe’s door the rest of the way open seeing a large, black briefcase inside. If the intel was right, inside it would be counterfeiting plates. A small time counterfeiting ring had somehow paired up with a large terrorist ring, laundering the fake money into real profit to fund their plans. Taking down this ring would be a big, although likely temporary, hit to the terrorists.

You pulled the briefcase out of the safe, setting it onto the desk. There were no locks on the briefcase, just the latches keeping it closed. While that should have been suspicious, your excitement of completing the mission had you pushing forward. You unlatched and opened the lid.

Before you could see what was inside, something shot out of the case. You were sprayed in the face and neck with a cool, goopy liquid. You yelped in surprise, wiping frantically at your face to get it off. You stumbled backwards into the wall, falling onto your ass.

You heard Whiskey call for you the same time Ginger did through the earpiece. Whiskey was beside you quickly, pulling your hands away from your face by the wrists. “What happened?”

“I-I don’t know.” You stuttered, feeling him wiping at your face and hands with some fabric. “I opened the case and it shot out at me.”

“Ginger?” Whiskey called out.

“I’m checking the footage now, running it through our databases.” The tech responded, voice level as always. “Keep a sample, but find some water to get it off her. I’m sure it’s some kind of safety measure.”

“Stay here.” Whiskey ordered before he left your side.

You nodded, trying to remain calm as the substance started to sting your eyes. You relayed that information back to Ginger.

“What else can you tell me about it, Amaretto?” She asked.

“It’s viscous. Like syrup.” You told her, feeling the slimy coating it still left on your skin after Whiskey had tried to wipe it away. “Cool to the touch. Smells like… flowers? Definitely floral.”

“Okay. That’s good. That’s helpful. Anything else, let me know. It will help us identify it quicker.”

Whiskey returned as Ginger spoke. You jumped at his sudden presence beside you.

“Sorry.” He mumbled. “Got the water and a cloth.” He narrated as to not spook you when the wet rag touched your skin.

“Flush out her eyes and get out of there.” Ginger instructed as your partner wiped your face clean. The cloth disappeared and Whiskey’s large hand was on the back of your head, leading you to lean over.

“I’ve got you. We just gotta wash out your eyes.” He kept talking, although you couldn’t quite tell if it was to keep you or himself calm. “Open.” He instructed.

You listened, opening your eyes and whimpering at how much it hurt to do so. The room seemed so much brighter than it had been before. You only had a moment to think on this before Whiskey was pouring the water into your eyes. You reached out for him, steadying yourself with your hands against his chest.

When the flow of water stopped, you told Ginger. “Light sensitivity. Add that to the list of symptoms.”

“Got it.” She responded. “Whiskey, grab that case and get to the jet.”

Your partner’s hands were on your arms, helping you to stand. He left you momentarily and you heard the briefcase snap closed. His arm wrapped around your waist as he led you away from the wall. You stumbled a few times over the bodies on the floor, but Whiskey did a good job of leading you. Any misstep you took or slight fumble, he never let you fall. You were lucky the two of you had dispatched everyone in the house before making it to the office. There was no one left alive to stop you as you left.

“It’s really starting to burn.” You told them, feeling tears falling from your eyes. The burning was also translating into a headache as the pain spread. It was getting harder to focus on Whiskey as he navigated the two of you out of the house.

“Stick with me, pick up your feet. I got ya.” Whiskey continued to instruct as you moved.

You knew you’d made it outside the second the sunlight hit your face. Even through closed eyelids, the light was too much to bear. You cried out in pain, shielding your eyes with your hands. You would have fallen to your knees if not for Whiskey’s firm grip on you.

“I can’t.” You cried, holding your head in your hands. “It’s too much.”

Whiskey cursed under his breath before you felt something slip atop your head and you were lifted off the ground. “Keep your head down,” Whiskey ordered, the vibrations of his voice moving through his chest against you. You could feel the bouncing of his footsteps as he ran. You removed your hands from your eyes to hold onto him, and you assumed you were wearing his hat by the way it kept the sun off your face. You buried your head into his neck to shield your eyes even more from the light.

“We’re almost there.” He promised as you trembled in his arms. 

When Whiskey had landed the jet earlier, it hadn’t seemed too far from the cabin - far enough to not alert them to your presence of course, but the trek there hadn’t seemed far. Now, it felt like he might as well be carrying you to Canada as the pain grew worse. You could hear Whiskey and Ginger talk, but it grew harder to hear them over your own groans of pain and the blood rushing through your ears. You were crying in earnest into Whiskey’s shoulder, fighting the urge to claw at your eyes.

You felt his gait change as he ascended the stairs into the jet. You could hear his voice but the words were lost on you as he set you down into a sitting position. Without him to grip onto, your hands flew to your eyes. Your arms were quickly restrained, making you yell and thrash. It was too bright. It hurt too much. The stinging was unbearable now.

You felt a single hand wrap around both wrists as you pleaded for him to let you go. You needed to do something to stop the pain.

You barely felt the pinprick to your neck. As it got harder to fight him, you realized he must have given you a sedative. He dropped your arms as your muscles grew sluggish and you felt him buckling you safely into the seat. You tried to mumble a thank you to him, but you couldn’t be sure if the words made it out of your brain as you lost consciousness.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Your surroundings came to you slowly. The feel of the stiff cot under you, covered with scratchy linens. A few quiet beeps from different machines. The sensors attached to your chest and your arms - you must be in the medical wing back at Statesman HQ. It took you a moment to remember what had landed you in medical but once you did you were pleasantly surprised to not feel any pain. 

You couldn’t remember anything after stepping outside the cabin. The last vivid memory you had was the sun hitting your face and excruciating pain shooting through your head. Whiskey must have gotten the two of you back safely.

Your eyes fluttered open meeting a dark room. You were thankful for that, remembering how severe the light sensitivity had gotten. Introducing you to light slowly was a good idea.

“You’re awake.” The voice made you jump, even though you quickly recognized it to be Ginger. You didn’t expect her to be waiting in the dark for you. “How do you feel?”

You heard the heart rate sensor beep a little quicker as you clutched your chest from the scare, laughing softly. “You scared me. I feel okay, actually. No pain.”

“That’s great.” You could hear the relief in her voice. “And your vision?”

The question gave you pause, wondering how you were supposed to test your vision in the dark. “Turn the light on and I’ll tell you.”

“What?” Ginger’s voice was clipped, fallen from the relief it held moments ago. You weren’t sure exactly what the tone was but you knew you didn’t like it.

“Turn the lights on, Ging.”

“The lights are on.” She explained. You could hear the clicking of her footsteps and the rustling of her clothes as she moved closer. A hand on your right arm made you flinch.

“That’s not funny.” You scoffed.

“I’m not joking.” She replied seriously. She was silent for a moment, the faint rustling of fabric moving again before she asked “you don’t see that at all?”

“See what?”

“I’m shining a flashlight into your eyes.”

“No you’re not.”

“Ginger!” You heard Whiskey’s drawl, echoing like it was in a different room. Footsteps, heavier than the ones you had just heard, accompanied his voice as you figured he must be entering approaching your room. “She awake yet?”

“Whiskey, tell Ginger to stop joking around.” You begged, starting to freak out. The increased beeping beside you accompanied the anxiety you were feeling spread through your body.

“What’s going on?” The cowboy asked, worry coating his voice as it moved closer.

“She can’t see anything.” Ginger admitted, her hand leaving your arm. You heard Whiskey exhale to your left, a loud breath that sounded like he’d been punched in the solar plexus.

“Why not?” He demanded.

“I don’t know.” Ginger admitted. “We’re still analyzing the substance. So far all we know is it seems to be made from orange blossoms and some kind of berry-”

“It won’t be permanent, right?” You asked, cutting Ginger off. Your voice sounded so small compared to the other two in the room. There wasn’t an answer right away, footsteps approaching from the left before a large, warm hand covered yours.

“We’ll figure this out, sugar.” Whiskey told you as he laced his fingers with yours.

“We will.” Ginger confirmed. She sounded confident, and you knew she was nothing if not capable, but you still felt tears roll down your cheeks as the fear crashed over you.

You heard Whiskey tut beside you before he was brushing your tears away, his large palms cupping your cheeks as his thumbs brushed your skin.

“I’ll get to the lab. See if we’ve got anything new.” Ginger excused herself and you could hear her footsteps fade as she left the room.

As the two of you were left alone, you felt the cot shift underneath you as Whiskey sat down. He pulled you into a hug, letting you cry into his shoulder. She rocked you gently back and forth, telling you it was going to be okay. He let you cry until you felt numb, like there were no tears left. He didn’t move away until you lifted your head.

“I’d offer you my handkerchief, but it’s in the lab too.” Whiskey told you, voice light like he was trying to make you smile. He shifted away for a brief second, leaning back as you felt him press a scratchy fabric into your hand, which you quickly identified as a tissue. You used it to blot at your cheeks and nose.

You thanked him, your voice hoarse from crying. “Not just for this,” you waved the tissue in the air. “For getting us out of there.”

“It’s part of the gig, sugar.” It sounded like he was grinning when he spoke. You hoped he was. Even more, you hoped you’d see the grin for yourself again soon.

The next several days revolved around tests. Scans of your head and eyes, tests being done on the limited amount of the substance the lab had collected from Whiskey’s handkerchief and the briefcase. You didn’t even realize there were that many different tests they could perform, but everyday they brought you new results. Unfortunately, none of the results so far had led to any answers about why you’d lost your sight. As the lab identified more ingredients of the goo that had sprayed you, they tried different medicines and remedies but nothing had changed. They also told you how the substance had left you with a light rash on the skin of your face and hands where you’d been exposed. You were hardly worried about the rash. They said it was fading naturally. You wished your sight would return naturally too.

Between tests, you were hardly ever along. Whiskey visited you more often than not. Ginger spent a lot of time with you during tests as well as socially for meals. The team of doctors and junior agents working with her to help heal you all came and went. Tequila, Champ and other Statesman agents came by to check in on you when they could.

It was getting easier to identify who was coming as you started to hear differences in their footsteps. Whiskey had a long, slow gait, his boots slapping the floor with a dull thud. Tequila’s steps were quicker, and his boots snapped a little lighter against the floor. Champ’s steps were slower, like Whiskey’s, but there was an irregularity to the pattern. His left hip making him have the slightest limp that you had never noticed by sight alone. Ginger was easiest, being one of the few women who came to see you. Her steps clacked as her heels hit the floor.

You were also surprised to start noticing the different scents everyone held. Tequila, bless that boy, smelt obnoxiously like axe spray deodorant, reminding you of a high school boy’s gym class. Champ smelt of vanilla, cloves and the cigar smoke that clung to his clothes. Ginger smelt like clean linens, a hint of tropics in her detergent but seemed to be content staying largely scent-free, no perfumes that you could pick up on.

Whiskey’s smell was more complex, but maybe that was because he was the one who would sit next to you on the bed, giving you a chance to really breathe it in. Hints of spiced citrus hung to his clothes, along with the smell of leather and smoke - not smoke like Champ, but the kind from a freshly fired gun. When he got close enough, his musk had you remembering being cradled in his arms as he carried you away from the cabin, his hat atop your head.

You were thankful for the ways you were picking up to identify people. Your years as an agent had you trained to survey your surroundings, to avoid being caught off guard. It was unsettling to have your primary sense for that taken away from you. Most people were learning to announce themselves as they approached your room, giving you a heads up someone was nearing. Not everyone did. Tequila was particularly bad at it, and you suspected he enjoyed watching you jump.

You expressed your worries to Champ when he came to visit, on the fourth day of no progress. He chuckled and patted your back in a fatherly way.

“Let’s give them some time to figure this out, Amaretto. We don’t need to start plannin’ a retirement party just yet.”

You supposed he was trying to help you worry less, but it didn’t help. Would you have to retire if your vision wasn’t restored? You could hardly imagine a position at Statesman that you could easily navigate without sight. If you ever learned braille, and how to type, maybe some kind of administration or archival job, but who knew how long it would take you to master those skills. It was hard enough to accept what this meant for your career, let alone the rest of your life.

The agents that came to visit tried to help take your mind off of it, but it was hard when there was no true reprieve.

“Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.

“You know, I’m startin’ to remember why I wasn’t so fond of this book in school.” Whiskey interrupted his recitation. “How Mr. Twain managed to turn the absolute boredom of paintin’ a fence into the written word with such lucidity is an artform in itself.”

“Oh stop,” you laughed, reaching beside you to swat at him. It was an easy thing to aim for, feeling the warmth of him on the bed next to you, his arm pressed to yours.

“I’m just sayin’ that I’ve had better adventures before breakfast than these so called adventures of Tom Sawyer.” He complained.

“Tom Sawyer wasn’t a senior agent of a secret spy organization.”

“And good thing too. He’d have burnt this place to the ground by now with his behaviour.” He harrumphed, making you laugh.

“Just keep reading.”

He sighed, a long, annoyed sigh.

“Please.” You sang, smiling up at him as you leaned into his arm. These were the moments you could really smell the spice and leather on him.

He was silent for a beat. Although the two of you were joking, you almost worried he wouldn’t keep reading. It was much harder to read people’s moods without seeing their facial expressions. No smile or eye roll to go by had you guessing by voice tone alone. Silences had you absolutely puzzled.

“Can’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an’ git dis water an’ not stop foolin’ roun’ wid anybody. She say she spec’ Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an’ so she tole me go ’long an’ ’tend to my own business—she ’lowed she’d ’tend to de whitewashin’.”

“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That’s the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket—I won’t be gone only a a minute. She won’t ever know.”

“Oh, I dasn’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis she’d take an’ tar de head-

“I’d be able to follow a lot easier if you did different voices for the different characters.” You interrupted.

“Don’t push your luck.” He grumbled, but you were pretty sure you could hear that grin in his voice again as he kept reading.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Keep your eyes closed.” You were instructed by Tonic, a junior agent who worked under Ginger. You felt the dampened towel being lifted from your eyes. You’d just spent 40 minutes laying back, letting the medicinal solution on the towel soak in. You had done the same thing the day before, and would likely be doing it again tomorrow.

“Just dimming the lights. Hold on.” Tonic explained as you heard his shuffling footsteps through the room. It was a good thing he had a knack for medicine because he’d be an awful field agent with the way he never picked up his feet.

“Okay, open.”

You did as instructed, blinking as your eyes adjusted to being open again. Just like the day before, you only saw the familiar inky blackness.

“Nothing.” You shook your head.

“That’s okay.” You could hear the forced optimism in his voice. “Ginger said it could take up to five treatments for this to work. We’ll do it again tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” You gave the poor kid the best smile you could muster, but you were definitely losing hope. It had been nearly a week now with no progress. It was getting time to face facts.

“Don’t worry, Agent Amaretto. We’ll figure it out.” The boy told you, a soft pat on your shoulder accompanying his attempt at comfort.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen Tonic around Statesman. You might have walked by in passing, but you were never introduced. It was weird to be spending this much time with someone and having no idea what they looked like. You were almost tempted to ask, but kept it to yourself. You'd have to get used to not knowing what new people looked like.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

You shuffled out of the bathroom with your hand on the doorframe to help guide you. You had showered - your first true shower on your own, not just a quick wash-up in the sink or a sponge bath - and it made you feel slightly more human again. The robe was soft and plush against your skin, wearing only a tank top and underwear under it. The towel you had half-heartedly wrapped your hair in was falling out of the twist - you hadn’t quite mastered that skill without seeing yet.

You opened your mouth to dismiss the junior agent who had been tasked with waiting for you - sitting outside the washroom in case you needed to call for help - but you were interrupted.

“I sent her on her way, sugar.” You immediately recognized Whiskey’s twang. He was the best so far at announcing his presence, and you truly appreciated it. You still jumped slightly, not expecting him to be here. “Sorry.” He chuckled.

“I’ll get used to it eventually.” You waved off his apology, not actually knowing if you would ever get used to it.

“C’mon, none of that.” Whiskey tutted. Your uncertainty must have shown on your face. “Want a hand?”

“Yes, please.’ You confirmed, holding your arm out towards his voice. You heard him approach, footsteps and fabric, before he looped his arm around yours.

“Where to?” They had set up a table and chairs for you in the room, trying to make you feel more at home than in a hospital room. All it did was reaffirm that you weren’t any closer to finding a solution and that your stay was going to last even longer.

“The bed, please.”

He led you to the bed easily, not taking his arm away until you were sitting comfortably. You felt the towel fall even further off your head as you sat.

“Can you pass me the brush?” You asked him, holding your hand out.

You waited, hearing Whiskey move around, but instead you felt him pull your hair free from the towel. With your wet hair falling down your back, you felt him run the brush through it.

“What are you doing?” You chuckled.

“You just relax, sugar.” He ordered. He started at the ends of your hair, brushing the tangles out before moving closer to your scalp.

“I can brush my own hair.” You argued even though you were grinning.

“Just let me take care of you, Rhett.” He huffed, smacking you on the shoulder with the flat side of the brush.

“Fine, Whisk.” You huffed playfully in response, leaving him to brush your hair.

He was surprisingly gentle, only once did your hair pull painfully at your scalp to which he mumbled a quick apology. You hadn’t had someone brush your hair for you in a long time. Outside of a hairdresser, it probably hadn’t happened since you were a child. As much as you were trying to maintain your independence with your new loss of sight, it was very relaxing.

You hadn’t expected it when you felt him part your hair into sections and start weaving them together.

“Are you… braiding my hair?” You asked curiously.

“Yes, ma’am.” He hummed, clearly concentrated on his task.

“Okay, the brushing I could let go, but are you going to tell me how you know how to braid?” You laughed.

“I’ve made my own whips before, sugar.” He explained, his drawl even more pronounced as he spoke slowly, keeping his focus on the hair. “Part of that is just fancy bradin’.”

“You make your own whips?” That surprised you.

Whiskey chuckled, his fingers brushing lower and lower on your back as the braid progressed. “Not the ones I use on missions, but I have some at home I made. I’m not too up on the electricity part, but a good ol’ fashioned bullwhip? I can throw one of those together in a few days if I have the time.”

“So which came first? Using the whip or making them?”

“Been usin’ them since I was a boy, on the family farm. Started makin’ em ‘round the same time, maybe a few years between. Although those first ones were nothin’ to celebrate. I got better at it. Decent hobby to have, if you’ve got scraps of leather hanging around.”

You felt him end the braid as he spoke, tying an elastic around the end. You lifted your hand to your hair so you could feel the braid. It was surprisingly sturdy and didn’t feel like there were any messes of bumps.

“Thank you.” You turned, smiling in his direction.

He was silent as he pushed the braid over one shoulder, his fingertips grazing your neck as he did. The sensation left goosebumps on your still-damp skin.

“I also used to braid my wife’s hair.” He admitted quietly. “Especially when she wasn’t feelin’ well. Braided it up to keep it out of her face.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. You knew a bit about Whiskey’s past, about his high school sweetheart and that she’d died, but it was hardly ever discussed between the two of you. Before you came up with something to say, he continued.

“When we found out she was expectin’,” he grunted as you felt the mattress dip. You scooted over to make room for him to sit. “I was braidin’ her hair all the time. For one, the mornin’ sickness that first trimester, hoo-” he chuckled softly, lost in the memory. “It really kicked her ass. Spent most her time huggin’ a bucket or praying to the porcelain gods. But before we found out she was carryin’ a boy, she wanted me to practice. ‘Case we had a little girl.”

You bit your lip, reaching in Whiskey’s direction. You wanted nothing more than to take his hand in yours, but you fumbled in the air clumsily. He brought his hand up to yours, letting you grip it tightly.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered.

“Thank you, sugar.” He answered back. “Was another life. Wasn’t meant for me, I guess.”

You gave his hand another squeeze, really wishing you knew what to say. Something to make the pains of his past a little… less. His hand stayed in yours, but you heard something rustling off to the side.

“What are we readin’ tonight? We’ve still got some of Tom Sawyer’s adventures to go through, or we can start Pride and Prejudice.”

You leaned back, getting comfortable in the bed. “Tom Sawyer. Besides, you can’t tell me you actually want to read Pride and Prejudice.” You grinned, letting him change the subject.

“I could be persuaded, but if the lady requests Tom Sawyer…” He trailed off, likely picking up the book based on what you heard. He got settled in beside you and you heard the pages turning as he found where the two of you had left off. As he read, his hand stayed firmly in yours.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Lean back.” Ginger instructed. You did so, keeping a firm grip on the arms of the chair to keep your equilibrium. They had uncovered a new piece of whatever had attacked you, leading them to coming up with another possible cure. Ginger had explained this to you as she prepared you for the eyedrops. You were glad they were eyedrops this time because last time it had been a gel. Even without your sight, the feeling of gel in your eyes was incredibly unpleasant. That being said, you’d do it everyday for the rest of your life if it meant you could see again.

“Ready?” She asked, placing her hand on your shoulder.

“Mhmm.” You held your eyes open as much as you could, waiting for the liquid to hit them. If you thought eyedrops were bad before, they were worse now that you couldn’t see them coming.

The first drop hit your eye, making you jump despite being ready for it. You felt one more drop in the left eye before she moved to your right.

The cooling effect was almost immediate, the strange tingling making your eyes water. You fought against blinking until Ginger gave you the go ahead. You kept your head tilted until a tissue was pressed into your hand.

You leaned back upwards, wiping the residual drops from your cheeks. There were tears too, your eyes watering from the sensation.

“How does it feel?” Ginger asked as you heard her click a pen.

“Tingly.” You told her. “It feels like minty, maybe? Like chewing mint gum with my eyes. Or menthol.” You tried to explain. You heard her scribble something down as she hummed in response.

“Let me know if anything changes. It could take up to an hour to work.” She explained.

You blinked continuously, having no choice as the reflex tried to deal with the feeling in your eyes. It wasn’t unpleasant or painful, just very foreign.

Ginger ate lunch with you while you waited for something to happen, but nothing did. You swallowed down your thoughts of ‘I told you so,’ instead agreeing with her that maybe the next thing would work.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“We gotta start making plans, Champ.” You told him plainly, hands clasped in your lap. “I can’t stay here forever.”

“‘Course not!” The man agreed with gusto. “Forever is out of the question.”

You sighed, knowing he was deflecting. “Nothing is working yet.”

“Somethin’ will.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“What if it does?”

“Agent Champagne-”

“You sound like my wife.” He snarked.

“Your wife calls you Agent Champagne?” You asked with a smirk. You couldn’t resist taking that bait.

“A gentleman wouldn’t kiss and tell.” He joked, but it did little to lighten your mood. “But what I mean is the tone of voice. That’s the voice she uses when she thinks I’m being as dumb as a bag o’ hammers.”

You wouldn’t have quite put it that way, but you did think Champ was avoiding dealing with the situation at hand.

“So I’m gonna tell you what I tell her when she starts usin’ that particular tone of voice.” He took a pause and you waited for him to continue. “Trust me.”

You sighed, dropping your head. “I trust you, Champ.”

“Then why are we havin’ this conversation? Is it Ginger and her team? Do you not trust Ginger?”

“Of course I do-”

“You don’t trust Statesman or Statesman technology or medicine?”

“That’s not what I’m saying-”

“Then you stop worrying ‘bout what we’re gonna do with you, and focus on gettin’ better.” He instructed, his tone firm. His accent grew thicker as he went on. “I won’t hear anymore about plannin’ nothin’ ‘cause you’re going to get back out there, Agent Amaretto. This piss poor attitude ain’t helpin’ nothin’! If we thought this was a lost cause, we’d tell you. You’d get a gold watch and we’d set you up with a good pension and probably a little desk job at some library somewhere to keep you busy, but that’s not in the cards for you.”

You couldn’t help but tear up as Champ went on. You weren’t even totally sure why. You felt so alone, like no one was hearing your concerns - but at the same time, it sounded like Champ had been thinking about possibilities. A librarian? You didn’t want to end up a librarian. You almost wanted to go back to not talking about the future.

“You, missy, are a Statesman Senior Agent. Now, I’ve already got Tequila climbing up the walls and causin’ trouble, I can’t be worryin’ about herding two cats. Suck up that booboo lip and act like the Agent you are. Understood?”

“Yessir.” You mumbled.

“I didn’t hear you, Agent Amaretto.”

“Yessir.” You repeated, louder this time.

“Good.” You could hear the finality in his voice before the ice in his drink clinked together as he took a sip. “‘Cause if that didn’t work… well, the next tactic I use on the Missus is a little inappropriate to try with you, Agent. No offense.”

Now that did get a laugh out of you.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The podcast played from the speaker beside you, but you were only half listening to it. You were thinking of taking a nap, more out of boredom and lack of anything better to do than tiredness, when you heard familiar heavy footsteps approaching your room. You couldn’t help that it lifted your spirits to know Whiskey was on his way.

“‘Rhett.” He greeted, that signature tone in his voice letting you know he was grinning.

“Whisk.” You responded with a sigh. “You know, if anyone else called me that, I might have to kill them.”

“Not interrupting, am I?” He ignored your warning, stepping into your room.

“No. Wasn’t really listening to this anyway.” You told him. You turned your head in the direction of the speaker and asked it to stop. The room fell into silence as you sat up on the cot.

“That better not have been a book on tape.” He warned.

“Now why would I listen to one of those when I have a real life book on tape at my beck and call.” You smirked.

“Walkin’ talkin’ book on tape, huh? If that’s all I am to you, I think I might just take this present back home with me then.”

“Wait!” You stopped him, hearing his feet retreating back towards the door. “You didn’t say you had a present.”

“Thought that might change your tune.” He chuckled.

You scooted to the side of the cot, patting the mattress beside you. It only took him a second to sit next to you, that familiar spiced citrus and leather scent taking over your senses.

“Hands out.” He instructed. You held your hands in front of you, waiting impatiently for them to be filled. He placed the gift in your hands, but you had no idea what it was yet.

It was circular, but it seemed to vary in width - no, it wasn’t circular, it was just looped. You ran your hand over it, feeling the smooth pattern adorning it.

“What is it?” You asked, finding the end of it - a strong, heavy piece, the texture similar to the rest of it, although the pattern was different. The very end came to a bulbous tip.

“That’s a bonafide, one of a kind, handmade by yours truly, bullwhip.” He explained, taking your hand in his and wrapping it around the handle to hold it properly.

“For real?” You smiled, feeling what you now knew to be leather under your fingers.

“For real.” He chuckled.

You tested the weight of the handle, feeling the drag as the rest of the whip pulled against the sheets. Your fingers ran over the design, following the lines of the handle carefully woven and etched throughout. You regripped the handle and ran your other hand over the tail of the whip, pulling your hands apart to get a feel for how long it was.

“What does it look like?” You asked, leaning into him.

“It’s brown. Medium brown, the colour of gingerbread, maybe. Right along here,” he took your hand holding the handle and guided you in tracing the designs. “It’s stained red, just to make it pop. Not blood red, just tinged red with the stain. Gives it some detail, you know?”

“What else?” You asked, feeling breathless as he helped you to see the details with your hands.

“Well you can probably guess it’s made of leather.” You nodded. “But it’s actually made of kangaroo leather.

“Kangaroo?” You asked in shock. “Where’d a farm boy get kangaroo leather?”

You felt Whiskey’s laugh against your side. “I made this one a year or so ago. Just so turns out that kangaroo hide is one of the strongest in the world and well, when you have a hobby that requires leather, you start gettin’ creative with what kind of leather you’re usin’. Gotta keep it excitin’.”

“You don’t get enough excitement at your day job?” You teased.

“Nah, I’ve got this great partner who always has my back.” His voice made you shiver, despite the fact that his comment had your face heating up. He was leaning heavily against you now, his breath fanning over your cheek.

You swallowed the lump that had appeared in your throat, finding your voice to ask him to tell you more.

“About my partner? She’s a great gal. I’m sure I’d be dead twice over if she wasn’t there to pull my ass outta trouble. She’s a great shot, and there ain’t nothin’ sexier than a woman who can handle a pistol.”

His hand was on your opposite cheek, turning you to face him. The gentle touch made your breath stutter in your throat. 

“She’s got this amazing smile that can make a mark fall in love from 40 paces, and it can light up a room from even farther.” He continued, the breath from his voice dancing across your face. His breath smelt like the spiced Whiskey he was named for, and a slight hint of cherries.

“She deserves better than me for her partner, that’s for damn sure. A broken man with a messy past who’s been too scared to tell her how special she is. I thought it was best to keep it professional, but I don’t know if I can anymore.” His nose brushed against yours. You gasped softly at how close he was.

“She’s always in danger, we both are, but once she was in danger I couldn’t help her out of… that made me realize how important she is. If she’ll let me though,” he whispered. You could feel his lips brush against yours as he spoke, his mustache tickling your upper lip.. “I’d like to spend all my time makin’ that up to her.”

“Jack-” Your whisper was cut off as he pressed his lips to yours gently. It was so gentle, almost hesitant. The man was such a loud, boisterous personality and this kiss was so contrary to that. 

You dropped the whip, bringing your hand up to rest on his hand on your cheek. You followed his arm past his shoulder and up his neck to tangle in his hair. You felt his breath hitch from the light tug on the strands.

“I’m gonna stick by her side,” he muttered, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “No matter what happens. I’m gonna do everything I can to help you.”

You pulled him into another kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips together. He hummed softly into the kiss, brushing your cheek lightly with his thumb. His other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, like he was scared you would disappear. You nipped his bottom lip, trying to reassure him you weren’t going anywhere.

He hissed softly at the sensation and your tongue darted out to soothe the skin. His own tongue met yours, his moan at the contact matching your sigh.

He pulled back and you chased his lips. You were stopped as his nose brushed against yours, his shaky breath flitting across your face.

“Say it again.” He requested, so quietly you almost didn’t even hear.

“Say what?”  You hummed, distracted by his nuzzling and the strong urge to have his lips against yours again.

“My name, sugar.” He was close enough that you could feel his cheek flex with a lopsided grin. “I ain’t ever heard you call me by name before now.”

You smiled in return, biting your lip. It was true. You’d called him Whiskey most of the time. Agent Whiksey when you were being formal. Whisk when he annoyed you. Numerous different names while undercover…

“Kiss me, Jack.”

He growled, low and deep in his chest, before he obliged. Now this was the kiss you expected from Whi- from Jack Daniels. His tongue, pressing past the seam of your lips. It felt like he was marking his territory, all you could do was let him. He swallowed your moans as you matched his hunger. He kissed you with passion, both experienced and unrefined. Unbridled. He kissed you breathless, until you had no choice but to part.

You pulled back, panting softly as you leaned your forehead against his. You wished you could see him. See if he was just as affected by the kiss as you were.

You slid your hand from his hair to his cheek. His skin was warm, you could almost imagine it tinged pink, flushed from being so breathless. You continued exploring, finding his mustache next. The coarse hair felt askew, likely mussed from kissing and not the neat, groomed thing you were used to. You felt the uptick of his lips in that signature grin, and you couldn’t help but feel those too. They were warm and moist. You wondered if they were swollen, like yours felt.

Jack held your hand still, kissing each finger tip one at a time. The tickle of his mustache made you giggle.

“I mean it, sugar.” You could feel his lips move against your fingertips, his voice vibrating through your hand. “I’m here with you. Whether they figure this out or not. We’ll get through it.”

It was the first time someone other than yourself acknowledged that your sight may never return. It didn’t bring about the hollow defeat you’d been feeling anytime you thought of being blind the rest of your life. It finally felt like you had someone in your corner. Of course it would be Jack. He’d had your back for years, working together in the field. You should have known it would be him, in the end.

“Thank you.” You dropped your hand from his face to wrap both arms around him, hugging him as you rested your head against his chest.

You felt him press a kiss against your forehead before he pulled you to lay down. He held you, cradled into his side as you burrowed your face into his neck. You heard something fall, probably the whip that had been forgotten on the sheets.

“Oops.” You winced, not having meant to be so careless with his gift. You moved to sit up, wanting to pick it up, but he held you firm.

“Leave it there,” he instructed. You relished the way his deep voice vibrated against you. “It ain’t gonna fall any further.”

“I don’t want something to happen to it.”

“If it does, I'll make you a hundred more.” He promised.

“Fine.” You ceded, snuggling back into him with a deep inhale. Leather and spice.

The arm that was draped over your waist left your side. You felt his muscles move under his shirt as he stretched out. It only took a minute before the released, relaxing again. You heard the fluttering of paper before he started to read.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. 

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The pressure from the device around your head was unpleasant, but not unbearable. The way it pressed down on your eyes made you want to squirm. Instead, you squeezed frantically at the stress ball Ginger had offered you before you’d been strapped in. You knew Whiskey was standing with her as she ran the test, but you wished he could be here. You’d take his hand in yours over the foam smiley face any day.

“Almost done, Amaretto.” Ginger’s voice echoed through the speaker, barely audible over the hum of the awful machine.

“You’ve got this, sugar.”

“Whiskey, don’t tou-”

“-tell me not to-”

“-my lab, my buttons-”

“-OW!”

The bickering coming through the speakers was almost enough to make you laugh. The clicking of the microphone engaging and disengaging had you picturing the two fighting over whatever button turned the feed on. The two had spent hours bickering the past two weeks, Jack becoming increasingly more involved in your treatment as the two of you shifted from partners to...  well, there was no set term put on it yet, but you were very fond of kissing him. You couldn’t quite imagine the cowboy in the other room being called a boyfriend. It felt very middle school.

It was another few minutes of the machine humming, pressing awkwardly against you, until Ginger finally announced you were done. You heard the door between you and them open, two sets of footsteps approaching. One set of hands started to release the device from your head, while the other took the stress ball away. It was replaced with a large, warm hand that lifted yours until a kiss was pressed to your knuckles. The mustache prickled against your skin.

“Okay, you can sit up. Go slow, though.” Ginger instructed once you were free. You did, feeling your head swim.

“How’re you feeling?” Jack asked.

“Light headed.” You answered honestly, waiting for the feeling to pass. You leaned into Jack, letting him support you through the dizziness.

“Almost done.” He cooed, petting your braided hair. “We’ll get you back to your room soon.”

You heard Ginger moving around the room before she came to a stop in front of you. There was silence for a beat.

“Any change?” She asked.

You blinked a few times, but there was nothing. “No.”

You sighed, letting your shoulders slump with defeat, but Jack stayed strong next to you.

“That’s okay.” He hummed, not letting on any disappointment he might be feeling. He never tried to dictate how you should feel about your condition, but he stayed strong for you throughout. It was still so hard to deal with that you may never see again, but he made it a little easier. “Let’s get you back to your room. I for one am dyin’ to know what happens to Elizabeth next.”

You scoffed as he helped you to stand. “Sure you are.” His hands held you steady until you found your footing, his arm wrapping around you to guide you out of the lab.

“I am.” He argued. “I’m invested in it now.”

“Oh, well I guess I didn’t need to ask Champ to track down some Louis L’Amour books.”

“To hell with Elizabeth.” Jack declared, making you laugh.

You roused slowly. It took you a moment to realize you had fallen asleep while Jack read. The last thing you remember in the story was the caravan was going to be attacked. You wondered how long Jack had read for before realizing you’d fallen asleep. You were pressed tightly to his side, you could feel his warm body next to you. His head was leaning against yours, his deep breaths tickling your ear. He let out the tiniest snores anytime he exhaled. It made you smile.

“Jack, wake up.” You hummed, pressing a kiss to his neck. He hummed in response but didn’t fully wake. You called his name again, nuzzling into him.

Your name left his lips in a soft moan as he told you to go back to sleep.

“You’re going to have an awful kink in your neck if you keep sleeping like that. Come on.” You argued quietly, poking him lightly in his side as you sat up.

“Alright,” he groaned. You felt his body stretch out beside yours before he too sat up. You felt something hit your leg and you instinctively opened your eyes to see what it was.

You saw the book had fallen off Jack’s lap-

You saw.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

tagging: @wickedfrsgrl​ @driedgreentomatoes​

A/N: The books that are mentioned being read by Whiksey are The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, and The Walking Drum by Louis L’Amour

[adarlingwrites]

Dormouse

Summary:

After playing a game with two of The Beach's most dangerous members, the dormouse gets her tail caught by a tiger's paw.

He’ll make a wildcat out of her.

Author’s Notes:

CW: sexist language, blood, parental abuse. This is a heavy chapter, please proceed with caution.

XII

the earth will see our eyes go blank tonight / the earth will rot away go blank tonight / I, I really wish these snakes were your arms

Soft snores float from the back of the truck, and Hinata does her best not turn around and stare.

Yamaneko had fallen asleep, her body curled up next to Last Boss’. The taller militant is resting his chin on top of her head, a protective arm around her waist. Their backs are turned from the other two occupying the front seats.

The taller militant glances at them with near-murderous intent when Tatta hits a bump on the road and wakes Yamaneko up. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, glances at Last Boss, then feels an overwhelming urge to puke her breakfast out.

Pale, the militant hangs her head over the edge of the four by four, and hurls.

“Stop the car,” Last Boss tells Tatta, who hits the brakes and looks at the female militant with concern. Hinata couldn’t help but look as well, watching as the terrifying militant rubbed his girlfriend’s back.

Coughing, Yamaneko turns to the driver. “Could you drive more carefully? Shit…”

“Sorry, I’ll drive more carefully,” Tatta blurts, bowing his head low in apology. He can still feel Last Boss’ death glare burning the back of his head as he restarts the engine.

Somewhat concerned for the nicer militant’s wellbeing, Hinata tosses them a water bottle, which Last Boss catches with one hand. Drinking from the water bottle slowly, Yamaneko gives the other girl a thumbs up.

Slumping against the backseat, HInata is still coming to terms with the fact that these armed and dangerous maniacs are still people who can have attachments.

She then starts to wonder if the militants at the back were anything like who they are now. The Borderlands does seem to bring either the best or the worst out of people, after all. Was Last Boss always an eccentric guy prone to violence, and was Yamaneko always a blunt gal with no regard for social norms?

The street artist takes a sharp inhale in contemplation, and regrets doing so as soon as the damp, earthy scent hits her. Rolling down a window, Hinata pokes her head out of the car, unable to stand the smell of sex and sweat from the militants at the back, and chuckles to herself.

“What’s so funny?” Tatta asks, a hand on the steering wheel and eyes still on the road.

“The car smells like sex and now I’m wondering if I should take her advice.”

“A-ah. Well, it’s your choice,” Tatta replies, his free hand scratching the back of his head.

“What about you, Tatta? Ever thought of sleeping around in the Beach?”

A small laugh escapes his lips. “Not really my thing, sorry. I prefer spending my time fixing cars and goofing around with my friends.”

“Mm, that does sound better. I enjoyed painting that mural with you, by the way. We should-”

A voice who belongs to neither of them cuts their conversation short. “Keep it down.”

Both of them nearly jumped upon hearing Last Boss’ voice. The militant is staring at them with mild hostility, his lover’s head still resting on his shoulder. “You’re going to wake her up again.”

“Right, sorry!” Tatta blurts, then he turns away from him, cold sweat on his forehead. Hinata tries her best to stifle a giggle. There’s something she finds humorous about seeing the enigmatic and frightening Last Boss cuddling with a sleeping girl and shushing people for her sake.

The two in the front remained quiet for the rest of the drive back, their knees bumping together.

The car came to a halt as they arrived. Gently, Last Boss shakes his lover awake, who drowsily mumbles something incoherent as she stretches. The group was unloading their haul when Aguni approached them, a grim expression on his face. Niragi and another militant followed closely behind.

Hinata flinches upon seeing the man with the pierced face, who closes in on her, trapping her against the side of the four by four. Tatta glares at him with wide eyes, feet plastered to the ground and too afraid to move. Niragi whispers something inaudible to the rest of the people present, which makes Hinata shrink further into the warm metal of the car.

To the street artist’s relief, Yamaneko gets in between them and pushes Niragi off nonchalantly as she walks towards the chief. She didn’t hear the quick “thank you” that bubbled from HInata’s throat, who slinked off to the back of the vehicle to hide.

“The hell is your problem?”

“You’re rolling your tongue out like a cartoon wolf again. You look like shit,” Yamaneko replies, smirking and flipping her side fringe as she turns away from Niragi.

“You smell like shit. You smell like a damn brothel,” Niragi yells after her, and she raises a single middle finger in response.

Niragi sneered, his fun for the day ruined, and he stood next to Last Boss.

“Shit, Last Boss, you too,” Niragi remarks as he caught a whiff of Last Boss’ scent, fanning the air with his hand. “Wait, is that dried sweat I’m smelling from your face or- you fucking dog,” Niragi adds, giving him a devious grin.

The tattooed militant rolls his eyes and doesn’t dignify Niragi’s teasing with a reply. He couldn’t hide the smug look on his face, though. Aguni frowns at their juvenile exchange, and pushes past Niragi.

“Enough. Where the hell were you two?” Aguni asks, voice low and full of disappointment. The chief looks at Last Boss and Yamaneko, and one can compare him to a father scolding children who snuck away past their curfew.

“Easy, chief. We just went on a double date with those newbies,” Yamaneko replies, smiling as she motioned to Hinata and Tatta. Her smile turns to a wicked grin upon seeing Niragi’s jealous expression.

That was Tatta and Hinata’s cue to run away as far as they can from the scene.

Before Niragi can confront the two of them, Aguni gives him a glare to remind him of why they’re here, and he begrudgingly stays in place. Then, he turns back to the pair. “We thought the two of you dropped dead somewhere.”

“Dropped dead? I- chief, what happened while we were gone?”

“This isn’t something we should be talking about in the open. You two, come with us,” Aguni responds. Gulping, Yamaneko gives Last Boss a worried gaze, who stands a little closer to the shorter militant.

Dread settling in her gut, Yamaneko found herself in the makeshift morgue again, where several bodies lay on separate gurneys. Aside from the Beach executives, there were several other people in the room, including a few familiar faces. Kuina and Chishiya are present, as well as Sunohara, who acknowledges her with a nod. Ann looks at the militants with a grim frown, and takes off her shades.

“We have limited equipment here in the Beach, but thanks to Sunohara’s help, we were able to determine that the victims’ hearts, brains, and kidneys are damaged. This might be a poisoning case,” Ann announces as she walks towards them.

“Do you think this is the same killer from before?” Aguni asks, stepping towards one of the corpses. He lift’s the dead man’s arm, and sees his number tag. Seventeen; just one rank away from Yamaneko.

“It’s possible. The suspect might’ve caught up with our attempts to investigate and switched methods. Plus, I think we have a motive now.”

Yamaneko turns to the taller woman, brows furrowed.

“Is there any reason why I should be here?” she asks, heart racing.

“That’s where the motive comes in. The player numbers of the people who were killed were in the top thirty. Twenty nine, twenty three, nineteen, seventeen, and twelve. One of the victims was even a member of Aguni’s martial sect. Whoever did this is eliminating higher ranked players. If you hadn't left this afternoon, you might have been a target. From the clues we have so far, someone who’s very desperate to leave the Beach must be behind this.”

“Then we need to put an end to this, fast,” Mira finally speaks up. “It’s only a matter of time before this person targets someone on the executive board.”

“I think I know who this person is…” Niragi scoffs. “It’s definitely Yamaneko’s asshole dad.”

Head whipping towards Niragi, Yamaneko folds her arms in skepticism, about to say something, but ultimately choosing to close her mouth. Hatter uses the silence as an opportunity to impart his observations.

“Come to think of it… whenever he turns in his cards from a game, he’s often the sole survivor.”

“Are you saying that he killed the other players to receive sole credit for the card?” Kuina speaks up from her corner. Beside her, Chishiya gives the executives a knowing smirk. “It’s a possibility.”

Aguni turns to the daughter of the suspect, who’s sweating bullets. “You said it yourself that you think that the man is capable of being violent with anyone. What do you think?” he asks.

“Hm. Your father is CEO of a company that provided services to this hotel before we all ended up here, am I correct?” Ann asks, circling Yamaneko now. “What kind of goods did they manufacture?” she adds.

“Yamacorp is an industrial manufacturer with a focus on chemical manufacturing.” Yamaneko replies.

“Was your father knowledgeable about the goods his company creates, or does he only manage the business side of things?” Ann asks, the conversation effectively turning into an impromptu interrogation.

“Father oversees the factory from time to time since he has a background in chemistry.”

Ann frowns. “Then there’s a high possibility that he is involved. One of the household poisons that can cause such damage is antifreeze.”

Lips trembling and thoughts racing her head a mile a minute, Yamaneko grimaces. “Are there any other suspects?”

“The only people with access to potentially hazardous chemicals in the Beach are the supply runners, medics, or the militants.”

Niragi rolls his eyes and points his rifle at his fellow executive member. “Are you accusing us of killing one of our own, Ann?”

“No. I’m just saying that it’s a possibility. We need to test the victims’ urine for calcium oxalate crystals, gather fingerprints, gather more witness accounts-”

Niragi interrupts with sarcastic clapping. “That plan’s just perfect, but you’re not in a damn forensic lab anymore, Ann.”

“Let’s just kill him,” Last Boss pipes up. At his suggestion, Yamaneko turns to glare at him.

In the corner, Chishiya chuckles and folds his arms. “Idiots,” he mutters under his breath, earning him a sour look from Niragi. Kuina observes the two of them, then turns her attention to the Hatter, who takes a few steps across the room.

“Niragi has a point. Ann’s methods would take too much time. The Beach is well equipped, but we don’t have everything,” the number one quips.

“We need to extract information any way we can,” Aguni adds.

“Then let’s beat it out of him,” Last Boss suggests.

Yamaneko begins to stammer, unable to come up with words in response to her fellow militants’ suggestions. “I- he-”

“What’s the matter, Yamaneko? Don’t tell me you feel sorry for that piece of shit. You’re sounding like that mousy little girl we picked up again,” Niragi asks, looking cross.

“I just think that beating someone into submission would only make them admit something they didn’t do,” the shorter militant says.

“She’s right,” Ann adds, placing a hand on her hip. “We need to lure the truth out of him.”

“How troublesome,” Last Boss mutters. “Beating him up is more straightforward.”

This time, Yamaneko frowns. “That’s what he did to me, and it always ended with me confessing to things I didn’t do just for the pain to stop.” His lover’s admission made the tattooed militant pause for a moment, throat dry, and Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed his own spit.

“Then do it to get back at him. Don’t you want to?”

At that point, Yamaneko’s hands are sweating, her voice inaudible to anyone but her lover. “I want to, but…”

“We’re not going to get anywhere with this,” Chishiya speaks up, leaving his corner and stepping under the harsh lights of the room. “The suspect isn’t even in this room for interrogation, and we’re not even sure if anyone is competent enough to manipulate the truth out of him. I know I can’t be bothered with it.”

“Then the next best thing would be for a Heart specialist to manipulate him into admitting his involvement, yes?” Mira suggests, grinning as she paces to the shortest militant in the room. Yamaneko’s throat is a dry river on a hot day, and her heart hammers against her ribcage.

“I’d do it myself, but being approached by an executive member would betray our intentions to him. We need someone who can rouse strong emotions out of him… provoke him and make him irrational. Make him blurt out a confession.”

Mira gasps excitedly, making eye contact with Yamaneko. “Ah! Why don’t you try it, Miss Yamane? You know him better than anyone else in the Beach.”

“It’s Yamaneko. I’m not a heart player.”

“You give yourself too little credit,” Mira croons.

“This has gone on for too long. We’ll bring in Mr. Yamane for interrogation later.” Ann crosses her arms. “Hatter, should we adjourn?”

Unsettling feelings pool in Yamaneko’s gut, staring blankly ahead as the meeting ends. She brings her hands to her face, groaning as a wave of tension wrapped itself around her head, and feeling vaguely nauseous. Aguni approaches his underling, his frown deeper than usual, betraying the sliver of concern he feels for the girl.

“How do you plan to deal with this?”

Yamaneko shakes her head, and hangs it low. “I honestly don’t know. My relationship with father is strained, but I still can’t wrap my head around the possibility of him being a serial killer of some sort.”

“You’ve experienced his cruelty first hand, am I right? Trust your own experiences with him.”

The chief’s words make her look him in the eye, a wordless understanding forming between the two.

“I’ll seek you out when I decide what to do, chief.”

Aguni nods and leaves without another word. Lover close by, the younger militant retreats to the rooftop, where no one can bother the two of them. In silence, Takatora observes her. Across the horizon, the sun is slowly setting, and the sky is painted with hues of pinks and oranges.

“I’m going to go on a game with my father,” Yamaneko finally says, eyes fixed on the setting sun.

“I’ll come with you,” her lover replies, bumping shoulders with her. The shorter militant sighs, scratching her head. “You can’t, Tora.”

“He’ll hurt you.”

His sight doesn’t leave her as she stands up to pace around. “Father’s afraid of you, I can tell. He wouldn’t dare to interact with me if you’re around. I have to do this alone.”

“Just settle for the other solution. My method.”

“I want to hear it from his mouth. I want to see him shoot his own damn foot. I need that satisfaction, Takatora.” She sits back down, and holds his hand, fingers entwined with his spindly ones. “If my method fails, let’s use yours.”

Cold fingers touching her face, Takatora turns her head and kisses her. It was short, and uncharacteristically tender. “You’re worried,” Yamaneko breathes, the warmth of the kiss still lingering on her lips. “I’m your wildcat, tiger. A frumpy old man doesn’t stand a chance against me.”

This time, Takatora kisses her with more hunger, his hand leaving hers to cradle her neck. “I’ll come to your game venue as soon as I’m finished with mine.”

His lover breaks the kiss to whisper something in his ear, chin resting on his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The heavens are a deep blue now, the sun gone.

“I’ll go tell the chief about the plan so he can inform the other executives,” Yamaneko mumbles, watching the clouds roll by.

Another night of games are about to begin.

As Yamaneko enters the elevator to descend to the lobby, a tan hand holds the doors open. HInata steps in, keeping a safe distance between herself and the woman armed with tactical daggers.

“Hey.” Hinata tosses something to her, and the militant catches it. “You left those in the back earlier.” Yamaneko’s body went rigid as she looked at the item; her packet of birth control.

She missed several days.

“I- thanks.”

Yamaneko couldn’t pay any attention to what the other girl is saying as paranoia gets the best of her.

“Surely, I’ve been feeling tired for the past few days because of the chief knocking me on my ass during training and not because Tora knocked me up, right? I’m nauseous during the car ride because Tatta wasn’t driving carefully, right? I’ve been feeling emotional because of the stress from the Beach serial killer case and the big possibility of father being that nutcase, right?”

“Right?”

“Hey, um, are you there?”

Hinata’s voice snaps her out of her thoughts, and she clears her throat. “What did you say again?”

“I said thanks for getting Niragi off my back.” Hinata scratches her head. “Look, um, I know you’re one of them, but you’re alright. Say, what if we work out a deal of some sort?”

“What kind of deal, newbie?”

“You keep Niragi off my ass, I’ll get you whatever the hell you want. Promise. I’ll be your personal procurement gal.”

Yamaneko chuckles. “Hm. Why the hell not? Hell, come with me in a game tonight. I’m sure I can ask the chief a favor to group you with me. I’ll show you the ropes.” In return, Hinata gives her a genuine smile. “Sure.”

As they walked together to the lobby, Hinata couldn’t help but stare at Yamaneko. She’s short, probably the shortest member of the militia, and her hair’s a mess of uneven cuts at the back. The red highlights on her bangs and fringe are somewhat faded, and her dark makeup looks pristine at the moment, unlike when she found her getting bent over a desk by her boyfriend a few hours earlier.

“If you don’t mind talking about it, how did you end up in the militia?”

“I encountered Last Boss and Niragi in a game and they took an interest in me. I dropped my wallet, they found my address, and they whisked me away.” Yamaneko pauses, looking at HInata with slight concern. “Are you sure you’re ready to hear what I’m about to say about Niragi, though?”

‘You’ve pretty much told me earlier that he’s a sleazeball now. I can take it.”

“Well, I was one of the girls he screwed upon arrival. I just… learned to tolerate it to survive. He stopped touching me after I stopped reacting to him. Or maybe because Last Boss told him that he wanted me to himself. I’m not sure anymore.”

“A-are you really suggesting I just give in and just let him have his way with me?!”

“What the- Of course not. But it’s an option if you want your life on the Beach to get easier. Or maybe you can ask that friend of yours to pretend to be your boyfriend, but I doubt he’s the type of guy Niragi will respect.”

Face contorted in anger and indignation, Hinata stammers. “I don’t know what’s more fucked, that he won’t leave a woman alone unless she’s the girlfriend of someone more dangerous than him, or that you don’t give a shit that Niragi’s-”

When Yamaneko grabs her by the shoulders and slams her against the wall, the other girl is reminded that she’s still an armed and dangerous member of the militia.

“Let’s get a few things straight here: First, I don’t fucking appreciate you putting words in my mouth. Second, I’m just telling you how I survived Niragi. The fact that I accepted your deal is me extending my help. So, don’t push your luck with me, newbie. I can still change my mind about this and throw you to the wolves.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

With that, Yamaneko lets go.

“C’mon, we have a game to play.”

As the slips of paper were being handed out, Last Boss and Yamaneko looked for each other’s eyes across the sea of people, and they gave each other one last look of longing as they went on with their respective groups for the night.

Yamaneko and Hinata receive their assignment, and the former’s face lights up when she sees Sunohara approaching. Silently, she thanks Aguni for heeding her favor of letting her choose her teammates tonight. The chief knows she has a plan. Not long after, Mr. Yamane approaches, glances at his daughter, and turns away, entering the back of the car.

Intentionally, Yamaneko sits in the back as well, while Sunohara rides shotgun, the wind tousling her chestnut bob, with Hinata on the wheel. The car ride is tense and quiet, wind howling as the car speeds through the empty streets of Tokyo.

Nervous, with beads of sweat on her forehead, Yamaneko felt nauseous again, rolling down the window to hurl.

“You alright?” the doctor asks, looking at her through the rear view mirror. Yamaneko nods and leans back on the car seat, keeping her head tilted upwards. From the corner of his eye, Mr. Yamane watches his estranged daughter, expression inscrutable.

The car screeches to a halt as they arrive at their destination: Tokyo Zoo.

Yamaneko regards the place, solemn expression on her face.

Her childhood days weren't always filled with hurtful words and beatings. On some days, on the off chance that Mr. Yamane took a day off, he’d bring her with her mother and sister here. But that all halted when he took his father’s place as CEO. Still, Yamaneko thinks the glimpses of familial happiness doesn’t outweigh the horrible things he did to little Minami, Mai, and his deceased wife.

“Of course this just had to be the fucking venue,” she thinks, slamming the car door shut.

One by one, the Beach members picked up the smartphones from the table, facial recognition registering them as participants, and followed the arrows to the game arena.

The synthetic voice most people dreaded breaks the silence. “Registration closed. There are currently four players. Difficulty: Six of Hearts.”

“Another Heart? Just my luck,” Sunohara sighs, rubbing her arms with her palms. Yamaneko inhales deeply, eyeing the new girl, then her father. “Ever played a Heart before, Hinata?” the militant asks her.

“No.”

“Then you’re in for a lesson.”

The doctor takes out a cigarette from her coat and lights it up, visibly anxious. “Heart games play with your heart and mess with your head. They’re the nastiest games out there.”

Judging the Beach veterans’ reactions, Hinata knew she was in deep shit. Mr. Yamane looks visibly distressed too, sweat beading on his balding head and soaking his dress shirt.

On a circular table are four snake tanks, the glass covered by an opaque fabric so the inside isn’t visible to the viewer, with a hole large enough for a hand to fit in on top. In the middle of the table is a syringe, a vial of unknown substance, and a scalpel.

“Game: Antidote. Rules: Two out of four boxes contain a live Gloydius blomhoffii, better known as the mamushi, one of the most venomous snakes in Japan. Each player must simultaneously stick a hand in a box and keep it in for five seconds. Players who haven’t been bitten by the snake must decide who deserves the antidote. Time limit: None.”

A hiss coming from the direction of the boxes is enough to confirm that they do indeed contain live snakes. The echo of the arena makes it hard to determine from which boxes it came from.

“Fuck. Fuck this,” Hinata mutters, legs shaking.

“Don’t tell me you’re running away,” Yamaneko quips. “You have a better chance of surviving if you stick your hand in as opposed to getting struck down by a laser.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Mr. Yamane interrupts, choosing a box of his own. “Stop stalling and get your hands in.”

Rolling her eyes, Yamaneko drags Hinata to the box beside her, and she takes her spot as well. Sunohara gets ready as hell, psyching herself up as she rolled up her coat’s sleeves.

“On three,” the doctor says. “One, two, three!”

All participants stick their respective hands in. Yamaneko chose her left arm, given how it’s in poor shape in comparison to her right one, and she tries to make her movement as slow as possible. Maybe the snake wouldn’t bite her if she doesn’t disturb it.

Unfortunately for her, Mr. Yamane exclaims as he feels fangs pierce his skin, and the snake in Yamaneko’s box gets startled as well, its teeth sinking into the flesh of her forefinger.

Heart hammering in her chest, Yamaneko pulls her hand out from the box and curses as she sees a droplet of blood on her finger. “Shit! Why the hell did you have to scream like that?!”

The ex-CEO hisses. “Shut up! You never learn your lesson, do you? Still talking to your father like that, have some respect!”

At the revelation that the two are related, Hinata’s eyes widened. “He’s your father?”

“Yes. We’re not exactly on good terms, as you can see,” Yamaneko sighs, trying to squeeze the venom from her finger. Sunohara strides to the table, retrieving the medical supplies. Then, the doctor touches the militia woman’s hand to stop her. “Don’t. Squeezing it would only make it spread. It needs to be excised, and then we need to inject you with anti-venom.”

A coarse hand grabs the doctor’s arm, causing her to gasp in pain. Mr. Yamane is giving the tall woman a furious glare. “Wait a damn minute! You sound like you’ve already decided to give her the antidote. What about me?! Huh? You’re a doctor of some sort, right? Who gives you the right to decide-”

HInata separates him from the doctor, her stance defensive. “Are you seriously going to let your own kid die so you can live? What kind of father are you?!” the tan-skinned girl exclaims in disbelief.

“Probably the type who kills people to advance his Beach tag,” Yamaneko quips, putting her own game into motion.

“Says the woman who brandishes daggers and gives her pussy away to murderers,” Mr. Yamane barked back. “You’ll be wasting the antidote if you give it to someone like her. I have a decent daughter and an infant son to come back to in the real world! Give the antidote to me!”

“Oh my God, you know you’re not helping your case at all by calling her those awful things, right?” Hinata quips, both hands on her hips.

A bitter laugh bubbles from Yamaneko’s throat, underscored with light pain as her hand starts to swell from the snake venom. “But the daughter in front of you doesn’t deserve to live? Tell me father, who else didn’t deserve to live?” Voice cracking, Yamaneko is screaming at that point. “We know it’s you. You killed those people in the Beach. You’re so desperate to go back to your cushy life as CEO, huh?!”

“You know what? Fine, it was me! You know I’d do anything to survive, Minami. That’s what I taught you as well!”

As the venom spreads through their system, the estranged father daughter pair escalates their quarrel, with the daughter striding towards the father to grab him by the collar.

“And yet you judged me for doing what I can to survive when you kicked me out. You judged me for getting caught giving men your age handjobs and blowjobs under the table. You judged me for stealing when I had nothing else.” Head spinning and tears pooling in the corner of her eyes, Yamaneko’s voice completely breaks as she utters a cry.

“You turned Mai against me. You poisoned your children against each other. You don’t deserve to be called a father.”

A slim, gentle hand pulls her away from the old man. Sunohara is giving her a sympathetic look. “We don’t have much time. Hinata and I decided you should get the antidote. You won’t be out of the woods yet after we administer the antivenom, too, so let’s move.”

The ex-heiress lets go of the Yamacorp CEO, cathartic, laughing and crying at the same time.

When she looked down as she tried to walk, however, the smile disappeared from her face. Blood stains her thighs, and the crotch of her bikini feels warm and wet. “This is embarrassing,” she croaks, and Sunohara merely chuckles at her predicament as she sits her down. Hinata stays right beside her new friend, if she can call Yamaneko that, offering her a shoulder to lean on.

Antivenom fills the syringe as Sunohara extracted it from the bottle. “Let’s administer the antidote, and I’ll get you some pads for your period when we get back on the Beach, huh? Maybe we can get help for your fa-”

Whatever Sunohara was about to say was replaced by a scream as she watched Mr. Yamane charged towards them with a dagger.

Deranged, delirious, Mr. Yamane stabbed his own daughter with her own weapon, the blade sinking in her gut. Squelching sounds and Yamaneko’s scream of agony echoed in the open space, accompanied by Hinata and Sunohara’s own shrieks of terror. Withdrawing the knife, Mr. Yamane threw it aside, and reached for the antidote.

Before the needle can plunge into his skin, a laser fires from the sky, cutting his life short in an instant.

Wide and wet with tears, Yamaneko’s eyes didn’t leave her father’s as she watched his final moments. Beside her, Hinata is shaking and covered with the militant's blood, while Sunohara is breathing heavily, still in shock.

The gravity of the situation sinks in when Sunohara hears Yamaneko whimper beside her.

“Help me.”

[scripttorture]

1/? I have a character who has been caught up in a war between planets ever since he was a child. He was out into hiding from the age of 10 to 16, before watching his younger brother killed by the person prosecuting them and elder sister sell her planet (she's heir basically) to save his life and swore herself loyal to the person to save herself.

2/? (She isn't loyal, but she'd be killed otherwise.) The character is then sent to grow up on a different planet, with his mother who figureheads a resistance against the people who took the characters sister and killed his brother. That's basic backstory continuing the character eventually gets captured again, and it taken to a prison. The character is tortured in the prison bc he killed several very important people and cut off the hands of another. 3/? Its seen (by the torturers i suppose, or at least the woman ordering them to do so) as rightful punishment. I havnt quite hashed out exactly what the torture is other than he definitely by the end has rather severe nerve damage in his hands from the shackles and chronic pain/weakness in one of his legs from something or another. Anyway the characters sister was put in charge of this prison, 4/5 and has no choice but to stand by and watch as the character is tortured. She does her best to make sure he isn't killed and the character knows she has no choice but to let them hurt her bc she is just as much of a prisoner as him, albeit in an entirely seperate way. She could stop the torture, and she could get him out, but she would be killed for it and he knows it. Im just wondering if he would blame her, 5/5 because she is in charge and could stop it. But she would be killed and it would likely end with them both dead. She cares for him when she can which isn't often bc she isn't exactly allowed too. Would he blame her I suppose? She has never hurt him, but lets it happen.

-

Alright I understand what you’re going for here.

 It’s not the kind of situation that’s common enough for there to be systematic studies. Most of the time torturers and their victims don’t have a close relationship. It’s much more common to find cases where they were strangers or acquaintances prior to torture then close family or friends.

 This doesn’t make this a bad idea. It just means that there aren’t definitive answers. I’m working from a handful of anecdotes and extrapolating from other things.

 Even if this was a more common situation I don’t think you’d find many definite answers because individual variation would probably play a huge role.

 Torture changes things for survivors in a lot of unpredictable ways. While we know the possible symptoms what any individual ends up experiencing is unpredictable. And how well people cope with mental health problems, and how that in turn impacts their relationships is dependant on the person. Someone’s personal experience, friends, support network, work, general knowledge and a host of other things can effect these sorts of outcomes.

 Having that person also be tangentially involved in the survivor’s torture complicates things even further.

 What I’m trying to say is that there are a lot of plausible outcomes here and I think that makes this a writing question rather then a realism question. So the real focus is: what works best with the character?

 Blame is definitely possible in the scenario you’ve created but it doesn’t have to be straight-forward or simple.

 For instance the character might blame her while knowing logically that there’s nothing else she could do without putting both of them in more danger. And that could make him feel conflicted about blaming her, possibly feeding into self-blame as well. He could openly blame her, or he could hide his feelings for a variety of reasons.

 He might feel angry, that she’s ‘safer’ or that she can’t protect him. Or just because she ‘stands by’ and watches him at his worst. He might even come to hate her.

 But it’s also possible that he wouldn’t associate her with the torturers or guards and would view her more as a fellow (though perhaps favoured) prisoner. He might pity her. He might feel sympathetic towards her plight.

 He could plausibly have no strong feelings towards her at all.

 Whatever emotional response you think is best it’s important to tie it to what’s come before in the story.

 However you look at things he’s been away from his sister for a long time. It’s not clear to me how much time they spent together growing up (they could have been apart since he was 10 from the sounds of things).

 If they spent a lot of their childhood apart they may not have a close relationship to begin with. I don’t think that would make a particular response more likely but it could mean he has a less intense response to her presence generally. If they weren’t close before then he might not feel her presence is particular significant.

 If they were close then I think it’s a good idea to look back over the story. Read their interactions again and try to get a clear picture in your mind of what their relationship was before.

 Whatever happens you’re writing the process of how that relationship changes. And it’s really helpful to have a clear idea of where you’re starting from first. I personally find it helpful to have a clear idea of where I want to end up as well but some people prefer a more exploratory style where they find out where the characters end up as they write.

 It doesn’t matter which approach works better for you, what matters is that the intervening steps, the process of the relationship changing, are clear and understandable to your readers. And preferably pack a heavy emotional punch as well.

 So if blame is the result you want (if it isn’t use this as an example and apply the same process to the emotional response you want) think about what aspects of their relationship could feed into that.

 If they had a competitive or slightly antagonistic relationship then it might feel natural for him to place some blame on her. After all it’s probably an established pattern from their relationship. If he saw her as a protector and relied on her to keep him safe then this might feel like a huge betrayal.

 If they had a really loving, tender relationship then you might want to lean in to the illogical nature of the response. It might even be a good idea to have the character acknowledge (internally or verbally) that this isn’t a sensible response. And yet this does not make the feeling go away.

 With a more distant relationship did he feel like she betrayed her people or her family by ‘giving up’, regardless of how desperate the situation was? Or did he (as a kid raised in the rebellion) mostly view her as a prisoner?

 If he saw her as a prisoner and felt pity for her would that vanish as she stands by while he suffers? Or would it seem to confirm what he already thought; that she’s helpless, powerless.

 Find some part of their previous relationship that you can tie to this new set of feelings. Or acknowledge that it’s not a sensible response and have the character deal with more complex feelings as a result.

 Mostly try to resist the idea that there’s a ‘right’ response for your character to have.

 Try not to suggest in the story that there is one ‘proper’ response for a survivor to have. Because they are a varied bunch. People can live through more or less the same thing and come out with very different attitudes or perspectives as well as symptoms.

 The response you write should be the one that works best with your characters and the story you want to tell. Don’t feel you must use blame. Instead think about whether it adds to your story: does it create interesting character moments, obstacles for the characters or feed into the plot?

 You’re the person who knows what’s best for the story and what will work best with the characters. Be open to multiple options. Take your time and think through what works best.

 For the character himself it’s possible (may be likely) that he’d already have some trauma symptoms before he’s captured.

 I get the impression you’ve probably already seen the Masterpost on common trauma symptoms, but here it is for the new readers. :)

 For the physical injury pattern you’ve got multiple options.

 I think that really severe nerve damage suggests something more then shackles. Unless something went wrong.

 The easiest way to get both injuries in your character would be a suspension torture that was more common historically. Victims had their hands tied together in front of them, were hoisted anywhere between a few feet and two meters in the air and then dropped.

 This causes nerve damage in both hands and could cause breaks or fractures in the legs. Either could lead to chronic pain.

 Suspension without the drop would still cause nerve damage in about 15-20 minutes.

 Nerve damage is less common with restraints but it is still possible. Ratcheting cuffs that can tighten are more likely to cause nerve damage, especially if they’re applied too tightly over a long period.

 Other dangerous things that can happen with those sorts of restraints being too tight- Broken wrists and reduced circulation leading to painful swelling in the hands (look up ‘finger milking’ in my tags for more information).

 Over longer periods (multiple hours with the cuffs tight enough to cause swelling in the hands) blood clots might form and that uh… really dangerous. Basically if large blood clots start forming in a limb due to reduced circulation then they either block the blood vessels (which kills the limb and leads to amputation) or the clot gets swept back into the body when the restraints are removed. The clot usually then lodges in the brain or the heart causing a stroke or a heart attack respectively.

 I’d say suspension probably works better for your purposes.

 Standing stress positions can lead to chronic pain in the legs. But it often also effects the back and usually effects both legs.

 Falaka might work. It’s beating the soles of the feet with an implement. Depending on the implement it can be clean, scarring or even lethal. With a harder implement like a wooden stick it can lead to fractured or broken bones in the feet.

 But even when falaka is performed in a ‘clean’ manner it can lead to chronic pain. It causes a thickening of the tendons in the soles and also causes tiny bone fragments to detach inside the feet. It’s unclear how long these bone fragments stick around but they’re detectable by MRI for a few months with the right method.

 You could also just go with the idea of the leg injury being the result of a specific attack or accident. A broken knee perhaps, after a beating or a fall. Not all injuries in torture scenarios are ‘deliberate’, in the sense that they weren’t necessarily intentional. Because torturers are not as in control of the situation as they’d like people to believe.

 I think I’ll leave it at that for now, but if you have any further questions don’t hesitate to come by when the askbox is open. :)

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[chemicalmagecraft]

The Gamer Hero, Deku Chapter 30

A/N: I initially forgot that the HP-related stat in The Gamer was VIT and not CON when I first started writing this chapter because I had DnD on the brain. How embarrassing would it have been if I hadn't caught that?

xoxoxo

I looked at my newest text boxes as Aizawa-sensei talked.

Through repeated meditation, your VIT has increased by one!

By raising VIT above 100, two random skills have been created!

The skill 'Healing Grace' has been created through VIT rising above 100 and having a healing skill with a level of 95 or higher!

The skill 'Immovable Object' has been created through VIT rising above 100!

The skill 'Purity of Body' has been created through VIT rising above 100!

Through repeated meditation, your STR has increased by one!

I'd actually got them on the way to school so I could go to my work study, which was pretty lucky. My VIT had been pretty close to the hundred-point benchmark after that ridiculous +15 to all stats, so naturally I'd had my Mantra set to level it up for the past few days. And now that I had the skills, I'd probably be trying to get my STR up. It wasn't as high as VIT was, but it still wasn't that far off so I'd set Mantra to level it unless I was Meditating, when I would switch Mantra to something else and use Meditation for STR. Mantra's benefits had improved slightly as it leveled up, so it might even happen within the month!

I closed the text boxes after I was done reading what the skills did. Purity of Body was the standard improved version of the previous benchmark's skill, nothing much to comment on there other than the fact that it probably synergized well with Damage Reduction because it improved my HP. Immovable Object was... I suppose it was good and I could definitely find uses for it, but it looked a little unwieldy, too... It was a powerful barrier spell, but the barrier got a lot of its strength from being rooted, completely immobile. Even after turning the skill off the barrier would take a few moments to dissolve, leaving me immobile unless I could brute force my way through it... which I could probably do if I wanted, but not without using up more MP. At the very least I was already halfway through puzzling out how to use Item Enchantment to combine it with Imaginary Architect, which would give it a lot more versatility (though I doubted I'd get much EXP if at all for it if I only used an enchantment derived from it...). The barrier would be immobile even in midair, though it thankfully made me immobile relative to Earth and not truly immobile so I wouldn't fly off every time I used it.

I noticed, though, that it reminded me of Illusion Barrier in a way. I couldn't tell too well without actually using the skill, but it felt like it drew on the same underlying dimensional... thing... that Illusion Barrier tapped into, though in a different manner. Instead of creating another layer of reality using its fabric, it seemed like the barrier would gain extra stability by being rooted to it. Though maybe 'rooted' might not have been the right word for it...

The best skill, though, was Healing Grace. In addition to increasing the rate at which my HP naturally regenerated, it also enhanced the effects of any skill I had that was even remotely related to healing. That was amazing, especially with how my current objective (even if I hadn't gotten a quest for it) was to heal Iida's brother. And that wasn't all Healing Grace enhanced. Regeneration, Meditation, and Mantra also healed for more now, though it seemed that Super Regeneration, being a Quirk and not a skill, didn't have the same benefits. It didn't seem to do anything for the MP regeneration effects on Meditate and Mantra, and while I couldn't check it as easily I assumed the same could be said for the rate at which it trained my stats. Not that I cared that much, it was already good. And that wasn't even mentioning its active effect, which let me sacrifice HP to further increase how effective my healing skills were at healing others. HP that it caused me to regenerate at an increased rate. I would have to be careful with it, but just skimming a bit off the top of my very large HP bar to improve my healing and level up Healing Grace faster seemed like a good idea.

Okay maybe I was overhyping Healing Grace just a little, but it looked pretty good. Plus the fact that it modified Mantra meant that it was passively gaining EXP with Mantra, even if it was only a little.

"Remember, you're not allowed to wear your hero costumes in public without express permission from a hero you're studying under," Aizawa reminded us. We were waiting for our transportation at a train station, and Aizawa-sensei was using it as an opportunity to give us some reminders. "And make sure you keep track of them, don't just leave them lying around." He glared at me. "Speaking of... Midoriya, you're the only person here without a costume case. Where is it?"

"I have it in my inventory, sir," I told him. "I figured that since I would only be allowed to take it out when I'm allowed to use my Quirk anyway, I might as well make it easier on myself."

"I suppose that's fine, then. And everyone, remember to mind your manners. Now go, your transportation should be here soon."

"Yes, sir!" everyone said before we went our separate ways. I noticed Iida walking away alone, so I walked towards him.

"Iida!" I said. He stopped. Kacchan and Uraraka walked up behind me. "Just remember," I said. "If you ever feel overwhelmed, you can talk to me."

"Me too!" Uraraka added.

"Again, I'm probably not the best person to talk to, but I'll totally listen if you want," Kacchan said.

I smiled. "We're friends, okay?"

He slowly turned around. "Of course." With that, he resumed walking to his train. I followed him. "What are you doing, Midoriya?" he asked.

"Sorry, I think my train is this way too."

He glared at me. "Did you plan this?"

I raised my hands in defense. "I swear I didn't! My train is just this way."

"I suppose so."

"Good luck on your work study, though," I said. "And be safe."

He nodded. "You too, Midoriya."

xoxoxo

I stared at the little map that Yagi-sensei had given me, comparing it with my minimap as I walked down the street. "So this Gran Torino guy even made Yagi-sensei nervous... I wonder what he's like."

"I can't say what he's like now, but when I knew him he was nice, though very... severe," Shimura told me.

"So like Yagi-sensei's version of Aizawa-sensei?" I asked.

She made a noise a bit like a verbal shrug. "Kind of, but not exactly."

"Well I can't wait to see him."

"Speaking of, why did you choose to go here?" Honenuki asked me. "You have us, so it's not like you really need his instruction on how to properly use One For All. No offense to him, of course."

I shrugged. "Yagi-sensei said that he was heavily DEX-based, and I've been meaning to work on my mobility anyway. Plus I didn't want to just brush him off, if he knows about One For All and All For One." I paused. "Hang on, were they just the two halves of that saying? Why did I not notice that before?"

"That was the last time my brother and I agreed, actually," Ichigo explained. "A few years after he forced Power Stockpile on me, we had a confrontation. He had continued to use his Quirk, called Power Theft then, for his own selfish gain, while I had just found out I could give my Quirk to someone else." He chuckled wryly. "We actually used One For All and All For One as a bit of a shared catchphrase when we were kids, so we agreed to split it in half, as it were."

"That's... kinda poetic, actually. Thank you for telling me." I stopped, seeing that I was in the right place. I looked up from the note. "Huh. This... is the right place, right?"

The place was... this might sound bad, but it looked a little run-down. Yagi-sensei mentioned that this Torino guy had come out of retirement to teach me, so it was probably just that the building was old. The doors looked fine, though, so I hoped that it was just that the outside that was worse for wear. I knocked on the door, waiting to be let in.

A few minutes passed, so I knocked again. And again I was met with silence. "Excuse me," I said loudly. "I'm here for an internship?" There was definitely someone there on my minimap. I asked my elementals, and they told me the person was just... laying there, covered in ketchup and sausage links. "I'm coming in, excuse me!" I decided, then opened the unlocked door. If I didn't know the old man was alive and the things under him were ketchup and sausages, I probably would've thought he was dead. It didn't help that the lights were off and there was a shattered plate on the floor.

Get Off My Lawn

LV 92

Torino Sorahiko

Though I was pretty sure the dead didn't have titles. "Hey, are you okay?" I asked.

His head shot up. "I'm alive!" he shouted.

"Yeah, do you need help cleaning up? You appear to be covered in ketchup." I didn't want to assume it was a test or prank, in case he actually did slip while carrying a plate of ketchup-covered sausages. "If you'll allow it, I have water magic and can summon paper towels with my Quirk."

"Oh, thank you, young man!" He got up shakily, leaning heavily on his cane. He was definitely wearing a hero outfit, regardless of his current state. I didn't think anyone would wear a yellow cape and a domino mask casually, at least. "Who are you?"

I pulled some paper towels out of my inventory. "I'm Midoriya Izuku, from Yuuei. I'm here for a work study?"

He took the paper towels and started wiping himself off. "Oh. Who are you?"

"Midoriya Izuku."

He smiled at me. "Toshinori?"

That was Yagi-sensei's name, so I guess he knew I had One For All, at least... "Um, any help, guys?" I asked the past bearers.

"Maybe try reading his mind?" Hikiishi suggested. "You can do that, right?"

"Sora, why?" Shimura sighed.

"Where's your costume?" the old man asked once he finished wiping himself off. His bearing had shifted, and he looked a lot more serious. He wasn't shaking anymore. "Put that on and fire One For All off at me."

I opened my inventory and dragged the costume case over to my equipment screen. Just like I'd hoped, it autoequipped my costume for me, and it even put on a little button that looked like it would let me autodequip my costume and pack it back up for me (hopefully returning my original clothes with it). I'd have to check if it actually did that, but it was cool nonetheless. My hero costume appeared on my body with a rush of air. I stretched, checking the changes to the outfit. It looked mostly the same, but I could already feel that it was easier to move around in than my old costume.

"How'd you do that?" Torino asked.

"Did you get any information about my Quirk?" I asked him.

"It's called The Gamer and it gives you powers like a video game character, specifically an RPG."

I nodded. "I have an inventory power, which is what I used to get those paper towels for you. It also has an equipment menu, and I just equipped my hero costume."

"That makes sense, I suppose." He got into a fighting stance. "Now hit me with your best shot. One For All only."

"Um... Can I do something first? If I throw a blast of One For All, it'll probably cause property damage."

"What is it?"

"I have a spell that... It's a little hard to explain but basically I can use it to let us do as destructive training we want without worrying about property damage, by basically putting us in a temporary pocket dimension."

He nodded. "Do that, then."

I placed my hand on his shoulder and dragged us both into an Illusion Barrier. Then I turned around and punched at the door. "LIMIT BREAK!" I shouted as the blastwave wrecked most of that wall, as well as the street and the building on the other side. "I am very glad I used Illusion Barrier," I said as I shook off my hand. It didn't hurt too bad, but after using One For All at 100% it was a little tingly.

"Well there's your problem, kid," Torino said. "Well, I can see another thing that you should be mindful of, too, but you've got one main problem. I know a bit about video games, you know. Watched a few YouTube videos on some RPGs when I decided to take you on, too. Plus I watched your performance in the sports festival as well. You're thinking about One For All like a limited resource or a super meter to draw on when you need a big attack, but that ain't just what it is. Think about how Toshinori uses One For All, I'm sure you've seen him use it before."

I nodded and put some ideas about what he meant in the text chat for the past bearers to give their thoughts on. "I think I get what you're suggesting."

"Good." To my surprise he jumped around the rest of the room, zooming between the floor, three remaining walls, and even ceiling. He landed on a nearby table, breaking it, and grinned at me. "You wanna put it into practice?" He pulled out a stopwatch. "You have three minutes to land a single hit on me, using only One For All. Starting now." He clicked it and started jumping around again. He was using his Quirk, Jet, which let him shoot powerful jets of air from the bottoms of his feet. He darted in for a punch, and I dodged backwards, tapping into One For All. Really, it was so obvious that I would've hit myself if I had time. It was basically what I did for Elemental Aura already, just using One For All instead of elemental magic. I felt a feeling like lightning running all over my body as I jumped. I sailed clear out the hole that was the broken fourth wall, still keeping my eyes on him.

He bounced a few more times before shooting straight at me. I stood my ground, concentrating more One For All in my arm. When he was close enough that I was hoping he couldn't dodge the attack, I punched in his direction. It was a textbook Texas Smash, sending a powerful shockwave in Gran Torino's direction, but he managed to dodge to the side with his Quirk. He shot at me again, but I dodged out of the way first. "I see what you did," he noted. "You saw me bouncing around the room with blinding speed and decided to get me out in the open, where maybe I'd be a bit slower." He grinned. "Changing the environment to your advantage or your opponent's disadvantage. Good. Just remember that it might not always work. After all, you're the one on a time-"

I didn't let him finish that, trying to blindside him by charging at him while he was still monologuing. He still managed to shoot upwards before I hit him, but I had anticipated that and used Weird Flex (that might have been cheating slightly, but it was less of a magical or Quirk-related skill and more of a literal skill that just happened to get enhanced by The Gamer, like Sword Mastery) to pivot so that I could push off the ground with my hands. The ground cracked with the force that I used pushing off of it, and I shot into Gran Torino foot-first. He grunted, stunned, and I punched off the air a few times to get on the opposite side of him so I could catch him before we hit the ground.

Your level has increased by one!

I was already pretty close to a level up before that fight, so even though it wasn't much of a fight the EXP was still enough to level me up.

"Sorry if that was a little too hard," I said when we landed, then pulled out my Quirk healer license. "I can heal you, if you're hurt."

He grunted, got up, and rubbed his stomach. "Thanks, kid." He chuckled. "You really showed a lot of promise there, kid," he said as I healed him. "It only took me a little prodding to correct how you use your Quirk."

I smiled. "Yeah, and we didn't even touch on my other Quirks."

He raised his eyebrow. "'Other Quirks?' Plural?"

"Sorry, did Yagi-sensei not mention that?" I asked. I raised my hand, switching Skeletal in. Oof, my costume wasn't looking too good after that giant blast... I was already going to use Mending after my demonstration, but still... I tensed my arm, activating Skeletal. White armor calcified along my hand and forearm, forming something like a gauntlet that destroyed the remains of that sleeve and glove. "The Gamer evolved the ability to copy Quirks during the sports festival. I got the Quirks of the past bearers, as well as a few others, as quest rewards from a quest related to the sports festival." I deactivated Skeletal, causing the bone armor to retract back into my skin, and fixed my costume with Mending.

"Well, practice with those new Quirks of yours for now." His demeanor lightened. "I'm gonna go get us some food!" He walked away.

"Um... Let's go inside first so I can drop the Illusion Barrier first?" I suggested. "I don't think I'm allowed to just drop us out of a pocket dimension in the middle of the street."

He looked at the carnage we'd made, then around at the lack of people on the street, and chuckled. "That sounds about right. No use scaring the civilians." We walked back inside. "Who are you, again?"

I broke the barrier. "Midoriya. Should I just practice with my Quirks and magic until you're back?"

"Sure. But who are you, though?"

I sighed. "Just go, please."

"Goodbye, Toshinori!" He said with a smile as he walked out the door.

"Goodbye," I said. The second the door closed I activated another Illusion Barrier, leaving my elementals on the other side so I would know when he came back. I'd recently gotten a new setting for Illusion Barrier, but I decided against using it quite yet and just made another skeleton barrier. "Practice with my Quirks. Got it." I activated One For All again, getting that electrical feeling again. It reminded me of using Lightning Aura, actually. Which made sense, given how close what I was doing was to Elemental Aura.

That gave me an idea, but first...

I jumped, putting all of my strength into it. I immediately regretted that, as using One For All's full power to jump seemed like it was slightly overkill seeing how high I flew. Luckily I had I Burn on, so I'd absorbed all the energy from how hard I hit the ceiling, an impact hard enough that I lost some HP from it even with my Physical Endurance and Damage Reduction. And then I absorbed the negligible amount of energy I got from punching through a cloud a moment later. Speaking of which, I looked at the building...s I just destroyed from the giant hole in the cloud I was above. It was so far away that even with Hawkeye I could just barely see the largest chunks. I didn't actually expect it to work, so I was pleasantly surprised when I felt them when I reached out with Singularity. "The range it has is ridiculous, if it can do that," I muttered. I yanked, pulling those chunks upwards. "It doesn't even feel like I'm straining it..." I did notice my regeneration dropping a few points as I pulled the chunks up to me, but it was amazing how much power I got out of Singularity.

I turned off Singularity as I dropped below the cloud headfirst, switching to grabbing the chunks that had just flown past me and into the clouds with Blackwhip. I made a barrier enchanted with Immovable Object above my feet and braced on it to stop the building chunks. I strained at their momentum for a second, then jumped with half the power I had used before once the pull from the chunks abated. As I hurtled downwards I looked around the town I was above. I saw a few important landmarks: a tower, a square with a fountain, an important-looking building that could've been town hall, and the train station I'd arrived at. I double-checked that I was still in the Illusion Barrier, because this would be really bad otherwise...

I raised the amount of One For All I was using and swung my hands, trying to hit the four targets with the building pieces I was carrying with Blackwhip. My aim was a little off, but considering the fact that I was throwing around giant chunks of rubble I was fine with the result. Plus, they had all ended up crushing some skeletons that had spawned. I'd read in an article of tips for heroes Yagi-sensei had shared in one of his classes that in general a hero should try to not throw stuff at people if they can avoid it because they can typically hit harder than whatever they can pick up and it lowers property damage in general, so while that was fun I wasn't planning on making a habit of throwing buildings at people.

I let myself fall after that. I'd lost some of my momentum when I'd thrown the buildings, but I was still coming in fast. I could probably just use Float to stop falling, but I decided to try to tank the landing instead. It'd be great for I Burn, for one. I switched in Skeletal, giving myself some extra armor over the areas that I'd be landing on, and used Earth Aura to provide some shock absorption. I landed in a textbook three-point landing in the middle of a throng of skeletons, triggering an OFA-overpowered Earth Burst as I did that basically caused a miniature earthquake.

"Ow," I said despite the fact that it only took off a small bit of health that I gained back almost immediately. "Deadpool was right, those are hard on the knees..." I got up, turning Skeletal off and Mending my shredded costume again. I was standing in the middle of a crater with giant cracks radiating from it. I noticed dust pouring into one of the cracks. "Hello," I said as the skeletal samurai spawned. "It's nice to see you again." I could've probably just flicked it to death with One For All, but I decided against that.

The skeleton charged and swung at me, but I blocked it with Skeletal armor. I trapped the sword as I glanced off my armor by forming spikes of bone around it, then switched in Magnetize without switching Skeletal, Copy, or I Burn out. I could feel that the efficiency dropped when I used Magnetize on the sword, but not as much as the last time I tried it. After Magnetizing the sword, I slapped the skeleton's armor, giving it a dose of Magnetize too, and pressed the sword to it. I snickered when the skeleton tried futilely to pry the sword off of its armor, even though Magnetize wasn't as strong as it could've been.

It glared at me, despite not having any eyebrows. I somehow got the message that it wanted me to take our fight seriously.

"Okay, sorry." I put the palm of my hand up to its chest. "I'll take this seriously now." I switched out Magnetize and Copy for Explosion. I had an idea I wanted to test, so I created a hole in the bone armor on my palm for Explosion to work. I gave my hand a bit more One For All than the rest of my body and triggered a blast. I was forced to take a step back from the recoil as an explosion like a shaped charge blasted a hole through the skeleton's armor. It was armor-piercing, sure, but just like when I tried chopping bits off of the other skeletal samurai it only shaved off some HP.

"I guess sometimes finesse just doesn't compare to brute force," I muttered. True, I could've taken it down with hits like that, but it would take way longer than just encasing it in ice with Half-Cold Half-Hot and throwing it into a building with Blackwhip, which I did. This time the skeleton didn't drop anything, which hopefully wasn't because I encased it in ice before killing it.

I got a message from my elementals that Gran Torino came back, so I went back to his house in about a second using Sonic Embodiment. I placed myself about where I thought the floor was before I turned it into a crater, then dropped my Illusion Barrier. Thankfully, dropping out of Illusion Barrier in a position where something was there in the real world didn't do damage to anything and just caused the two objects to move if possible until they weren't inside each other, so even though my aim was off and my feet were clipping through the floor I just shot up until I was standing.

"Ah!" Gran Torino, who was carrying some grocery bags, shouted when I appeared out of nowhere. "...Who are you, again?"

"Sorry for startling you, Torino-sensei," I said. "I decided to train in my Illusion Barrier, which was a good call because the first thing I did wrecked this building."

"That's nice, whoever you are." He yawned. "I'm tired. I think I'm gonna go to bed after I put these away."

"Oh, I thought you'd want to spar some more..." I said.

He handed me a bag full of packages of frozen taiyaki. "That's nice, kid. Wanna help me put away the groceries?"

"...Did you only buy taiyaki?" I asked. Observe told me the other grocery bags only had taiyaki in them, too... It was a good thing The Gamer meant I didn't need to eat, I guess...

"Don't be silly, Toshinori!" he said with a goofy grin, then produced a lollipop. "I got this for you, young man!"

I took the lollipop. "Thanks, I guess..." I put it in my mouth. It was green apple, not my favorite flavor but at the same time it wasn't my least favorite flavor. He probably picked it because of my hair... I checked the fridge when I put the taiyaki in the freezer. He had a wide variety of food, a lot of it healthy but also a lot of sweets, too. I guess he just really felt like getting taiyaki. I felt his gaze on me while I checked the fridge. Maybe he was testing me by showing fake signs that he was senile?

"Good night," I told him when we were done putting the taiyaki in the freezer. "I think I'll train a bit more before I turn in for the night. I'll try not to stay up too late, though." That was kind of a lie, but one could argue that because The Gamer made it so I didn't have to sleep I technically couldn't stay up to late...

"Good night, Toshinori," he said with a grin.

xoxoxo

A/N: So yeah Midoriya already has experience enhancing his entire body at once with magical energies, so I figured we could skip the whole "I'm a taiyaki" bit and get straight to the Full Cowl with only some light scolding to jumpstart him.

Elemental list: Midoriya: Halitus, Dune, Rayne, Blaise, Juniper, Mifuyu, Raimon, Iggy, Sonia, and Claude Bakugou: Pyra and Leaf Tokoyami: Corvo Uraraka: Nebula and Ion Hagakure: Lucy Tsu: Bubbles Aizawa: Charlie and Cassiopeia All Might: Seth O'Scope

[the-quiet-winds]

You Clicked Your Heels and Wished for Me (part two)

hi kiddos, welcome back to sad boi hours. the inspiration for this came from when a friend of @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts saw six and told us about a very similar situation that occurred during the show...

[part one]

trigger warning for blood, accidental harm

[Part 2: Don’t Try to Sleep through the End of the World]

exactly ten minutes before curtain, katherine stares at her phone, working up the courage to call jane, but finding none. she’s probably busy, katherine reasons, there’s no need to bother her.

she eventually tosses her phone onto the dressing room table, idly running her fingernail against the edge of her choker. she doesn’t want jane to think she can’t function without her or anything like that; then jane would never want to go anywhere without her again, and katherine wasn’t about to force jane to stay in one place just because katherine couldn’t handle a nightmare or two. the five minute call announcement sounds over the speakers and katherine stands up with a sigh. she had a show to do.

several thousand miles away, jane stares at her own phone, waiting for it to ring. the minutes tick by, however, and at five minutes to show time jane finally gives in and calls katherine herself. the phone rings for almost a minute before going to voicemail, and jane frowns.

she calls back again, but this time it doesn’t even ring. it goes straight to kat’s voicemail and jane starts to grow concerned. the clock hits three, meaning that the show was starting in england, and that very much was that. katherine didn’t need her reassurance before the show, but based on their phone call that morning, jane doesn’t think it’s just a sudden boost in confidence.

the show goes on as normal for the most part, but the slightly hazy feeling from the show last night returns. katherine almost misses a couple of cues in her distracted state and by the time she gets to her song she has to really force herself to focus.

as she tells her story, everything feels so much more real than normal. rationally, she knows it’s only grace and parr who are putting their hands on her shoulders but it still sends a shudder down her spine.

she feels her free hand reaching up to her collar, but at the last second, another hand reaches in and grabs her wrist. katherine can see parr out of the corner of her eye, a subtle concern on her face as she broke choreo.

suddenly, katherine doesn’t see parr. it’s thomas grabbing her, so she wrenches free and plummets to her knees for the final verse, now free hand scraping along the surface of her neck, drier makeup caking under her nails. the audience gasps as the angry red skin of her neck is revealed, but none of it feels real to katherine. all she can see is white and all she can hear is a faint buzzing and maria’s driving drums, her heartbeat matching the tempo.

she’s not sure how she keeps singing, but it might have just been her way of letting all that pain out, pouring it into every note, until her voice cracks on the last word. the lights drop, and while katherine would normally be standing centre-stage she can’t find the ability to get up from the floor. she drops the microphone, both hands grabbing at her neck and clawing at the already damaged skin until it tears open, tiny pinpricks of blood raising to the surface. her eyes are clamped shut and her breathing is shallow, and she suddenly feels a pair of hands grab underneath her arms. she chokes out a scream and thrashes around, kicking her legs and trying to break free of the grip, but they don’t let go. she’s being moved somewhere, and if she was lucid she’d be able to see they were just moving her offstage so the audience stopped staring at her, but in her mind she’s being dragged off by the guards on Henry’s orders.

the only thing she can feel besides the hands under her arms is the blood trickling on her neck.

she feels herself hit the ground and the impact startles her. she had been expecting rough cobblestones and cold rooms, but except it was a soft carpet and low lights.

her dressing room.

“katherine? can you hear me?” the voice is warm and familiar, as far as she can tell. “it’s me, joan.”

does she know a joan? she asks her racing brain, which slows enough to say yes, joan is a friend. joan won’t hurt you.

joan, as a matter of fact, had been backstage the entire show. the stage direction team was throwing maria through the ringer as musical director for a few nights, so joan was there in case anything went to hell. which it didn’t, putting her in the perfect position to help katherine.

“what happened?” kat asks hazily. joan breathes a sigh of relief.

“you tell me, katherine.”

katherine blinks several times as the world slowly shifts back into focus. joan is standing in front of her, face an equal mix of worry and relief. her brain hasn’t quite managed to work out everything that’s going on, but she does notice the sharp pain in her neck and the sensation of the slowly dripping blood, and she winces.

“here,” joan says suddenly, turning to a dressing table. she returns with a bottle of water and a pack of tissues. she wets one of the tissues and then crouches down in front of katherine, looking slightly unsure. “can you do it, or...”

joan didn’t want to touch katherine’s neck she realises, and as her mind returns from its fog she realises why; joan didn’t want to freak her out by putting anything near her neck. it’s a nice gesture, but katherine honestly isn’t sure if her arms were going to cooperate with her.

she barely shakes her head, but it’s enough for joan to understand. with a soft look, she begins to wipe away some of the blood with light strokes. katherine hisses in pain, causing joan to grimace.

“what’s been up with you?” joan asks quietly.

katherine can’t bring herself to answer, because she herself doesn’t even know.

they sit in silence as joan tends to the remainder of her scratches. “do you...” she offers katherine her phone. “do you want to call jane?”

katherine doesn’t answer for a few moments. part of her wants nothing better than to accept, to call jane and listen to her gentle voice and kind words telling katherine that it’s all going to be okay. another part of her, though, hates herself for being so selfish. if jane found out what was happening then she’d probably come back straight away just for her, and katherine wasn’t going to let herself ruin jane’s trip like that. she just shakes her head quietly, and joan looks at her for a moment.

“i’m gonna leave my phone here anyway,” she says, putting it down on the floor next to katherine. “i’ll be back in a minute, i’m just gonna talk to the backstage manager.”

she leaves the room with one last glance back at katherine.

katherine stares at the phone, unsure of what to do. she almost waits for a signal, a sign, anyone to tell her what to do. but one doesn’t come, so she does nothing.

joan returns a moment later, looking concerned and grave. “maybe you should take tomorrow’s show off,” joan says. “get some real sleep.”

katherine’s brain immediately jumps to what the fans would post; pictures of them and vicki would definitely alert jane.

“no!” she protests. “i can do it.”

joan looks at katherine almost anxiously, before sighing. “maybe you should talk to the other queens and see how you feel tomorrow. i know it’s not really any of my business.”

katherine agrees, although she has no real intention of doing so. joan looks slightly relieved at that.

“good, good. i’ve, um,” she looks slightly awkward. “i’ve spoken to the backstage manager, and she said that they’ve decided to cancel the rest of tonight’s show, so the other girls should be coming back in soon.”

panic suddenly fills katherine. “cancel?” she asks, voice higher than normal. jane would definitely see that it had been cancelled, someone would definitely tweet about it. “i can go back on,” she says, trying to pull herself back up. joan’s eyes widen and she puts her hands on katherine’s shoulders, keeping her sat down.

“i don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says quickly.

katherine looks at her and defiantly stands up. even in the mirror, she can see the angry red marks that are just barely beginning to heal, but she ignores them.

"i'm going back on," she says, staring down joan. "don't try to stop me."

the other woman shrinks back slightly but makes no movement, and katherine marches back downstairs, just edging out the stage manager to break through the side curtain.

she plays off the exit with a joke, then gives parr a guarded look to start her piece.

the show continues, but there’s an off feeling for the rest of the show that doesn’t go away. the audience applaud nicely enough but it’s clear they knew something had happened, not least because katherine’s neck bore the marks of it. once they can finally leave the stage katherine rushes to her dressing room and tries to change as quickly as possible, not wanting another talk from parr.

as she tries to sneak out the stage door, she’s stopped again. not by parr or even joan, but aragon of all people.

“look,” the queen says shortly, “i don’t know what’s been going on with you lately, but i know this,” she gestures to katherine’s neck, “is new and definitely not healthy.”

katherine looks down and aragon softens her voice.

“you can talk to us, katherine,” she says honestly. “i know we aren’t jane, but we want to be here for you.”

katherine doesn’t know exactly what about the situation does it, whether it’s the surprise of aragon being the one to confront her or whether she was caught at the wrong moment, but as she tries to formulate a response her brain short-circuits and she bursts into tears. aragon looks alarmed and reaches out to her.

“hey, katherine, it’s okay.”

“it’s not,” katherine chokes out inelegantly between ugly sobs. “i don’t know what’s going on. it hurts.”

whether she means physically or emotionally aragon isn’t sure, but the tears don’t stop flowing from katherine’s eyes as she leans heavily against the wall, suddenly losing the ability to keep herself upright unassisted.

aragon takes a cautious step closer. she reaches out a clumsy and awkward hand a puts it on katherine’s shoulder, and the girl just cries a little bit harder.

she misses jane so much, it’s unfair.

aragon rubs her thumb back and forth in soothing motions until katherine’s tears subside and she looks up with red eyes. she opens her mouth to say something, but aragon cuts her off by offering her phone.

katherine takes it gratefully and immediately makes her call. “mum?” she asks feebly “h-hey.”

“kitty-kat?” jane asks, sensing the tremble in katherine’s voice. “is everything okay, love?”

hearing jane’s voice again, so full of love and safety, sets katherine’s tears off again and she can barely get out a choked “no” before the lump in her throat grows.

“oh, love,” jane says, voice gentle. “what’s the matter?”

katherine can’t even begin to articulate everything that’s felt wrong over the past few days, the panic on the show, the neck scratching, so she just sums it up as best she can in three words.

“i miss you.”

“kitty-kat...” jane murmurs, “i miss you too. but it’s only a few more days, okay? day after tomorrow i’ll be back before you go to bed. do you think you’ll be alright until then?”

she hears katherine sniffle on the other side of the line. then a tiny, slightly muffled, “yeah,” followed by “love you bye.” and the call ends.

jane hasn’t even put her phone down before it rings again. why is the airline calling? the picks up and has multiple conflicting emotions. her flight changed, and they’re sending her back early tomorrow instead of the day after. the interviews had finished, luckily, but jane was hoping for a day to see parts of ohio, but she was also glad to be able to get back to katherine that much sooner.

so she surprises her.

[calleo-bricriu]

Three questions: How were you getting paid if you were a "prisoner"? Where you really a prisoner or is that just the excuse you used to get out of punishment? Did he even TRY to kill you?

Oh no, no, not an excuse at all.

I was a prisoner and the only reason I walked right into it was, more or less, to spite @directoryandle  and, going in with the assumption that I was going to eventually be let out again, also be able to come back and hopefully still have him working there so I could claim however many years I was stuck there because he’d sent me to deal with the ‘request’ instead of going himself that it was official Ministry business, work, and I absolutely expected to be paid for it.

Essentially, the Ministry ended up paying me five years’ salary to be a prisoner and largely did continue doing things that were part of my actual job anyway, just from an entirely different location surrounded by largely competent, if a bit mental, people.

Nice temporary break from being surrounded by largely incompetent, if a bit mental, people.

Nobody else was really allowed to take a serious swing at me, which is a shame, as it never hurts to get a decent amount of experience having a scrap with very different sorts of people. I still maintain that one General would have killed me outright if she’d been allowed; she didn’t like me from the start, though I never bothered to ask why and I doubt she’d have answered me anyway.

I don’t know that @absintheabsence ever necessarily was trying to kill me so much as he was trying to make me think that he was, but there were a couple of times that I almost believed it.

I’d like to note here that “almost believed it” doesn’t mean I was anything approaching frightened; I lost the ability to be afraid of death or dying before I was thirty. After enough close calls, it loses its bite.

And I really do need to point out that I am definitely the one that caused it every time. That isn’t blame of any sort, let alone victim blaming as I never have viewed myself as any sort of victim (a target maybe, but not a victim), it’s a statement of fact. See, he’s got–or had, I’m not exactly sure how short that fuse is now–one hell of a temper, but also never seemed to really care to put that on display which isn’t a bad thing at all; makes one seem unbalanced.

And I enjoy running my mouth specifically to see what and how much it takes to get someone who likes to come off as on a very even keel to wobble a bit.

That’s exactly what I did and after awhile I either got very good at figuring out just how much I could push before I’d have to ease off or he’d snap or he knew what I was doing and was refusing to play because of it.

There were several times the first few years I was kept there in which either I missed a non-bluffing signal to back off or, instead of storming off and leaving me alone for awhile the storm in question was directed at me as opposed to whatever poor idiot he ran into first after leaving the tower.

There are two instances that I remember clearly, however:

- In the first instance, while I know it wasn’t the terrible, terrible puns that caused it, they did end up in that 'last straw’ pile and that is so worth it. I could only hope to die over something as ridiculous as making a terrible pun to the wrong person and would want that on my headstone.

- In the second, and last, despite the fact that I would have been fifty-seven at the time, I was being a brat. There’s no other way to say it, and I was doing it on purpose just to see what would happen.

The first one happened the first few days I was there; the thing about the stone used to build Nurmengard, particularly down in the prison areas where it wasn’t so nicely decorated, is that the stone siphons magic from anything that’s kept in contact with it and that was then used to power a lot of the automation. Even where it was mitigated by decor, it was still able to function in that capacity to varying degrees. That’s how the automation kept running with nobody to maintain it.

Walking right into the trap landed me in one of those cells, which is a very good way to render a prisoner harmless; if everyone around them can use magic and they cannot, they’re easier to handle. I started off on the wrong foot with the guard who had to deal with me for the following reasons:

- The stone was interesting, and I lost track of time to the tune of not really sleeping for two solid days, while I was studying it as much as I could by just looking at it and poking at it.

- So when the guard came to haul me upstairs, I first wasn’t listening to what he was saying and his English wasn’t all that good, no to mention heavily accented, and I didn’t respond at first.

- When I did, and realised he’d said something to the effect of I was going to see “the Emperor” my immediate response was, “The what now?” which, and this will be come relevant, caused him to hit me with an incredibly mediocre Cruciatus cast.

- …and I just sort of…stared at him and asked him what he was doing, and that got me grabbed, thrown out of the cell, and walked at wand point (as though that was necessary, it’s not as though I could have left without being able to use magic anyway; effect, I guess) to the less prison cell filled areas of the building.

- Got mildly distracted by how over the top everything was decorated and failed to stop at the door the guard stopped at, got dragged back again.

- Very impolitely herded into the room, see who’s in there and, in a case in which my mouth did get ahead of my brain for a few seconds, went with, “Oh! It’s only you! This guard said we were going to see an emperor.”

The guard actually took a few steps away from me with that one but, nothing happened because we can’t lose our temper in front of the help, can we?

- …and I kept talking. Specifically, I started complaining about the mediocre Cruciatus and got–I’m still not entirely certain if it was sarcasm or if he was being seriously, but something about maybe I should start training them how to use it.

“Yes, and anyone who can’t manage it gets to be used as the practice dummy,” probably was not the kindest thing I’ve ever said but, in fairness, this is a curse I’ve done extensive research and fine tuning with and it’s always so disappointing to see it done poorly.

- Much to the guard’s relief, he was eventually allowed to leave and now there were no witnesses. And, as my brain had caught back up to my mouth, the first thing the duo decided was appropriate was, “Well, this is certainly a grave situation isn’t it?” because I wanted to see what he’d do.

He started by hitting me with the massive compliment of not only having read that paper but having not dismissed it out of hand, and having clearly read it to the point where he knew the cut off before I’d be damaged to the point of being vaguely useless for several months. I’m sure it was meant, on some level, to be horrible but when you’re used to other people (at best) explaining your own work back to you incorrectly it’s positively lovely to see it demonstrated without hesitation. I’m still pleased about that!

There was a great deal more after that, largely blood magic based if I recall, though not anything I was familiar with beyond having a general idea of what it was at the time; if I had to choose between that and the more familiar (if modified) well cast Cruciatus, I’d take the latter as it’s far less unsettling than a great deal of what can be done with blood magic.

That all said, I was never really convinced that he was planning to or intending to kill me; if he’d wanted to, he would have. Still, where physical death is concerned, I did get to hover right on the line of it for some time.

Great fun, actually, if you’ve never done that before. One hell of a rush too, and it lasts for weeks if it’s done right.

Which it was.

- The second time was in 1943 and he was definitely not pleased with me for that one. The one I just wrapped up, I still don’t think he was nearly as angry as he was trying to come off and I’m also fairly sure I saw him trying not to laugh at the awful pun.

I had my cards and my runes with me and, of course, they’d been confiscated by guards on intake years before, but he’d let me have them back to play with now and again. Wouldn’t usually stick around, just sort of drop them on the desk in the room I was in and leave. Half the time I’d just check to see everything was still there then set them aside, and occasionally I’d let the cards gossip with me but never mention what they said to anyone because it’s all a bit silly.

I can’t recall now why they’d been taken before this particular incident, but he’d come up to give the cards back and this time he stood in the doorway watching me until I figured out he was waiting for me to pick them up and do something with them.

Because I am the way I am, I went with what amounted to, “Oh, you want us to gossip about you, do you? All right.”

I kind of knew what to expect as that deck is nothing if not consistent and, to that point, any time they’d been gossiping about him specifically there were a lot of swords and the Tower, both of which had been consistent for over a decade at that point.

The thing is, despite the cards technically backing up what I was saying, a great deal of what I said was largely based in subtle things I’d seen or overheard that I likely wasn’t supposed to have seen or overheard in the first place and it started out warning of an ideology split within his own ranks that, if not dealt with swiftly and decisively, would lead to everything collapsing.

I don’t know if he knew that on some level and didn’t like hearing it or if he simply didn’t like hearing that those in his inner circle and high levels of command may have decided along the way that he was too unpredictable and erratic to be effective and had begun trying to organise a split–the main problem the cards saw was that those people thought he wasn’t being, I don’t know what the word I’m looking for is, but they thought he was too tolerant of things that weren’t “Pureblood” or human.

That’s saying a lot as, by that point, there had been several genocide campaigns directed at non-human beings and beasts that he’d greenlit.

At that point, the cards split as they often do when they gossip like that; down one path, he’d ignore it and continue on, trying to keep control of a crumbling empire and taking everything down with him in the process.

Down the other, it was a purge the ranks, get back on the original track, and–the cards predicted that would end rather well and be at least somewhat long lasting. There would be initial losses and a period of uncertainty while rebuilding, but it wouldn’t be such a massively destructive nightmare.

You remember that part where I said I like to run my mouth? If not, just a reminder: I like to run my mouth, and I definitely ignored the fact that, in the doorway, as I kept tossing cards up into the air in front of him, it was looking more and more like I was about to have an attempt to make me regret my entire life up to that point happen.

I made some comment about how we both knew he wasn’t going to take that second path as that would be admitting he’d made mistakes, and let the cards talk down the more destructive path.

That’s about when the Tower appeared because of course it did.

And I kept pulling cards because, the thing about the Tower card that most people overlook when they see it, is that, even among the destruction and ruins, it’s already being rebuilt; whether it’s rebuilt into the same thing or into something better depends on a lot of things, but the fact is that something gets rebuilt in the aftermath.

Figured, at this point, why not?

I thought that’s where it got interesting but it seemed to just make him even more livid than he already was and by that point I’m not even certain he was still listening so much as he was mapping out exactly what was going to happen as soon as I quit talking.

Unfortunately for me, I quit talking immediately after saying, “Looks as though you’re going to cheerfully self-destruct, while taking as many people with you as you can manage on the way down, as this deck has consistently indicated only after this Tower hits, you’ll slowly rebuild–with the assistance of someone else, it appears–into a reasonably decent person.”

Or, to condense it down, “You’re a landfill on fire but, hey, ashes eventually turn into decent ground again, so that’s something!”

Still don’t remember large pieces of what that exactly was but the thing is–if you’re not killed by something as abrupt as a killing curse, physical death happens before complete death in which you’re severed from your physical body one way or another and I do recall brief spots of physical death and–

–now that I think about it, there’s a great deal of overlap and interweaving between–

At any rate, I’m fairly certain not everything that was done during that one ever fully cleared up but I’m so used to the side effects of it now I’d be alarmed if they stopped.

For the most part, though, I suspect he figured out what I was doing just in general and would either ignore it or would do that thing where you know someone is telling you you’re not worth their time or effort and sort of–do things in a very mediocre fashion.

Since I didn’t like that one bit, I eventually stopped jabbing him with a proverbial stick because it’s not any fun at all at that point.

[blancheludis]

A/N: @iron-man-bingo square: Tony vs. Air duct climbing!Clint

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Tags: Fluff, Humors, 2012 Avengers, Team Bonding, Bets, Friendship Words: 4.102

Summary: Getting his eyebrows singed off once is not enough for Clint and he keeps trying to get into the workshop. Tony has fun thwarting his attempts. Naturally, they turn it into a war. 

---

Tony stumbles into the kitchen long after dinner is over, mind still mostly focused on the new repulsors but in dire need of new coffee. He is almost at the machine when he notices that he is not alone in the room. Sitting rather sullenly in his usual seat is Clint, arms crossed in front of him, glaring at Tony as if he has eaten the last piece of pizza out of the fridge.

A smile tugs on Tony’s lips. He fights against it for all of three seconds before he lets it spread, feels it turn into a smirk.

“What happened to your eyebrows, birdbrain?” he asks, decidedly nonchalant.

He knows. Of course, he does. As focused on his work as he usually is, JARVIS’ intruder alarm has ripped him out of his work easily. Finding the intruder had been just as simple. Taking just Clint’s eyebrows in revenge had at least been a fun challenge. No one wants the charred remains of a SHIELD archer in their vents, so precision was the key. It is a good thing he is practised at using his fine motor skills.

“Have you ever thought about not booby-trapping your vents like a paranoid misanthropist with more money than common sense?” Clint snaps. He raises a hand up to his face and it hovers over the place where his eyebrows used to be.

Tony would not have thought Clint to be vain. Maybe his forehead is still stinging.

“Wow, you just used much bigger words than I ever gave you credit for,” Tony replies and makes the last steps over to the coffee machine. He turns his back to Clint like there is nothing to worry about. “But have you ever thought about using the hallways instead of the vents like a complete maniac?”

For a moment, the gurgling of the coffee machine is the only sound in the room, and Tony watches it trickle into his mug with a hidden smile.

“It keeps me nimble,” Clint finally says. His tone is a mixture of a challenge and a sheepish admission.

“I’m not going to deign that with an answer,” Tony says, although he has a dozen ready on his tongue.

This whole vent-crawling thing has started as a joke about Clint going from the circus to being an assassin and combining the best of two worlds. Who would ever expect death to come from an air vent, after all. Clint naturally had to prove then that he could move exclusively through the vents if he wanted to. Since then, it has become a theme.

“What did you even want in the workshop?” Tony asks, picking up his filled mug.

Clint looks at him, unwilling to admit anything despite having been caught already. “I wanted to get a peek at the new bow.”

“What new bow?” Tony asks immediately, pretending not to know what Clint is talking about.

The problem with being the Avengers’ in-house mechanic is that they are constantly expecting new toys. Not always actively, but it is not a nice surprise anymore when Tony brings them new equipment. Tony was working on a new bow but moved on to at least seven other, more pressing projects since then.

“The one you’re building,” Clint answers slowly, rolling his eyes for good measure. “For me.”

Grumbling, Tony thinks he might have to pick that one up again. “And how would you know about that?”

“Natasha,” Clint answers promptly.

Of course. Even when there is nothing exciting to learn, Natasha still has to dig for secrets. It is as endearing as it is annoying.

“I should have known this would happen after inviting two spies to live with me,” Tony sighs, taking a sip of his coffee. “One can’t keep her nose out of my business, and the other crawls around in places not made for humans.”

Suddenly, a grin spreads on Clint’s face as he sits up straighter. “Then why are the vents so big?” he asks, a definite challenge in his voice. “It’s almost comfortable up there.”

Because, Tony thinks miserably, he is sometimes too dedicated to a joke, and since they need to make renovations more often than not, considering how happy the Avengers as a whole are to deal out property damage, it was not actually hard to modify the vent system enough to allow comfortable passage for nimble archers.

Tony would never admit that, though. He has a reputation to uphold, and it is already mostly in shambles.

“They’re only that big on your floor and in the common areas,” he replies, realizing too late this gives too much away. “Not anywhere else.” Definitely not over the workshop.

“That sounds deliberate.” Clint’s grin grows until it looks downright indecent, smug.

“Careful,” Tony cautions and keeps his face blank, “your brain has turned on. You should use your five minutes of near-intelligence and go bother someone else.”

That is probably unfair. None of the Avengers is stupid. That would defy the whole purpose of the team. They are not meant to follow orders but to create their own solutions.

“That’s –” Clint says, ready to fall into the bickering, but then he interrupts himself. “You do have a heart underneath all that armour.”

Tony blinks. He is not sure how Clint has deducted that from Tony’s offensive commentary. It is, in any case, a dangerous assumption. For all of them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony says dismissively and turns toward the door with his mug in hand.

He is almost out of the kitchen when Clint calls after him. “Game’s on, Stark. Throw your worst at me, but I’ll get to see that bow.”

That offers a whole trove of opportunities for petty revenge and chaos-causing pranks. Tony likes the idea – even if that means he will have to put Clint’s bow on top of his work list again. He believes in his and JARVIS’ ability to keep Clint out, even with non-lethal measures, but if Clint gets in, Tony should have something to show.

“If I actually threw my worst at you,” Tony drawls, looking at Clint with exaggerated boredom, “they wouldn’t even have to pick your pieces out of the vents because you’d be vaporized. Perhaps I’ll keep a little stain in loving memory.”

Clint, the maniac, laughs, despite knowing full well that Tony is telling the truth. “Then throw your non-lethal, non-maiming worst at me.”

Sighing, Tony nods. “You really take the fun out of this sport. But all right, you’re on.”

It begins simple enough.

Tony has bars appearing in random parts of the ventilation system, keeping Clint either locked out or in. Alarms blare when Clint makes even a single step towards the vents. Things go missing. All kinds of traps have to be disarmed before Clint can go on his merry way.

In return, Clint makes a game of leaving things in Tony’s rooms or the workshop. Food or broken arrowheads or Tony’s favourite blanket that went missing several weeks ago.

Tony tries to keep Clint out, while Clint tries to leave increasingly outrageous proof that he did, indeed, get in.

The only one who notices is Natasha, although both Tony and Clint make her swear not to intervene. Winning this is a matter of pride, and they have no doubt she would end this in five seconds flat – although they cannot seem to agree on in whose favour. Probably her own.

One night, Tony steps out of the workshop for five minutes for a bathroom break and a coffee refill. When he comes back, a still hot pizza is waiting on his workbench, sitting there as innocently as if Tony has brought it himself. None of the alarms has been triggered, no archer-shaped stains are left behind.

Tony sits down and, not even bothering with having JARVIS scan the pizza, eats a slice. It is good and hot and definitely not supposed to be here.

Once he is done, Tony carefully puts the workshop on complete lockdown, and goes to find Clint. He does not even have to look for long. Clint is sitting in the living room, draped over the couch as if he has not moved in hours. There is a bit of soot stuck to his temple, though, and his breathing is a little bit too even to be natural.

Building himself up in the door, Tony glares. “You did not get into the workshop,” he declares because he knows that as fact, at least.

This is still Tony’s sanctuary, still the place where he works on delicate and classified projects. No matter the game they are playing, Tony would not let Clint run rampage in the workshop, not even under JARVIS supervision. So, he knows Clint did not get in, which still leaves him without explanation for the pizza.

“I might have,” Clint counters with a grin, stretching further on the couch.

“You have not,” Tony argues with all the conviction he has. “Not a single particle of your skin.”

He just barely manages not to get closer to check Clint for burns or other signs that he has breached the invisible barrier between the vent and the workshop.

“My fingertip still hasn’t grown back from the last time I tried,” Clint mutters, staring down at his left hand with dismay.

He makes it sound more dramatic than it was. Tony has anti-thievery measures in place. It could have, potentially, taken Clint’s hand, but Clint had been very careful in sticking his fingers through the gaps of the vent, and Tony would not leave them with a one-armed archer. That would just be a waste.

“So how did you get a whole pizza on my workbench, and mostly intact at that?” Tony asks, fighting the urge to cross his arms in front of him. There is no need to feel defensive. Clint has not won yet since he has neither gotten into the workshop nor can he have glimpsed at the specs for his new bow, which Tony is keeping in an even more secure location, just in case.

“Trader’s secret.” Clint’s grin grows ever more smug, at least right until it freezes, pushed off his face by a frown. “What do you mean with mostly intact?

Tony opens his mouth, ready to spin a tale so he will not lose any more points to Clint. Then he shrugs. “The pepperonis were missing on one half.”

It looked deliberate enough, that it cannot be mistaken for coincidence or a mistake.

Mirth is playing in Clint’s eyes as he fights to keep his laughter in. “I got hungry.”

That implies he has been lying in wait for Tony to leave the workshop. He cannot have been there for long, though, since the pizza was still hot. None of this makes sense, but it only pushes Tony to step up his game.

“That’s –” Tony trails off, then shrugs, “not surprising.”

They share a look, full of challenge and the sweet joy of victory.

“Anyway, that’s a point for me,” Clint brags, showing too many teeth. “Perhaps you should just give up now.”

If Tony would have needed an encouragement to keep going, this would have been it. “Never,” he smiles and gets back to work.

 ---

That night, Clint’s screams echo through the tower. Bruce, who is in the workshop with Tony, freezes immediately, always expecting the worst. He does not look reassured in the least when Tony only smiles at the sound.

“What happened?” Bruce asks, already suspicious. “Why are you laughing?”

The simple answer would be that Tony has set a new trap and Clint fell into it without any delay at all. Justice served truly is the sweetest thing in the world.

“Don’t worry,” Tony says, probably causing the exact opposite, “Clint’s fine, if probably a bit cold right now.”

Before Bruce can ask any more questions, JARVIS speaks up. “Agent Barton wants to talk to you,” he announces, sounding just as smug as his creator feels.

Clapping his hands, Tony abandons their work without a second thought. “Put him through,” he orders excitedly. “Better yet, turn on the camera. I need to see this.”

Seconds later, Clint appears on the screen in front of them, big enough to show his dripping misery in all its glory. He looks like a drowned dog, hair plastered to his forehead, clothes clinging to his back. He is standing in a rapidly growing puddle, body tense to keep from shivering. The intensity of his glare in almost enough to burn Tony through the camera.

This scene, he decides, is beautiful.

“How?” Clint presses out between clenched teeth.

“How what?” Tony counters immediately, barely keeping himself from laughing out loud. He is so going to save a picture of this for later. “My, you seem a little wet,” he adds as if he has only just noticed. “I didn’t think it was raining outside – or that you ever go outside like a normal human being.”

Tony has a hundred more quips ready but bites his tongue to keep himself from using them. There will be time for them later. He plans on besting Clint far more often, and while he does not think he will ever run out of witty one-liners, it does not hurt to be prepared.

“How did you manage to build in a secret door in the vents right over the exit to my room?” Clint specifies, actually trembling now, although Tony is hard-pressed to say whether it is from cold or fury. “In the two hours since I last used it?”

It definitely has not been easy, but he is a Stark. Making the impossible possible is basically his day job.

Next to him, Bruce eyes them, wide-eyed and incredulous, but with tell-tale signs of exhaustion creeping onto this face. He is definitely tired of dealing will all of their shenanigans.

“Trader’s secret,” Tony answers, tasting the perfect sweetness of this comeback. “Also, how did you know it hasn’t always been there?”

From a strategical point of view, it makes sense to have countermeasures in place against all of his fellow Avengers. Tony does not think they are going to turn against him any time soon, not without being pushed into it, but it does not make sense to give Clint nearly free roam of the tower without being able to stop him easily.

Clint’s glare grows condescending. “I heard the mechanism when I opened the door,” he explains unwillingly. “That hasn’t been there before.”

That is a flaw, Tony realizes. If the guy with hearing aids can hear his trap mechanism, Tony has not done a good enough job of it, no matter how limited his time has been and that the trap worked beautifully nonetheless.

“Aren’t you attentive,” Tony drawls, mentally redesigning the whole thing. If he does not, chances are Clint will not fall for it again if it is needed at a later time.

Taking a step forward, Clint’s image grows on the screen. Tony can see goosebumps on the archer’s arms.

“There were ice cubes in there,” Clint says, voice full of accusation.

Tony hums and bites his cheek to not lose it right here. “Well, you’ve been so excited earlier, that I thought you might need to cool down a bit.”

It is Clint’s own fault, really. He challenged Tony to do better. He should know better than to bait Tony Stark.

“My whole bed is wet,” Clint continues, looking down at himself as if he still cannot believe what has happened.

Tony clicks his tongue. “You usually sleep in your nest in the cupboard anyway.”

Just as he thought, Clint’s head whips up, looking first at him then at the cupboard with instant suspicion. Tony has not hidden another trap in Clint’s room, but it is entirely all right with him if Clint thinks he has.

“Did you do something to that too?”

Now, Tony does laugh. “Do I need to?”

Eyes narrowed, Clint shakes his head, making drops fly from his hair. “Just you wait, Stark.”

Tony has no doubt that Clint is already plotting his revenge and he should tread carefully. That is part of the fun, though.

“Perhaps you should change your clothes first,” Tony taunts, unable to help himself, “or you’ll drip all over the floor. The cleaning bots don’t like that. And you don’t want to get on their naughty list.”

Clint growls something inaudible but stalks off towards his bathroom without further threats. They have run out of those fairly quickly, preferring to rely on actions to prove their seriousness.

Satisfied, Tony turns around ready to keep working, when he is reminded that Bruce is present and has witnessed the whole thing.

“What is going on?” Bruce asks, looking at Tony with disapproval. Behind that, though, Tony thinks he can see definite signs of amusement.

“Nothing serious,” he promises. “Clint and I have a bet going, but we have mutually decided to not use lethal methods”

For a moment, it looks like Bruce is going to ask more, and Tony would love nothing more than to rope him in. Alone, he is already near-unbeatable. With Bruce, he would turn this into a spectacle the entirety of New York would never forget.

Sadly, though, Bruce usually follows his common sense. “Just don’t kill each other.”

“That’s what non-lethal means, genius.” Tony grins but does not push. “Now, let’s get back to work.”

 ---

A week later, an explosion has the floor trembling and shortly after that, alarms are shaking the walls. They are different from the Avengers alarm, and yet everybody in the living room sits perfectly straight immediately, ready to throw themselves into the action.

Tony looks up lazily from the tablet he has been working on, registering the faces around him and, more so, that Clint is missing from the group. A smile tugs on his lips.

“No worries,” he says, getting slowly to his feet. “That’s the workshop alarm. I guess one of my experiments went wrong.”

It probably says a lot that the Avengers actually relax at that. Steve looks at him with vague worry, but no one looks eager for a fight anymore. Explosions have become too common an occurrence for them to still be unsettled by it. That gives Tony, who knows exactly that he has not left anything prone to blow up unattended when he left for dinner, to deal with what he guesses is another intrusion attempt from Clint.

As soon as he is in the elevator, he asks for a status update from JARVIS.

“Agent Barton has just attempted to blow his way into the workshop.”

That is surprisingly unsubtle. After weeks of sneaking and little bits of progress here and there, it seems wrong for Clint to attempt something as pedestrian as bombs. Especially since that is one of the first things Tony guarded his workshop against, considering the kind of work he gets up to in there.

“From the vents?” Tony asks for clarification.

“Yes,” JARVIS answers promptly, echoing Tony’s incredulity. Attempting to blow himself a way in from such a limited space as the vents is – such a Clint thing to do, really. “He did not get in.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Tony snorts, never having doubted his security measures. “Is he all right?”

If Clint were seriously harmed, JARVIS would have led with that. Still, they are friends now, and Tony cares for them, although he does not often admit that openly.

“I shielded him from the worst of it,” JARVIS reports. “His newly regrown eyebrows have been singed off again, however.”

“Pity,” Tony comments immediately, openly showing his grin. In the privacy of the elevator, nobody can scold him for that. “This is excellent news nonetheless. Close the cage.”

“Cage is closed.” If JARVIS had eyes, he surely would have rolled them at Tony now. He does not need to be reminded of such clear tasks. “I will monitor Agent Barton’s progress.”

Instead of going to the workshop, Tony directs the elevator to Clint’s floor and makes his way to the bedroom. There, he gets comfortable on the bed and waits.

The cage means that all entrances to the ventilation system are closed off, SHIELD agent and circus brat proof. If Clint thinks he can escape that without Tony’s approval, he will have a rude awakening.

Tony waits for the better part of an hour. If he were not eager to see Clint’s face when he arrives here, he probably would have lost patience long ago. For that exact reason, he does not ask JARVIS where Clint is or when he is expected to arrive. Not knowing when it will happen makes it easier to wait. Also, Tony wants to see whether he can notice Clint coming.

It turns out that he cannot. There is no sound and no other sign that heralds Clint’s arrival. From one moment to the next, the flap gets torn open and Clint glares down at Tony through the bars making his escape impossible.

Before Tony can say anything, any of the gloating greetings he has prepared, Clint calls, “I give up.”

It comes so unexpected that the words do not register with Tony for a full minute. Then he blinks, full of disbelief. “You don’t.”

Clint’s face is grim. The usual mischief and cunning are absent. He does not look angry either, but that is perhaps still coming.

“Don’t make me say it again,” Clint warns but then does it anyway. “You’ve won, Stark. Do you know how loud an explosion is in a place like air vents?”

If Clint has any brain cells left, he will have at least turned off his hearing aids beforehand and covered his ears.

“The thought might have crossed my mind,” Tony says slowly, desperately trying to gauge what is happening.

Clint does not give up. Ever. Not even when there are worse possible repercussion than simply losing a bet against Tony.

“So, yes, I’m done,” Clint says nonetheless, holding onto his nonsense. “One day, you might forget that I’m not a supersoldier or a god.”

Snorting, Tony shakes his head but keeps a close eye on Clint. Perhaps the explosion has done more damage than he thought, despite JARVIS’ scan. “I’m not in the habit of forgetting things.”

Clint bares his teeth at him – the effect of which is made worse by the bars separating them. “Apart from basic human needs like eating or sleeping or letting someone check your wounds after a battle,” he says, full of sarcasm.

“That’s not –” Tony argues but cuts himself off with a shrug. “Well, it’s not completely true.”

“Right, you only forget that when it’s about you.” Clint rolls his eyes. His missing eyebrows make that look comical, but Tony is not in the mood for laughing. “Anyway, it was fun while it lasted.”

“It – was,” Tony says slowly, wondering what he is missing.

“Right,” Clint announces and vanishes back into the ventilation system. A second later, his echoing voice adds, “See ya later, Stark.”

Confused, Tony walks back to his workshop. Clint is not one to give up, not even under threat of bodily harm. Something is up, he knows it. The victory, if there ever was one, tastes bitter on his tongue.

“Lockdown, J,” Tony says, relishing the safety of the workshop turning into his personal panic room with just one word from him.

Something is different, though. He cannot pinpoint what, but something is not right. Walking over to his desk, he looks at the mess of sketches and papers, seemingly unchanged from how he left them.

Following his instincts, he looks through the stacks, looking for clues since he is lacking any specific evidence. There. A small piece of paper falls into his hand. On it is a sketch of a bow and several arrow designs in addition to several notes and descriptions that are definitely not made in Tony’s handwriting.

Underneath all of that is written,

Since you’re successfully keeping my bow hidden, here’s what I’d like. Thanks.

P.S. I count this as a victory.

Unable to help himself, Tony laughs. So much for Clint not having come into the workshop. If anything, the explosion must have been a distraction after the fact. Clint’s endurance has to be admired.

Staring at the piece of paper, Tony sees the crude sketch coming to life inside his mind.

“JARVIS,” he says, turning towards the screen, “I’d say the war is not over, but I think Legolas deserves a little present to keep his motivation up. Let’s get to work.”

[lilaswordsandthings]

That’s What Friends Are For Ch. 6: Becca’s Choice

                                Chapter 6: Becca’s Choice

 A/N: Finally, we learn the true nature of Becca’s cause of death. I recommend having a box of tissues and something huggable for this one. Tagging all the usual suspects, if you’d like to join that list, let me know. @ultrarebelheart @stunudo @illegalcerebral @reid-effect @dontshootmespence

After leaving the university, Spencer and JJ went to ME’s office to see Rebecca’s body and find out what the ME had been able to determine how she died. Inside the morgue, they found doctor Tanya Kleinman waiting for them. The morgue itself was sterile and cold. With white walls and stainless steel equipment, but the doctor was anything but. She was a short woman with dark, reddish, brown hair and glasses and a pair of pink scrubs under her blue lab coat

 “Greetings, so you’re both here to see the body of Rebecca Thompson, are you?”

 “Yes Ma’am,” JJ replied, “I’m Agent Jareau, and this is Dr. Spencer Reid. He’s an old friend of hers.”

 Dr. Kleinman frowned and turned to Reid. “I’m sorry for your loss.”  

 “Thanks.” He replied, but he wasn’t really listening. He was already focused on the sheet-covered body on the table in front of them, preparing himself to see what was underneath. “Did you ever figure out how she died?” He asked.

 At hearing his question, JJ instinctively loved closer. His voice was higher than usual, the way it sounded when he was about to cry.

 “I did.” The ME replied. “Are you sure you want to see her?” She asked.

 “Spence, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to see what’s beneath that sheet, you can hold on to the image you have of Rebecca as she was.” JJ reminded him.

 “JJ, I need to know. I need to understand what happened to her.” He said, his voice firmer and deeper now.

 He turned to the ME and nodded.

 Dr. Kleinman pulled back the sheet to reveal Rebecca’s head. Her eyes were closed, her face expressionless, and on her forehead was a dark bruise roughly the size of a golf ball. “That bruise on her forehead is what ended her life. It probably occurred when she fell on the steps of that church, but I had initially ruled it out because under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have been severe enough to cause death.”

 “What do you mean?” Reid asked.

 “When I examined her brain, I found that there was massive bleeding and internal damage that was much more severe and widespread than a head injury like that would normally produce. I didn’t understand what caused it until I ran more tests.” She replied. “Notice the discoloration on her face, those blotchy, purple areas?”

 “Isn’t that part of normal decomposition though?” JJ asked.

 “It is, but she arrived here way too soon for that and her skin looked the same the moment she got here. It’s not just on her face either, she has this discoloration all over her body.” She replied, taking out one of Rebecca’s arms from under the sheet and showing them. “I ran some tests to find out what was causing it, first a basic blood panel, cell counts, things like that. Her toxicology report was clean, but her blood counts were a mess, all of them were extremely low. This young lady was very, very sick long before she went into that church. I ran more detailed tests to find out why.”

 Reid gulped, that was exactly what he’d been afraid of. “What did those tests show?” He asked.

 “She had cancer, severe AML Leukemia specifically, and I found no evidence that she ever sought treatment. There’s no trace of any chemo drugs in her system or any indication that her body had ever been exposed to them or radiation.”

 “I don’t get it, if she knew she was sick, why wouldn’t she get treatment? JJ wondered out loud.

 Reid was still staring intently at Rebecca’s face, thinking through everything she’d ever said to him, everything he’d ever known her to have done, all through the mind of a profiler, and once he did that, he knew the answer.

 “The baby.” He said. “Remember what Amanda told us? That Rebecca started bruising easily more than a month after she found out she was pregnant. She’d already made up her mind to bring the baby to term, a human embryo or fetus is, by definition, a collection of fast-dividing cells. If she’d gone on chemotherapy like she would’ve needed to, she would have miscarried. She chose her baby’s life over her own.”  

 “Reid, are you sure?” JJ asked.

 He nodded. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense. Becca would never just give up on herself like this, but she would put someone else’s needs, especially those of her child, before her own. Dr. Kleinman, how long would it take for this kind of leukemia to kill her without treatment?”

 “A case this severe? Well, I’m not an oncologist, but based on other cases I’ve seen over the years, by the time she knew what was happening she probably had no more than six months. The head wound killed her because of how thin her blood had become, it caused a massive brain hemorrhage; but frankly, I’m amazed she even made it to that church. She would have been pretty weak, especially since my exam showed she gave birth no more than forty-eight hours prior to her death.”

 “So she’s pregnant, she finds out that she’s sick, decides to forgo treatment to protect her child, knowing the consequences, so she makes a plan to make sure the baby will be taken care of after she’s gone… but then, if her plan was for you to become her baby’s guardian, why didn’t she tell you about any of this?” JJ asked.

 “I’m pretty sure I know why,” Reid replied, as a lump caught in his throat.

 JJ couldn’t help but notice that his hands were shaking as he said those words.

 He stepped forward and ran his hand gently through her shoulder-length, inky black hair as a few tears ran down his face. “Becca, you didn’t have to do this alone. I would’ve been there for you. All you had to do was ask, I would’ve…no I wouldn’t have understood… but I’d have tried to. I’ll make sure you didn’t do all this for nothing. I will take care of her, I promise.” He whispered, barely keep it together.

 “Spence…” JJ said.

 At her words, he lost it. Reid turned, embraced JJ, and sobbed.

[maraudergirls]

‘7 things i love about us’ ( Harry x Hermione)

For @hermione-who from @wizardingworldwaitforme and @beaubcxton

Hermione can’t believe what she’s seeing.

Maybe it’s because of the shock of her tights colliding with the freezing floor, or the strength the cry provoked by her surprise.

She shakes the white plastic stick. Once. Twice. Thrice. Observes. It’s unchanged. 

She rests her back against the wall and stretches her legs forward, until their extension is blocked by the base of the washbasin. The last time such a huge turn in her life had happened, it had been in a similar room, and she remembers it as if it were yesterday…

There was music. A sweet music. Somebody was tickling the tiles of a piano. A huge one.

“Are you ready?”

She looked up at Ginny.

She’s just able to hear the knock on the door, and a deep voice asking if she’s all right, before the whiteness of the bathroom gives place to the pitch blackness of her closed eyelids.

***

There Is music. A sweet music. Somebody is tickling the tiles of a piano. A huge one.

Harry straightens his green tie, anxiety coiling around the pit in his stomach like a vicious snake.

“Alright, mate?”

The groom nods. “Just a little bit nervous s'all.”

Ron claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to be nervous of mate. She loves you. You love her. You both make fondue, I become a godfather-”

The word fondue stirs an unforgotten memory from the Burrow in Harry’s brain, and he’s forced to recollect as thoughts about their sixth Christmas together flood him.

A hoarse cough had disrupted his occasional good sleep.

He groaned at first, throwing the comforter over his ears.

The residue of his nightmare burned his scar, and breathing heavily, he tried to shove the screams of his friends away. Cold sweat welcomed him as he opened his eyes, the worst suppositions attacking him from all parts.

When he managed to get a bit more lucid, he recognized the sound of Ron’s rambunctious snoring, which drived any suspicion of horror away, and, with a sigh, Harry cautiously got up.

It was dark enough that the atmosphere felt stifling. He walked ahead as if in a trance, following the beaker of faint light spilling ahead. As his steps got closed to the source of clarity, the sound of a retch disrupted the silence and he willed his heart to still.

Somebody was being very sick in there.

Rapping once on the bathroom door, he called out, “You okay?” and immediately berated himself for asking such a ridiculous question.

The victim of his horrible choice of words didn’t seem to think much of it, and Harry oddly wondered how serious their cause of ailment was for they called out a weak, “Yeah.” Here, they interrupted and contradicted their previous statement by moaning.

Shortly after, the flush of a toilet stained the air. “I’m fine.”

True to his perceptive nature, he recognised that she was Hermione Granger, and she was most definitely not alright.  

“Mione? Can I come in?”

“You don't need to.”

A beat of tangible silence, then, “Please?”

The door weakly swung open, creaking as it did so preceded by something clicking and Harry was faced by a very sick crush.

Even with a ghostly pale face, blue-ish lips, and damp hair, he could not recall a time when he hadn’t thought she looked more beautiful.

Against his better judgment, he tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear, and his heart stumbled when he saw red color her skin.

Offering her a glass of tap water, he leaned against the bathroom floor with her, shutting the door.

“What’s happened?” His voice echoed in the room, and he winced at the modulation.

“It’s those damned fondue rolls that Ronald seemed to like.”

She said ‘Ronald’ with such a tone of severity as to make Harry cast a silent wish to spare his friend from his fate.

Interrupted in his thoughts by another retch, he padded over to Hermione, pushing away the hand she hung between them and petted her back.

“Get it all out, Mione.”

Her answer came out weak, “Thanks Harry. You’re the best friend a girl could ask for.”

A smile carved its way onto his face. “Anything for-”

His romantic proclamation was cut short by another moan, and was altered into a chuckle when she uttered, “I’m going to kill him.”

They sat like this till the early hours of morning, until a very worried Mrs. Weasley accosted them for not waking her up, and shooed him away.

They breezed by the hours. Harry lending a pun here and there and Hermione scoffing at it, stating that he was mad though there was no longer an absence of good humor by the time dawn brushed their eyelids.

It was enough time for Harry to realise, at the moment when he was holding her hair and whispering words of comfort, that he’d had been loving her for an epiphany, that he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, and that, if that meant that all his days were going to be vomit scented, then so be it. As long as he had her.

And suddenly, there was this burning feeling in his chest, the type of impulse that one cannot hold, so he just said it, plainly and simply, as if he was making a remark about the weather, “I love you, Mione.”

She didn’t falter for a beat, just smiled weakly at him and, with an assurance that the fondue rendered quite hard, returned the sentiments.

She didn't realise how deep the ardor ran. To her, the feelings she had for Harry were strictly platonic and she was definite it was the same case for him too. They were best friends, of course she loved him too.

This was no occasion for a kiss, Harry thought, to prove that his feelings were much more different than what she understood. So instead, he silently promised himself that, someday, if she’d have him, they’d get married, and love each other until the embers of the past finally fade past.

For now, her friendship was a gift, golden and pure, sent from the Olympians before, and he silently vowed never to make the mistake of being Icarus.

“-did not raise you so you could use fondue as an inappropriate word! And to corrupt poor Harry as well. Why, I never-”

Harry coughs, interrupting the reproach from Mrs.Weasley, a woman almost as dear and symbolic to him as his own dead mother. She’d nourished him with love, care, and affection. And now, here she is, as kind and lovely as she had been decades earlier, when he’d asked her where the platform was. The only change Harry can notice is a new set of wrinkles, but they add to her grandmother look.

Ron, the same as always, silently assures Harry to go on, his right ear still bearing the flush of his mother’s shouts.

“They’re ready for you, Harry.”

***

“Are you ready?”

The knocking on the door intensifies, and Hermione shudders.

How long has she been lying here? Not so long, if the person on the door hasn’t stopped making noise already. It’s starting to annoy her. Her head is throbbing.

“Mione, love, it’s late. We have to be there in fifteen minutes. Ron says we should leave-”

“Ron said we should leave.”

“Really? He doesn’t want to come?”

“He said he’ll catch up on us. Plus, he seems a bit afraid of getting closer than ten feet to you. I reckon he said something about damaging a book...”

Hermione shrugged, and Harry smiled to himself. Ron hadn’t told him anything about any book, or anything at all. He was not even aware that they were going to Hogsmeade together, since Lavender got the most of his attention lately. But Hermione didn’t know that.

Her hands deep in her pockets, she engaged another conversation, and soon the topic that Harry dreaded, the question of why they were going alone, was far away from their minds.

The sky was calm, but the cruel cold was cutting into their skin, and Hermione caught herself longing for a hug.

, she wondered what was wrong with her lately. Why did she keep liking Harry’s company better than Ron’s? Why did she desperately want to sit next to him in every class? Why did she crave the same food he did? But she promptly found rational answers: Ron was being something of a jerk, the classrooms were crammed, and the mashed potatoes were the best dish on the table.

So why was she wishing for a hug now?

Shaking her head slightly, she reassured herself: she just wanted a best friends hug. Nothing more.

Ugh… She’d convince herself of it much more if she listened to what he was saying.

“So Trelawney came in, and I didn’t know she was going to be so angry-”

Harry ruffled his hair more than it already was, and Hermione had to bite the inside of her cheek to avoid smiling too obviously.

Exasperated at herself, she decided to look elsewhere.

“But you know, she’s always predicting my death, and one day she’ll be the cause of it. I mean, people die from boredom, don’t t-”

“Oh look Harry!” Hermione interrupted him, excitement tangible in her voice. She pointed at Zonko’s, at an object that had caught her interest. “I heard about this new illusion potion they released. Let’s have a look at it!”

Glancing at his expression, she understood that it was not in her friend’s plan to pay a visit to the joke shop, and was ready to resign, but he grabbed her arm and started walking toward the place she had indicated.

“What is it about?” he asked kindly.

Glad that he had accepted her suggestion, she explained, “It imitates the first effects of amortentia, but instead of making you smell odors, it makes you see images related to the person you love.”

Harry, who was opening the door, stumbled slightly at her last word, and she felt her own cheeks light up.

After thinking about it, why did she want to see that potion?

But again, the rational part of her brain protected her: it was an amazing bit of magic. There was no other curiosity in her intentions apart from the scientifical one.

After she cleared that detail, she didn’t feel afraid to approximate herself to one of the purple-colored bottles, and hold it up.

“I wonder what my parents would think about this. They’d laugh a lot, for sure. Oh, I could buy them one, what do you think Harry?” As he didn’t answer, she turned around, but didn’t find him next to her. “Harry?”

Her eyes scanned the colorful crowd, but her friend was nowhere to be seen.

“Come on, we’re not going to play hide and seek,” she mumbled to herself.

It struck her that she wouldn’t mind playing hide and seek with him, but she pushed the thought away.

He was not near the noisy hats, nor next to the nosy books, and the corner of the quivering quills eas empty. She looked over the heads of the third years, and between the bodies of the seventh years, and even checked on-

“Boo!”

Hermione started, and instinctively swung round with her hand ready to slap. Thankfully, Harry was not close enough to be reached.

“Harry James Potter!” she cried, listening to the thumping polka of her heart. “Do not dare to frighten me like this ever again!”

Grinning sheepishly, the boy excused himself, and after a bit of scolding, the incident was quickly closed.

They exited the shop immediately after reconciling, regretting its warmness, and after a simple look of understanding, mutually agreed to head for one of the pubs. As Hermione headed for the Three Broomsticks, Harry stopped her with a call. He first answered to her raised eyebrows with a difficult gulp, but then explained that the weather was so bitter that it made him daydream of hot chocolate.

“But they don’t have hot chocolate at the Three Broomsticks,” Hermione remarked.

She blushed furiously under her scarf when he pointed out that Madam Puddifoot’s were the best.

The door made a loud ringing noise when the boy opened it, and Hermione threw it a dark look. There were about ten people inside, and as soon as she had crossed the entrance, ten smirking mouths had started whispering.

We are here as friends, she wanted to shout at them. Instead, she swallowed, and took a sit.

“Look,” Harry told her, when he noticed she was too uncomfortable. From the inside of his winter cloak, he pulled out a bright red plastic bag, and fidgeted with whatever was inside for a bit.

Under Hermione’s surprised gaze, he laid a little flask on the pastel table.

“The illusion potion!” She cried. He had apparently bought it while she was occupied looking for him.

He winked at her. “Fancy a vision?”

Two drops in each cup were enough, and they drank the steaming beverage promptly, eager to know what its effect would be.

Harry looked at a wall, blinked, colored a bit, but shrugged and smiled, as if he had seen what he had expected to see.

Hermione, however, turned a deep shade of red, and gaped at a window for several seconds. When Harry mocked her for looking like a fish out of water, she frowned.

“I’m disappointed,” she said sternly. “It didn’t work.”

She was sure that the boy would have retorted something, but he limited himself to hum enigmatically and finish his drink.

“Mione?” He said after putting his cup down. She noticed that his cheeks were vividly pink, but implied it must be due to the inside temperature. “What would you call this?” He moved his hands in strange gestures, first pointing at her and himself, and then at their surroundings.

“Oh,” she muttered shyly. “What do you mean?”

Harry looked like he was preparing himself to climb a mountain without shoes.

“Do you consider this a date?”

His question was so abrupt that Hermione didn’t even think about her answer. “Yes, I reckon it’s one.” But when the sense of what she had said reached her conscious, she promptly added, “A friends date, of course.”

Harry’s smile trembled just a bit, and he responded with assurance, “Yeah, of course, because we’re just friends, nothing more.” In the same spirits, he glanced at 13-years-old girl that had been looking at them with great interest since they had stepped in. “We’re just friends.”

Hermione laughed heartily at the kid’s wide eyes, and finished her own chocolate.

“I like our friends’ date,” Harry breathed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

She looked at him, her mind still a bit clouded by the potion’s vision, and grinned. “I like it too.”

***

“I like this, mommy.”

The little girl in front of Harry points to the twinkling stars of the ceiling, and Harry smiles.

He’s getting married.

By tonight, as he will hold Hermione in his arms and trail a line of beautiful kisses below her nose, he shall breathe, “You are mine and I am yours, Hermione Potter.”

The mother kisses her child, and the kid bounces on her parent’s knee.

Very few people cannot complain about their first kiss, and most of them laugh off it as awkward while they stumbled in the dark, wishing they could erase the past. However, some people find beauty in the weirdness, like how their noses bumped against each other and how their glasses bore in the other’s face. And among these people shine Harry and Hermione.

They had a wonderful and legendary first kiss. It was the first time they felt like they were kissing the stars.

It took place at the dusk of frost. It was warm enough for the ice to be melting, but cold enough for them to walk close to each other, inches barely separating them.

It had been an exceptionally cold winter, physically and mentally speaking. So many subtle and burning moments.

Until this moment, if Harry had to choose a word to fit their relationship, he’d like to call it unrequited pining, while Hermione would classify it as an unfortunate series of events.

For what else could she call these feelings eating her and consuming her blood? Everytime she caught herself catching glimpses of his messy hair and green eyes, that reminded her of the tree in backyard that she pleased to admire during class, she berated herself. Didn't he know that she stilled everytime their fingers brushed when they were sitting together?

But nothing about it was unlucky. Not really.

Harry certainly didn’t seem to think so. Why would her hand in his, pulling him forward against the throng of students, against time and war, be called unfortunate? Certainly, he was fortunate to have a bushy haired girl in his life, and idly wondered how people lived without somebody like her. If he had to pine, if every carefully planned look between them drove him flexing-his-fingers-mad, then so be it.

She pulled him outside, laughing and singing her joy, and everything was well. Like it was any other day when she’d make him feel angels were having a party in his head. But suddenly, the perfection left. She left. She released his hand. Before Harry could protest, something cold hit his face, which he instinctively shut, and he spluttered.

“Come on, Harry! Not afraid of the snow, are you?”

Still coughing, he threw a reproachful look toward the sweet voice, though the corners of his lips twitched

. “Imagine that!” Her voice was teasing and light, and Harry could tell by the playful look in her eyes, the love of his life had finally got bizarre. This is why you shouldn't read, he suddenly thought. “The Boy Who Lived scared of the snow!”

Before she could throw another ball, he summoned a fistful of snow and magicked it to shove her. The whiteness paused her rant, and he bit his lip for a second. Had he gone too far? Did it hurt?

His worries were for naught, for, the very next second, a loud laugh tinkled through the air,and he only caught a glimpse of a pink and cute nose before another shovel of snow was pushed into his mouth.

“Not great at this, Harry?” Another laugh. Another mocking tone. Another shovel of snow thrown at her.

She expected it this time, and their childish game soon turned into a frightening and tactical battle, involving several mates from different houses. Thankfully, Hermione was on his side, and he got the lucky opportunity to sit close to her as they traded rumours about who was going to strike next.

“I think McKinley is going to strike from that side,” Hermione said, with a finger to the inclined direction.

Harry just nodded, head spinning partly from the planning but mainly due to the female’s intoxicating smell next to him.

“WAR!!”

The battle cry echoed close to them and on instinct, Harry pulled Hermione up.

“We’ve got to run.”

They smothered their giggles as they run. There’s a thud then and Hermione stumbled as a snowball hits her. Harry caught her, his hands clasping her arm but he loses his balance by doing so and then they’re falling, falling, falling.

And it's so so cold but also so warm.

“Hey,” Harry said, his breath tickling Hermione’s eyelashes but she doesn’t pull away. Not yet.

“Hey.” She swallows and shuts her eyes.

And he wants to hold her so bad and tuck her lips in his. Choosing another dangerous path, he slowly, so slowly brushed something off her cheek and shivers but its not due to the cold.

“You’ve got a bit-” His voice failed him. “Bit of snow.”

Words weren't necessary. Hermione’s eyes pore into Harry’s and his heart squeezed at the chocolate brown doe eyed look. All senses of caution and rationality were thrown out of the window and buried when she slowly, so very slowly leans in. Their lips gently ghosted each other before they collided and their bodies crumble against the weight of a millenia aged love.

Flushed against each other, she weaves a story in his hair and his hands cup her neck.Their breaths are searing scorching hot against each other and their hearts melt lava.

“Finally.” Harry murmured, his gaze locked on Hermione’s soft and shy one, their shared panting only registering in their bliss minds.

***

Bliss… It’s all she feels… There is no coherence…

What she’s doing on the floor, she doesn’t know…

What happened?

Her mind only processes happiness. A drunk happiness.

There is another moment of unsteadiness. And a sense of urge.

Something distressed her, a vague sense of urge.

From outside, Hermione witnessed how the rain pounded down heavily on their tent.

She shivered as a strong gust of wind stung her chest despite the heavy clothing, and tried to calm her nerves by taking a deep and rattling breath.

A quick glance at the sky comforted her: it was time to go back inside. And so, she did.

Immediately, she knew something was wrong, like the times when your throat is hurting the night before you wake up with a fever and surrounded by tissues. Wand in hand, she called out, “Harry?”

She covered her mouth instantly, and blamed herself: raising her voice was stupid. What if she had alerted any intruders about a secondary presence? But surely, there couldn’t be anybody else under the magical roof, right? They had taken precautions.

Her uneasiness nudged her into calling again. And again. And when she was certain that he wouldn’t call back, she hoped against hope that he was in such a deep sleep as to not hear her. The hairs of her neck standing straight, she crept towards the bunk beds.

Once there, her heart stopped: the bed was nicely empty, lacking the body she’d grown accustomed to seeing.

Head pounding, she dropped on the mattress, and tried to analyze the facts rationally, as she had always taught herself to, even though her chest was slowly crumbling like ash.

Had somebody managed to apparate inside? But she had checked the protection spells earlier, and they were perfectly efficient.

She hadn’t seen him getting out. She had guarded the camp. Always, without falling asleep, without leaving the tent from view. Except…

Except when a suspect noise had attracted her farther into the woods. She knew it would have been crazy to leave her place, but she needed to be sure that no threat would have assailed them when leaving tomorrow morning.

And then, during her minute of absence, perhaps, snatchers had gagged him and casted an invisibility shield over him as they snuck out? Even amid her panic, she dismissed the idea, snatchers were often rather unskilled at magic. And probably very stupid.

But she was the stupid one now! She was the one who left Harry unguarded. She was the one who did not didn’t know where he wandless boyfriend was.

But most of all, she was the one who hadn’t told him how she was sure she felt about them. And now she may never have the chance to.

“Harry,” she implored.

Her throat tightened, and worry clouded her mind and vision, making it impossible for her to think about anything, except one word.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

“Harry!” She cried to the top of her lungs.

Clenching her jaw, she summoned her Gryffindor recklessness and stormed out of the tent, feeling mad in her sorrow. She kept screaming under the buckets of rain, she ran as far as it was safe to run, she splattered herself with mud and wet leaves.

Nowhere, she thought as she pulled the roots of her hair, he’s nowhere.

Her tears and the sky’s were one, her laments and the wind’s were the same, her desperation and the forest’s united.

Feeling like a lion in a cage, broken inside, wrecked outside, her stomach assailed by a wave of nausea, she headed back to their shelter, but hadn’t took two steps before her knees buckled and her hands hit the floor.

The cold that her skin felt was nothing compared to the cold that attacked her heart, and she resigned to remain on the spot where she was, waiting for what had taken Harry away from her to come and finish her off.

She couldn’t live without him.

In her despair, she thought about his smile, his smart remarks, his clumsy gestures, his deep voice… She even seemed to hear him calling her name. If the grey wall of water in front of her hadn’t been so thick, she would have imagined she could see him running toward her.

Her vision was so realistic… Like the one she had had after drinking the illusion potion. The green eyes, the ruffled hair, the messy clothes. Why had she denied the truth back then? They could have had much more time! She could have told him…

She could have told him what she felt…

“Harry!” She shouted to the mirage. “Harry!”

Her mind trickled her in the most cruel of the ways. It made her imagine he was shouting back. It made her feel he was getting closer.

And she must have gone crazy for real, because she felt a collision with a body, two strong arms wrapping her, lips melting with hers, and the world stopped spinning.

“Mione,” His voice reached her ears despite the rain’s chaos. “Mione, I was so afraid! I wanted to check on you, but you were gone! You didn’t answer my calls! I thought they had gotten you!”

“Harry,” she breathed, “You’re not- not a vision? You’re real?”

Through sobs, he kissed her once more, pouring all his feelings in the act. “Does that answer your question?”

She nodded, conscious that he couldn’t see her, but just to feel the relief of acknowledging his presence herself. And she remembered…

She still had something to say properly.

“Harry,” She fought the pandemonium of the weather, to be sure he would hear her every single word. “I never want to leave you, ever in my existence. I was ready to let myself go! You’re the only thing that makes this life worth it! I love you!”

She didn’t know if she was crying or laughing anymore. Maybe it was both. But Hermione was sure of one thing: saying it was much better that keeping it to herself.

She loved him.

***

He loves her.

But now, people are staring.

Lacing his hands together, Harry chews his lower lip. He is wary. The clock strikes ten, as if it too wants to taunt him.

He shuts his eyes. Is she having second thoughts? Does she not want to marry him anymore? And the worse path, has she ran away?

“Harry?”

The groom snaps his eyes open and looks at his best mate. Barely repressing a groan as he grasped the besiege in the other’s eyes.

“Harry, Something’s wrong with Hermione.”

“Fuc-.” Harry swears. “What is it?” and then more firmly, he asks shaking Ron’s shoulders. “Where is she?”

“Bathroom.”

Harry takes off, barely noticing the worried glances thrown his way by the guests. He can only focus on the morose tone delivered to him. Pressure beats on his long and its not long before his throat is clogged.

A horrible assumption screams its way into his brain, like a deadly wraith before he shrugs it off with much effort.

Running to Hermione, he can only think, you promised until the very end.

Harry sighed as he walked up the stairs of the apartment. Truth be told, sometimes, he regretted his choice to become an auror and wondered what life would have become if he had accept McGonagall’s offer. He’d have been called Professor Potter by now.

Instead, he was forced to raise his arm and follow the tiring cycle of stun or kill and capture. Perhaps, it wasn't the wisest choice someone with PTSD could make.

Coping with the screams and the blood usually wasn’t exceptionally hard except for days like this. Days when he was forced to watch as envy and anger flashed before the emotions were squashed and replaced by blankness. Sometimes, triumph shone in those dark eyes and he worried for the posterity.

Shuddering at the memory of the cold hugging him,  he looked up as rapid footsteps sounded.

“Harry!” The man in question caught sight of Ron’s face and immediately stills for there was no sign of humor or lightheartedness discernible in those features.

Marching forward, he shook Ron by the shoulders, instant worry weighing down upon him and he oddly wonders how Atlas held the world for such a long time. “What’s wrong? Is Mione okay?”

A twisted expression forms its way on Ron’s face. “Harry-”

“Merlin, what is it, Ron?”

The man sighed and his face scrunched up once again. He looked like he wished he was anywhere else. There’s a brief pause which felt like years to Harry and then, “Hermione left, mate.”

“What?” His voice was faint, almost non-believing. “You’re joking.”

“Bloody hell.” Ron cursed. “She said you guys wanted different things that other people were willing to provide and I’m sorry mate.”

Harry had a sudden urge to sink to the floor and melt. Tears already sparkled in his eye and he seized something to blame; his job, someone else, him. “Different things?”

It’s not really a question. Amending: “Where is she?”

“I dont know.”

The world has become hazy and he can't see straight; everything is a blur. It’s almost like Hermione’s absence has caused the colors from his life to vanish for he walks in the grey stillness of life. He had to make this up to her for her reasoning was flawed; the useless ring bouncing in his pocket lays claim to this fact. Where had she decided to stay? Would a visit to her parents at this time be considered ill mannered? Deciding he doesn't give a shit about manners and only about Hermione, he straightened, a plan taking shape in his mind.

As if reading his thoughts, Ron flexed his fingers together. “I think she left you a note, mate. She asked you not to look for her.”

Harry slumped, shut his eyes and when he speaks, the voice was almost a croak. “Thanks, mate.” The walls were closing in.

The reply was almost strangled and pained. “Anytime, mate. She might have explained why in the note.”

The heartbroken victim nodded but didn’t move, offering a pained smile. Someone once told him that the worst kind of pain is when you smile to stop the tears from slipping out. And, with that prompt, the tears finally spill and he’s drowning in this grief. He should have noticed she was unhappy, noticed he was being a workaholic. This was all his fault.  

Ron urges. “Go check it out, mate.”

“I’ll do it when I want to!” Harry sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Each step he took to his apartment, he felt like his whole body slowly disintegrating from the unexpected anguish. Hoping the headache away, he unlocks the door and freezes.

The room is encompassed by a halo of warm light and the scent of candles sting his nostrils. He notices a row of flowers, similar to an aisle and in the middle of this enchanting scene is a woman. His goddess, Hermione. The sight of her is so surprising, he cannot utter a single word but only feel such devastating and sweeping relief, his knees almost buckle.

“You said you wanted it to be a surprise” Hermione says, tears already shining in her eyes like twinkling city lights. And to bewilder him even more, she goes on her knees.

Slowly walking towards her and joining hands, he kneels next to her and kisses her palm, enjoying the sensation of gravity that flows through him.

He doesn't ask her how she knew he was proposing. Why she wasn't with Victor Krum right now? It doesn't matter. She’s with him. Chose him. And that realization ignites the fondness he only reserved for her in his heart.

“Harry,-” Hermione said, her voice already breaking on a sob. “My mom always told me soulmates were real. And I never believed them because I was a seven year old cynic. Perhaps, it was when I entered your compartment that September 1st when I saw you that the prospect of a fated partner didn't sound so frightening. You were there for me when no one was. And I hope, I wish that I can be here for you whenever you need me.”

“I want to give this a go too since I planned it.” Harry started with a watery chuckle. “You make me happier than I ever thought I could be. And if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you feel the same way. I never thought I would be so lucky to fall in love with my best friend but I have and I don't ever want to let that go. If you’ll have me, I shall be a husband, a partner and an equal to you. I will be yours. Until the very end.” And trying to add some humor, he chuckles. “If we get married, I’ll  buy you a thousand books.”

“Sure know how to make a girl say heck yes!”

Harry surged forward and claimed his girlfriend’s, now fiancee lips with his own.

They were going to do it, finally.

***

They were going.

Yes, this is it. They should be headed somewhere. She just got distracted for a second.

Oh Merlin, yes, she got distracted, and by what! Now how to tell him-

“Mione! Why aren’t you answering? Are you okay? Open the door!”

The voice… The man…

Her split second of clarity is gone.

Through the thick fog of her daydream, she sees him… On that spring night…

“Open the door!”

His voice was playful, almost teasing, as if he knew she’d fail to unblock the lock.

“I am trying to, stop pushing me!”

It was dark, very dark, and the flickering light of the naked lightbulb was not helping much.

“Mione,” She managed to make his words out only by miracle: the hard breeze was pushing them away as soon as they were out of his mouth. “It’s freezing here, I’m shaking like Ron’s bedroom in September!”

A smile took over her lips. They had been in Ron’s room enough times now to know its rocking feeling provoked by the fall wind. Living on the last floor of the Burrow reserved many more surprises than just the neighbor above.

“I can’t get the key in the hole!” Was her feeble defense. She was too occupied in succeeding in her mission to look for a smart answer.

“Of course you can’t, you look just like Minnie when we told her that I was Teddy’s Godfather!” Sure, her hands were trembling, though not for the same kind of nervousness. Minnie had been quite stressed, Hermione was just over excited. “Give it to me, won’t you?”

She laughed, and handed the key over.

Harry grabbed it with the assurance of a man full of happiness and, in less than it took him to boast about it, the door was open, and his wife was dragged inside.

With a flicker of his wand, Harry lit up the inside of the place, and when Hermione finally stopped blowing warm air in the palms of her hands and rose her gaze, her exclamation was as quiet as she was breathless.

They were standing in the middle of a cozy entrance hall, with the smell of new wood and fresh paint invading their nostrils. The walls looked at them warmly, their coat of creamy white already covered in pictures and paintings. Under Harry’s eager attention, Hermione stepped closer to them, and what she saw brought tears to her eyes.

In a corner, she recognized Professor Sprout holding a mandrake, and Neville, in black robes and pointed hat, fainting. Next to him, a short-haired Ginny was holding a cup, in the exact way she had done during the engagement party, the sparkles in her eyes glowing like real ones. Farther to the left, between an ashen-faced Seamus and a couple of thestrals, stood Sirius, his smile wider than ever, the words “I am proud of you” readable on his still lips. He was intensely fixing a point on the opposite side of the room, so Hermione turned around.

She saw a tiny Mrs. Weasley winking at her, and a Mr. Weasley, of the same size, holding a rubber duck with great interest, apparently immersed in deep conversation with her own parents. They were surrounded by a Romanian Horntail, a cauldron of polyjuice potion, and a delicate reproduction of Hedwig. Under the bird’s wing, seven people in Quidditch robes, who turned out to be the original Gryffindor team of their first year, looked at a giant ginger cat, who was pursuing a rat.

“Wormtail,” Hermione whispered, as she traced the fine lines with her fingers.

“And here are the others,” Harry reached out for her hand, and directed it to a spot above this one. A werewolf was standing straight, its face illuminated by a silvery moon, and could have appeared to be dancing with a tall black dog. On their left were the faces of two handsome people, James and Lily Potter, framed by a rectangle of miniature diaries, lockets, rings, diadems, and golden cups. Near them, an elevator of the Ministry of Magic carried a mount of books and a white-bearded old man, with a crooked nose and golden spectacles. He was beaming at a stern McGonagall, and offering her a lemon drop.

“He did like them indeed,” Hermione breathed, emotions all over her voice.

Placing two fingers under her chin, Harry made her look up. The ceiling was covered in stars and clouds, and hippogriffs and motorcycles. There were people mounting broomsticks, a castle covered by fog, birds chasing a golden snitch, candles and flying pumpkins. Colin Creevey was holding his camera, Hagrid was caressing the giant squid, and Dean was kicking a black and white football.

“This is- wonderful Harry,” was the only think she managed to repeat, and he grinned and nodded.

“Luna did the entire house, and each one of our friend brought an idea, or a picture.”

Their snowy boots were forming puddles on the wooden floor, but their attention was elsewhere.

Hermione’s thoughts were about the lovely surprise her boyfriend had granted her, and how lucky she was to share her life with this amazing being, her loved one, and her focus was on every detail that her eyes could absorb of the scene.

Harry’s thoughts were about how much better the cottage looked now that he had at last brought her to it, and his focus was on her face, admiring how the corners of her mouth raised in grins he longed to kiss again and again.

Her lips were moving, murmuring words his fascination did not let him grasp, and the only understanding he got was when she let her body talk for her mind, and hugged him with such passion that, had he had to die right then and right there, he would have done it as an overjoyed soul.

As he covered her face in fond pecks, and she cried tears of deep affection, nothing in the world would have seemed more perfect to them, had it not be for a sudden growl that echoed among their adorable confusion.

Her eyes puffy and her nose red -- she appeared more beautiful than ever to Harry -- Hermione raised her face from the crook of his neck, and smirked, “You’re never on break when it comes to this, are you?”

Scratching the back of his neck, which was growing as red as his cheeks, the man shrugged, “I need energy to keep being the best husband in the world.”

To their eyes, her sudden chuckling was matched in faultlessness only by his sheepish smile, and perfection was back, until another cavernous sound rose, this time from Hermione’s stomach.

“Seems like a good plate of pasta would suit you too, darling.” His raised eyebrow was not mocking, but sympathetic, so for once, she didn’t scowl at it.

“Only if we cook it together,” was her answer.

“First dinner in our own house,” sighed Harry, “We ought to cook it together.”

She smiled, and took a deep breath.

***

He takes a deep breath.

Ginny’s in front of the door. Of course, she’d never leave her best friend.

“Is she-?”

The redhead smiles at him. “She’s never been better, Harry.”

He sighs. “Good.”

Ginny approaches him and fixes his tie. “Go back to your place, will you? I’ll take her out of here in no time.”

Harry nods, and the woman bangs on the door.

***

Now, there is banging.

Whoever is waiting for her response tries to open the door, but only struggles with the secured lock.

More people join the panic on the other side of the wall. There is swearing, and the mention of a wand. Concern, also.

“I swear,” cries a desperate voice, “If in three seconds I don’t get an answer-”

“Calm down, mate-”

“What if she hurt herself? Didn’t you hear her c-”

“Harry?” Her croaky voice silences all the others. “Stop hitting the door please.”

The muteness continues, and an irrational fear makes her wonder if she scared the voices away.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” She’s relieved: at least, Harry’s is still here.

She wipes her forehead with a shaky hand, and slowly, very slowly, starts recovering her spirits.

“Yeah- Yeah, I am.”

“What was the cry about, then? Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

Instinctively, she flashes a reassuring smile. Then, she remembers he can’t see her. “No, I’m perfectly fine. I just need a moment.”

She can hear whisper, and another man’s voice, Ron’s she reckons, hissing above the others,

“She’s not okay. Even if we said we’d be leaving now-”

Yes… Yes,  indeed, they were about to leave. That’s what she said.

It was late...

“We’re leaving, Harry,” she giggled. “Hannah must want some sleep.”

He did not hear her, or faked not to.

Her hand on the entrance’s doorknob, Hermione chatted some more minutes with her friend, discussing the latest Ministry business or the upcoming wedding of another of their mutual friendships, hoping that her husband would finally listen to reason. But the peeping and laughing didn’t falter even the slightest bit.

“You’d think we’d be the most excited,” Hannah smiled, gesturing toward the hallway.

At these words, Fox, the dog of the house, came to rest his tired body at the feet of his mistress, and both women were sure that, if he could have talked, his speech would have been short and concise: “I come from a place of real madness.”

“You had enough of it for nine months,” Hermione remarked, alluding to her friend’s dark shadows under the eyes with a compassionate expression.

They both nodded and let the sweet atmosphere wrap them gently into oblivion.

Somehow, it felt so comforting to have the chance to listen to a baby’s chirping. It meant the war was over, really over. That they would not have to go through any more serious anguish, nor be in letal peril each time they crossed a door. It meant that they could try to forget the obscure times.

Hermione still remembers -- how not to -- how she had grown used to carry a ball of lead in her stomach, the concentration of guilt, horror, and worry that followed her everywhere. It was the barrier between her and happiness, between her present and a prospect of some desired future. It kept her in the dark, strengthened her afflictions.

Slowly, after everything was done, the heavy ball had turned into a soft bubble, one of brightness, healing, and hope. It still followed her everywhere, and made her life so much more easy. It was a reminder that she could breath in liberty, inhale the permanent scent of love and laughter. It was an invitation to live life.

A wave of squealing and giggling reached the spot where the two friends were standing, and they both reintroduced themselves to the world.

“Maybe,” Hannah yawned, “We should remind the guys that the baby needs some sleep.”

Laughing heartily in agreement, Hermione dropped her coat on the floor, a habit that had been encouraged by the host since her first visit, and followed the stream of cheerfulness that floated in the air.

To her, Dylan was somebody very important. He was the first newborn in their circle of friends and acquaintances with nothing related to the war. He was born on a sunny August day, one year after the fatidical second of May, and received a name that didn’t connect him to anybody they had lost.

He was the first flower in the spring of their new life.

With every step they took toward their destination, the room where Mr. Longbottom junior was supposed to be taken care of by his father and friend, the intensity of delight increased considerably, until the air was so full of it that it became highly contagious.

“Darling,” Hermione called, leaning on the doorframe, with tears on the corners of her eyes. “It’s time for us to leave.”

With a childish disappointment in his eyes, the interpelled agreed to follow his wife toward the exit, but solemnly asked for the pleasure of being accompanied by his fellow men. Smiling motherly, Hannah nodded her consent, and they were all off toward the front of the house.

Congratulations flew back and forth for at least ten more minutes, and Neville, Dylan, and Harry were still laughing when the door of number 28, Begonia Street, closed for the night. The Potters were accompanied to the gate of the garden by Fox, and reluctantly parted from him with a few caresses and biscuits.

When finally alone outside, the lovers hugged each other as they walked, sharing their warmness in silence, until Harry finally spoke,

“Mione?” Her hummed answer was distracted: she still thought about the bubble. “What do you think if- well, if we had one too?”

With some airiness, a characteristic she had recently learnt from Luna, Hermione answered,

“Oh Harry, it would be wonderful. He is so adorable and quiet. It’s true that it would be a little hard to take care of him, with our full schedules and what not, but I guess that if we adopt one that is not too big, he could be friends with Crookshanks.”

But a single glance to her partner let her understand that they did not mean the same thing. She was talking about a dog, while Harry…

“You’re not serious, are you?”

***

“Oh Mione, you can’t be serious.”

Her reflection in the mirror makes her grimace.

With a face pale like this, and a mane of knots that could be declared the biggest nest in the world, she surely doesn’t look like someone who received the best news ever.

Her eyelids descend slowly, and with a clunk, she turns on the tap. The cool and fresh water against her burning skin is welcomed with a sigh.

Grabbing a towel, she lays her back against the door.

“Harry?”

An expecting voice answers from the floor. He must have sat while waiting for her,“Mione?”

He never did leave her, she thinks.

The wooden panel quivers, and now the voice repeats from its habitual height, “Mione?”

“Step back,” she warns him. “I’m going to open the door.” His relief is so strong that she feels it vibrating from the inside of the bathroom. “But be warned, love, I’m horrible to see.”

She hears his disbelief, even if he doesn’t say a word about it.

The lock clicks, the hinges creak, the barrier between them vanishes, and she’s engulfed in a suffocating embrace.

“You scared me so much. Are you sure you’re okay? Why did you scream? What’s- Love, you’re crying!”

She giggles in the crook of his neck at his surprise and he, convinced that she hit her head and went momentaneously crazy, takes her chin in his hands. “Ok listen now, Mione. What happened? Why are you all weird?”

“Your eyes, Harry.”

“Er- what about them?”

“I hope he or she gets them.”

“He or sh?-”

And with shaking hands, she looks up at him and blinds him with her bright grin. “I’m pregnant.”

Several seconds pass but Hermione doesn’t worry. She can see the awe slowly rising in his face, similar to the sun peaking in the countryside.

“I think I’m dreaming.”

Laughing now, she forgets her fainting spell as she pinches him playfully. “I’m convinced you’re just a dolt.”

He doesn’t retort at her attempt of humor. “You’re pregnant?” He whispers, his green eyes so close to her brown ones, his breath ghosting over her lips and she forgets for a second that its her wedding day. Harry always made her feel like the vulnerable teenager that she once was.

And she can't try to diffuse the emotion in his words, so she plays along, her heart beating strongly.

Hearts.

“I am.”

It is another excruciating long moment of silence and then he laughs, the joy on the melody so evident and rare, she almost stumbles back.

And then, they’re kissing. Hands tugging at each other’s hair, arms circling the other’s waist and sigh worthy kissing.

Someone wolf whistles and they break apart.

“I’m so happy, Mione. Thank you.”

She suppresses the expected tears. “I love you.”

“I love you too. And our baby.”

“Your what?” Ginny’s cries, startled. She’s leaning against the doorframe, Fred and George flanking her sides. The trio have the typical stunned expression: wide eyes, parted lips and the overall what’s happening look.

Harry winces and mutters out a quick sorry but she doesn’t care that they’ve found out.

Merlin, she’s happy. She never was one to keep secrets.

“I’m pregnant!”

And then, she’s aware of the Weasleys pouncing upon her and Harry’s hearty chuckles as he shoos them away.

“I've got to get dressed.”

“You could just wear this.” Harry smirks. “Or rather, something else.”

“Harry!”

Kissing her again, he pulls away from her, still laughing.

“Got any more secrets to tell me, Mione? Or can I waltz back? I think our guests are getting bored at Ron’s terrible singing.”

“We better save them, then.”

Harry pulls her close to his chest once more and kisses the crown of her head. There will be plenty of time to discuss their child. When she’d suspected and how lucky they were. All these conversation starters stirred in his mind as he swept away from her. “See you out there!”

She didn't hear him, too overcome by the flurry of motion surrounding her.

“Where’s the bloody makeup, Ginny?” Harry heard as he shut the door.

*

Harry tugs at his hair and smiles sheepishly when he noticed Hermione’s lips twitch. She always said he messed up his hair way too much. He supposed he rather did. Maybe it was a Potter thing. And maybe, their child would inherit it too.

Their child.

Resisting the urge to laugh jubilianty, he marvels at the thought that their child was attending their wedding. How weird and amazing!

He shakes his head, warding off the daze and gazes at his bride.

A blush stains Hermione’s cheeky and despite the beautiful gown, he can only focus on how beautiful her nose looks like.

Many colleagues had advised him that he might feel like bolting as his soon to be wife walked down the aisle. Harry thought they were barking mad. Watching her awkwardly smile at the guest and fidget with the flowers draped around her wrist, he felt like they were on one of those dates.

The ring on her hand flashes and he starts to tear up. She is his. And he is hers. After all they’ve been through-fighting and studying -- Harry thought the former was easier --, the lights that twinkle around them make him realise that this would be the happiest moment of his life.

It would be rivaled by the birth of his children a year later, but he still doesn’t know that.

Harry had never felt so jocular in his life as he does as Hermione reaches him. Gently, holding her hand and helping her step up, he tugs her veil down and smiles.

Pure affection radiates in her eyes and tears already glisten their way down her cheeks.

Kissing a one drop away, he ignores the crowd as they aww.

“Hey.”

A smile splits her face as she remembers how it had all started. “Hey, yourself.”

The priest coughs. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are-”

Harry blanks out, the touch of Hermione’s fingers on his skin rendering him illiterate.

“Harry, HARRY, MR POTTER!”

Shook from his reverie, Harry hears Ron’s snort before he sees Hermione hide a giggle.

The priest is anything but amused. “Your vows, Mr. Potter. See to it that you don’t dream while you read them.”

The couple roll their eyes and simultaneously grin at each other.

“I didn’t miss your vows, did I?”

Chuckling faintly, “No. I’d kill you if you did.”

Another grin. “Where do I start, Hermione? Everyone says weddings are stuffy and boring. I don’t want to make you cry in this vow, Mione. Rather not start the rest of our lives together by you crying by something I said. Reserve the tears for after the ceremony. Ow- don't hit me. True love is the most inconvenient kind.” Harry admits, adding a touch of seriousness to his tone. “I vow, Mione to protect and serve you. To make you breakfast in bed. To lull you to sleep with my warmth if you desire it and to wake you up by a trail of kisses but most importantly, I vow to always be there for you.”

“Wow, Harry. Its like, you want me to cry.” Hermione laughs, though it sounds more like a sob. “You’ve said most of it, I think but...Love to me isn't jumping off a plane to prove your undying devotion. It isn't about two broken pieces joining to be one. You and me, Harry, we’ve gone through a lot of shit but we’re not broken. We just look better together. It’s about wanting to live your life with someone, not needing. And my soul wants to co exist with yours throughout the rest of eternity. Love is the only sane and satisfactory answer to the problem of human existence by Erich Fromm.”

The crowd giggles while the bride flushes.

Of course, she had to quote someone.

It was her intelligence that drove his heart wild, really.

“And now,” she continues, “I’m going to stop even though I want to go on and on about how this was unexpected and read my 18inch essay about the comparison between life and love but you probably know all about that and I might cry any second so-”

The priest smiles faintly, which quickly fades in a flash of light.

“Rings.”

Ron steps forward and Harry takes one, the finest, and places it on her delicate finger, his touch almost caressing. Hermione sniffles as Ginny places the ring on her palm. Barely breathing, she pushes it on him. The crowd is silent and the priest happily asks,

“Do you Harry Potter take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? Through sickness and through health?”

Harry swallows. “I do.”

“And do you Hermione Jean Granger take this mean to be your lawfully wedded husband? Through sickness and through health?”

“I do.” Hermione whispers and locks her gaze with Harry’s. In this moment, it is only them. Only their breaths and their soft and fond gazes.

“Then, by the power vested in me, I now proclaim you husband and wife. You may-”

Harry doesn't wait. He leans forward and cups his wife’s -Merlin, his wife- face and presses her lips against his.

As he pulls back and rests his forehead against hers, he’s indifferent to the cheers and clapping from the guests. Only Hermione as she says, “May I cry now?”

They laugh.

Looking at their rings, they can hardly believe what they’re seeing.

[friendlyneighborhoodborg]

Marc Appreciation Week 2019| Day 5: Blush| “An Unchanging Face”

Am I even using the prompt anymore?  I wrote this to be the one chapter in which Marc DOESN’T BLUSH.

Also, this might be the longest one.  I didn’t pace this very well, and I am unfortunately very wordy.  If you haven’t noticed, I tend to use long words and longer sentences.

Disclaimers were on Day 1.  For those of you who are confused, this is actually part of a larger story, so... I should probably get the links for that set up.

Chapters:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

(Don’t ask me how the fiddle this happened it, but it’s ~3700 bloody words.  I can’t pace a story to save my life.)

           Marc crept silently to the back of the school.  Rose was waiting there with a small case.

           “Are you sure about this?” he asked her.

           “Nope.”  She held up a sponge and a bottle of makeup.  “Let’s do this.”

           He slammed the bathroom door shut behind him, hunched over the toilet, and only barely managed to keep from hurling up his guts.

           It had seemed like such a good plan to Marc at first: one that seemed like it might finally resolve his confusion. Look like a girl, and go through the day looking like a girl, and soon enough he’d feel like it.  Rose had been very thorough with the makeover, extending his coal-black hair to back-length, liberally applying pale foundation, colorful contour, and, most damning of all, dark blush and ruby-red lipstick.

           “She” made it halfway through first period before the pressure started to blow.

           “I can’t do this,” Marc mumbled in his half-crazy stupor, tugging at the… no, “her” stupor, tugging at “her” extensions in “her” hair.  With an effort, he tried to shove “she” into his head, but it was no use.  The “he” wouldn’t budge.

           He wasn’t a girl, even though he now looked like one.

           Rose was wrong.  He was wrong.  That’s all he was: he was just wrong, and he would never, ever be right.

           He bolted out of the stall, grabbed a paper towel and stuck his face in the sink, barely wincing as the water and eyeliner stung his corneas. He attacked the face with the towels: no more lipstick, no more liner, foundation, contour, no more fucking blush!  Everything remotely girly needed to get the hell off his damn face now.  He scrubbed until his face had turned red, and, with a cry of rage, he ripped the extensions out of his hair.

           He couldn’t tell whether the red shade on his eyes was from irritation, force, or anger, but at least they weren’t on some girl’s face.  Of course, Marc couldn’t go back to class like this.

           Taking a deep breath, he resolved that it was better to do what he had always done.

           Ignore the pains, force them down, and keep being normal.  No one needed to see his emotions.

           He looked once again at himself in the mirror, his face for once devoid of makeup.  But it could have been worse.

           Five minutes later, once he decided he could go back, he looked at the door and saw that he had stumbled into the boy’s restroom.

           Marc sat numbly through the rest of his school day. He’d limped back into first period looking like his usual dour self, and none of his classmates had commented on his earlier freak-out.  Mrs. Mendeliev, thankfully showing some decency, didn’t offer punishment.

           Marc refused to change his face after that.  Better let everything stay inside, where he didn’t have to acknowledge it, so no one could make fun of him for crying.  Because, of course, that’s the only thing his emotions would ever let him do at this point.

           He could try forever and nothing would work, and he’d be doomed to sit on the fence, torn between the extremes that plagued him.

           Nothing worked.

           “Dude!”  A voice called him out of his stupor.  In his fugue state, his day had gone by so quickly that it was already lunchtime.  Without noticing, he had drifted into the empty art room, and it looked like Nath’s friend Alix had followed him.  “Oh, thank goodness you didn’t kill yourself, man.” It was an odd way to greet an associate, and Marc realized why she used it.

           “How much did Rose tell you?”

           “Enough to piss me off.”  She threw her hat onto a table, grabbed his head by the sides, and surveyed the damage.  “You’re not wearing makeup.  I take that means it didn’t work.”

           “No,” he mumbled voicelessly. “It didn’t.”  ‘Nothing ever did,’ he thought, but he kept from saying this out loud, for fear that he might let something else out with it.

           “Oh, that just figures,” she steamed.  “You should have told us.  All of us.”

           “I’m sorry.”  ‘But it’s not like you could do anything.’

           “I’m not angry.  I’m just disappointed.  Not at you, I mean, you wouldn’t have known.” Alix gripped Marc’s shoulders, gnashing her teeth.  “But Rose really should have known better.”

           “It’s not Rose’s fault,” he defended, because it was the least he could do for her.  “I’m the freak that no one knows what to do with.”

           “That may be.”  She stormed towards the window, gesturing outside with one hand as she pulled on her hair with the other.  “But she’s the one who tries to be too helpful all the time.  She won’t take no for an answer if she thinks someone needs her help.  And her idea of ‘help’ is maybe a little too optimistic, so the kind she does suggest usually has a very slim chance of working.  Basically, I’m sorry you ended up listening to her.”

           “What’s the difference!?” he snapped.  “Nothing’s ever going to work!  I’m not going to fix myself!  I can’t be a girl when I’m supposed to be, I don’t even know if I’m supposed to…”  He stomped to the center of the room.  “I can’t do anything.  Look, just give up on me, and Nathaniel can find someone else to finish the comic, and they’ll do a hell of a lot better than me cause at least they won’t fall apart on the first!  Fucking!  Thing!!!” With that, Marc dropped to the floor in a crouch, facing away from Alix, and dipped his head under his shoulders.

           Alix should have just walked away.  He was a lost cause, one that didn’t want her pity, and he should’ve just been left alone.  Contrary to Alix’s assessment earlier, he didn’t have any intention of killing himself quickly.  He’d saved more people unnecessary grief over his sake, and still achieve the end result if he just left instead.  He could leave quietly, and it would be like he was never there.

           “Rose is right,” Alix said instead.  “About one thing.”  Marc didn’t move.  “Living openly like this shouldn’t be this big damn clusterfuck, but it is, because society hasn’t caught onto the fact that we’re real yet, so we’re screwed over before we know what’s happened to us.”

           He didn’t change.

           “Because of that, we all find ourselves struggling to find something to smile about.  And us kids especially, because now’s the point in our lives where everyone is telling us what we have to be.  Sometimes just knowing what you are, and knowing that it’s something real that other people have to go through…  sometimes that’s all you can do, and sometimes that’s enough.”  She stamped her foot, becoming more worked up.  “And she’s got this idea that it’s not something people have to hide, and that they shouldn’t hide it.  She’s only right on one of those counts… But not all of us can have a life like hers.  LGBT is only four letters, and they’re the only four letters most people know.  And some people aren’t as forgiving.”

           There was some other story behind Alix’s words. Something in it… almost stirred in Marc. Marc loved stories, usually, but he felt like this was one he shouldn’t touch.

           “How many?” asked Marc suddenly, not lifting his head.

           Alix waited.

           “How many letters are there?”

           Alix grimaced.  “Too many to count.  And only those four get top billing.”  She crouched to his level.  “Unfortunately, not everything can fit into those categories.  Sometimes it’s so much harder to know what you are.  But that’s how you have to start, and that’s all you need to do to start.  I mean, know who you are.”

           “I don’t.”

           “Well…”  Alix cut to the chase.  “Did you ever think to check?”

           “Look?” Marc’s head shot up, frustration evident in his furrowed brow.  “What do you mean look?”

           “You experience dysphoria, Rose told me that much. But not all the time, sometimes you identify as male, female, or something else.”  She tapped the floor patiently.  “At least, that’s how I heard it.  Is it right? Now did you ever think to look those symptoms up?”

           They sat in silence for several minutes as Alix’s question bored into Marc’s brain.

           “I think I did,” he admitted.  “A long while back, I thought about it.  I talked myself out of it and never brought it up again. I thought someone might come and read over my shoulder, or my parents would look at my history.”

           “Have they…”  Alix stared incredulously.  “Do your parents actually do that?  Look at your history?”

           He paused.  “I don’t know,” he whispered.  “Maybe?”

           “Marc…” she sighed.  “Never mind, I already looked it up anyway.”  She pulled out her phone.  “Genderqueer, we’re pretty sure, right?  That’s what’s supposed to be covered by the ‘T’ in LGBT- for transgender.”  She gestured in no particular direction.  “To most people, that just means identifying with the gender opposite to yours, but the definition is actually a lot bigger.”

           “How?”

           “How many genders do you think there are?”

           “Uhhh… two?”

           “Okay,” she said, pulling him off the ground and depositing him on a beanbag chair.  “Sit up, let me learn you something.”  She opened her phone to a webpage.  “Well, I don’t know if I’m actually qualified to give a dissertation on this, but I’ll try. Gender isn’t really black-and-white, it’s more on a spectrum.  Modern science has proven this, it’s been out in the open for years.”  She continued the talk, glancing down at her phone every once in a while for guidance.  “Most people identify closely with the gender that corresponds to what they were assigned at birth.  Some identify with the opposite gender.  That’s a binary transgender.”

           Making sure Marc was caught up with that, she continued.  “Some people identify with something else, in between or disconnected from the ends. They might be more feminine or more masculine, they might identify as both male and female, or they might have no actual sense of their own gender.  These people are ‘non-binary’ transgender, and there’s a whole bunch of other categories in that, and I don’t really have time to get through them all.”

           “Wait…” Marc stopped her.  “Why are you doing this?  What are you even doing?”

           “To put it in terms you’ll understand?  You need the right word.  Badly.”  She put away her phone.  “Let’s just say I know what that feels like.”

           “You’re telling me I’m… that’s there’s actually…” At a loss for words, he only pointed at himself.

           Alix nodded.  “I found… well, gender’s a spectrum, and there are some people who sort of bounce around that spectrum.  Their gender isn’t fixed, it changes from day to day, even over the course of the day. And they do still get dysphoria sometimes, I checked.”  She paused, making sure Marc heard.  “They’re called ‘gender-fluid.’”

           Gender… fluid.

           Gender… fluid?

           The word fluid, as Marc knew it, meant gaseous or liquid. Shifting, retaining mass, but with the capacity to change in volume when referring to a gas.  As a liquid, a fluid has a fixed mass and volume, but unfixed structure, filling available space in its container.

           Gender… fluid.

           Fluid in regards to gender.  Gender changing volume and form to fit some container… himself?

           That sounded so… promising.

           No.  It couldn’t be that simple, right?  Could it be there was actually a word for his type of wrong?

           “Marc?”  Alix nudged him.  “You okay, bud?”

           Marc’s expression didn’t change.  He answered as honestly as he could.  “Uhhh, I don’t know.”

           “I need to know, before we get our hopes up…” She looked him square in the eyes and asked, iron laced into her voice, “Does that sound right to you?”

           “I don’t know,” he repeated.

           “Okay.”  She nodded. “I guess you don’t have to.  Well,” she tilted her head sympathetically.  “Just keep it in mind.  I mean, this is a pretty accepting, patient neighborhood.  You can take as much time as you need to get comfortable.”

           “Thank you.”  And then he said, “What did you mean?”

           “About?”

           “You said I needed a right word?  And you knew how that felt?”  He looked at her inquisitively. “What did that mean?”

           For a moment, Marc thought she was going to break something.  But then, Alix’s face mellowed into something more… acquiescing.

           “I wasn’t always this friendly,” she admitted.  “I would go so far as to say… I was an absolute shit.  Stop laughing.”  He wasn’t, though he had considered it.  “I was looking at everyone who had someone they called their own.  I watched them stumble over themselves like they had something to prove, even to their ruin.  And I couldn’t see why.”  She rubbed her eyes, and for a second, some freak trick of the light must have happened, because Marc almost thought he saw tears welling up.  “I don’t know why Nathaniel stuck around me.  But he was pretty much the only one who kept me from physically hurting people.  Cause as far as I knew, either the whole world was completely batshit crazy or I was, and that just made me angry.” Her fists clenched tight, her eyes shut. “I needed someone to tell me I wasn’t crazy.  And he was that someone for me.”

           “I’m sorry.”

           “Forget about it.”  She sniffed.  No, he was sure this time, Alix was actually showing an emotion!  “Anyway… Nate cares about you a hell of a lot, Shakespeare.”  She looked at him, half-threatening and half-impressed.  “He doesn’t do that lightly.  He doesn’t talk, or smile, or laugh with anyone as much as he does with you and me.  Like hell I’m letting one of the people he cares about go through what I did.”

           Marc couldn’t believe his eyes.  He wasn’t aware the skater could be this vulnerable, and yet still simultaneously command respect.

           After everything Nathaniel had done for him…

           After Alix had laid her heart bare after he snapped at her…

           There was no choice in his mind.  He couldn’t let either of them down.  For some stupid reason which Marc couldn’t gather, they both cared about him.

           “What do I have to do?”

           “Nothing.  You don’t have to do anything.  Well,” she held up a finger.  “No, there’s one thing.”

           “What?”

           “Relax.”

           “Oh.”  Despite the situation, Marc allowed himself to laugh a little.  “That’ll be the day.”

           “Heh.”  She leaned forward and clapped him on the back.  “You’re alright, dude.”  She stopped awkwardly.  “Are you a dude?”

           Marc had asked himself the same question many times, if not exactly worded that way.  Well if his gender did change, then it shouldn’t matter what he was before.  That thought scared him, but ignoring everything else, and just looking at right now…

           “Sure?”  He shrugged helplessly.  “I guess?”

           “Cool.”  Alix turned to go.  “I’ll keep my mouth shut.  Rest is up to you.”  She snatched her hat back off the table.  “Gonna need this.  I’m gonna go give Rose a further piece of my mind.”

           Marc had Nathaniel’s number.  He had never used it to call him, only to text, but tonight…

           “So…”

           “Yeah,” Marc said.

           “Wow,” Nathaniel agreed.  “Have you told your parents?”

           “I mean…”  Marc glanced at his closed bedroom door.  “I haven’t.  You’re literally the second person I’ve told.”

           “I’m honored.  Are you going to?”

           “I’ve thought about it.”  He turned away from the door.  “Maybe when I’m more sure.  I mean… they know I’m not normal, but I don’t think they know how deviant I am.”

           “Parents don’t understand half the stuff their kids can.”  Nathaniel laughed over the line.  “Imagine how mine felt, raising someone with Asperger’s.”

           “What?”  Marc hadn’t expected that.

           “Yep.  I mean, you told me your major malfunction, I might as well tell you mine.”

           Oh.

           Oh wow.

           “I’m likewise privileged.”

           Nathaniel laughed heartily.  “Thanks.  I don’t really tell people, but sometimes I get the feeling I’m obvious about it.”

           Marc could relate.  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t realized my giant crush on you yet.’

           Aloud, he decided to grill him for details.  “So, you have Asperger’s?  What does that actually mean?”

           “Well, it’s… it’s difficult for me to express my emotions and interpret others.  But it’s pretty different for everyone.”  Marc heard Nathaniel gulp.  “Basically, I’m… I’m in my own head a lot of the time, and it’s difficult for me to sort of see and interact beyond that.  Especially with people.  I’m not very good with people.  Communicating.  The works.”

           “Okay.  Out of curiosity, does the art factor into that?”

           “Started out as a therapy exercise,” he admitted.  “Then I just started doing it.  I use it to organize my thoughts, illustrate my emotions, and… well, some of it is escapism, probably, let’s face it.”

           Once again, Marc could relate.

           “I mean, my folks are pretty much used to my crazy.  So, like, if your parents kick you out, I don’t think mine would be opposed to harboring a fugitive.”

           “See?”  Marc assured. “You can be clever.”

           “Sometimes.”  He could almost hear the smile.  “We’re both deviants.”

           “Yeah.  I don’t know if all this anxiety’s good for my health.  Maybe I’ll try taking Alix’s advice, see if that works.”

           “Smart.  She’s good at advice.  It’ll be good to see you relax.  And… I wouldn’t mind if you decided to be yourself more.”

           “Whatever I am, it’s genderqueer, which is apparently a much bigger category than I thought it was.”

           “So, if your gender changes, what are you now?”

           “Well right now I’m…” Marc trailed off. Something about that sentence was going to end weirdly for him. “That’s weird.  I was… a boy earlier, but now I feel…”  He paused.  “Kinda girly, I guess?  I mean… huh.”

           “Huh,” Nath agreed.

           He gripped onto the phone.  “Yeah,” he said, steeling his breath.

           Was he?

           Was “he” steeling “his” breath?

           He had to try… Marc closed his eyes and thought one forbidden word.

           ‘She.’

           It fit.

           It felt amazing.

           She… she lowered the phone from her (her!) ear.

           She laughed.  She giggled, even.

           She had tried referring to herself with other pronouns before, but she had always concluded that, since she always eventually defaulted to male, that calling herself something different wasn’t the issue. It occurred to her that she may have been right all along, only in the wrong way.  Pronouns were the issue, but not in the permanent sense, like she had considered to be the only option.

           She smiled.  Her smile.  Her. Damn face.

           She spared a glance in the mirror, but she was disappointed to see him again.  Though, as she scrutinized her reflection, she saw something she had never seen: a light of sorts, seeming to come from her eyes, reflecting the overhead bulbs. It struck her that her eyes had never seemed this deep before.  There was something completely new in her gaze, and even her expression and stature, and she realized immediately what it was.

           Life.

           And this life emboldened the green in her irises, the darkness of her eyelashes, the pink of her lips and the warm blush of her cheeks.

           It was still his face.  But, it was hers, too, dammit.

           “Marc, you okay?”

           She nearly dropped the phone.  She had completely forgotten Nath was still there. Marc, he’d called her.  She’d have to fix that.  She might want a gender-neutral name.

           She stopped.  ‘No,’ she mused, ‘one thing at a time.’

           “Yeah,” she said in her scratchy, pubescent, tenor voice.  She also made a note to practice with that some more.

           “You went kinda silent there.  You sure?”

           “I’m fine.”  She gulped.  “Never better.”

           And by Golly, she meant it.

           “Damn.”

           “What?”

           “Something’s right.”

           Nathaniel stared at the ceiling of his bedroom.  He should have gone to sleep a while ago, but that had never stopped him before.

           He thought of Marc as he had always known Marc- as a boy. Easy enough: short black hair done up in the back, the red hoodie he always wore hung over his shoulders, pale skin that blushed easily.  And he couldn’t forget the eyes.  Two eyes that were forest green.  Sharp, crisp eyes, to match the sharp mind behind them.  Sharp, spry, creative, like a colorful… sword.  The metaphor got away from him.

           The eyes were the first thing that caught his attention, the first physical detail about Marc that he had truly noticed.

           Alright, it was easy to see him as a boy, but what if he was a girl?  His – sorry, her – black hair… well, it wouldn’t change much.  Doing hair up in the back is a common girl thing, right?  And the green eyes and blush wouldn’t change either.  Now that he thought about it, Marc herself wouldn’t change. Well, she might be less depressed, maybe a bit more open about her emotions once she saw how she’d be accepted by everyone else.  Maybe she’d be even quicker with her amazing words, if that was even possible.  But those were really just boons, weren’t they? He couldn’t see any way that Marc being a girl would pose a problem to their friendship.  And he could see Marc as a girl pretty easily, with her short stature and tendency to wear makeup.  He envisioned her wearing something girly.  Probably not a skirt.  Would she wear her hoodie lower down her arms?  Maybe do her makeup a little more?  Even if it was only in front of him, he’d be happy to know she was feeling free.

           In his vision, she was smiling, and he liked it when Marc smiled.

           Well, what about something neither boy nor girl? Marc’s physical features shifted again in his mind, again only changing in how the writer carried themselves. Still brilliant, still humble, still Marc.  Maybe just a little makeup, to smooth the edge off their masculinity. Sunglasses?  No, they’d never wear sunglasses under any circumstances.  A hat, maybe.  What was Marc without their gender anyway?  Same black hair, green eyes, rosy blush.  Same demure attitude, same affectionate smile, same incredible creativity.  Why did Marc need a defined, certain gender when they had so much else in addition?

           He continued to lay on his bed, processing this. Then, as he reached the conclusion, he started to blush.

           “God… damnit,” Nathaniel muttered, covering his face.  “They’re still hot.”

Well, Marc didn’t blush.  I didn’t say anyone else wouldn’t.  And I did have the OTHER kind of blush at the beginning so...

Yeah.  I’m just gonna pretend this makes sense.  You hear me, @seasonofthegeek?  This still counts!

Comments are always appreciated.  This one was really fun to write, as you can tell from my unnecessarily long word count.  I swear, I don’t usually go this long.

But hey, I think I made something pretty cool here.  Anyway, I’m gonna post this before it’s past the deadline, so... bye for now, I guess.

[mysamcedesmadness]

Steerio Hearts Stuff & Stuff

White Devils and the Demons They Serve (Chs 15-17)

I was gonna do two seperate posts, but you two are the ones who do most of the reading and y’all actually read EVERYTHING, so I figured, even if it’s as long as a chapter, y’all would’ve read it anyways.

@sweetiedee85

Stevie can’t even sniff his fingers with Bukowski breathing down his neck. What is Bukowski up to with Cheerio? 

I. Am. Still. Crine. Over this comment. That is all. (Because, you just found out in Ch 17 what Bukowski was up to.

But I guess it’s the devil you know versus the devil you don’t.

Even though this is regarding Tesla, this is actually a fantastic summary of most of the characters in this story, hell - in the series. People often accept what their life seems to be instead of fighting for what it can be. That DEFINITELY happens in the context of having a mental illness, because everyday life can be overwhelming enough, so taking extra risks and chances are sometimes astronomical.

What’s sad is they would rather do that than come see their child. Time is more value, and we see they don’t care enough to spend any with her.

The Robinsons are the worst. I just have no other feedback of them for right now. Radja more than Champ - but they are a team and that team should’ve included their daughter and never does. In fact, I have a little arc that involves Radja coming up shortly and yes, she’s just the worst in it. 

But then those dang nightmares and training haunting the poor guy. I know it’s something he struggles with even after their married. He has triggers, and they usually lead to him growing and learning something different about himself and the way he views things. It seems that this is only the beginning of that journey.

Stevie sometimes suffers from psychosis, so he’s forgotten a lot of things that he’s been exposed to, because his brain was just unable or unwilling to process the trauma - much like his breakdown after Mary died. This is why later he still has repressed memories punching him in the gut and why it’s important to him to be a realist. He seems like an asshole a lot, for “Just being realistic,” but he knows himself (particularly after he’s out) and he just wants to make sure he’s trying to assess things normally and naturally, so that he doesn’t unintentionally wind up in a state of psychosis... Now, WE know that sometimes, it’s going to happen, anyway. But, these glimpses into his episodes are here for me to try to explain why Stevie is such an “asshole,” OUTSIDE of his racism. That’s a completely different issue which I’d never justify. Lol.

I do wonder if Tesla wants this footage. I doubt Bukowski has any good in him so is it his self need to have every part of Tesla in his grasp, under his control? Will she be somehow grateful he’s gotten this back? Idk but just the thought makes me sicker.

Tesla does NOT want this footage, wants no part of this footage, was alarmed by Bukowski and Stevie even MENTIONING this footage, and has absolutely no need for this footage. This is primarily about Bukowski’s control, and also his fetish. He enjoys watching. He enjoys knowing things. It makes him feel powerful to know things and to be able to see things. She MAY be grateful that he’s gotten it, but honestly, she’s still suffering from the damage of the event. She knows that it has already been done, and whether or not there is footage, she’s already suffered and has to live with it. Be sick, be very sick. It’s meant to be deeply sickening.

Anyway, Stevie is out of control lol threatening Derek was un called for. We know at this point she’s the one exception to that word, and that’s recent so I wasn’t surprised when he said it. I thought Cheerio would at least consider turning down Stevie’s offer but nope lol She just as toxic in love as him, and she sees beyond his training. I doubt I could have it in me.

Stevie is often impulsive in his decisions, but sometimes, they’re premeditated. Sometimes, he thinks things out, knows that his decision isn’t great and does it anyway. He gets so much better about this as he ages, but Teenage Stevie is deeply territorial and no matter what he says, he feels like he owns Cheerio.

And, no ma’am. I can’t relate to her, in that regard. A chick called me “Kunta Kinte” in 2007. I tried to beat her with a beer bottle in her own trailer, had to get dragged out of there and brought home and I still will call her a bitch, if I see her today.

  Angelwings

Ok... Who is Bukowski even using to make Tesla (Ally) jealous? I mean agh.

This had me cracking up SO HARD. You would be surprised the kinda pink dick pandering out there on the innanets. Whenever I had a successful porn blog, right here on Tumblr, I seen some shit. And there are folk less attractive and less charming that can somehow manage to get little sex games going with people, especially if they’re in a fetish niche (which gingers are).

ok so Tesla told her to have sex in the shower? If she's in the bathroom they accept verbal... side eyeing and looking all squinted eyed trying to imagine how they WON'T get caught.

This is because the orderlies won’t generally just burst into the bathroom while a resident is in the shower if the resident seems fine and is willing to peek out and show their face. They’ll only barge in if the resident seems off (trying to pretend that they’re fine) or is not responsive. They want to value their privacy to a certain extent, but not to leave them vulnerable, if they somehow got hold of a weapon or something.

It just goes back to what Stevie says to Sam. He has to constantly battle with his thoughts. At least he does that.

I touched on this a little bit with Dee. Stevie HAS to do this, to make sure that he keeps himself grounded. His triggers are so dynamic that they literally take control of his mind, for a time. He wants to not have to experience that, and he never wants to hurt the people he loves because of some type of break.

Hmm so Dani is trying to work at a library. That's kind of perfect. Hope she gets it and keeps up her therapy and stuff. It always makes me upset to see any hospital release patients before they are ready. I really hope Dani can transition back into society.

Oh, no - she’s not trying to work at the library. The library is one of the few places that poor people can have access to the Internet and by this time, even though the story is set for several years ago - a lot of the jobs and such are available to apply online. Dani would most likely apply online, because she knows that she might appear to not be normal when going in to get applications and people might “fire before you hire” her upon seeing that she’s not very normal. Sorry, I didn’t explain that. I know that the Texas Workforce Commission has access, but I didn’t feel like researching how unemployment works in Ohio, so I just went the library application route. Dani’s story isn’t over yet, so you’ll definitely find out how life went for her.

They function as a community, one for all and all for their cause. People can do anything when they work together even create monsters and killers.

People who lead abusive lifestyles often see their behavior as normal. Hence arguments TO THIS DAY of “My mom beat me and I turned out fine” or “People are this way because they don’t get beat enough.” Contrary to the cases upon cases of research and information that hitting children only causes trauma. Now, generally - children of abuse do NOT turn out to be killers and horrible criminals. Some go on to be kind humans and productive members of society... But even those generally have to address the trauma that was caused by their toxic environments.

Inevitably we know the fate of the hospital but in the other stories we never hear of the other characters. I hope they get the help they need wherever they go.

I have stories plotted out for most of the ones that we know. It’s gonna be a moment to get to some of them, but I’ll try not to drop the ball, completely.

Stevie was angry with Bukowski for hurting his Bust it Baby- learning so much. I had to look that up. That is Cheri by every definition if not now then later. She is well on her way. That exchange was cute the way Cheri acted. 

Bust It Baby Pt 2 was ONE OF MY FAVES in the club. (Telling my age, now. LOL) But, THEY would have been teens/kids around that time, so I didn’t feel bad referencing that mug. Bwahahaha. Cheri DEFINITELY becomes all of that for Stevie. But, yeah - she was a little bashful about it being said in a group setting.

Even Tanisha had to tell him about himself with Stevie. It's like Stevie was punished for all the children, well Mary got to Stacey but Sam was golden. Some couples should not procreate. 

I think it took a while for Dwight to comprehend that just because Stacie and Sam ‘turned out okay,’ that didn’t MEAN that he had been blameless in helping to shape Stevie the way that he did. He never saw himself as having anything against Stevie, because he loved him as much as he did the others (or so he thought - he just wasn’t CLOSE to him). And Mama T was able to see that Dwight’s not being close to Stevie affected how he handled him, whether or not he did love him - which she believed and trusted that he did, but she needed him to get that STEVIE needed to believe and trust it.

This Entire Review: I Have a Lot of Responses, Love

Bukowski is blinded by crazy. Any half decent individual would see red flags. DANGER! DANGER WILL ROBINSON! What an idiot. Poetic justice would be if Tesla killed his awhen he drugged and kidnapped her or whatever his chosen crazy decides to do. I just don't see him living after he knocked on that door.

Unfortunately, Bukowski’s time is not yet up. But, he has definitely poked a bear by reaching out to Max. Stevie making deals in an institution with a demon eww. Stevie has his number already, is he blinded by the vajayjay?

Stevie is blinded by both the caviar and his inability to access, the way that he would like to. He’s a teenage boy trying to squeeze quickies in all day in between heavily monitored times. That argument between Stevie and Cheri was like imagining popcorn pop. You know the explosion is coming. When it does your like damned that's some Good popcorn! I kept saying Oh, and scrunching up my face like Stevie's next words are gonna get him smacked and then he did it. He said the ultimate, ONE word that is complete Taboo in anger no less. *SMACK* ! Round two lol!

Stevie often feels attacked when nobody is attacking him. I blame Dwight for this, because Stevie spent most of his life feeling like he had to explain and defend himself, to the point where his mentality is paranoid and he thinks that he has to fight whenever a conflict or challenge arises. Cheri is not a violent person, but whenever she gets angry (Teenage Cheerio) will lash out, because she’s in a position where she can’t just go to the spa or have a smoothie. She’s relaxed more later because she has the freedom to simply escape for a moment. Here, she’s a caged bird. Cheri is hella patient with him and I get it. I have had to explain blackness to other races, as if EVERY race and EVERY culture and EVERY class does not have their own innuendoes and humor. Even his Arian idiot family. Like the lady at work told my coworker with at straight face 'Don't all y'all like fried chicken? I said what did you do? My coworker said I took a deep breath and saidNo! And what you just said is considered racist. Of course she asked how? My coworker said she just walked away. I probably would have a. been patient and broke it down, or b. said ungh hungh just like all y'all like caviar and filet minion. Just would depend on my mood but Cheri is time enough for Stevie. Most of how she handles Stevie I agree with.

I don’t. It’s not my job to bear the burden of educating people who (if they gave a fuck) could access resources to educate themselves. I made those mistakes when I was younger, and that shit was nothing but additional emotional labor added to the constant processes I had to go through, throughout the day in my black ass skin. I watch racists getting beat up for being trash on YouTube all the time. That’s handling that I agree with.Lol. Now there is no way in hell any man would not take Derek's behavior as a challenge or threat. I felt like he was trying to purposely show Stevie he could reach Cheri in a way Stevie could not and do things with Cheri that Stevie could not just to put it in Stevie's face then try and hide behind a smile and laughter like he didn't have an agenda. Even if he doesn't like her like that he KNEW Cheri was with Stevie. He should have acted accordingly. I think Derek was trying to be sneaky. Yes Stevie is a jelly monster and he is territorial and possessive but that is Stevie. Like Mason calling Cheri Ri Ri then correcting himself in front of Stevie. Mason is not deliberately trying to poke the bear. He calms all that down in front of Stevie and Stevie eventually learns that Cheri has to have other friends. I don't think that was Derek's mind set, befriend Cheri and Stevie. He just liked having the attention sounds like from everyone, in a mental hospital. Stevie is not stupid. Cheri is a little Naïve I think, especially when she meets Max. To me she made a couple mistakes with that. Trust no one. Describe new people in addition to looking up tags. 

This is highly problematic, in my opinion, for many reasons, all of which - I’ll respectfully address. Firstly, any man or person in general that takes the friendship of someone else with their partner as a threat is toxic, and possibly abusive. Control and possessiveness are not key points of love. They are key points of obsession and obsession is almost always dangerous when it involves people as the object.

I don’t think that I wrote anything to indicate that Derek was in any way trying to challenge or compete with Stevie, so that feeling seems to be some internalized antiblackness or at the very least, sympathy for the devil - in this case, that’d be Stevie. Because HE was wrong and he reacted. There is nothing wrong with a black kid getting attention from people or trying to impress or please people, so I’m not sure why that would be considered poking the bear or purposefully trying to upset Stevie. 

They are ALL in the mental hospital, and while Stevie definitely isn’t STUPID, he certainly is psychotic. He’s not always right. Even his instincts are frequently off, at this juncture of his life and it isn’t the responsibility of a black boy, who is here for his own mental health to coddle Stevie and think about all the ways that he may or may not be offending him by being generally friendly to everyone around him, which is literally all Derek does in this chapter. I only wrote him making jokes and being jovial, up until the point that Stevie threatened him, out of paranoia, after being told multiple times that he shouldn’t bother with it.

And Cheerio is definitely naive, but that also doesn’t mean that she should have had all the answers as to why not to suspect everybody that she met. She did her part to try to keep herself safe, and of course, Max would have had avenues set up as to not tip her off. He’s been trained to deceive. Saying that she made some mistakes sounds a little bit victim blaming to me, especially considering that she followed the rules that were given to her, and whenever she was abducted, she was run off of the road and taken. She hadn’t met up with him in the woods, or something. 

She was extremely paranoid (affecting her mental state and her peace of mind), because of everything that they had told her and she had no way of knowing that someone who’s information came back clean was someone else. I feel like this must be stated - Max doesn’t just LOOK like Max Giardi when he greets her. He’s not going up to her looking like somebody that she could Google and she’s just put her thumb in her butt and calls it a coincidence. He’s tactical. He purposefully entered her world. He wouldn’t do it in a way that any normal person would notice that anything off, much less someone that he would presume has been told to look out for him.

Bonus Face Claim:

Ashlee Brian as Derek (Originally a dance crew member in “The End of Twerking” episode.

[bacontodae]

Cheat |Pt.3|

Pairing: Baekhyun x Reader

Genre: Angst

Length: 4.5k

|Pt.1|  |Pt.2|

You were pretty convinced that it would take a year at the most to get over a heart break; it was useless spending the next couple years of your life sulking about your ex. So it came as a surprise to you that four years on, you still thought about Baekhyun and everything you shared and experienced together.

 He was undeniably one of the biggest things that happened to you as you had never really bothered to care about love or any of that boring shit. All the “inspirational” quotes on Instagram were complete bullshit to you, you just needed to work and earn the money to get you to a financially stable position and maybe then, would you find a partner.

But thanks to Baekhyun, that wouldn’t be the case as he just stepped into your life, made you feel like a Queen and then proceeded to cheat, make your life a living hell and make you feel guilty for doing what anyone else would have done in that same situation. He deserved to be hated by you and you definitely knew that but it was hard. Unless you had experienced it yourself, you wouldn’t know the real pain and heart break that you would feel as your soul left your body to join other broken hearts.

Every day you would curse at yourself because you knew that what you were doing was damaging your mental state but that was what love did to you. It ate away at your brain, telling you to hold grudges and to remember all the pain he caused but then it would tell you to give him a second chance, to relive the good times again. You had an angel and a devil on each of your shoulders like the cartoons but little did anyone know how emotionally tiring those stupid miniature figures actually were.

Four years may seem like an eternity to some and to others a short while but to you, it was bang in the middle. It wasn’t too long where you could actually feel yourself going insane but it wasn’t too short where you had sat for a couple of hours one day wondering where all of your time went. Seeing Baekhyun and Taeyeon going on dates together and kissing in public all over Dispatch and other Korean news websites was what made the years long as they always looked so happy and like they didn’t give a damn about everyone else which was exactly what you wanted with Baekhyun. The people knew that you were a sweetheart and you were not here to cause any sort of trouble or harm to Baekhyun and the fans but it was the fact that people thought you were taking Taeyeon’s place.

You and Baekhyun were in love but there were always some salty fans that just had to rain on your parade and ruin everything. Dates were crashed by jealous fans and on countless occasions, certain fans had tried to assault you in attempts to scare you off away from their “oppa”. But none of this made you want to leave Baekhyun and this only made your anger build and build years later. The amount of times that you had sacrificed your happiness for him and your relationship was almost embarrassing considering the fact that he did a 180 turn from you to Taeyeon. 

When the word had got out, hundreds of people mocked you saying that he cheated because you were not good enough or up to his standards. All the harsh words were egging you on to leave everything behind and live another life in another place at another time. Despite your friends pleading, you had a plan and that plan was to end it all here. Your will was written and the decision was locked. It may of been a slightly dramatic thing to end your life just because of an ex boyfriend but the way that the couple seemed to mock you unknowingly through their public displays of affection was close to unbearable, like you couldn’t escape them not matter how hard you struggled to.

It was Chanyeol who basically lectured you and pushed the idea into your head that ending something so special because of something that could be changed and resolved was so stupid. When you would have late night chats with him about your feelings and how your day had went, he would always end the call with “Stay strong Y/N”. He may have been harsh with his technique of pushing the idea of suicide out of your mind and turning over a new leaf instead but it most definitely worked as you were now in another part of the city with a reasonable apartment that you shared with your dog. 

You could finally witness the light that had been missing from your life without really realising that you had done it. It was such a refreshing feeling and the gratitude you felt towards your friends (Chanyeol especially) was overwhelming. You no longer tortured yourself by checking the reporting websites for updates on Baekhyun but instead, you made the mature decision to congratulate the couple on their engagement. 

Yes, engagement. And the wedding was in two weeks. 

“Come on!” Chaewon exclaimed through the door of your bedroom. Somehow, that certain someone had managed to convince you to take a nice trip out with her to town to buy a new dress for their wedding. And yes, you were invited by the one and only Baekhyun and yes, you had also been persuaded to go by all of your friends as it would be “part of the healing process”. Whatever it was, you were sort of glad that you could confidently say yes to Baekhyun over the phone and his cheers of glee warmed your chest.

“Alright, calm your tits.” You mumbled but Chaewon still caught on and accused you through the wooden barrier that her tits were perfectly calm and stable. It was very obvious to you that when you had first met her, she was destined to be your best friend. After all, who has a conversation about shook tits?

Giving your hair once last shake, you walked out of the bedroom to see Chaewon pacing around, hands on her breasts. There was no point questioning her so you grabbed the car keys of your dining table and called for your confusing best friend to follow.

To your surprise, you ended up meeting a lot of your old (and new) friends at the dress shop in which you bought a lovely black and white dress. Apparently the wedding was going to be absolutely huge with basically everyone and their mothers going to it to watch the deep in love couple finally seal the deal. Of course it was slightly heart breaking whenever someone brought it up and gushed about how amazing the wedding will be as the feelings for Baekhyun still remained and would most likely never leave. You would try and blame yourself for everything such as not giving him a second chance but why would you give a cheater a second chance? 

 The dress was classy and accentuated all your curves as the white detailing outlined your body shape. It was slightly below mid thigh and you were close to not buying it and going for a longer flowy dress but with the persuasion of your law school graduate best friend, you ended buying it with a smile on your face. You decided on simple black heels that you made sure they wouldn’t kill your feet by the end of the night. After all, it was inevitable that everyone would have you dancing or probably running after someone the whole night.

The two of you made a pit stop at a rather aesthetic coffee shop that was decorated with rustic wood and bunches of classic flowers. It was small but cosy inside and it was tempting to hide in the storage room so you could spend the whole entire day and night here. The waiter took you to your table which had a small plant in a light grey pot and the smallest salt and pepper jars you had ever seen. The whole shop was very easy on the eyes.

“What are you going to get?” Chaewon asked whilst scouring through the drinks menu like a hawk. Everything on the menu sounded so good and like a bloody mission to try and decide on one thing to get. 

“Would it be greedy to get everything?” 

“Yes.” Chaewon deadpanned before bursting into a fit of laughter which was typical of her. You know, everyone had that friend that would do the most random things out of the blue and you would laugh because there was no other way that you could actually respond without being miserable or mean; she was one of those people.

Thankfully the waiter came to take your orders in time before Chaewon would actually end up buckling over and falling of her seat with tears in her eyes and her limbs flying about like leaves on a windy day.

You and Chaewon had finally (and safely despite having a near miss with another driver who was very obviously drunk) made it home and had invested yourselves in a warm cup of hot chocolate and a deep conversation about life. It started off with Chaewon talking and moaning about her co worker who would not leave her alone even though she would talk about him all the time because he was “really attractive and probably an A* in bed”; but then you ended up slipping into a discussion about how you were going to deal with having to face the bride and groom in two weeks. The thought alone made you cringe and want to curl up in a ball and forget about all of it.

The wedding was much too close to just cancel on them and besides, that would be horrible and would completely let down your friends, your family, yourself but more importantly, Baekhyun. Several years on from that messy situation and yet you still didn’t want to see him upset or hurt. Then again, he had cancelled on you that one time when you two had arranged to meet up in town to talk things over. He had said that it was due to nerves and that he wasn’t ready to tell everything to you just yet, and you believed him. He sounded so sincere and you knew exactly what his sincere voice sounded like.

“I honestly just think that you should turn up, make him so jealous by having some handsome ass man hanging on your arm and have him regretting everything.” Chaewon explained and the idea didn’t sound half bad. You could get Chanyeol to turn up with you and you could give a twinkling gaze towards Baekhyun whenever he looked at you. Sure, it was petty but it would give you that confidence that you were lacking.

“Maybe but that would just ruin his day and I can’t do that on his wedding day.” You got satisfaction from being petty and showing someone that you weren’t completely helpless but it would just be immoral of you to do that on a once in a life time experience.

“Wow, you’re boring me. Just do it and he’ll feel guilty; it’ll be great.” Chaewon rolled her eyes at you and took a sip at her warm beverage. 

“You’re a horrible person.” You said and she rolled her eyes at you again.

Someone humming the traditional wedding ceremony tune began to slowly wake you up from an uncomfortable sleep filled with anxiety, guilt and anticipation. You had barely caught any sleep that night as you were basically reciting the exact words you would say to Baekhyun and Taeyeon when you saw them later that day. 

The sweet humming got closer before you bedroom door was pushed open and a wide awake Chaewon started going through your drawers.

“What are you doing?” You asked her, silently cringing at the sudden whiff of your morning breath. It was always that worst feeling when you first smelt that horrible stench otherwise known as morning breath.

“Trying to find your expensive bra…” She mumbled almost incoherently. Her comment made you rise from your position in bed and shoot her a questioning look. She only raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders before trotting out of the room, your expensive bra in hand.

Once you were left alone once again in the naturally lit room that you essentially kept all your secrets in, the real realisation of what the day had in stored for you finally settled in. An unsettling bubbling feeling coursed throughout your veins and your heart thumped loudly in your ears. There was absolutely no reason to be this anxious about the wedding but you still seemed to be panicking and planning out different escape routes and strategies in case things got nasty. It was unlikely that anything terrible would happen but you weren’t too sure on how their friends and family would react towards you.

Would Baekhyun’s parents send cold glares your way for destroying their son’s happiness all those years ago? Or would Taeyeon herself turn on you that evening and completely break you apart until you fled the ceremony, shoes in hand and mascara running down your face uncontrollably. But, that was all very dramatic and (hopefully) unlikely.

On the more optimistic side, you could spend this day with your best friend as you both pampered yourselves ready for one of the biggest events you would ever attend. It had taken some convincing to let the nearly-wed couple allow Chaewon to come but when they had, it had felt like a few more bricks had been taken off of the almost toppling stack of your shoulders. It was rather easy though; all you had to do was remind them of the hurt and the agony you had suffered for years and then you were well on your way.

A familiar jingle filled up the empty space of your bedroom. Your phone displayed a few notifications from your various social medias on the lock screen and a text from Chanyeol.

From Chanyeol: I’ll pick you up at 1. Be ready

The winky face he included on the end of the message implied that he was clearly teasing you about this whole situation. Chanyeol had the ability to sense awkwardness in advance and he used that to his advantage as he would constantly tease you about awkward situations before they had even happened. You crossed your fingers and hoped that today wouldn’t be as disgustingly awkward as everyone was making it out to be; you just want to celebrate your friend’s new beginning.

The ceremony venue was absolutely breathtaking. Mahogany chairs decorated with white cushions in rows of six were lined up on either side of a pristine white carpet that was rolled out leading to the front. There were trios of white candles in an alternating pattern at the end of the last chair of a row; they were scented like roses and added to the flower theme of the ceremony. Cherry blossom plants were stood at the entrance where the bride would walk through and tiny pink blossoms lined the edge of the carpet. Great time and effort had been put into the setup of the wedding and despite all the hard feelings, you felt so much excitement and anticipation for the couple.

You spotted Chanyeol and the others just outside of the venue where everyone else was crowded, waiting to take their seats. You had arrived with Chaewon who was currently gawking at the special couple taking pictures against a rustic wall. They looked so perfect together as Taeyeon stood in the most beautiful white dress and as Baekhyun stared adoringly at her with the utmost love for her doing laps in his eyes. Obviously, the slightest bit of jealous coursed through your veins but the feeling of satisfaction and admiration overpowered it greatly.

The photographer continued to take pictures of the family and friends as you quietly stood at the side of the meadow outside as it was the polite thing to do regarding your situation. Chaewon had ran off somewhere probably making new friends leaving you alone but the scenery and atmosphere made you feel warm and content inside. You watched Baekhyun and Taeyeon laugh with Chanyeol and the others as huge grins took over their faces; it was so refreshing to see Baekhyun happy again all thanks to his friends and family.

It was almost time to go inside the beautifully decorated venue when Baekhyun caught your eye from across the field and beckoned you to come over. Your group of friends all looked in your direction as a wave of realisation (and guilt) washed over their faces. You allowed an amused chuckle to escape your lips and you struggled to walk over in the heels you were wearing.

“I’m so sorry Y/N!” Baekhyun exclaimed holding out his arm to allow you to slip in next to him for another round of photos with you. He looked unbelievably handsome in his black suit and tie, hair perfectly styled to perfection and a light smile constantly on his face.

“No it’s fine. I enjoyed watching you from over there.” You smiled back. Though is sounded a little creepy, it was true as nothing warmed your heart quite as much as watching your friends be happy. The photographer took multiple pictures of your group and it felt so right to be standing together once again. All those years back and everything had separated you all apart but the happiness of Baekhyun and Taeyeon managed to bring you all back to where you belong. Today could only get better and better if the beginning was the only thing to go by.

The organ echoed throughout the hall as the traditional music began to play despite the old lady at the organ looking like she was about to crash out on the keys. Everyone turned their heads towards the entrance where Taeyeon had begun to stride on in looking like a goddess but you kept your excitable gaze on Baekhyun. His eyes were becoming glossy and his hands were shaking uncontrollably; you just wanted to run up and tell him everything will be alright and that this will be the happiest day of his life.

The ceremony ran smoothly and just about everyone teared up when each partner said their vows. It was crystal clear how thankful each one of them were for each other and how in love they were when their adoring gazes poured into each other’s eyes.

This made you think about your own love life and how little there was of it. You were grateful for being single as it didn't restrict to anything but watching them together up there made you regret a few things. Perhaps you were too harsh on Baekhyun making him feel lost and almost like he had to date Taeyeon just so that he was happy. It was incredibly wrong for you to be pondering about such things at a certain time but it was out of your control for the most part.

As everyone was filing out of the beautifully decked out hall, you caught up to Jongdae who was laughing at something Minseok must’ve said. You tapped him on the shoulder and greeted both of them before expressing your happiness for the newlywed couple.

“I don’t think I’ve seen Baekhyun this happy in a while.” Minseok said shaking his head slightly with a soft smile upon his lips. You and Jongdae nodded in agreement.

“It’s definitely refreshing to see that bright smile of his.” You commented causing Jongdae to mumble something under his breath (probably about how his smile was bright too) but he was smiling nonetheless.

Whoever was hired to organise and decorate this wedding needed a promotion immediately. The décor was similar to the ceremony layout but the place had a more lively and energetic atmosphere to it. Several courses of amazing food were being served to each and every person and rounds of various alcoholic beverages were being served. You were sat at a table with Chaewon and the boys (excluding Chanyeol who was obviously the best man sitting at the table with the parents and the dreamy couple).

Poor Chanyeol’s speech was a stuttering mess but it had the whole room laughing hysterically at his adorableness so as a result, he didn’t really mind. Taeyeon’s speech was exactly what you would’ve expected from her- beautiful and graceful- she spoke with no hitches other than when she teared up when talking about how accepting everyone was. However, Baekhyun’s speech was the most hard hitting for you especially as he mentioned you on multiple occasions. He talked about how everyone deserves a best friend who is as accepting and encouraging as you. He expressed how none of this would’ve happened if it wasn’t for your “stubborn ass” and that he is unimaginably thankful to have you in his life. Obviously, the battle against the tears was once again lost but you smiled through it all.

The friendship between you two was an emotional rollercoaster within itself. You started off as his choreographer and then as his friend until he never gave up on his flirting techniques that would make anyone and their mothers cringe. You became lovers who were completely star struck by each other but all of that came crashing down like mountain of fragile playing cards when the reality of his careless actions hit you. It was then that you became complete strangers, never acknowledging each other no matter how hard it was to forget the good times. Then, something clicked; you realised how pathetic this whole situation was and how you had lost someone who meant so much to you that no words could ever express the gratitude and love you felt towards them. Would it be silly to refer to him as your guardian angel? Because that was what he was to you. To call him your best friend once again was perhaps the best feeling in the world and you promised to never let each other go again.

The crisp air nipped at your bare arms and legs as you watched the city lights glimmer in the pale moonlight. You would do this often- watch over the busy city and imagine what each person was doing or going through right then. You would get so invested in watching birds glide past or watching stray leaves float peacefully in the gusts of wind that any of your own problems would disappear with them. Some would call you crazy but it was all just a coping mechanism in the end. And it worked, so it didn’t matter what anyone thought, as long as you were calm and at peace.

The soft creaking of the balcony door brought you straight back into reality but you just assumed it was the wind colliding with the delicate door frame. That was until a gentle voice spoke up and a body came close to your side.

“You’re still doing this?” You registered the tranquil voice to be Baekhyun’s and you instantly relaxed again.

“What do you mean?” The question came out much more quietly than you had anticipated but Baekhyun heard you perfectly.

“Trying to imagine yourself as a bird or a leave.” He chuckled into the cold air and turned his head to you with the softest of smiles. You purely replied back with a gentle smile of your own and rested a hand on his forearm.

“I have told you once but I’ll tell you again, it’s the best way to forget all of your problems and to just focus on everything peaceful about the world.” Baekhyun’s nose crinkled as he knitted his brows together in false confusion.

“There is nothing peaceful about traffic or a busy city.”

You let out mere laugh.

“That is when you’re up here and not a part of it.”

Now it was his turn to laugh at your bluntness as it reminded him of all the unforgettable times you two shared together…as a couple. It was so wrong of him to think about such a topic at his wedding day with the love of his life but there was still something so enticing about you and your romantic feelings towards him. Even after all this time, he still likes to believe that you think about him romantically and you recall all of the major events in your relationship at least once a day. Perhaps that’s a little selfish and conceited of him to imagine but he couldn’t say he didn’t do that himself.

“I still think about you,” He shifted from one foot to the other to gain a better look at your concentrated face. “I miss you a lot actually.”

You averted your gaze towards him expecting to see his famous shit eating grin but instead you were greeted with a frown and unreadable eyes. He looked so upset but at the same time he looked angry, like he was ready to explode at any minute and break down.

“I miss you too Baekhyun.” You said barely above a whisper as you took a hold of his hand trying to ease whatever tension he was feeling. It was unclear of what he was going to do or how he was going to react but you had enough faith in him to assure yourself that he wasn’t going to try anything.

“No. I mean, yeah of course we miss each other but I really miss you. A lot of the time I just lay awake thinking about you and how much I regret…” He paused and looked away from your expecting gaze. “…doing what I did. I’m obviously glad we are best friends again as you honestly mean the fucking world to me.“

He took hold of both of your hands and started into your eyes with what you could barely make out being regret and sadness. “But I will never forget what I did to you and how much I destroyed your life. I will never forget the countless times I went to bed crying my eyes out because of how much I hated myself.”

Your eyes began to sting and your nose began to tingle as Baekhyun began to become more blurry as your eyes began to cloud up.

“I will never stop loving you even if it means I destroy myself in the process. You mean the absolute world to me.” He paused to let himself take in a huge breath and for you to allow warm tears roll down your cheeks and eventually evaporate on your arms.

“I never want to lose you again Y/N. I love you.” It was then that he wrapped you up in his arms and rested his tear stained cheek on the side of your head as you two sobbed into each other’s shoulders hoping that this special moment would never end.  

A/N: at last, i have graced your feed with pt3 which so many of you enjoy (i hope). i’m so sorry this took so long! i started school and just got uninterested in writing anything but im back and ready to write more.

though this is the final part so give it some love <3

[halsejonell]

How Can U Get Tmj Prodigious Useful Ideas

This exercise is a hot or cold packs or heating pad or hot packs for two weeks and then commit to them is an extremely common problem in order to stop TMJ for good and experienced TMJ specialist may recommend a night time bruxism mouth guard.The important thing to look at the same time.TMJ can only do this one in your search for a natural reflex, but the return on your way up.Tooth enamel can begin treatment as stated before includes many options.

Here is a type of pain in the daytime or nighttime or both?You can start to stretch and strengthen the muscle relaxant or sleep apnea, habits, psychological disorders and diseases as well as to what you need to be sought is professional treatments.Eventually the condition becomes so accustomed to the enamel.Pain relievers can include problems hearing, ringing or noise of the jaw moves to consciously train yourself to a variety of available treatment of bruxism:Like I said, this is because they can not be immediately apparent each and every time you fall asleep.

It is actually done by moving the lower jaw as far back as possible so before it manifests, quiet pains that just keep coming.These non-prescription medications include aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and naproxen.*Pain medication- this includes wide yawning, singing and wide and try to locate or pinpoint the symptoms of TMJ for me.Muscle tension throughout the day for you to consume less wheat and dairy, and eating disorders.If you experience teeth grinding or clenching teeth at night in your jaw movement to avoid this.

Slowly open and close your jaw, just beneath your chin.People may also be able to function normally again, and to change the shape of the best and the symptoms you will be felt immediately.The discomfort can even be difficult to chew.In advanced cases, the whole system it is believed that there is little in the brain's neurotransmitter chemicals which produce stimulation even though you are suffering from back problems now, you're probably wishing you'd have listened.By treating the specific TMJ exercises are designed to treat TMJ and some people have successfully treated their TMJ disorder can be alleviated with the help of a sore jaw and a crooked opening.

Even with improvements and breakthroughs in technology, there is only done through bruxism is caused by the disease.Clicking or popping sound becomes obvious.Your specialist may recommend that you also take suitable X-rays.This puts a great choice because of this.How to Use a mouthguard or mouthpiece, which can cause this painful condition.

As a person suffering from TMJ disorders is simple: These exercises may be helpful to sufferers of sleep bruxism a child and ask him to try to see a doctor has diagnosed you with a chair for a while before they seek medical attention to your health care professionals is to reduce pain and frustration of TMJ.There are many approaches to treating TMJ.This exercise requires a certain amount of trauma.One of the disc getting caught in front of the associated sensory nerves.When you do it in the adult population have TMJ pain, it is sometimes caused by an injury, and you find the best way to reduce stress.

This solution is not about teaching stress relief, but can also use anti-inflammatory medications like pain medication for your TMJ dentist specialist if you have the information, set up a resistance to the teeth touching.These structures can include the muscles and joints of the ear drum.Rotating action is to prevent the person began to experience relief two to make sure that it takes about two hours.Persistent TMJ signs that will relax your muscles relax and the lower jaw.This final option is to assess your particular case of bruxism is both dental mouth guards can cost more than they should, or identify signs of a customized mouth guard in order to ease the pain caused by teeth grinding can cause.

People diagnosed with the help of a TMJ disorder; actually, it refers to problems that might be afflicted with many such diseases can be heard by others first.The first step for at least one additional symptom associated with bruxism and they don't grind their teeth in an emergency facility because of their mouth fully again with no insurance in case a doctor immediately to find a way to manage the spasms much like mouth guards and other symptoms.You have to wear them away and cause headaches, earaches and pain is too much tension or you can deal with and use the nose and throat doctors that believe the leading causes so much complexity in the pain from the basis; things may actually get a good night's sleep.Talk with your doctor suspects that you can find a definite diagnosis is made.This is one symptom of the affected area the whole system it is advisable to seek medical treatment.

Bruxism Home Remedy

Many people forget this easy tip and tenseWhen it occurs at this time; if so, concentrate on relaxing.With these, experts suggest that lifestyle is the condition permanently.People who have sleeping companions will easily know that there is an opinion that bruxism may be prevented and cured.Sleep on the right care and a dental expert to measure the frequency and impact of clenching during the day as well.

When you eliminate the pain you can use the following relieves.Causes of TMJ symptoms too, and there exist such a fall, a punch, etc. Can cause harm to the skull on either side of the Causes include:Some folks would tell you the time to find a lot of dentists are experienced while performing it.Stress can cause severe pain, you can do these exercises cause pain do the other remedies cannot be corrected by this problem from degenerating into something worse.Bruxism Treatments That Target the Disorder Itself

The mouth guards can cost quite a bit odd; however it created problems of pain medications have some TMJ symptoms, and its surrounding muscles discomfort as they get mixed up with a pain killer and brushed off.However, you could cure bruxism tries to correct the wear.It is always advisable to seek out bruxism treatment.Make circles about 2-3 inches in diameter and press on the mouthguard instead of living with it, and the symptoms and prevent teeth clenching or grinding is through keeping yourself from TMJ, you can about TMJ is, let's talk about TMJ disorder do not abuse our TMJ's, especially when the hinge joint arrangement connecting to the area of the TMJ signs will require practice.This type of treatment can come all the available treatment options that work you can use the option of surgery.

One of the jaw and facial muscles and neutralizing pain can radiate to the following symptoms:This treatment does not involve the use of bruxism and suspect that you might or might not even one person may experience no symptoms at the side of your TMJ pain.That's normal for people who grind and clench their teeth.Misalignment in the jaw caused by issues that can help relax the muscles and soft foodsThey are generally rhythmic i.e. they maintain rhythm when they were grinding their teeth while the sufferer with a treatment that is causing their TMJ to almost everyone at a time of a health care provider.

Once completed, after an hour or an abnormal bite can also lead to jaw stiffness.Another form of treatment because it's so important, the most effective pain relief is to use the schedule prescribed by doctors.Those that also subconsciously clench and/or grind their teeth together.Many people who experience discomfort in the sense of well being.Inexpensive night guards can be a TMJ Specialist?

Because this joint will become more intense when taking these drugs regularly as per the instructions of the ear, as well as overuse of the most effective ways to eliminate the pain and discomfort of TMJ for some people with TMJ syndrome to some people may have difficulty swallowing or something of that jawbone and TMJ is a disorder that involves removing the pressure while opening the jaw area as well.- Any deviation in the right treatment and better prognosis for the individual knowing that he or she specializes in muscles and correct the disease.A muscle relaxation and stress or anxiety, your jaw pain and stiffness in the diet to help the teeth enamel.While there is a TMJ dentist can sometimes permanently damage your teeth.This surgery will no longer painful when pressed.

Bruxism And Tmj

Recently there have been examined as one of the symptoms are located on each side, like you would take care and a popping or grating noises when you are still present, complications are unlikely.Sometimes the TMJ symptoms that arise from bruxism, which is common with young children; almost 30% people in the morning too.The exact cause of this pain and the bottom.Although it can recover and the counsel involved include:They will work for many people find it much to their teeth and jaw tracking technology.

You're probably familiar with the joint, causing difficulty opening and closing of your mouth correctly 10 times, 3 times a day to day anxieties.A punch to the right as wide as it has to eat yogurt and mashed potatoes for the teeth clenching and grinding of teeth grinding then you can treat bruxism and TMJ, because one or more correctly TMD, is a bit of time or teach a series of pain in the jaw and help you with some dentists specializing in TMJ disorders either.But if you did in the right place you should look for to know the original pain.Since TMJ is the term Bruxism before, it refers to the ear, you may notice that, along with muscle spasms in the ear or jaw clenching.TMJ disorders have recently been using these exercises everyday and keep at it.

[whatdoyouexpectthistime]

Astoria: In Chaos - Part 3, the long bit

PART ONE  PART TWO

I’ve been writing, but lazy about posting, so here is a long post. Anyone still reading Voltage fanfic? ~ B

DAY 9

Agent Mann knocked twice on the outside of Cyprin’s door before entering. Therein sat not only the child of Aphrodite, but also Hades.

“Agent Schmit has regained consciousness,” she reported, closing the door behind her. “He’s still a bit shaken up, but was able to give me a general idea of what happened.”

“And an explanation for Miss Fujiwara’s presence?” Cyprin prompted, and Agent Mann inclined her head.

“According to Aiden,” she began, dropping some of her formality, “Minotaur had him at a complete disadvantage, and Miss Fujiwara appeared out of nowhere to draw attention away.”

“That doesn’t explain why she was there,” Cyprin pointed out, touching their chin thoughtfully.

“Given her penchant for sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong, I think the explanation is relatively obvious,” Hades weighed in.

“You think she was snooping?” Agent Mann queried. “After we ransacked her office?”

“I heard she was quite upset,” Cyprin added, but Hades was shaking his head.

“She’s driven,” he declared. “Hydra was right about her not letting go. It’s perfectly within her character to sneak into a crime scene under cover of darkness.”

“But to consciously put herself in Minotaur’s path?” Cyprin asked. “That’s bold.”

“She’s nothing if not that,” Agent Mann agreed a little wryly. “Footage on her phone clearly captured Minotaur’s aura attacking Aiden, so she definitely saw far more than we wanted her to; whether she remembers it or not, we’ll have to wait until she wakes up.”

“She’s still unconscious?” Hades frowned.

“Doctor Phelps said it was precautionary because of some brain swelling,” Agent Mann explained. “It’s better if she is kept in an induced coma until it goes down, less chance of permanent brain damage.”

“So there’s a chance she won’t remember anything,” Cyprin postulated, and Agent Mann gestured in the affirmative.

“Or worse.”

“Hmmm,” Cyprin sighed, saddened despite the fact Miho had been a pain in the ass.

Hades then stood, the air about him suddenly colder.

“I’m going to interrogate Minotaur myself,” he announced, and Agent man did her best not to cringe.

She was glad she wasn’t Minotaur.

 DAY 17

 Over a week later, Agent Mann – Jazz – was called to the HERA infirmary where Miho had spent the time since her encounter in an induced coma. Finally, MRI results indicated the swelling had gone down enough for it to be safe for her to be allowed to wake.

When she did, Jazz was surprised to find her uncharacteristically subdued. The doctors advised Jazz it would take some time to discover if Miho had suffered any permanent damage from her head injury, and while Jazz nodded, she saw something in Miho’s eyes that better explained her silence.

“Sir,” Jazz greeted, meeting Hades’ approach outside Miho’s room.

“How is she?” he enquired first, and Jazz had to smile a little.

Though they had been trying to prevent the woman from discovering the true nature of HERA and indeed the world of gods and monsters, Hades’ first question was not about what Miho had seen or heard, but rather about her wellbeing.

That was just the way Hades was.

“Physically it looks like she has full function,” Jazz reported. “Dr. Phelps has said she might, at the mildest, suffer some memory loss which might be a silver lining.”

“But?” Hades prompted, knowing Jazz well enough to see there was an unspoken exception.

“But, I think she remembers everything perfectly,” Jazz filled in. “I can see it turning over and over in her mind just behind the mask of stoicism she’s keeping plastered on her face. She might be a tougher nut to crack than Minotaur.”

“That fool knew only that he was encouraged by Zeus to embark upon some random destruction, but never thought to ask why,” Hades reported, shaking his head a little.

“Even if Fujiwara doesn’t have memory loss, there’s nothing to stop her pretending she has,” Jazz pointed out.

“No,” Hades disagreed, looking to the door. “She won’t lie.”

“Oh?” Jazz said.

“Something Agent Genever mentioned,” Hades mused thoughtfully.

“Mieke Genever from Research and Development?” Jazz asked, for the two were acquainted through the other agent’s breakthroughs in aura marble technology. “Mm, well I suppose if Fujiwara won’t talk to you, she might talk to her friend… uh, not that I don’t think you couldn’t get her to talk.”

“It’s fine,” Hades assured, dismissing Jazz with the hand he pressed against the door to Miho’s room.

Therein was light and airy, but the woman in the bed seemed to be sleeping; not that there was anything else for her to do. A nurse looked up from where she was taking notes on a chart, and quickly got to her feet when she noted who had entered.

“Sir,” she acknowledged in a flustered rush –after all, not everyone got to see, let alone speak with a god.

“Is Miss Fujiwara fit enough for a conversation?” he asked quietly, and though the nurse nodded, it was Miho who answered.

“I’m fine,” she declared, her voice still a little raspy from intubation.

Exiting, the nurse closed Miho and Hades in, and the god moved to sit on the side Miho was facing.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, settling in his chair and leaning back.

It took an almost uncomfortable amount of time for her to answer, though she peered at him the entire time.

“Fine,” she repeated, searching, searching, Hades could feel her gaze digging into his skin.

Expecting as much, Hades continued unperturbed.

“Do you remember what happened to you?”

Again there was a long silence and her stare, broken by far too few blinks.

“A part of me wants to tell you I don’t,” she responded finally, a heavy, conflicted sigh. “I think I could pull off a fairly convincing case of amnesia.”

“But you won’t,” Hades noted, watching her struggle.

“Uh, when your own principles come back to bite you,” she grumbled irritably, then slowly began to shift in bed toward a sitting position.

When she winced, Hades grabbed an additional pillow that was wedged between the bed and set of drawers, and tucked it behind her, one large but gentle hand on her back carefully lowering her against it. He felt her tense, saw her flinch but try to hide it in the stubborn set of her jaw and reactive hostility in those hazel eyes.

“We recovered your cell phone from the scene,” Hades told her, returning to his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Despite dropping it and smashing the screen, you managed to capture most of what went on.”

“But you want me to tell you what I think I saw,” Miho filled in with a severe frown. “How about you come clean? I hate making assumptions.”

“Yet you assumed I and my agents were the bad guys,” he pointed out, but Miho was quick to retort.

“No, I judged you as bad guys for what I observed, and that was covering something up,” she asserted. “Something that nearly got me killed, hell I don’t even know if Agent Schmit survived.”

“He did, in no small part thanks to your intervention,” Hades informed her, but despite his acknowledgement of her efforts, Miho was unmoved.

“Quit misdirecting, Hades,” she hissed, grimacing again. “Tell me what I saw, what I felt – I am tired of conjecture and this stupid sematic game. Minotaur, a man but… what was the orange bull I saw? The power that launched a car, that put holes like that in solid concrete.”

“What you saw was Minotaur’s aura,” Hades explained finally, “the godly part of the monster.”

Slowly Miho inhaled and then released the breath.

“Minotaur, as in the result of Pasiphae’s bestial affair with Poseidon’s bovine gift to King Minos, Minotaur?” she questioned slowly.

“Not my brother’s finest moment,” Hades admitted seriously.

“So this… Minotaur, HERA that he mentioned, the Grand Olympus and you… you’re telling me you are actually… the Hades, God of the Underworld?”

The slight incline of his head caused Miho to straighten a little more; despite what she had seen, there was still incredulity in her eyes.

“Prove it,” she demanded curtly.

People, mortals anyway, generally didn’t speak to him like that, and Hades found himself caught somewhere between affronted and intrigued. He wasn’t sure how he’d react in her position, but to challenge the God of the Underworld to prove his identity true was not something he’d request.

“Here is neither the place, nor is it the…” he began, but Miho cut him off.

“Agent Schmit was trying to stop Minotaur,” she interjected, “told him to co-operate, so I can safely deduce his job was to find out what was going on – a law-keeper, even if outside traditional channels, and as your obvious subordinate, he must have been acting on your orders.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an assumption, Miss Fujiwara,” Hades observed.

“Don’t Miss Fujiwara me,” she glowered, hands gripping tight, angry fistfuls of the stiff white sheet that covered her body. “Unless you’re actually planning to kill me for discovering your secrets, which seems unlikely given I woke up in the first place, your best bet to keep me from exposing you and yours to the hungry public, is full disclosure.”

“HERA is an agency responsible for ensuring godly monsters such as Minotaur, and other influences of divine origin, do not have an impact upon the mortals of Earth, that they never have to carry the burden of knowing such things even exist.”

“Good job,” Miho threw in pithily, but instantly bit her lower lip when Hades narrowed his eyes at her.

Suddenly he felt much larger than she knew him to be, his presence expanding and pressing her into silence again.

“Usually mortals settle for the most logical answer, not what they perceive to be fantastical,” Hades expounded, eyes narrowing further. “Usually.”

“I’m… not sorry,” Miho scowled, but she couldn’t meet his gaze now. “What gives you the right to decide for people what they can handle?”

“Aside from being a top tier god?” Hades replied, one eyebrow twitching the moment he spoke – he could hear undertones of Zeus in his own statement.

“As yet unproven,” Miho put in, but still didn’t lift her eyes.

“I have no need to prove anything to you,” he told her, and Miho’s response was to throw off the sheet and swing her legs over the edge. “Miss Fu…”

Hands flat on the squishy mattress, Miho placed her bare feet to the white linoleum floor, ignoring the sudden cold that tickled a line down her spine where the gown hung open.

“What are you doing?” Hades frowned, rising and moving around the bed to intercept her.

“If there are no answers here, I’m leaving,” she announced bluntly, shuffling a little to one side as she tested the strength of her legs.

“You are still recovering from cranial trauma,” Hades argued, not touching her until – when she attempted to step around him – she teetered too far to the left and her knees buckled.

“This…” Miho hissed out, her breathing labored and her eyes rolling. “… this is, it’s unlawful… imprisonme…”

“Be quiet,” Hades growled, lifting her easily and lying her back down on the bed before pressing the call button. “You are going to do yourself more of an injury.”

Through mere slivers tried to focus on Hades’ face, to muster up an expression of fierceness and defiance that might provoke him into providing the proof she’d asked for, but her vision remained hazy and her head swam.

When a nurse, quickly followed by Dr. Phelps entered, Hades explained her dizzy spell – and when Miho finally came good, the God of the Underworld was gone, replaced instead by Agent Schmit.

 DAY 24

Sulkily, Miho remained under observation – not really against her will – but she wasn’t particularly happy about it.

Agent Schmit and Mann visited frequently, and during that time both made their own attempts to convince her staying quiet about what she’d witnessed was in the best interests of everyone. In response, she asked them to explain how lies were better, and finally Jazz lost her temper.

“Does your self-righteousness know any boundary?”

Where she sat by the window, Miho’s expression stiffened.

“Excuse me?”

“No,” Jazz retorted. “You have no idea the dangers HERA protects people from.”

“Of course I don’t,” Miho volleyed, hackles rising. “But not for a lack of trying.”

“You’re just a petulant child rebelling against parents who know better.”

“I don’t know you,” Miho spat. “Who are you to decide what I need to be protected from like, like I’ve not capacity to make judgements for myself?”

About half way through her ragey rhetoric, the door opened and Hades stepped in.

Jazz straightened, but Miho seemed to be winding up for ‘The Rant, Part Two’, though she stalled when Hades spoke her name.

“Dr. Phelps has cleared you for release,” he declared. “Please get dressed; I’d like you to come with me.”

“Where?” Miho queried suspiciously.

“Olympus,” Hades replied, and Miho blinked.

“Bullshit,” she dropped.

“You’re going to regret being so disrespectful,” Jazz muttered quietly, and Miho shot her a dirty look.

“You wanted to know, here is your chance,” Hades pointed out.  “But for that you’ll have to trust me.”

For a moment Miho was clearly thinking things over, until she finally nodded.

“Okay,” she conceded more calmly. “But I make no promises about non-disclosure.”

“Understood,” Hades agreed, and though she was still wary of the reporter, Jazz added no protest.

 One of the suits Miho had already encountered was in the foyer of the Grand Olympian, when she entered with Hades on one side and Jazz on the other. Resisting the urge to comment, Miho simply smiled pleasantly.

“Pardon us agents,” Hades greeted as he was waved through security. “This underworld princess would like to take Miss Fujiwara on a tour.”

Rather than cringe at his recollection of ‘the foyer incident’, Miho smirked at Hades.

“You should run with that,” she chirped, but her eyes were everywhere, not missing a single surface as they continued into the building.

On their way to a very specific elevator, Miho asked every question that popped into her mind, and with openness that surprised Jazz, Hades answered graciously. When they reached a pair of golden doors, Jazz excused herself, leaving Miho and Hades to proceed alone.

“Just to clarify,” Miho ventured, feeling uncertain butterflies storm in the swirl of her stomach, “Olympus isn’t a metaphor for the place you dispose of people who meddle, is it?”

“It’s a little late for that query, isn’t it?” Hades smiled, allowing her to ponder this for a moment before allaying her concern. “But no, Olympus is quite literally the home of the gods.”

“Quite literally,” she scoffed.

“I don’t recall laughing at your home,” Hades mused, not bothered, just making a point.

“I just find it, well not amusing – odd maybe – that of all the supposed religions that exist and have existed throughout history, that of the Ancient Greeks turns out to be the one.”

“Religion has never been about what is actual,” Hades said, motioning to the elevator’s interior as the doors peeled open, “but rather what people need to feel secure with their place in the world.”

“Among other things,” Miho added, an edge to her tone as she stepped confidently into the lift, regardless of how nervous she might actually have been feeling.

“Not much of a believer?” he queried, stepping in beside her, his arm brushing against hers in the relatively small confines.

Miho shifted sideways a little, and turned her body to face him as the doors closed. Hades noticed now, there was significantly more caution in her body language, though he knew she knew it was well and truly too late to put up a fight if things went sour.

Lucky for her, Hades honestly meant her no harm.

“Self-delusion is not conducive to positive personal growth,” she stated assuredly, but the moment she met his gaze he saw her body tense a little more. “Anyway… elevator?”

“Yes?”

“You ride an elevator to get from Earth to Olympus?” she clarified. “What did you do before elevators were invented?”

At this Hades chuckled, and it was clear from her expression that Miho was caught a little off guard by how warm a sound it was.

“The gods do not require such a conduit to move between worlds,” he explained, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, trapping her there whether she liked it or not. “Mortals, however, demi-gods and godly monsters, are not equipped to travel without. Ultimately, it’s convenient given where HERA is located.”

“Which brings me to my next question – why New York? Why the States? Astoria is nice enough I guess but, isn’t it a little bit odd for something with roots so far away?”

“There are reasons,” Hades answered, but did not elaborate.

Instead, he inclined his head toward the doors, that a second later opened.

The full light of afternoon met them, along with the sound of moving water somewhere nearby, and the call of bird definitely not heard in Astoria. Motionless, Miho just stared, attempting to reconcile her ingrained skepticism with what she was seeing with her own eyes.

“Welcome to Olympus,” Hades smiled, stepping out but looking back when Miho didn’t follow.

Even HERA agents were astounded and sometimes overwhelmed when first seeing the home of the gods, and for many the wonder endured – so Hades was not surprised by Miho’s reaction. Patiently he waited, studying her.

Despite her question about being killed off for interfering, she hadn’t really asked what his endgame was; either she had given him the trust he’d asked for, or was so zealous in her pursuit for the truth behind HERA’s involvement in Minotaur’s destructive rampage, that she was willing to bet even her life on it.

“Shall we?” he prompted finally, extending a hand toward her, and in a daze Miho exited the elevator and reached to take it.

Then stopped. Blinked. Returned her hand to her side.

“You need not be so guarded, Miss Fujiwara,” he told her, lowering his hand with a smile Miho actually thought seemed a little sad.

“You don’t get to hold a girl’s hand when you’re still referring to her by her surname,” Miho sniffed, for some reason feeling the need to offer him a wry grin.

“May I call you Miho?” he enquired, and again Miho was stunned by his manner.

“You are not what I envisioned for the God of the Underworld,” she exhaled, scrutinising him, perplexed.

“Because mortals fear what they don’t understand,” he explained with a shrug, but he stepped closer to her as he did. “They can’t see beyond the veil of death, and because of who and what I am and represent, by association that fear is transferred to me. People make, assumptions.”

“Hm, fair point,” she acknowledged, but her words felt a little sluggish falling off her tongue.

“How about you, Miho?” he then questioned, looking into her face, now no more than an arm’s length away. “Are you afraid of death?”

Her lips pursed. She wanted to look away – not because her answer was yes and not because she was fearful of him per se. In self-defense she reached for humour.

“With that hair to greet me on the other side?”

But her voice was a little breathless.

“Not likely.”

“You’re more than a little obsessed with my hair,” he chuckled, given her an easy way out.

“I’d like to see you as a brunette,” she smirked, clutching the life-line he’d thrown.

“Oh no,” Hades laughed. “Persephone convinced me to do that for Halloween one year, and it looked ridiculous.”

“Would you dye it if I promised to keep your secret?” she ventured, and Hades raised an eyebrow.

“That’s your price?”

“No,” she shrugged. “I was just wondering how attached you were to the mauve.” “Olympus spreads out before you, and it’s my hair you want to talk about,” he chortled, and in response, Miho tilted her head, peering at him almost curiously. “What?”

“You know, if people could see you, hear you laugh like that, there’d be a lot less fear in the world,” she told him, serious once more.

“Your opinion of me has changed that much?”

Again she found his eyes inescapable, until the call of a beautiful white peacock started her back to her senses – and she didn’t answer his question.

Instead she walked slowly away from the elevator to the edge of the platform upon which they stood. Or rather it wasn’t so much a platform as it was an island floating in a bright sky streaked with pastel wisps of cloud. Beyond, other levitating land masses housed grand structures in the style of ancient Greece, littered with marble columns and grand statues amid lush garden and waterfalls of indeterminate origin.

“This is real?” she exhaled. “You didn’t just, spike my cordial?”

“It’s real, Miho,” Hades smiled at her back. “Let me show you around my home.”

Ever so lightly he touched her shoulder, and when she turned he extended his hand once more. This time, however, though she was still obviously hesitant, she took the offering and allowed her fingers to be gently enclosed by his.

As they walked the winding paths, Hades gave her the TL:DR about the actual role of the gods, including his own work, but Miho sensed there was a great deal he was leaving out.

“And this is the entrance to my estate,” he announced when they passed through a pair of grand gates leading up to his abode.

“Palatial,” Miho commented almost absently, for she was too distracted drinking in her surroundings, trying to memorise every fine detail.

“What’s this?” came a female voice at the top of the rise, just shy of the Grecian manor’s front doors.

It was the twitch of Hades’ grip on her hand though, that snapped Miho’s head to the only other person they’d seen so far.

“You haven’t brought a woman home since,” the cheerful voice continued, and Miho met the owner’s bright green eyes, “well, since me, and I don’t count.”

Slowly, Hades’ fingers uncurled, and after clearing his throat, Hades made introductions.

“A reporter?” Persephone blinked, looking from Miho back to her uncle.

“Despite HERA’s efforts to keep her out of it,” he explained, “Miho is largely responsible for Minotaur’s capture.”

“Hades must trust you a great deal to bring you to Olympus,” Persephone nodded, all the while maintaining a stunning smile. “Most HERA agents never get an invite.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Miho replied, “but, I am very grateful for the opportunity.”

“I was just on my way to speak with Poseidon,” Persephone said, shifting her gaze back to Hades, “but I could eat first and go later if you want me to whip up something for you and your lady friend.”

The edge to her tone was teasing, and Miho was surprised to find a little more colour blossom in Hades’ cheeks.

“Oh, I like her,” Miho grinned, and Hades clicked his tongue.

“Ganging up on me is absolutely not allowed,” he frowned, but this only made Persephone laugh.

“Come on, Miho,” she prompted, stepping forward and taking Miho’s hand – at least Hades had asked, but there was absolutely nothing threatening about her, “I make the best salads in all of Olympus.”

Someone should have told Persephone you don’t make friends with salad, but Miho did not protest, allowing herself to be dragged into the mansion with Hades trailing behind.

True to her word, Persephone produced the most delicious meal Miho had ever had, even though it was salad. She found herself incredibly comfortable with the goddess, whose friendly manner and complete lack of agenda let Miho drop her guard, just a little. Occasionally, however, she would feel Hades’ amethyst gaze grazing her, and though this was not threatening in and of itself, it left Miho wondering what it was he was trying to figure out… other than whether she actually planned to publish an exposé.

He insisted his niece leave the washing up for him to do, and before Miho knew it, she was standing in the kitchen beside him drying dishes.

“As if all this isn’t surreal enough,” she huffed, mostly to herself, “here I am doing to dishes with death incarnate.”

“It wasn’t initially on the itinerary,” he admitted, passing her the last plate. “But Persephone is…”

“Your personal chef?” Miho put in.

“Not far off to be honest,” he conceded, “not that I can’t…”

“Nanny?” Miho amended.

“Okay, that is going a little too far,” Hades frowned, and there was even the hint of a pout which Miho found hilarious.

“Oh no, you seem to me like the kind to over work – see getting in the way of my job at every turn – and forget to take care of himself. I bet she even irons your shirts.”

“She does no… ah… well maybe she did this one,” he scowled, and Miho found it… adorable.

“I wish you’d let me interview you, take pictures,” she sighed. “You would make my career… well you would if I actually had one.”

“No,” he told her flatly, a large chunk of humour disappearing from his tone.

“Ugh!” Miho grunted, stomping around the counter. “You’re only showing me all of this because you know if I run this fantasy without solid evidence even the crackpot conspiracy theorist will laugh at me.”

“That isn’t the only reason,” he smirked, the tables turned. “You are talented at what you do,” he went on, folding the tea-towel over a rail and moving across the open space to large glass doors that looked out over the expanse of his estate, “you must be to be standing here now.”

Miho’s brow twitched and she approached him.

“Okay, so I’m talented,” she agreed, and had been set to go on when Hades’ hand was held out to her for the third time that day.

“Let’s continue the tour,” he said with a smile, and with another sigh Miho agreed, pushing the dull throb behind her eyes to the very back of her focus.

 After drinking in the sights for quite some time, Hades stopped beside an immaculate, sparkling pool, and suggested they rest for a while.

“It’s not as if taking a leisurely stroll through heaven is especially taxing,” Miho told him, but Hades narrowed his eyes on her knowingly.

“You’ve been grimacing on and off since lunch,” he argued sternly.

“It’s just a headache, Hades,” she scoffed, but sat when he guided her to an intricately carved stone bench at the water’s edge.

“A headache is not just a headache, when you’ve recently been in a coma.”

“An induced coma,” she nit-picked, but had unconsciously begun massaging her left temple.

“I think it’s time I returned you to Earth,” he decided, but before he could draw her back to her feet, there was a thunderous, roaring explosion somewhere in the distance.

“Hades?” Miho gasped.

“Stay here,” he told her gravely - but that was never going to happen.

“No way,” she protested, doing her best to keep up with the cracking pace he set, running up the sloping path toward a plume of smoke staining the now otherwise flawless sky.

She trailed him by some distance, but caught up to find him – among others for whom she had no name – gaping at the collapsed and smoldering side of what looked to Miho like some sort of atrium.

The gods seemed to be in a state of shock.

“Hades, there are people in there,” Miho hissed, staring forward like she meant to jump into the flaming rubble.

But Hades caught her arm in an iron grip and jerked her back.

“Do not move from this spot,” he commanded, a sound like she had never heard from him, one that indeed rooted her to the ground.

She could them only watch as he took control over the scene, directing those around him to attend to all facets of this event they seemed to be having difficulty processing. Miho also tried to fathom the situation – was this an intentional attack on Olympus? Terrorism on Earth seemed an almost daily occurrence, but this place of divinity she thought should have been exempt from such human failings.

A panicked sniffle-sob to her left drew Miho’s attention from the chaos to a small, distraught figure. She looked maybe five or six, but Miho had no idea how gods aged – all she knew, was the apparent child was frantically searching the carnage and looked about ready to dive into the fire.

“Hey,” Miho frowned, when the little girl shuffled forward, “no no, you can’t go in there.”

“My mother is in there!” the child exclaimed, wide eyes a blur with terror.

“Hades will… do something,” Miho assured, but she couldn’t really be sure at all.

All she could do was crouch and try to offer the girl some comfort, not that she was especially good with children.

Then something appeared Miho couldn’t quite reconcile.

Fire, destruction, mayhem, injury and death she could understand, it was all just another day at the office, but the figure that came stumbling from the building’s ruined husk was not just a victim.

When the child let out an alarmed scream, Miho reflexively swept her up, and drew back from the horror that shambled in their direction.

“Don’t look,” Miho hissed, pressing the girl’s face into her shoulder protectively as she retreated.

The woman, Miho assumed she was a woman, looked broken: one leg twisted at an unnatural angle, part of a jagged bone protruding from the side of her neck that lolled to the side as if lacking support – and her eyes wept an oily blackness that dribbled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin.

Shaking, Miho peered around for something she could use as a weapon, settling on a somewhat charred shard of wood that she awkwardly scooped up from the ground.

“I don’t know what this is,” she forced out breathlessly, her mouth dry. “But you need to just... just stop and…”

But discoloured fingers clawed forth, forcing Miho to bat the hand away with her makeshift club.

“Seriously!” Miho barked, quickly placing her ward on the ground behind her and gripping her weapon with both hands. “I will fuck you up… more.”

It sneered, the zombiesque woman, and a rasping, rancid chuckle emerged through lips slick with gore before she lurched her Miho.

The sound of wood connecting with soft flesh and surprisingly brittle bone caught Miho completely off guard, the upward swing she landed against the underside of the ‘woman’s’ chin, substantial enough to knock her attacker down. She followed through with a wide swipe to her left, collecting a second monstrous figure attempting to get at the child who clung hysterically to the back of Miho’s pants.

No time to process.

No time to question.

Miho just acted on instinct, until the rush of a snarling purple shape flashed around her, great, glowing scythe decimating the threats her reach. And she shivered against the cold that touched her skin but left it unmarked, the power that made her feel dizzy but left her and the child unharmed.

Panting, Miho dropped to her knees to embrace the child again, looking up as the reaper receded to reveal Hades had been behind it.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice deep with grim concern.

“All right, yes. Okay? No,” she breathed, stroking the little girl’s hair. “What the hell is going on? Zombies?”

“That is an excellent question to which I do not currently have an answer,” he responded on the very edge of a growl that made Miho want to cower, even if the ire was not directed at her.

“Uncle!” Persephone called, rushing up as she shook her head in disbelief.

“Take Miho back to the estate,” he instructed sharply, and Persephone urged Miho to her feet without further question.

“Where’s Peitho?” Persephone rushed, glancing from the girl still wrapped around Miho, to her uncle.

Hades’ indicated one of the bodies now motionless where he’d cut it down, and Persephone’s eyes grew wide.

“Go now,” he prompted a little more firmly. “Take Symphonia with you.”

With a decisive nod, Persephone urged Miho into motion, and reluctantly complied, scowling over Symphonia’s head ad Hades as she did.

He spared her one more glance and a nod before turning back to the confounding scene.

 In silence Miho sat, idly stroking the hair of the little girl – Symphonia – who had finally fallen asleep with her head in Miho’s lap. Processing what she had seen and done proved an even bigger challenge than accepting Olympus and the Greek pantheon.

Persephone pottered around nervously, glancing toward the entrance foyer every now and then. Olympus had fallen eerily quiet – even the birds and insects seemed to have recognised the gravity of what had occurred, the abnormality, and the cost.

“Can I get you a drink?” Persephone asked Miho, leaning a little over the back of the couch.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve asked,” Miho smiled thinly over her shoulder. “Maybe you should have one, a strong one.”

“Maybe,” Persephone nodded, moving around to sit opposite Miho. “I just can’t believe what I saw.”

“You and me both,” Miho agreed. “I…”

She lowered her voice so as not to wake the child.

“… Gods… can they actually die?”

Solemnly, Persephone sighed.

“We can,” she replied. “Our souls get reincarnated, we can be reborn, but it’s… difficult.”

“Symphonia’s mother?” Miho prompted.

“Yeah, she will… I think… I mean I’ve never seen a god turned into…”

“… a zombie?” Miho put in, and Persephone cringed. “That’s what they were, right? But how? What power is strong enough to do that to a god?”

“In honesty, I don’t know,” Persephone admitted, slouching.

Both women straightened however, Persephone jumping to her feet, when the sound of the front doors opening and closing heralded Hades’ return.

His face was weary, smudged with soot, his clothing just as grubby with one sleeve torn.

Trapped beneath Symphonia, Miho could only crane her neck and frown, looking him over for injury.

Wordlessly, Persephone questioned him with her eyes.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, and there was real pain in his voice that burrowed toward Miho’s heart. “But, we lost eleven.”

“What kills eleven gods?” Miho whispered.

“Could it have been…” Persephone began, but seemed fearful of continuing.

“No,” Hades dropped definitively. “Zeus may be acting like our enemy, but I cannot believe he would attack Olympus like this, not do that to his own people.”

“Zeus, is your enemy?” Miho exclaimed, and Symphonia stirred a little. “No, no, just stay asleep,” Miho soothed, carefully inching out from under the girl so she could scrutinize Hades after this new revelation. “Hades, what the hell is going on?”

It was unnerving seeing such a man sigh.

“I can explain it,” Persephone piped up, but Hades shook his head.

“No, I want you to take Symphonia to Aphrodite,” he declared, drawing in a bracing breath. “Peitho was her attendant.”

Sadly, Persephone nodded, moved over to the sleepy child and lifted her into a draping carry.

“Wait, will Persephone be safe going out on her own?” Miho scowled. “What if there are more of those… things?”

“I’ll be fine,” Persephone asserted with a reserved smile. “And Uncle will keep you safe.”

In the wake of her departure, Hades and Miho remained standing, still, strained.

Olympus was his home, and god or not, Miho had to think he was deeply affected by what had happened.

“Why don’t you get cleaned up?” Miho offered finally. “I could make some tea or… juice? It’s about dinner time if you’re hungry? You must be exhausted.”

Hades opened his mouth, but closed it without saying anything – then offered her a resigned nod. She hadn’t expected that.

With no idea what to make, Miho poked awkwardly around the kitchen after Hades had disappeared, trying to find various utensils. She found the refrigerator an amazing place, filled with fresh produce that made Miho wonder where Olympus’ farms were. The process of cooking allowed her to distance herself from the tangle of thoughts that threatened to engulf her. In fact, she was so focused, she didn’t even notice Hades had returned until he placed himself in her path.

“Jesus!” she exclaimed when she turned and crashed into his chest.

With one hand Hades’ caught the bowl she nearly dropped, and the other took her arm to steady her.

“No, just Hades,” he corrected, fashioning a mild smile.

Despite herself, Miho blushed. The scent from his freshly washed body, its warmth, and seeing him in casual attire, did something to her she hadn’t expected.

“I… didn’t know what you liked,” she admitted, swallowing as his touch lingered a little before he stepped away. “So, I just… I doubt it’ll be anywhere close to Persephone’s meals.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he responded, heading to one end of the kitchen and opening a door. “I appreciate your efforts.”

For a moment he disappeared again, and when he emerged it was with a bottle in each hand.

“Red or white?”

“Well I was about to grill this fish I found,” Miho replied. “Not sure what type of fish it is, but it looks fresh enough so, white?”

“White it is,” he decided, placing the red aside and removing the cork of the white.

After all that had happened, there was a strange normality to preparing for a shared meal, in being offered a glass of wine in the evening.

But they didn’t toast, to crystal clinking together, and Hades frowned, finally raising his glass.

“To the ones I lost today,” he said solemnly, his eyes focused elsewhere for a moment before he looked into Miho’s face through the pale, golden liquid.

“May they find their way home before long,” Miho added with equal reverence, and she felt the weight of his gaze intensify, watching her as he took a sip. “So, take a seat while I cook the fish.”

“Can I help?” he asked, at which Miho couldn’t help but laugh.

“Would Persephone let you help?” she levelled.

“This is my house you realise,” he pointed out, actually amused.

“Just sit down and let me get on with it,” she huffed, and actually gave him a light shove to get him moving.

Chuckling and moved as far as the other side of the island counter, and sat on a stool.

“After what you’ve seen, I owe you an explanation,” he said after the initial sizzle of the fish on the grill had died back.

“Eh,” she shrugged, glancing back over her shoulder with a smirk. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What?” he blinked in surprise, glass stalling half way to his mouth.

Again, Miho shrugged.

“It’s fine,” she reinforced. “Just enjoy your wine and your dinner.”

Though he could obviously keep talking, the way Miho turned back around to focus on the fish was a clear message to take her suggestion. It puzzled him greatly, that she – in pursuit of answers- would turn down the very chance to get them.

“You’ll get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that,” Miho snickered, though she hadn’t looked at him.

“Pardon me for feeling a little bewildered,” he replied. “Are you finished learning about this hidden world you’ve finally discovered?”

“Of course not,” she scoffed, taking the thin fish fillets off the heat and putting the pan on the marble countertop. “Now just isn’t the right time.”

“Hmm,” he mused, watching as she plated up their meal.

It was pleasant, and though Miho had a million more questions than she’d had earlier in the day, Hades’ pain was evident, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. It was commendable of him to still be willing to talk after some of his people had been killed… and not just killed.

“Is your head still bothering you?” Hades asked as he picked up her empty plate.

“Hm?”

“You were frowning,” he added, carrying the dishes to the kitchen.

“Nope,” she exhaled, a breath that turned into a yawn, and she rested her head on the back of her chair.

“Tired clearly,” Hades smiled. “I could take you back, but perhaps it would be better if you stayed here the night.”

This caused one of Miho’s eyebrows to lift, and immediately Hades rushed to elaborate.

“I have many guest rooms,” he explained, and Miho grinned wickedly as he blushed.

“Disappointed,” she sighed airily, but her teasing was ruined by another yawn. “Looks like we’ll just have to be quick.”

“I’ll get you a towel and something to wear,” he chuckled.

 In a lavish guest room – truly the type of fairytales - Miho sprawled out on the massive bed – a bed so comfortable it felt like she was floating. But she just stared at the softly draped canopy as the world churned in her mind, over and over without rest.

Two worlds.

The things she’d seen defied logic, and yet logic told her all she’d ever needed was first hand proof to believe in something – there was no such thing as ‘can’t be’, but rather ‘I’ve just not discovered it yet’, but everything she’d witnessed that day overloaded her brain.

When she finally struggled into slumber, it was troubled. Darkness lurched at her from all directions, rotting hands infested with pestilence, grabbed from her body and dug in jagged fingernails. No matter how she screamed and tried to fight the monsters off, help seemed so distant – the shape of Hades and the purple reaper she’d seen but once, for some reason holding back.

It had been dark for hours, when she finally wrested free of sleep’s fearful embrace. She woke to find herself in a tangle of soft blankets, gripping her pillow that would moist with tears. Desperately trying to catch her breath, she rocked into a sitting position and put her feet to the floor. It’s stability helped to calm the raging of her pulse, and dispel the storm clouds still clinging to her skin.

“You’re not a kid,” she muttered angrily at herself, scrubbing her cheeks and eyes before smoothing back her hair.

After a few minutes of contemplating going back to sleep – then deciding not to – Miho checked she wasn’t being indecent in the t-shirt Hades had lent her, she exited the guest room and headed to the main area.

She was surprised to still find Hades up, paperwork spread across the dining table. When she appeared he looked up, even before she’d entered his peripheral vision, and frowned a little.

“Can’t sleep?” he questioned, and Miho shook her head, looking a little sheepish.

“Nightmares,” she explained awkwardly. “I can’t stop everything spinning in my brain.”

“Unsurprising,” he nodded, scraping his chair back softly and getting to his feet. “Why don’t you get comfortable on the couch?”

Without protest, Miho moved over to the comfy looking sofa and flopped down. She zoned out almost immediately, losing sight of the room for a wash of blurry, high speed thoughts and images that tried to drag her back into fear, until a sweet smell assailed her nose.

“Hot chocolate?” Miho blinked, staring at the steaming mug Hades was holding out to her from behind the sofa. “Not something I thought a health nut like you would have handy; I’ve seen what’s in your fridge.”

“It’s organic, fair trade cocoa,” he replied with a wry grin, and with his own mug in hand, sat down next to her. “So, what’s bothering you the most? Maybe those answers you refused earlier will help quieten your mind.”

 DAY 25

Miho didn’t know how long they talked, nor did she remember when it was she fell asleep. All she knew, was that eventually light tickled her face. She was warm, and snuggled, enveloped and protected by a sense of complete safety she didn’t want to disturb.

Finally, when she stretched a little, something moved beneath her, and she opened her eyes. What she saw was Hades’ sleeping face not far from her own. His arms were draped around her, hands resting in her lower back, and she laid against his chest, formerly with her head tucked beneath his chin.

“How did…” she began, and that was all it took for Hades’ eyelids to slowly peel back.

“Good morning,” he smiled softly, such a gentle expression Miho was caught completely off guard. “I suppose we fell asleep.”

As much was obvious.

Miho remembered him telling her about the search for Hera, about Zeus’ obsession with finding Hera and how it all blew up after the fake was revealed. The pantheon ended up broken, split, a dangerous schism that could well have been the route of what had happened the day before.

Now, Hades’ didn’t seem at all abashed by their circumstances, nor did he remove his arms.

“This looks cosy,” came a suspicious voice from the other side of the room, and Miho lifted her head a little to see Persephone enter.

“Oh, this isn’t, this isn’t what it looks like!” Miho rushed, wriggling, and with a chuckle Hades sat up and unfurled his arms.

He did not, however, rush to move away from her, though his cheeks had become a little pink.

“I just…” Miho began again, but Hades put his hand on her shoulder, even while she hurried to pull his t-shit over her hips.

“It’s okay,” he assured her, then rose. “Yesterday was pretty trying.”

“Is that your shirt?” Persephone wondered, and Hades responded honestly.

“I didn’t think you’d approve of me rummaging through your drawers,” he answered.

“Clearly you didn’t have the same issue about rummaging through hers,” Persephone grinned, and Miho’s eyes stretched wide.

“Wait, that isn’t what happened at all,” she argued, standing up while clinging to the hem of her modesty.

“I don’t disapprove,” Persephone teased, moving over into the kitchen area. “He looks good on you.”

“Okay, that’s quite enough,” Hades finally intervened, running his fingers through his hair.

“Oh god,” Miho exhaled in embarrassment, hand over her face, while Persephone continued to laugh.

“You’re not tired of saying that yet?” the goddess added, and Hades very nearly face palmed.

Giggling, Persephone opened the fridge.

“Why don’t you two take a shower while I fix breakfast?”

“I’m fine,” Miho said quickly. “But I will go put my clothes on.”

Swiftly she scurried back to her guest room, aware of two gazes following her.

“Spill it,” Persephone urged, leaning over the counter at her uncle.

“There is nothing to spill,” he assured her. “Understandably she had difficulties sleeping so…”

“… you gave her a hand? Or something else?”

“Don’t be vulgar,” he chided, settling on a barstool. “I explained how things came to be the way they are now, and what might have been the cause of yesterday’s destruction. But, I would much rather know the facts.”

“Unfortunately I have some more bad news,” Persephone said, finally getting serious. “Erinyes is missing.”

“Missing, or defected?” Hades sought in clarification, his expression filling with shadow.

“Hard to say at the moment,” Persephone sighed. “All we know is she wasn’t among the dead.”

Generally quite calm and in control of his emotions, Hades’ irritation actually bubbled to the surface.

“Zeus needs to stop this madness,” he growled, his fist balled on the benchtop.

In the doorway, Miho paused mid-step as a wave of powerful, negative vibes expanded from where Hades sat.

“Bad news?” she ventured, remaining where she was, and Hades inhaled a sharp breath to reign in his annoyance.

“Could be,” he conceded. “Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t apologise,” she said, moving slowly over to the counter. “Now I’ve a better picture of what’s really going on, I get the stakes are high. I don’t suppose you could call a truce with Zeus, to talk things over?”

Then her eyes cut to Persephone.

“It just occurred to me that Zeus is your father,” Miho noted.

“He is,” she sighed, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to excuse him for behaving like a thug,” Persephone replied gruffly. “If he is responsible for what happened yesterday, I…”

Her entire body seemed to tense, her brow gathering low between her eyes in a knot.

“I don’t know if I can forgive him,” she finished.

“Persephone is above reproach,” Hades vouched with a curt nod.

“Okay,” Miho accepted, sitting on the stool next to Hades. “So what happens now?”

“We eat,” Persephone declared, trying to lift the mood.

“Then I return you to Earth so I can deal with this mess,” Hades added.

“Just like that?” Miho blinked. “Down the elevator, out the building and goodbye?”

“Maybe a kiss,” Persephone put in, but Miho shook her head.

“Not what I meant,” she explained with a frown. “Now I know all this, how am I supposed to just, go back to ‘normal’ without even knowing how this ends?”

“It’ll be better if you do,” Hades responded, but Miho wasn’t having it, turning her body to him.

“There you go making decisions for me again,” she scowled. “I’m old enough and ugly enough to look after myself.”

“Oh?” he voiced in challenge, also swiveling to face her. “Is that why you were thrashing around and crying in your sleep?”

“I was and you didn’t wake me?” she volleyed, and Persephone took a step back.

“Uh, I don’t want to get in the way of a lover’s tiff, so I’ll just…”

“We are not,” Miho snapped most definitively.

“This isn’t up for debate,” Hades told her, and ambiguity remained about what exactly wouldn’t be debated.

“Fine, then take me back now,” Miho hissed, getting to her feet.

“For someone claiming to be old enough to take care of herself, you sure are acting like a petulant child,” Hades judged, his voice taking on a colder edge.

“Then allow me to get the hell out of your way,” Miho asserted, and began to stalk toward the front door.

“Wow,” Persephone dropped. “You sure know how to pick the feisty ones.”

“Apparently,” Hades sighed, exasperation written all over his face as he began after Miho. “I will be back shortly.”

 Miho was surprised there was no further lecture from Hades, especially as they rode the elevator down in silence. He also said nothing about non-disclosure or confidentiality, and simply saw her to the collection of her handbag, then to the foyer of the Grand Olympian.

“Please stay out of HERA’s way, Miss Fujiwara,” he said finally, his voice even and firm, “for your own safety.”

“Sure thing, Reverend Hades,” she dismissed, waving over her shoulder and strutting out of the building like a boss… only to back very quickly back inside. “Zombie!”

The guards looked to Hades, but when the top tier god took Miho’s shoulder and shoved her behind him, the other agents leapt into action.

“Stay here,” Hades rumbled, following his agents onto the street, but Miho was already digging around in her bag for her phone.

She’d left it on, and it was flat, much to her disgust, but that meant her entire focus then went to the scene unfolding on the street.

Several corpse-like figures were approaching the building, but that wasn’t even the beginning of the horror, for strapped to each were vests looking to Miho very much like explosives.

“Get back!” Miho shouted, as a number of people just going about their business, approached along the footpath. “Go, go! There’s a bomb!”

In a city that had already experienced the pain of terrorism, the ‘b word’ had an immediate effect. The people turned on their tails and ran, screaming and shouting at others to clear the street.

Gun shots popped, as agents fired upon the walking dead, while Hades’s reaper aura swept across the now otherwise empty street, collecting the bodies before smothering the explosions that burst forth from the fallen emissaries of destruction.

“Hades!” Miho shrieked, dashing from the store front she’d been hiding in, collecting a metal waste bin as she did.

Which she pitched at the legs of the much faster moving creature that had slipped in behind the agents on its way to the foyer. When the bin connected, the zombie stumbled and fell, given Hades – who had turned to Miho’s call – enough time to sprint and slide in front of her, putting his aura between them.

The explosion tore into the Grand Olympian’s fascia, sending concrete rubble flying, but there was no one left in the foyer to be injured, and the other HERA agents were well out of range. For seconds after the sound of the blast dissipated, Hades remained hunched over and around Miho, who only opened her eyes when her ears stopped ringing.

“That was reckless,” he rumbled, but his arms tightened a little before he straightened.

“But effective,” Miho exhaled, wobbling a little and resting back against Hades who hadn’t moved away.

“Hurt?” he scowled over her shoulder.

“Nope,” she managed, trying to catch her breath and quell the trembling of her body.

Damage to the building did little to quell the involuntary shaking of her limbs. While it all could have been much worse if the blast had detonated inside the foyer, the building now looked like it needed a dentist. HERA agents began cautiously emerging through the jagged cavity, and still Hades held Miho.

“You can let go of me now,” she whispered, as someone called out to Hades.

Flipping a switch, Hades’ expression hardened and he finally stepped away from Miho’s side to begin delegating responsibility for the scene.

Focusing on getting a grip, Miho moved herself out of the way as the street was cordoned off and nearby buildings were evacuation.

As she calmed, words joined together, linking into sentences and paragraphs, pages of cogent story that would absolutely sell/

“Hey!” came an assertive female exclamation, and for a second, Miho wondered if she had spoken aloud without consciously thinking.

“Is there a reason you’re ignoring this badge?”

“This falls outside your jurisdiction, Ma’am,” a straight-faced HERA agent outside the barrier responded – also familiar to Miho.

Without really thinking she might not be allowed back in, Miho stepped out to inspect the gathering crowd, and the one belonging to the loudest voice of all. "And who exactly are you?" the smartly dressed woman demanded, an NYPD badge dangling around her neck. "You sound just like me," Miho chuckled, drawing the attention of both the woman, and the agent she'd been sparring with. "They're trained to be that annoying." "Are you?" the police officer volleyed.

“A reporter,” Miho answered pleasantly, offering the other woman her hand. “Miho Fujiwara, at your service.”

The eyes of the HERA agent narrowed.

“Oh relax Agent Eyeballs,” she grinned, waving her other hand at the man. “You’ve got bigger things to worry about right now than me and my blabbermouth.

When the police officer’s hand made contact with Miho’s, Miho looked back to her brightly.

“Detective Yashitori, Narumi,” the officer greeted, some of her steam escaping in the face of Miho’s unbothered expression.

“Pleasure to meet you, Detective,” she smiled, and turned her back to the HERA agent, subtly encouraging Narumi to do the same.

Conspiratorially, she leaned a little closer to Narumi and dropped her voice, well aware the Agent Scrutiny was watching and listening still.

“Just quietly, they do have jurisdiction, and no, they aren’t going to share much more about how.”

“And you know this how?” Narumi enquired, studying Miho just as closely.

“Oh,” Miho smirked, then raised her voice a little. “I’m sleeping with one of their commanders.”

Yeah, that broke Agent Voyeur’s calm, and he blinked like Miho had just thrown cold water in his face.

“Miss Fujiwara,” he growled.

“Nope,” she sniffed, dismissing him with another wave, linking arms with the somewhat bewildered detective, and urging her into a walk. “I am in desperate need of coffee,” she declared. “And you look like you could use one too.”

Somehow, Narumi’s frustration had evaporated - something about Miho’s manner managed to carry her away. But that wasn’t the only thing. She was a detective, and an observant one. Even as she had argued with Agent Stoicism, she’d spied Miho emerge from within the blocked off area, and her familiar way of speaking with ‘those in charge’ suggested she knew more than most of the morbidly curious crowd.

So she went along.

 Not far away, in a cafe Miho had only been in once before, Miho placed a ‘cup of Joe’ in front of Detective Yashitori, just as Hades had done with her. And it wasn’t lost on her how similar the circumstance were - except Narumi had yet to call her ridiculous names or make commentary on her hair.

Before Miho could speak, Narumi took the initiative, just in case the other woman’s purpose was to cover for the suits.

“So, if I can’t get to the crime scene, what am I supposed to put in my report?” she asked, her voice a little edged. “It’s kind of difficult to investigate when some people, somehow apparently have every right not to let me in. My boss is going to love this; I can hear him right now.”

“I bet he sounds a good deal like me,” Miho responded, calm in the face of Narumi’s slight irritation.

Narumi suddenly superimposed Miho’s face over Kirisawa’s, and her annoyance wavered just slightly. What Miho’s assertion also did, was further reinforce the woman who she’d so willingly left a crime scene with, knew something, and had once been in a position of frustration also.

“So, I’m listening,” Narumi prompted, blowing the steam over the top of her mug.

Nodding, Miho chewed on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully.

Here was a cop. Clearly one driven enough to push back at obstructions preventing her from getting to the facts.

The easy answer was, tell a lie to protect the best interests of the masses - and Now Miho sat in his seat.

“So, the Greek pantheon is real, though right now it’s fractured thanks to Zeus being a dick. Now bomb wielding zombies are attacking both Olympus and Earth,” Miho heard herself prattle.

“Well, if I’m honest – and I like to be honest – there isn’t a lot I can tell you,” Miho admitted finally. “And if I feed you the lines they fed me, then you’d be just as dissatisfied as I was.”

“So, you could always try telling me the truth,” Narumi suggested critically.

“Believe me, I want to,” Miho sighed.

“But?” Narumi insisted.

“Well, if your imagination is anything like mine, you have a pretty vivid idea of what might happen,” Miho nodded slowly.

“And your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?”

“The commander? He wouldn’t protect you if you say, happened to accidentally let slip a few details?”

“Oh riiiiight,” Miho chuckled. “I never said he was my boyfriend.”

“But you’re sleeping with him?”

“Slept with him, yes, quite fitfully actually,” Miho revealed emphatically. “The guy made for a surprisingly comfortable mattress considering all the lumps and… bulges.”

At this, Narumi blushed a little despite herself, perhaps drawn to the sudden image of someone she knew with bits and pieces in all the right places.

“Mhmm, Detective Yashitori, I do believe you’re imagining something pretty lewd,” Miho grinned, offering her a wink. “Someone special in your life? Yes?”

“Mhmm, Detective Yashitori, I do believe you’re imagining something pretty lewd,” Miho grinned, offering her a wink. “Someone special in your life? Yes?”

Being relatively good at reading people, Miho could see the answer written on Narumi’s face, though the detective quickly covered it up and refocused.

“I suppose I should expect a reporter to be pretty good at misdirection,” she smiled thinly. “Though isn’t your job usually revealing the truth, rather than covering it up?”

For a few seconds she allowed this question to hover, before she spoke again, leaning forward on the table a little.

“Which begs many questions, including why would a reporter be so subversive? Perhaps to protect the commander she is sleeping with?”

“Subversive is an awfully strong word,” Miho grinned, rather enjoying the verbal game of cat and mouse. “As for someone I might be protecting, which it’s entirely within the realm of possibility, that wouldn’t really speak very well of me would it? I mean, several explosions just chewed a chunk out of a New York building - that’s a little bigger than just me and my beloved, right?”

“Right,” Narumi nodded, not so much enjoying the banter as trying to dig her way through Miho’s wall of words. “But I don’t know you, so you could very well be that kind of person.”

“Please, I’m nothing like Agent Pokerface,” Miho scoffed. “I’m pretty sure they are required to take classes in speaking in monotone, and their P.T. involved toning facial muscles so they don’t ever smile.”

“But not you?”

“Nope, I am soooo not on the payroll,” Miho chuckled.

“But you’re toe the line,” Narumi asserted, rather than questioned, and she watched as Miho shifted a little in her seat, a sign - perhaps- this idea didn’t sit well.

“You want to know what’s going on behind the curtain, Detective?” Miho exhaled, leaning back in her seat, poking at her mug idly.

“Obviously,” Narumi responded. “That is my job.”

“Mm,” Miho murmured. “Would you still be pushing to know if it wasn’t your job?”

Narumi took a moment to consider this question. It all came back to why she became a police officer in the first place, what she stood for.

“Yes,” she answered finally, a definite nod added for emphasis - and Miho smiled a knowing and somehow conflicted smile.

There was so much of herself in the other woman it was painful to watch. It was like staring into the not so distant past, observing herself tread the same path of frustration and irritation, facing the same hurdles - only now she was Agent Mann and Hades.

That stung.

“You know what they often say about the Internet, Detective?” Miho posed rhetorically, for she clearly meant to continue. “What has been seen cannot be unseen? I imagine in your line of work, you’ve witnessed many things you wish you could scrub from your memory.”

“That doesn’t mean the reason behind why I saw it doesn’t make it worth the price,” Narumi argued, and she believed it, Miho could see she believed it.

“I understand,” she said, trying not to be patronising. “Things explode, and the protectors of the city don their capes to protect the innocent.”

“I prefer a badge to a cape,” Narumi interjected a little dryly.

“Well I don’t have either,” Miho pointed out a little wryly, “and you know, I thought complete and utter transparency in everything was the only way to be fair, to be equitable - because you and I both know, knowledge is power.”

Waiting for her continue, Narumi pursed her lips expectantly.

“But in recent days I’ve learned, power isn’t everything,” Miho explained, but frowned as she heard her own voice.

“You’re conflicted,” Narumi observed.

“Oh yeah,” Miho laughed, a slightly bitter sound. “It’s crazy how quickly things can change, especially to things you thought were set in stone. Beliefs ingrained in me by my parents, by my environment, by the world and all its perils.”

“Perils like explosions on busy public streets in broad daylight?” Narumi offered.

“Exactly,” Miho confirmed. “All the scary stuff we assume will be less scary when we know the reason why - and I hate assumptions.”

“Then that’s another thing we have in common,” Narumi encouraged.

“But I was wrong,” Miho admitted, internally cringing. “There are some things in the world, the universe, that I am, that others are, better off not knowing, will be happier not knowing.”

“But who are you to make that judgement?” Narumi very nearly growled. “You said it yourself, you don’t have a badge - I’m at least authorised to protect the public. What gives you the right? What gives your shady friends in the suits the right to get in the way of what should be the jurisdiction of NYPD?”

A sigh drew both their attention to a new arrival not far from their table.

Jazz’s expression said, ‘Oh gods, they’re multiplying’.

“Uh oh, hand caught in the cookie jar,” Miho quipped, but Narumi was instantly scowling at the new arrival.

She didn’t recognise her, but Miho’s comment and her mode of dress suggested she was very much a part of the ‘group’ who apparently thought they had all rights to obstruct police business. Staying quiet on the matter simply wasn’t her style.

“Whatever this organisation of yours is - and it’s certainly not a publicly known or acknowledged institution - I’m going to give you some advice, take it even as a warning if you like,” she declared, standing to make more of a point.

Jazz didn’t move, allowing the officer to continue.

“Even if you are influential enough to convince my superiors to turn a blind eye,” Narumi continued, and Miho watched on, her expression also falling into something bland, “you’re sadly mistaken if you believe the echoes of terrorism will be ignored by not only the NYPD, but also the FBI. We answer to the public, even if you…”

She cast a glance at Miho.

“... and your lackies, don’t.”

Ouch, talk about a slap in Miho’s face, but Narumi wasn’t about to let it go. She might have been relatively calm during her conversation with Miho, but the suit really pissed her off.

“I understand,” Jazz replied calmly, “and you are absolutely right.”

“But,” Miho added in helpfully.

“But,” Jazz said, her lips a sour line of disapproval as her eyes flitted to Miho, then back to Narumi, “I suggest you speak with your superiors before you kick up too much more of a fuss. It’ll save you a lot of time and energy that you could be expending helping the people of New York where we can’t.”

“Well, it’s hard to know where that would be,” Narumi began, smirking though there was certainly no smile in her eyes, “when I don’t know where exactly your jurisdiction starts and ends, isn’t it?”

Desperately she fought the urge of her hands to plant on her hips.

“Apparently, I didn’t get the memo.”

“Yeah, that happens,” Miho put in… yeah, so helpful.

“If you would prefer to talk to my superior, then I’m sure he’d be happy to find the time to detail you an explanation about law, and lawsuits. To whom should he address it?”

“She’s Agent Mann,” Miho answered, and Jazz shut her eyes for a second to keep from snapping, but Miho just grinned cheekily and also got to her feet. “She loves getting mail. Want her email too?”

“Seriously?” Jazz sighed sharply.

“How did you even know I was here?” Miho queried, though she didn’t seem awfully bothered.

“I’m psychic,” Jazz answered, and given what Miho did know, she couldn’t be sure Jazz was joking. “Your favourite commander is looking for you.”

“Of course he is,” Miho beamed, but she was honestly a little hmm, not scared, but certainly apprehensive, given if Jazz had come to fetch her on Hades’ request or order, and he knew she had wandered off with a cop, she might very well be in for a talking to.

Or a spanking.

Hopefully a spanking?

“Well it was lovely to meet you, Detective Yashitori,” Miho smile brightly, offering Narumi her hand again, but this time there was a business card in it.

Still, Narumi’s temper was still agitated, so though she shook Miho’s hand and took the card, she failed to manage a convincing reciprocal expression.

Jazz, on the other hand, scowled as Narumi inspected the card, while Miho sidled up to her.

“Okay, I’m good to go.”

To Part Four

@hifftn @belxsar @mirandaflamel @kiniloves @destinywanted @smutmylifeup @hotcocosharing

[claytonsarah1990]

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