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darkhymns-fic · 1 year ago

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Being an angel is pretty inconvenient, huh? (Ch. 6)

Finally, Lloyd returns home to Dirk. But he's never figured out a way to tell him about his new wings. How does one even start? [A Lloyd wingfic]

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters/Pairing: Colette Brunel/Lloyd Irving, Dirk, Noishe Rating: T Word Count: 6852 Mirror: AO3 Notes: For Colloyd Week 2023, Day 6: Quote Day: “What would I wish for now if a falling star crossed the night sky?” This is long and self-indulgent, as expected!

In the distance, Lloyd saw the spiral of smoke, how it drifted up into the sky.

He craned his head, leaning back to watch it climb. In the darkness, it was harder to differentiate it from the clouds. Much of the weather lately had hidden away the sun, and that included the stars when night fell, blanketing them, making one's journey home just a bit more difficult.

But he and Colette had still found the way. They had traveled through Sylvarant so much, both on land and through the sky, that it was second-nature to find the road that led to Iselia, and eventually, to Dirk’s house.

To his house.

Lloyd kept watching the smoke, then lowered his gaze to see the warm light from the windows. The one on the far right illuminated a stable, along with the shifting ears of a creature deep in sleep.

He didn't hear Colette’s footsteps, but he noticed the soft violet shade that stretched along the road. “We don't have to go just yet, if you're not ready,” she said. The tip of her wing brushed over his own, pure light against feather and bone.

He could hear his father at work. The rhythmic clunk of the hammer echoed through the stillness. It was one sound of many that Lloyd had grown up with, sometimes even falling asleep to it as Dirk continued to work late into the night. For a commission, for a repair to the house that was long overdue, or for a project of his very own making.

The sound may as well have been lifted from his memories. His dad had always said dwarves rarely changed throughout their years.

Lloyd swallowed. But then what will he think when he sees me?

There was a soft meow from behind him.

He turned to see Blippy poke his head from the basket Colette carried. The once tiny kitty had grown, though only by a few inches or so. Blippy’s white fur shone bright in the night. Wide eyes looked up at Lloyd, then started pawing at a feather that dangled just above a wet nose.

Lloyd couldn’t help a small laugh that escaped his throat. “Hey, my wings aren’t a new toy for you.”

Colette smiled but made no move to stop the kitten. “And after Yuan gave him a bunch of cat toys for him to play with too.” She hefted up the bag she carried in her other hand, the felt of one pet toy sneaking out from the top.

“...Yeah, why did he have those toys anyway? You think he used to be a cat owner?”

“Or maybe it used to belong to Noishe when they traveled together! I think Yuan really likes animals.”

“You sure? He seems too grumpy to be an animal lover though…”

Blippy was oblivious to their talk, still bapping away at Lloyd’s feathers. With a grin, he placed a gloved hand over the kitten’s head, scratching just beneath his ear. Even so, those tiny paws kept reaching for him.

“Hey, little guy. We’ll play with you soon. Just…first I gotta—”

And, Lloyd had thought they weren’t being particularly loud. There were always little rustles in the forest around nighttime, the kind that would make Noishe retreat further into his pen, or even sneak inside the house to cower underneath Lloyd’s bed.

The keening whine through the air made him think otherwise.

Going by Colette's expression, even she hadn’t expected Noishe to already be upon them. “Ah, N-Noishe, wait!” But Lloyd already felt the great paw right in the center of his back, nudging against his wings.

He fell face first into the ground.

“Gah! Noishe! Heavy!” Lloyd struggled, but the great green beast was busy nuzzling his snout against Lloyd’s cheek, letting out great bark-whines right in his ear. “Okay, okay! I'm happy to see you too but get off!”

Also, having four legs, this meant Noishe kept accidentally stepping right on Lloyd's wings, as well as his back. I don't have to worry about losing these on my own, he's just gonna break them off!

“Calm down, boy! Here, look! We have a new friend for you!” Colette was truly doing her best, petting Noishe’s ears as he still half-trampled over Lloyd. She then lifted the basket, where Blippy was looking up at Noishe with another mew.

The sound was new to Noishe, who had rarely been around normal cats and was only used to the monstrous ones, like giant lynxes or chimeras. He whined, pressing his paw against the back of Lloyd’s head.

Despite having wings, Lloyd sure was getting to know the ground a lot more!

“Oy, what's all the racket, Noishe? Are the little foxes bullying you again?”

And just like that, Noishe stepped off Lloyd, giving mercy to his wings (and back). He was sure he lost a few extra feathers…

“Mr. Dirk! It's us!” Colette called out, helping Lloyd get back to his feet, brushing off dirt clumps and grass from his jacket. “We're home!”

And it was that word, home, that made Lloyd suddenly freeze.

He was still facing away from the house, from Dirk. So right now, his dad had a full view of his wings, which were a little scuffled now from Noishe’s paws, their feathers probably falling off and floating to the ground.

And Dirk wasn’t saying anything.

Lloyd took a shaky breath. A part of him didn’t want to turn around, instead feeling the instinct to fly away and hide. But he had come all this way, and there was something aching in his chest to finally be inside his house after what felt like such a long time.

When he did turn, he was careful to keep his wings folded, so that they wouldn't get in anyone’s way. They were always getting in someone’s way. “Hey…Dad. Um…” He smiled tremulously, giving a small shrug. “Surprise?”

Dirk was only a few feet away, standing at the other end of the logs that served as a makeshift bridge over a small river. The dwarf’s arms were crossed, silently looking at Lloyd more and more, the wind ruffling his thick beard.

As the moments passed, all Lloyd could think that this had been a mistake. His wings shifted, curling inward more as if they could fully hide behind his back. “Sorry, I… a lot happened and…”

“Ya came here earlier than I thought,” Dirk interrupted. He scratched at his beard, humming softly. “The renovations aren't quite ready yet. Thought I’d be done sooner, but I suppose all these centuries are finally catching up to me.”

Lloyd blinked. “Reno-what?”

“Well, don't just stand there, boy. Nights have been colder here lately, ya know. What with that Celsius lass taking root in Triet now. Get the both of you inside and I'll heat up some stew.”

With that, Dirk stepped back into the house through the front doorway. Warm light framed his silhouette before he moved to the side where the kitchen was, the clinking of pots echoing.

Wait, Lloyd thought. Something seems different…

“Uh, Dad?” Lloyd asked, looking at the entrance to the house for a long while, squinting and unsquinting until he finally understood what he was seeing. “Where's the door?”

It sounded weird to say out loud, but there really was just suddenly no door at the front of his house! The metal hinges were still present, and as he looked closer, there were wood shavings scattered along the floor. That, and the door frame itself seemed to be carved in a little more than he remembered.

“Ah, that? The old one won't fit the new measurements, so I had to take it down.” Dirk brought an old cooking pot to the fire stove, the logs already fairly lit. “I only had Ms. Sage’s letter to know just how much I would need to widen the doorway for you, and I still need to fix the top as well. I’ve also been mending your clothes that you left behind—so you’ll need to put on your jackets a little differently. I’ve fashioned some clasps in the back to make it fit better, but should more or less be the same. Reminds me of the time I had to lengthen my very own trousers when you had yer growth spurt!”

Lloyd was just more and more confused at the new information being given. “Wait, the Professor's letter? When did she…?

A whine from Noishe pierced through the night, followed by a wagging tail that thumped against the ground at the scent of prepared food. Dirk turned at the sound—and it was then he noticed the little kitten Colette still held, wide eyes shining bright from the fire stove.

“Got yerselves even more mouths to feed, did ya?”

Lloyd remained standing outside, but Colette heard the invitation in Dirk’s tone, stepping towards the doorway, basket in hand. “His name is Blippy. But, I guess Professor Sage must have told you already.”

The dwarf chuckled as he gazed at the little animal, petting its head, his thick hand nearly thrice the size of it. “Fine little critter. Lloyd, you did good saving this young one.”

Something about that made Lloyd leave his confuddled daze, shaking his head—which in turn made his feathers fluff up. “So you already knew about my wings!? This whole time?!” A pause. “You know everything?!”

“Ay, keep yer voice down! No sense shouting to the whole world at this hour.” Dirk faced Lloyd, the sweat on his brow apparent from the work he had put himself through. “I got no word from ya all this time. Had me worried sick if you were hurt or worse. So, I sent a query to your teacher. I figured if anyone would know anything, she would be the one.”

At that, Lloyd hung his head, running a hand through his hair. “And I've been freaking out about how to tell you…”

“I'm sorry we haven't sent anything in so long,” Colette quickly apologized. “So much happened all at once, that we just, kinda lost track.”

Dirk smiled at her, his thick beard moving like a bristly forest. “Now, you know I always appreciate your letters about how you and Lloyd are faring. That isn't the problem here.” Back to Lloyd, the dwarf’s arms were crossed once again. “What grieves me though is how my own son could not trust me.”

Lloyd raised his head with a snap. Feathers fluttered on the wind, one of them sneaking into the house to land shyly on the hardwood floors. “That's not-! I mean…” He groaned, taking a deep breath before starting again.

“You see this, right?” He gestured to his now stretched out wings, feeling every creak and motion they made. He couldn’t move them without feeling awkward, these extra limbs having no where to go and hide. “I've been going over and over how I was going to tell you about this! I, I had to talk to other people first. And I still don’t really understand how these wings happened or why it did, but…” His wings bristled without his meaning to, embarrassing him just then. “I just didn't want you to see me…different…”

Lloyd suddenly felt so small as he spoke. And his wings were still far too big.

It was a while before Dirk spoke again, with only the sounds of the boiling pot and the crackling fire taking up the wasted space between. “Lloyd, I thought I had taught you this already, but perhaps I need to drill it into your skull a little more.”

“Huh? What do you mea–Ow!”

Lloyd could only hear Colette gasp slightly as he felt the sharp sting. Knuckles rapped against his forehead, a small tap for Dirk, but a dwarf’s strength was never to be underestimated. Lloyd placed a hand over what he was sure was a bruise already forming. It hadn’t been a punch, yet it almost felt like one. “W-what was that for?”

“It's to get through your thick-headedness!” Dirk yelled. “Don't you get that you change in front of me every time I turn my head? One moment, you’re a little tyke barely reaching my knees, and the next, you’re a grown man who carries his swords with pride. Why would you having wings now make any true difference to me? For all I know of humans, I would have believed them sprouting wings was as natural as breathing air!”

Lloyd gawked. “But we don't… well…” He looked to Colette, who still had her own wings out, their light suffusing the inside of the home with that soft violet he had grown so used to. “I guess some of us do?”

At that, Dirk’s great hand reached to clap against Lloyd's shoulder, making him stumble, his right wing flapping to keep him balanced. But there was a supplication this gesture now, not frustration nor anger. “You’ve changed, and you will always keep changing. But no matter what, you are still my son.” A small smirk could just barely be seen through his dark beard, but Lloyd had learned to recognize it through the years—and it was there. “You are still my very own child that I raised in this home, regardless of blood.”

A still moment. His father's smile. Lloyd had heard similar words before.

Why had he forgotten that already?

“Now, will ya come in already? Colette's already beat ya to it! Which means she’ll have first dibs on the potluck surprise I'll be making.”

“Dwarven Potluck Surprise? It’s been so long!” Colette beamed—and Blippy meowed right after. "Ah, but I don’t think you should eat that.”

Colette had already gone inside Dirk’s home, perhaps unconsciously so. Her wings fluttered, motes of light drifting in the air as she realized her position. Perhaps it was because she had always been invited here that she had gone in so easily. “And sorry, I should put these away…”

Dirk waved his hand. “Nonsense. They give the house some much needed light anyways.” He patted Lloyd’s shoulder again, gentler this time. “Well? Will you be coming in or will I have to pull you by the ear like old times?”

Lloyd would have argued against that, if he had felt like himself. But he looked again at the doorway, at the markings of sawdust and hammer marks that had taken place. “You were making that bigger for me,” he said.

Dirk nodded. “No sense in having you squeeze your wings through the front door. The one on your balcony should be wide enough, so I’m trying to make it the same here. I might need to move one of the windows to do so, but it's been a while since I’ve done some real construction work. A good time to keep my skills from being too rusty!”

There was joy in his father’s voice as he spoke, even some excitement at the idea of building something for Lloyd. There was no half-heartedness, no worry, and nothing fearful. And with his dad being so close to one of his wings, barely raising a bushy eyebrow at their size, Lloyd realized then.

His vision got blurry all the sudden. He tried to hide it with a quick swipe of his arm, but it only seemed to make his tears fall down all the more. “Ah, dammit, s-sorry.”

Even so, he couldn’t stop crying.

Lloyd found himself leaning on his father’s arm who guided him inside. The shadow of his own wings fell over the dwarf, but Dirk didn’t seem to mind at all.

“Now, now, yer apologizing as much as Colette here. You must be starving, lad. Come in now.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t…believe it would be okay.” Harder to speak, just like when he was a little. He’d been such a crybaby back then. “I’m really sorry…”

“Hush now. Also mind the tools there, ya don’t want a wicked nail through your boot. We’ll have a bit of a draft while we eat but I’m sure it’s nothing you’re not already used to.” Dirk continued to speak gently, as he would do when Lloyd was little, crying over monsters in the dark, and nightmares he could put no name to.

Maybe it was the pain of getting his wings, the weight of them, the constant ache and everything else that had made him forget. He moved through the doorway, already wide enough that he barely needed to tuck in his wings as he stepped inside. The familiar scent of the simmering potluck, the soft light from Colette’s wings painting the walls, the tiny whines from Noishe as he settled himself in a corner, hoping for scraps to come his way.

Remember, this is your home.

Lloyd really had forgotten so many things.

But he remembered the stew tasting so, so warm.

The skies stayed cloudy throughout the coming days. Again, Dirk commented how it must have been Celsius’ doing, the icy summon spirit bringing forth a chill that the thick forests surrounding Iselia did not know—though not enough to hurt the trees or any of the plants in their garden, thankfully. “A customer of mine said the desert had its first snowfall,” he would later say. “It seems change is happening everywhere.”

Lloyd hadn’t been sure how long he would stay home this time. Typically, it would be a week or two at a time before he and Colette would set out on the road again. But as he seated himself on the balcony railing, his wings helping him keep balance, hearing his father put the finishing touches on the doorway below, he was finding it harder to leave.

That, and Blippy seemed to really like it here, too.

The white kitten was already growing so fast, barely fitting inside his basket anymore. So it only made sense that he would wander around the home, poking his head among the potted plants and snatching any dried fish that Dirk had stored. There had been some worries, from both Lloyd and Colette, about the river that wound around the house and if Blippy would fall in. Still, the river never ran fast and was barely over a foot deep, yet even so, Dirk had set about creating a little wooden fence, so that Blippy didn’t accidentally dip a paw in the water in curiosity.

Yet, maybe they had been worrying too much, because Blippy was far more interested in Noishe instead of some water.

Lloyd watched Blippy chase after Noishe across the grass. The small little flash of fur was bright, mewing all while Noishe whined and tried to hide in his stable. His dad turned his head occasionally towards the sight, letting out a chuckle or two before going back to his work.

“Looks like they’ve been getting along lately, don’t you think?”

Lloyd felt the brush of her fingers against his wings. The touch was so light, reminding him of the way she would press her fingers into his palm. He grinned, still watching both dog and cat rush across the ground. “Maybe. Either that or Noishe is great with kids.”

Colette looked down, her own soft laughter escaping her lips. He felt her fingers move from her wings to around his back—to the new openings in his jacket for his wings to comfortably hang from. It definitely took Lloyd some getting used to wearing it, but his dad’s tailoring skills were nearly as good as his crafting. The back clasps in his jacket could be tightened after he put it on, so that he no longer had to wrestle his wings through the makeshift openings he and Colette had tried to do on their own. No more tearing through the fabric, and no more worries that his jacket would simply fall off because of such new shapes.

“I’m glad he still kept these red,” Colette noted, and he could hear the playful tone in her voice. “Or would you have wanted to try a different color?”

“You know, now that I think about it…blue would look pretty great on me. Oh, or maybe purple!”

“Aw, purple is cute!” And before Lloyd could argue that purple could be more than just a cute color, she also moved to sit on the railing beside him, carefully brushing aside the clinging ivy and the soft dust of pollen that had draped over it.

She lost her balance almost immediately.

Lloyd quickly reached out and grabbed her arm. “Whoa, watch out! You can just take a chair if you wanna sit.”

“Hehe, sorry…” Colette gripped her free hand onto the railing now, but she didn’t move, instead continuing with, “But I think I know what to do about it.”

With that, Colette’s wings slowly slipped past her shoulders, their soft light slightly muted by the sunshine. He felt the tip of one of her wings tap his shoulder. Soon, she was sitting taller, more comfortably, her legs swinging from the railing. “There!”

She did it so easily, all with a wide smile. Her wings fluttered a little, reminding him of a butterfly’s own.

As the wind shifted the tree boughs near his balcony, carrying the scent of pine in the early spring, he kept his eyes on her. For so much of that first journey, Lloyd had seen her wings often. Easier to fight with, she had told him before, even when she worried how the others must have seen her. When she was numb to pain, her wings highlighted the scratches across her palms from gripping the chakrams too tightly. When she was locked away and could no longer speak, her wings were always at the ready, their once soft light seeming harsher in the dark, reflecting off eyes that never shifted or blinked.

Lloyd tapped his fingers against the railing, eyes shifting downward. “Hey, Colette. You don’t need to have your wings out for my sake.”

Between them, there were the sounds of Dirk’s hammer, the distant cry of a hawk overhead, and the continued whispering from the trees. The light of Colette’s wings stayed draped over the railing, over his hand where his Exsphere continued to rest on.

“I know you don’t want…what happened to me to happen to you too.” His wings furled inward slightly as he spoke. “So, it’s okay. Really. You don’t have to risk it.”

Colette had already suffered for her wings as they were. Why should he have to add more to that?

It was then he heard the railing creak from motion, watching as the familiar violet shade moved away from his hand. But before he could even start to feel a little lonely then, Colette had grabbed his hand—from the front.

“Remember when we used to fly together?” Colette asked him. She was flying before him, her wings gently beating, sending drifting motes of light to scatter across the earth. “Not just in Ozette… but before that? We should do it again. Let’s go and fly!”

Again, the rhythmic sound of the hammer, now followed by the gentle whines of a certain creature who must have noticed Colette hovering just above.

“Uh… did you just ignore what I was saying now?” Lloyd asked in turn, more out of befuddlement than anything else. He could usually follow Colette’s thoughts well, but still, she managed to surprise him now and then.

“Oh! No, I was listening!” Colette nodded, her face all serious to the point that her cheeks were a little puffy, a feature that Lloyd couldn’t help but find adorable. “And this is my answer!”

“So, you did ignore me.”

Colette grasped his hand close in both of her own, leaning in. Her blue irises held patterns in them, like constellations. “Lloyd, I want to use my wings with you again. I know I used to be a little worried before about it, when I told you about what Kratos mentioned to me. So, when it actually happened to you, I did try to stop using my wings. I got scared. I didn’t really understand.”

Her nearness made his heart race again, but he grasped her hand back with his. “That’s why I said it’s okay to not use yours. You shouldn’t have to because of me.”

“But what if I want to, Lloyd?” she countered, the rare hint of exasperation in her voice. “Can you believe me that I want to? Like when we used to fly up in the skies… When it felt like it was only us in the world. I know it’s selfish of me, but I liked that. I miss flying with you.”

Lloyd’s wings unfurled again, unconsciously done, but he didn’t shy away from it. He remembered seeing doves do the same, like the ones that would sometimes make their nests within a hidden corner of his rooftop.

“…I’m actually kinda nervous flying that high with these,” he admitted, clearing his throat. “I mean, I did fly to my balcony this morning! Like, from the ground…”

Colette’s fingers threaded between his own, soon reaching for his other hand. “Then you just need a little practice. Let’s get you more used to your new wings. I can teach you!”

Her excitement was getting more and more obvious, her serious face from before breaking into a grin. She gently tugged him forward, and all Lloyd could do was let her. His wings were already opening, catching the wind, feeling the way it shifted around his feathers.

“Heh, so should I call you Professor Colette, then?” he teased, just as he felt himself leave the railing. “Or, I guess it would be Professor Brunel…”

“Hm, but I like hearing you say my name, so keep the Colette part!” And with a little triumphant pull, she held Lloyd’s hands as they both hovered in the air just before his balcony, their wings beating in sync.

Lloyd gazed at her, at her wings painted against the cloudy skies, like the fragments of a stained-glass window. He swallowed a small lump in his throat, hoping it didn’t make his flight a bit unsteady. But flying had always been like this, hadn’t it? To trust yourself to not freefall through the air, to leave the stability of the ground for the uneasiness of the air.

It was exciting, when he thought about it.

“So, Professor Colette, I always wondered… How come you got so good at flying right away when you got your wings? Even when I had my old ones, I still had trouble with them.”

Colette seemed surprised by the question. Her wings beat rapidly in the air as she thought of her answer. “Hm… maybe it’s just part of my luck?”

“Haha, what? That’s not how luck works!” Lloyd tilted his head, his legs hanging down, still unconsciously searching for a floor to stand on. “I think?

“Well, I am very lucky.” She pulled him further up into the air, giggling. “Maybe my luck with flying will rub off on you!”

And she was quick, already guiding him on a flight path only she seemed to know. But she didn’t forget to wave down to Dirk below, calling out to him with a clear voice. “We’re just going out, Mr. Dirk! We’ll be back before dinner!”

“Ah, leaving me your pet to take care of, eh?” But little Blippy was already being stroked by Dirk’s great hand as he took a break from his work. The cat stared ahead, eyes wide as it craned its head up towards a flying Lloyd and Colette. Still, it didn’t reach out to them. It was very content to stay and be petted by a well-knowing hand. “Stay safe, you two!”

From the height of his balcony, his father’s shape didn’t look that much different than on ground level. But with flight came the distance, came the eventual loss of detail, until even Dirk’s beard could barely be seen. It was similar when flying atop a Rheaird, except Lloyd could turn in the air, and keep holding onto Colette’s hand, watching the trail of stardust from her wings float all around. Maybe with enough of it, her light could even make his own wings shine.

At some point during the day, the clouds finally began to part—but Lloyd barely noticed. He was too busy keeping his eyes on Colette, and how her wings moved with all the ease that he wished he had.

The initial flight was shaky for him. He nearly lost his balance numerous times, and his wings would grow tired. They were no longer just made of light, but of muscle and bone. He had to rest them occasionally, stopping at a hill outcropping or a tree branch, with Colette waiting beside him until he was ready to fly once more.

��Feel like I’m not making this as fun as it used to be…” he said with a small laugh.

But Colette would only shake her head, the light from her wings darkening her hair. “It’s always fun with you, Lloyd.”

And then, she would take his hand to fly off again, over the forest he had known so well since he was a kid, watching the twisting rivers that cut through hills, and the dirt roads that wound down cliffs past an abandoned ranch, until they would reach the gates of Iselia. But they were so high up in the sky, they might have been mistaken for large birds if anyone saw them. Or at least, Lloyd was hoping for that.

He quickly identified the roof that belonged Colette’s house, spotting the well beside it, and the small backyard where they would both play swords together when they were young. Another quick glance to the right, and he thought he recognized Phaidra walking past the front door, her ash blonde hair catching the dim light of the setting sun.

Lloyd knew he’d have to see them too, with his new wings. He’d have to see the entire village, sporting the same wings as the angel that had come down on that day of the Oracle. So, he felt some relief as they flew farther past the village, Colette’s hand still holding fast to his.

But, that was also when he started to question. “Uh, where are we going anyway?”

Colette looked back at him, her hair flying about her in a golden array. “Just a little further up. How do your wings feel?”

“Eh, still kinda tired? But I guess they don’t ache as much.” So he flew with some trepidation, too anxious to really make any careless dives or twists in the air like he once used to.

His wings really did have an annoying habit of flying into things if he wasn’t careful enough, so he was little relieved they had left the forest for more open spaces. It wasn’t like before, where his wings of light could disperse whenever he felt like it. He couldn’t just land on the bough of a tree, sitting against the bark when he felt tired. Now he had to calculate just how much space his wings needed, how they would make it difficult for him to just lay back unless he folded them up properly. (Which also made it a bit hard to sleep in general!)

Then, as he flapped his wings a little hard, trying to catch the air, he winced. And with that came a little groan of frustration.

Colette noticed. “Oh, again?”

“Ugh, yeah…” He tried turning his neck but had no real luck. “These ribbons just keep getting in the way now!”

“Don’t worry, we’re almost there!”

Lloyd could barely question her what she meant exactly, his neck cricking from his ribbons restricting his movement. He could feel every flap of his wings only making it worse, until Colette guided him to land on somewhat uneven ground.

“Here, let me look.” Colette quickly moved behind him, and soon he felt her hands move aside those ribbons from his mass of feathers, a careful unwinding of thin fabric from his wingspan. “This left one really held on!”

Lloyd sighed, his shoulders drooping. “I think I’m gonna have to tell dad about getting rid of these. I can’t fly right if these ribbons keep tangling up in my wings!”

Colette straightened out the white ribbons, her fingers smoothing out wrinkles. “I think it would work if they were shorter.”

“No way, they’d just look kind of dumb if they were short.”

As he felt her still holding onto his ribbons, he looked straight ahead. In the distance, he saw the ocean, hearing the crashing of waves against a rocky shore. The sun, he finally noticed, was already going down, sinking into the ocean as the sky overhead darkened. Lloyd angled his head around, realizing just where exactly they were both standing on. He caught a glimpse of the carved opening that had been made at the top of the stone structure, from where the light of the Oracle had shone so brightly all that time ago.

The Iselia Temple? Why did she bring me here?

But Colette still seemed to be busy with his ribbons, even long after she had untangled them. She already spoke before he could ask her. “What if we tied it up?”

Lloyd immediately knew what she meant. He hesitated. “I don’t know about that…”

“But you did it for me!” Colette was doing her best to hide away her grin as she guided him to stand on one of the curved outcroppings of the temple, many of the stones enveloped by moss. She stayed behind him, straightening out those ribbons even more. “Remember, your ribbons got tangled up in my hair when I wore your outfit that one time.”

“That’s different!”

“How so?”

“Hair and wings aren’t exactly the same…” But he already felt her tugging on them, and the motion of it was nice. Almost relaxing, such as when she brushed his wings, careful with his feathers.

“Fine,”he relented. “If you really want to—”

“Oh, whoops,” Colette said with a giggle. “I was already doing it. Sorry!”

“Huh?!” Lloyd reached back around his collar, his wrist brushing against his wing. But his fingers found the knot that was made, along with the little bow that Colette had tied up nicely with his white ribbons.

“Now they won’t get in the way. Also, they look cute!”

Well, he knew he had to admit it then, especially once he tested a small beat of his wings then. “Huh, it is a lot better now! …I’m gonna need to do this for my other jackets.”

“Maybe we can have each one a different style!” Colette suggested. “I can make your Tuesday jacket have a more braid-like ribbon.”

“You sure you didn’t already do that?”

But Colette just poked out her tongue at him as a tease as she stood next to him again. Lloyd looked at how the night sky was seen through her wings, sparkling more than they ever did on their own. It took him a second to realize that it was already nighttime—had they really flown all afternoon?

“How come you wanted to come here?” he asked her. He caught sight of the crumbling stairs that led to the temple, the flagstones long overtaken by the earth. It seemed even more in disrepair, for probably ever since Colette left, no one else besides them had gone back to this holy place of Cruxis worship. Now it only crumbled, along with everything else of the old religion.

“The stars are always so clear by the temple,” she said, craning her neck upwards. “Not as well as by your house, but it’s always very dark here, so the stars shine brighter than they do when in Iselia.”

In the sky, there were patterns—different ones now, with the reunification of the worlds. How often had Colette had to stay late at the temple, counting the stars from the windows? How often had he done the same from his house, waiting until he could go back to Iselia again to see her?

Lloyd was still looking at her when he saw something then—like a trail of starlight that connected the span of her wings, from the top-most left to the bottom. He watched its travel, a movement so fast across her expanse.

“A shooting star?” Colette said, looking over in the same direction. “I wonder… what would I wish for now…?”

Lloyd knew what he once would have wished for.

When his wings had ached, had been covered in blood and made him hate the very thought of moving, he would have wished for them to be gone. He would have wished he had done things differently. He would have wished he hadn’t put Colette through so much trouble, just to care for him and his stupid mistakes.

In the night, he saw how his right wing moved to circle around Colette. A large wingspan, the feathers pulled at by the ocean breeze. They were the same color as the kitten he had dove in to rescue from the river. Whatever reason his wings had decided to change just then, he still couldn’t say. That same kitten was probably resting in his father’s lap, who mostly likely was still waiting for him and Colette to return home.

No wishes came to his head, but something else did.

Lloyd took Colette’s hand. “Fly with me.”

Colette barely had a moment before Lloyd’s wings outstretched, wider than before. Only once had he ever felt this confident with them—back when they had been of light for the very first time, and he flew off to the skies with no hesitation.

“Come on!” Grinning wide, he urged Colette to follow, rising high above, watching as her wings beat rapidly to match his speed.

“Lloyd!” she called back with a laugh. “Are you okay to fly this high up?”

High enough that even the temple seemed small, high enough that it felt like they were the only two left in the entire world.

Their flight path was of curves, and sudden dives, and over the ocean currents that made laughter break out between them. But still, he guided her higher, just enough so that he felt nothing else could be better. They finally stopped, uplifted by the winds, the twin moons shining down on them. They made the night less dark, surrounded by the stars that were so numerous, like an endless sea.

Stopping in mid-flight, he moved his hands from hers, to wrap around her waist and bring her close in an embrace. Just a few days before, he would have felt too awkward to do this, too unbalanced, too much of a mess to give her what she tried to give to him.

His wings beat softly to keep them up. Even if Colette’s wings were snuffed out at that very moment, he wouldn’t let go.

“Colette, I’m sorry I couldn’t say it back then when you kissed me.”

He felt the heat rise in her face, warm against his cheek. He watched it brighten as he moved back to look at her, her hair framed by her wings and the stars. “Ah, that was… I just did it without asking you—”

“I love you, too.”

Maybe it was cheesy to say it here, up in the skies, but he wanted a place where only Colette would hear him, where she couldn’t mistake it for anything else.

“I’ve always loved you, but I only really got it back at the Tree. It takes me so long to get anything. It’s kinda pathetic, huh? And even when I finally realized, it took me even longer to just say it. I kept you waiting this whole time, even after you told me. I’m sorry. I don’t want to keep doing that to you. I love you, Colette. I love you.”

Her kiss had been her way of telling him, the most obvious thing that even the densest person would have picked up on. He always made so much trouble for Colette.

She lowered her eyes, but her hands fidgeted. Fingers moved to slide up his collar, to thread across his hair. “Then…can you make it up to me?”

He moved closer, his forehead pressed against hers as they both floated lazily through the sky. “Yeah. What is it?”

“Can you kiss me back?”

Was it as far back as Flanoir, as far back as on his balcony before she would leave for her journey, when he first wanted to kiss her? He had loved her then, longer than he could put a single memory to it. So many times, so many moments, but it had been up to Colette to guide him. The wanting flooded through him. He could hardly even speak anymore.

Still, when Lloyd pressed his lips to hers, tasting that familiar sweetness from before, hearing the soft sounds Colette made against him, he finally felt he did something right for once in so long.

Flying had never before felt so wonderful.

#tales of symphonia #lloyd irving #colette brunel #colloyd #colloydweek2023 #dirk #fanfiction #multi chapter

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call-me-honkie · 2 years ago

Text

Never Meet Your Mentors

Irving held up a hand. The Warden’s mouth snapped shut, but ire flickered through them. At first, it had relieved them how quickly they were sliding back into the roles of mentor and apprentice. But, suddenly, they weren’t sure that’s what they wanted to be to Irving. They had passed their Harrowing, among many other ordeals.

The Mage Warden comes to some realizations about Irving as they talk about the Circle. Takes place after the Broken Circle quest.

Also on AO3!

Their party had an extra member, First Enchanter Irving, that evening. The Warden had been put on watch duty first at Wynne’s suggestion.

“At least one Grey Warden should be on watch duty at all times, if we can help it,” she’d said, in that gentle yet firm voice of hers. It was a voice the Warden was all too familiar with: one of a higher-ranking enchanter who was used to herding around apprentices. “That way, we minimize the risk of a darkspawn attack while we’re caught off-guard.”

Now that the night was still, though, they wondered if she had known they wouldn’t even try to sleep after the day they had. First Enchanter Irving had volunteered to keep watch along with them. Wynne objected at first, since he out of all of them needed the rest the most, but she relented when he insisted that her healing spells had done a fine job on driving the brunt of the pain away. Still, he walked with a visible limp.

The Warden dared a glance at their former mentor, who was staring into the fire. The firelight made his deep worry lines seem even deeper, and his unkempt beard couldn’t hide his frown. Yet he hadn’t said a word to his former apprentice. It was his lost-in-thought look; the Warden knew it all too well when they used to walk into his office in the seconds before they cleared their throat to get his attention. They wondered if he volunteered for watch duty because he knew he would not be able to sleep, either, after what happened in the Tower.

The Warden turned their gaze into the fire. The Tower they left mere weeks ago did not feel like the Tower they had returned to. They had not expected a warm welcome—one of the first things Greagoir did was glare coldly at them and remind them they were still a maleficar’s accomplice. But they had not expected to return to…

The Warden felt their eyes glaze. The flames danced in front of them, bright and hypnotic, springing up from the embers, glowing red as blood.

Blood trailed up the stairs into the Harrowing Chamber, the stains messy and disjointed. Whoever’s blood it was, they had put up a fight. The Warden’s stomach turned—not at the gore, but at not knowing what was happening through the door.

From his translucent cage, Cullen fell to his knees. He buried his head in his hands, clutched together in prayer. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”

A scream ripped through the fourth floor just as the Warden’s hand touched the Harrowing Chamber’s door. The air prickled with electricity and mana, as if the Tower itself raised its hackles at whatever was happening upstairs. The Warden flinched.

Cullen’s head was bowed so low it nearly touched the ground. “Oh, Maker,” he whimpered. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker's will is written.”

The Warden’s feet were frozen. When the great doors had shut behind them (it felt like an eternity ago, but it could have only been an hour at most), the first thing they did was step over the body of a familiar woman. Not a friend. But she had been kind, and had congratulated them on their successful Harrowing, and—

The Warden couldn’t do this. They couldn’t do this. If the First Enchanter was dead, or if he was an abomination—

“The First Enchanter’s sharp as a whip, and just as dangerous, too. Personally, I don’t believe for a second that there’s no hope,” Alistair said from right behind them. To their companions, it must have sounded like a simple observation to no one in particular, but there was a softness to his voice; he was reassuring them.

The Warden nodded mutely. He was right. They couldn’t afford to get choked up now. They were a mage. Their willpower was their strongest weapon.

They pushed the door open.

Cullen’s voice guttered and grew distant as they ascended the stairs. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter…”

Irving’s voice cut through their thoughts: “I do not believe I had the chance to thank you for what you did today.” His voice was gravelly, heavy, and tired.

The Warden shivered, as if their body was shaking off the memory. “You already did. In the Tower.”

Their former mentor paused, then chuckled quietly enough that the Warden wondered if they had misheard it until he said, “Yes. Yes, you are correct. I truly am getting too old for this, aren’t I?”

The Warden smiled weakly. Irving did the same. The invisible, stony barrier between them, erected the day they were conscripted into the Grey Wardens, felt like it had begun to crumble, like they were one step closer to returning to what they had been: mentor and apprentice.

Their chest ached for that stability again. The Circle was constricting with its many rules and the Chantry breathing down the mages’ necks, and there were certain dangers, like the Harrowing, but it was stable. There were hot meals, beds, peers, mentors, and the opportunity to hone one’s skills and knowledge. It was a home.

Or it had been, until Greagoir shut those massive doors closed and locked the mages inside. Then it was a slaughterhouse.

Irving stroked his beard passively. “It will take a long time for this wound to close. For everyone.” He looked at the Warden, and they looked away. He always seemed to sense their thoughts. “Even Greagoir.”

The Warden clenched their jaw, fiddling with a strap on their boot. “He didn’t seem that upset about trapping everyone inside to fend for themselves.”

“If you are to blame anyone, blame Uldred and his pride. Blame the Chantry’s distrust of mages that obliged Greagoir to seal the doors.” Irving’s voice was quiet yet sharp, and it stung. To an outsider, they were conversing civilly, but the Warden knew he was scolding them. It was the genius of Irving’s diplomatic skills. “Greagoir, as the knight-commander, did what he could, given the circumstances. He is—”

“‘A reasonable man,’” the Warden finished curtly. “I know.”

Irving and Greagoir’s strange friendship was common knowledge in the Tower. They, a mage and a templar of all things, were childhood friends somehow. And although they argued at least half a dozen times a day, there was a familiarity in their bickering, as if they knew what the other would say before he said it. As a result, Irving never tolerated the Warden’s disdain for Greagoir and the templars; a phantom cramp pulsed in their palm as they remembered all the sentences Irving made them write for mouthing off to Greagoir in their teenage years.

“Unfortunately, I believe recent events were…” Irving shook his head. “A long time coming. There were many factors in this collision course. Greagoir sealing the doors was the least of them all.”

“I know,” the Warden insisted. “I just…” They grappled for the words. They couldn’t get the sight of those great doors out of their head—how easily the mages, who could spout jets of fire and ice from their hands, were trapped like animals. How easily it could have been them stuck in there, too. Would they have turned into an abomination? Or could they have helped Wynne protect the children? Saved that girl who had congratulated them on their Harrowing? Freed Cullen?

“I am glad you became a Grey Warden,” Irving said as a way of answer. They looked at him, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You came exactly when we needed you most. It was as if the Maker Himself had sent you.”

The Warden looked away again to hide their stinging eyes, the twist of a smile. “You already said that as well.”

Irving put up his hands in defeat. “Maker, child, you must excuse this old man’s failing memory.”

The Warden laughed, and the act felt as though it dusted cobwebs off their heart. Irving continued, “You will always have a home in the Circle. Perhaps, when the Blight has ended, we will gladly welcome you home again.”

“Even after what happened?” they blurted. “With Jowan and Lily?”

“Jowan’s escape and Lily’s fate are unfortunate. However, like Uldred’s takeover, I fear what happened was also an inevitability, influenced by many factors.” Irving stroked his beard contemplatively. “Perhaps even the same factors.”

The Warden furrowed their brows. “So you were going to make Jowan Tranquil.”

The First Enchanter nodded once. “He was maleficar. You know the consequences.”

“You know he couldn’t have meant anything malicious by it,” the Warden said quickly, eyes wide and pleading. “Jowan, he—he never thinks things through. He was insecure, that’s all. He thought blood magic would—”

“I am aware that a sense of competition in the Circle—whether real or perceived—breeds such temptations as to seek out forbidden magics.” Irving waved his hand over the campfire, and the Warden swore it burned just a bit brighter. “I know Jowan felt as though he were… a disappointment. I am certain his actions were that of an insecure, jealous boy, not a cruel-spirited maleficar. Envy is powerful.” Irving looked at them with that piercing look like he was about to continue that thought, hesitated, then sighed. “But the Chantry does not care one whit whether Jowan acted out of malice or insecurity. He had proven himself dangerous even before his escape. He would have been made Tranquil, regardless.” Irving shook his head grimly. “Perhaps, if things were different…”

The Warden fiddled with the ring on their middle finger, the one they were given after their Harrowing. “I… understand.” Yet knowing that there was little they could have done was almost worse.

“Jowan knew the consequences of practicing blood magic,” Irving said with a sense of finality, “even if there is injustice to be found in Kinloch Hold.”

The Warden sighed. “I feel sorry for that initiate, Lily. She had no idea he was a blood mage, yet she paid the heaviest price.”

“Their relationship was forbidden as much as blood magic is.”

“I know,” the Warden said, “but Aeonar? The mage prison?” If the Warden hadn’t known him for years, they would mistake his convinced attitude for a laissez-faire one. “You can’t justify that. Even Greagoir could tell she wasn’t Jowan’s thrall.”

Irving shook his head with something that was not quite sadness, but not dismissive of Lily’s plight, either. “No. But, collateral though she was, she proved to be valuable.”

The Warden’s stomach sank at his wording. Valuable? They scrutinized Irving’s face, but it was unreadable.

“What do you mean, ‘valuable collateral?’” they asked slowly.

“There is little that goes on in the Tower that I do not know about.” The Warden raised a brow and thought, Was Uldred part of that “little” you didn’t know about? But Irving gestured to them, continuing, “Tell me, how did Lily discover that Jowan would undergo the Rite of Tranquility?”

The Warden tilted their head toward the sky in thought. “She said she had found the signed papers. She saw them on Greagoir’s—”

Terrible realization struck them. Their eyes snapped to him, mouth parted.

“You.” They fought the urge to point at him. “You planted the documents on Greagoir’s desk for her to find.”

“Astute as always,” Irving praised sincerely, but the Warden’s eyes were wide and incredulous.

“You led them into a trap.”

“As I said before, both were already engaging in forbidden acts. But had I simply reported them, the Chantry would have defended Lily, claiming she was a thrall and absolving her of any consequences. She needed to be caught red-handed.” Irving’s eyes were bright, fiery. “I do not take pleasure in the outcome, but if one of my mages is to be doomed to Tranquility or worse, then one of the Chantry’s priestesses must face the consequences of her own misconduct. I refuse to let the Chantry pretend their disciples are above suspicion while regarding my mages with distrust for their Maker-given gifts.”

Irving was fiercely intelligent, politically minded, and right. They knew he was right, and yet… They looked back down at their ring, remembering Lily’s kind earnestness. They hadn’t known her for long, yet she had thanked them for their help before Jowan did. She didn’t seem to care that he was a mage, either, despite the Chantry’s teachings. Their relationship had been forbidden and borne of infatuation, but it was not worthy of Aeonar, whether she was a maleficar’s accomplice or not. And Jowan—foolish, foolish Jowan, who could barely light a candle with his magic…

The Warden didn’t know what to think.

“I know it is a lot to take in.” Irving rested his hand on their shoulder. It felt cold, even through their armor. “Jowan was your friend, and you were trying to help a friend in need. I do not hold it against you.” He smiled a little. “A ‘bleeding heart,’ as it were, is an admirable thing to possess.”

The Warden nodded absently. Their mind was still whirling.

Irving stroked his beard again. “While I wish you would have come to me when you discovered Jowan and Lily’s plan, it took a great deal of compassion and strength to help them. I know that is what Duncan saw in you, even if you had broken a novel’s worth of the Circle’s rules in the process.” Irving laughed. “I told him you had a rebellious streak, and I’m not sure he believed me when you first greeted him, all politeness and hospitality.”

The Warden swallowed, shoving back their racing thoughts. They would sort through it another time. They mustered their most collected voice: “When you introduced us, I wondered what you’d said about me to him. I’m glad to hear they were good things… assuming a ‘rebellious streak’ and a ‘bleeding heart’ are good things to have.”

Irving nodded sagely. “A rebellious nature can be a double-edged blade. Challenging the status quo too much hardens those around you to change, but never challenging it breeds stagnation. It is a difficult balance to strike.”

The Warden wondered how Jowan’s escape and Uldred’s takeover would affect the status quo in the Circle. Would the Circle finally have meaningful discussions about the treatment of mages, or would they clamp down even further? The Warden gestured to Irving. “You have personal experience, I take it.”

Irving laughed. “Child, that is what it means to be First Enchanter.”

They allowed themself to smile a bit. “Were you a rebellious apprentice?”

He looked into the fire affectionately. “I got into my share of trouble. Weaseling in and out of mischief; seeing what I could get away with; pestering the harsh templars and befriending the more reasonable ones, like Greagoir… Not unlike yourself.”

The Warden fought a grin, but—“Befriending templars? I’m afraid we differ there.” The Warden tried to sound confused.

Did he know about…? Would Cullen get in trouble if…?

“Oh?” Irving combed his fingers through his beard. “I was under the impression that a certain young templar was quite fond of you. Oh, what was his name…?” He looked with a knowing smile at them, waiting for them to give it up.

Annoyed, they said, “So you knew.”

“As I said, child: there is little that goes on in the Tower that I do not know about.”

“Fraternization between templars and mages is forbidden,” they shot back, “so why didn’t you tell Greagoir?”

“There are problems in the Tower bigger than a budding friendship between a mage and a templar,” Irving waved a hand flippantly, “namely blood mages, as you know.” Yet he was looking at them with a pointed look in his eyes—the same pointed look as when he justified throwing Lily to the blight wolves.

“The Tower could be packed to the Harrowing Chamber with blood mages and templars would still find time to scold us for taking a little too long in the latrines.” The Warden crossed their arms. “Templars need to be ready at a moment’s notice to cut us down if we are possessed. There can’t be room for hesitation. Cut the horseshit.”

Irving blinked. “Watch your tongue,” he said, but he sounded surprised, as if he’d scolded their foul language on instinct. He stayed silent for a moment as he collected his words, opened his mouth, then sighed.

“You are correct,” Irving started, “that mage-templar friendships can be risky, due to the inherent dangers of being a mage. I assure you, however, the risk was calculated: I knew you would not fail your Harrowing, just as I knew that Cullen was—is—one of the most devoted and earnest templars in Kinloch Hold—”

The Warden cut across him, “A ‘calculated risk?’ What do you—”

Again, Irving held up a hand; again, their mouth snapped shut.

He continued, “As I was saying, I looked the other way because I believe some kinship between mages and templars can benefit the culture of the Tower.”

“We’re one mage and one templar,” the Warden said dryly.

Amusement twinkled in Irving’s eye. “And there is not a single apprentice in the Tower who has not heard rumors about Cullen’s hopeless infatuation with you.”

The Warden’s face went hot. “Rumors. Like you said.”

Irving laughed brightly at the obviousness of the lie. The Warden cleared their throat and continued, “Anyhow, I fail to see how that ‘benefits the culture of the Tower.’ Unless you think gossip boosts morale.”

Irving was chuckling again as he said, “Maker, no. Gossip already crosses one side of the Tower to the other in minutes.” He shook his head, sobering. “No. The truth is, Kinloch Hold would be a much more oppressive place had it not been fortunate enough to have a knight-commander at the masthead who is least somewhat sensitive to mages’ needs, thanks to his long-standing friendship with the First Enchanter.”

The Warden’s stomach fell inch by inch as they parsed his meaning. One part of them could have cried out of joy; the other part was thrown off-kilter. Unsettled.

They swallowed past the dryness in their mouth. “You wanted me to be First Enchanter and Cullen to be Knight-Commander one day.”

And look how you botched his plans, sneered a small voice in the darkest corner of their mind.

Irving nodded. “I believed you and Cullen at the head of the Circle would be a secure future for the mages in Ferelden. I see much of myself in you.” He looked at them again with fondness and warmth. The Warden’s heart clenched painfully as they knew what he’d say next: “And I have come to see you as my own.”

The Warden knew the bonds between mentors and apprentices often became familial, but they still blushed, moved, despite the growing sick feeling. “I’m honored.” They paused, then added quietly, “And you are the closest thing to a father I have ever had.”

Irving blew out a breath. “My condolences, child.”

They both laughed quietly. A stick snapped in the fire, sending a flurry of sparks upward into the night sky. The Warden watched them float up, a thick knot in their chest loosening for the first time in weeks.

But not completely.

The smile that lingered on the Warden’s face faltered when they thought about Jowan and Lily again. Maker, they should just accept that Irving was right—he was always right—but they couldn’t get the way Lily’s face paled when Greagoir sentenced her to Aeonar out of their head. Irving may have been a surrogate father to them, but Jowan was their brother and friend.

Most of their fondest memories in the Tower were with Jowan. Their earliest memory with him was how he had given them an excited piggyback ride after they had cast their first minor spell. They had mastered basic healing spells far sooner than their peers because of how often he would injure himself while doing magic; they’d tut and shake their head while he complained about how much it stung. And they snickered every time they recalled how Jowan once fired a spitball on a dare and struck a particularly stuffy templar right between the eyes, as if there’d been a bull’s eye there. They had tried to sweet talk the templar down from furious yelling to spare Jowan of punishment, but all it did was ensure that they got punished, too. They scoured pots with Jowan for a whole week. Jowan still preened when they brought it up. “And I did that without magic!” he would say, chest puffed.

And what they had with Cullen—a kind, earnest friendship, though still budding and awkward and tempered with infatuation on Cullen’s part… Irving saw it. He saw it, and began honing it to fit his political goals, well-intentioned though they were. He couldn’t let a precious thing be. He just had to make it about the good of the Maker-damned Circle.

Not that it mattered anymore. Judging by the wild look of disgust and fear that Cullen had given them as they departed, he would never speak to any mage again.

The Warden crossed their arms as if they were hugging themself. Every moment they had spent reveling in Irving’s flattery—in the realization that he saw them as his own, in his forgiveness for aiding Jowan and Lily—made the pit of their gut crawl with dark shame. It felt like their relief was betraying Jowan, wherever he was; disregarding Lily, who had to be well in Aeonar; and weaponizing their friendship with Cullen.

Maker, if Sten cleaved them in two with his greatsword, it still wouldn’t do justice to how torn they felt.

“One day,” Irving’s voice startled them; he was looking over his shoulder, in the direction of the Tower, “this open wound will close.” He nodded once with finality, and the Warden knew the conversation was over—sealed firmly shut, like he hoped the wound would be in time, and how they were unsure if it ever would be.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #mage warden #the warden #surana #amell #first enchanter irving #irving #fanfiction #broken circle #cullen rutherford #circle politics #mentor and apprentice #the chantry sucks thx for coming to my ted talk #dipping my toe into dragon age fanfic lol hello there

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builder051 · 1 year ago

Text

Happy Christmas (war is over)

Chasing Ghosts

————————

WARNINGS: firstly, this is one of those stories that has practically no action, but there’s a ton of content in somebody’s head. It also has pretty much every trigger in the book, but 99% of them are tiny mentions. Actual tws for talk of graphic violence (war setting), mental health talk inc depression and short mention of eating disorders. Also emeto. Dirty jokes. Basically you know what comes with the territory.

—————————-

Steve’s done it again. He’s gone and made Christmas eve a merry affair. He can pretend it’s for all of their benefit, but the indulgence is purely his own.

Tasha’s in as decent a mood as she can, nursing only one cracked toenail from her final Nutcracker fill-in.

James, who never understood the pre-holiday excitement, now uses his political science textbook as a lap table. A childhood without Santa and a career granting as little leave as possible left him at an impasse. Floating around and forgetting the day of the week would cause him more stress than relaxation, so an intersession class it was. It felt like an unacknowledged compromise. His body would be home for break, but there’d be a plausible reason hime to hole up and keep his head down.

The speakers on the television emit a jumbled mix of Mannheim Steamroller and Irving Berlin. James has his aids turned low, but he’s still grateful Mariah Carey been excised from the playlist.

“That’s not a real Christmas song,” Steve had explained when he quickly thumbs-downed her song on the playlist. There had been a warm kind of silent agreement after that.

Wham!’s “Last Christmas” brought up more of a debate. “It’s, like, canon?” Steve had offered timidly.

“Only because it was written before you were born,” Tasha said with a laugh. She could’ve mentioned that none of them had come into the world yet by 1983, but with her choice phrasing, the statement seemed simultaneously very wise and very naive.

“It’s about sex,” James had added irritably, as if it was a fact he was reading aloud from his book. He wanted to open it up again. He’d stopped in the middle of a chapter, much to his disgruntlement.

“Everything’s about sex…” Tasha had sighed. “I mean. The Nutcracker’s a fucking pedophile…”

“We are not having a discussion about dirty fairy tales,” James stated with finality.

It took a moment for everyone to breathe, then the tension began to melt again, perhaps with help from the dancing flame atop Steve’s balsam scented candle.

Once it’s clear they all had both motivation and ability to keep peace, Steve goes into the kitchen to warm eggnog and pour out caramel popcorn. As he distributes the goodies back in the living room, he shoots James a look. “It’s, like, I added the rum to the whole thing…”

James hates it when Tasha takes her drinks and drugs home with her. He has a cold, uncharitable thought stashed at the back of his mind; if Tash dropped dead somewhere, anywhere, so long as it was out of the house, he wouldn’t be liable. Within the confines of the, apartment though… “Eh,” James shrugs. “Spirit of the season,” he grumbles. Then, to Tasha, “No crushed up pills or shit overnight, you hear?”

“Sure…” Tasha un-crams herself from the corner of the sofa and limps back toward the kitchen.

“I can get—“ Steve calls, half-rising from his seat.

“I got it…” Tasha digs in the fridge for a moment, then returns gripping a bag of unwashed celery stalks.

“Hey,” James starts to admonish.

“You said no dirty fairy tales, no sex songs, and no snorting Xanax.” Tasha holds the celery as if it were a club she’d use to hit him. “You haven’t outlawed anything else.” She wads her body cross legged against the arm of the sofa, pulls a stalk of celery from the bag, then uses it as an unnecessary swizzle stick for her eggnog.

James rolls his eyes. His desire to express irritation wraps around and consumes what could’ve been silence for Steve’s sake. L He can’t help himself, though. “Shit, Tasha. Why? Just, fucking why?”

Tasha looks down at the thick miniature tree garnishing her beverage. She holds it between finger and thumb, then moves her tongue seductively through the divet where the most eggnog and cinnamon have gathered. She points the dripping celery stalk at James. “You ever been sucked that good?”

“My god.” James shakes his head, which he hadn’t realized was throbbing. The movement set it off, maybe. Or his growing fury. “Sorry about her, Steve. If you don’t want to watch, we can just go to bed.”

“Oh,” Steve hesitates. “It’s ok.”

“See?” Tasha looks smugly at James. “I’m just offsetting calories,” she says, as if her intention wasn’t already clear.

“And I assume you’re just out of innuendos, too?” James means it to be a warning. He’s had a few sips of his own eggnog, though, and he hopes his vocal cords haven’t relaxed enough to edge his authoritative aggression down to something more like childish bickering.

“Never.” Tasha dips her celery again, licks off the eggnog, then holds it to her lip like a cigar.

“That’s… great.” James stands and starts chugging the rest of his eggnog. He raises his book and points it in the direction of the bedroom down the hall. He’ll be reading in bed if needs him.

“Sure, yeah.” Steve nods to James, still playing it cool. His desire not to take sides is beginning to freeze him, though. The robotic head tilt. The canned laughter.

James has his last gulp of eggnog in his mouth, and he’s trying to decide whether to put his mug in the sink or whether to take it with him to make the flight to the bedroom quicker. It ends up not mattering, though. Steve says something, and James’s mug cracks in two as it hits the floor.

“Maybe I should’ve made you a bloody mary.”

It’s a joke. It’s nothing to do with James. It’s about the stupid celery sticks. It’s one of Steve’s weaker attempts to clear the air.

James slaps his hand over his mouth to keep more than just eggnog from spilling back up. His vision goes shiny around the edges. He can’t see a thing…

James barely makes out olive green fatigues. The pixilated beige that actually served as camouflage was perpetually in the laundry. Off time was marked with untucked white t shirts and dark trousers with the cuffs rolled up and waistbands rolled down.

James he hears the laughter. Smells the booze. Tastes the extra sugar and food dye that taint what would’ve been perfectly good sugar cookies. The falseness of the holiday spirit mingles with the flavor of grocery-store frosting and sets an ache in his teeth.

“Hey, you shot me!”

James jumped and whipped his head around. Active shooter? Immediate evacuation?

It was a kid, completely plastered and stumbling. He was probably early in his tour and still unfamiliar with the hazy line between gallows humor and the taboo. James should’ve given him the benefit of the doubt. Should have swallowed his anger and ruined only his own holiday.

The spitball soaked in lake red #40 had stuck in the center of the kid’s chest, sending brightly colored dribbles all down his front. The expansion of the stain was far too pale and pinkish to mistake for actual blood, but the kid played it like a fool.

“Oh you fucker! I’m dying! You killed me!”

James, khaki-clad and with seven minutes remaining on his shift, grabbed the kid by the shoulders of his shirt and pinned him against a tent pole.

James doesn’t remember his exact words. They were probably along the lines of “you ever taken a real bullet before?” Then he’d wielded a fist and clocked him in the throat.

The kid fell to the side, gasping, but James’s grip held him upright. Somebody came up from behind and tried yanking James off the kid, but he backhanded whoever it was without turning his head.

“Friendly fire! It was just a stupid—Just a—“

The voice came out slurred and muffled. The back of James’s hand was sticky with blood and stinging around the knuckles. He’d definitely caught teeth.

Then the kid laughed. He peeked over James’s shoulder and offered his attacker-cum-defender a peace pact and a couple more Budweiser. “Beer’s all I got, but with your lip all fucked up, call it a bloody mary—“

James could’ve murdered them both. Really, truly killed them. His weapon was holstered on his hip. His right hand was already heading that direction. He didn’t need to hear this shit. These dumbasses didn’t need to be among the ranks of America’s finest, not with these stupid, drunken jokes. A bloody lip was nothing. Nothing to watching a fellow soldier explode and suddenly having a face full of lacerated brain matter. James had learned hard and early that alcohol is less a mask and more a mirror.

A buddy from James’s platoon mistook the assault as 2 on 1 with James as the target. A rough reminder to punch his timecard before he punched another soldier broke James’s bubble of violent thought. He wiped his bloody hand across the spitball stain on the kid’s chest, then walked away to do his proper duty.

No one reported him, it being Christmas eve and all. Assault, fighting, taking action in rage, cheating the Army out of seven minutes’ good labor… James could be reprimanded for any and all of them. Probably should be. Residual anger bubbled in James’s gut, creating an excess of bile seeping up from the back of his tongue.

He can’t remember how much time had passed, but eventually James heard someone shuffling around outside his tent. Then there was retching.

James’s mouth filled with saliva. He couldn’t swallow. He could barely move. Using every reserve of energy he had, James grasped the tent’s entrance flap and vomited heavily into the sand. He barely caught a breath before retching violently again.

Multiple minutes passed before James could get a grip on himself. He wanted to cry; he was glad to be expelling something other than tears.

Eventually the other unfortunate soul trudged around the corner and headed to the next bunkhouse over from Jame’s. It was the stupid kid, still wearing the shirt soiled with koolaid and blood and now sick. James swept tent’s the canvas cover back over himself. He wouldn’t be able to stand eye contact. One or the other would be eating a bullet this time. Only this time, James’s weapon was stored securely beside his cot.

James is largely unaware of Steve easing him onto his knees. He catches a glimpse of Tasha’s feet, then her hands as she pulls shards of china from the carpet.

“It’s ok,” Steve’s voice intones. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

“I’m fine,” James splutters. It’s an automatic response; both Steve and Tasha know to take no stock in it. James breathes in the balsam scented air. He separates the tastes of cream and bile and rum. He shakily wipes at his nose and mouth. James’s hand comes away sticky and red-streaked. It’s nothing major; a scrape or pressure sore releasing more bodily fluid to add to the mess. He swallows experimentally, and harsh, stinging reflux makes him gag all over again.

“Alright.” Steve pats James’s shoulder. “Want to try the bathroom?”

James presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He shakes his head, but the meaning of the question hasn’t yet penetrated. He has half a mind to stick his fingers down his throat. James squints into the mess of sick he’s made on the living room floor, and there, plainly, is the thin bloody rivulet that’s departed his body.

His spirit must be dead. Or maybe his body. James has to have passed into some dimensional void where injury starts to mean nothing. Flashes of hopelessness displace James’s blurry vision again. Playing fast and loose with his benzos fresh out of the VA. Tasha missing her graduation party to receive CPR whilst en route to get her stomach pumped. Headphones blaring death metal into his ears as he passed the car in the driveway, then stood gaping as the foster dad jumped out of the driver’s side and zipping his pants while a girl from his school tore in the other direction, her skirt tucked into her underwear.

It’s too much. It’s going to crush him. James can’t feel his body. He can’t feel his face. He wonders if he’s been dosed with Haldol. Is his brain going to shut off too? Should it? Would that give him blessed relief at last?

It’s only when Steve shifts James’s head more securely onto his shoulder that he realizes tears are pouring from his eyes. He never does this. It’s just making more mess.

“It’s probably a migraine,” Tasha supplies. There’s a shrug written in her tone.

“James?” Steve probes. “How are you feeling?”

Worse than dead doesn’t seem like an appropriate response. James settles with, “I don’t know.”

It’s true enough. James’s life has been wrought with obstacles, with pain, with too much knowledge, too much experience, too much feeling. He’s fucked. Completely. He was battle worn before he’d left for his first deployment.

And now he’s left with, what exactly? An overly doting boyfriend. An obnoxious little sister. A candle that has no right to smell so good. Kate Smith’s voice warbling about silver bells. The fuck do bells have to do with Christmas, anyway?

Nothing. They have no more importance than political science, demented ballets, or songs about sex.

As James lets Steve help him to his feet, he tries to let go. The more sick, the more tears, the better. James sniffles, and something hot and metallic flows from his sinus cavity down his throat. He coughs, and his tight muscles relax by half a degree.

A migraine. A nosebleed. A flashback. The cause is no longer important. It’s how he’s going to go on afterward.

#sickfic #marvel #mcu #fanfic #emeto #captain america #fanfiction #chasing ghosts #steve rogers #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #christmas #flashback #headache #violence #operation iraqi freedom #alcohol #ed tw

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strawberryseeded · 1 year ago

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Whenever I see people talking about AI art replacing writers, visual artists, or any other kind of artist I honestly do get very worried. But also, I can't help but think that people who want and are pushing for this to happen just don't understand just how complex and human art is. Machines don't really create art, they imitate it. They can only imitate it, because no matter how good at pretending they are, machines don't really understand what they are creating/producing. They do not understand what art is (they can give you a definition of it, but they themselves don't understand the words), and, more importantly, what its purpose or value is. They just don't. We are giving them too much credit by thinking they do... Or, no, okay. Correction: We are giving human brains too little credit thinking machines can replace them.

"What is the format of the Encyclopedia one should give to a machine so that it may write (and understand) Aesop-like fables?

In their program Tale-Spin, [Roger Schank and Peter Childers] first started with asmall-scale Encyclopedia: the computer was told how—given a set of problematic situations—a bear might plan toget some honey.

At the beginning of the computer trials, Joe Bear asked Irving Bird where he could find some honey, and Irving replied that “there was a beehive in the oak tree.” But in one of the early stories generated by the computer, Joe Bear became miffed because he thought Irving hadn’t answered him. In fact, his encyclopedic competence lacked the information that at times you can indicate the location of food by using metonymy—that is, by naming the source instead of the food itself. Proust praised Flaubert for writing that Madame Bovary drew near the fireplace and for considering it unnecessary to tell his readers that she was cold. Moreover, Flaubert took it for granted that his readers would know a fireplace produces warmth. In contrast, Schank and Childers realized that they had to be more explicit with a computer, and they supplied it with information on the relationship of food to its source. But when Irving Bird repeated that there was a beehive in the oak tree, Joe Bear walked over to the oak tree and ate the whole beehive. His Encyclopedia was still incomplete: the difference between source as a container and source as an object still had to be explained to him, because “finding a refrigerator will do when you are hungry [only] if you know you have to look inside it, and not eat it. None of this is obvious to a machine.”

Another unforeseen incident occurred when the machine was told how to use certain means to obtain certain ends (for example, “if a character wants some object, then one option he has is to try bargaining with the object’s owner”). And so this happened:

Joe Bear was hungry. He asked Irving Bird where some honey was. Irving refused to tell him, so Joe offered to bring him a worm if he’d tell him where some honey was. Irving agreed. But Joe didn’t know where any worms were, so he asked Irving, who refused to say. So Joe offered to bring him a worm if he’d tell him where a worm was. Irving agreed. But Joe didn’t know where any worms were, so he asked Irving, who refused to say. So he offered to bring him a worm if he’d tell him where a worm was . . .

To avoid this loop, the computer had to be told “not to give a character a goal if he already has it [that is, if he’s already attempted it without success] but to try something else.” But even these instructions caused problems, because they interacted badly with later information—for example, “If a character is hungry and sees some food, he will want to eat it. If a character is trying to get some food and fails, he will get sick from the lack of food.”

Here is a story that the computer came up with. Bill Fox saw Henry Crow sitting on a branch and holding a piece of cheese in his mouth. Bill was hungry and obviously wanted to eat the cheese, so he persuaded Henry Crow to sing. Henry opened his mouth and the cheese fell to the ground. Once the cheese was on the ground, Bill saw it again and should, under normal circumstances, have wanted to eat it. But the computer had been instructed not to give a character the same goal twice, so Bill could not satisfy his hunger and got sick. Too bad for Bill. But what happened to Henry Crow?

Henry Crow saw the cheese on the ground, and he became hungry, but he knew that he owned the cheese. He felt pretty honest with himself, so he decided not to trick himself into giving up the cheese. He wasn’t trying to deceive himself, either, nor did he feel competitive with himself, but he remembered that he was also in a position of dominance over himself, so he refused to give himself the cheese. He couldn’t think of a good reason why he should give himself the cheese [if he did that, he’d lose the cheese], so he offered to bring himself a worm if he’d give himself the cheese. That sounded okay, but he didn’t know where any worms were. So he said to himself, “Henry, do you know where any worms are?” But of course, he didn’t, so he . . . [and so on].

You really have to know a lot to read a fable. But however much Schank and Childers had to teach their computer, they didn’t have to tell it where the rue Servandoni was. The world of Joe Bear was always a small world.

In order to read a work of fiction, one must have some notion of the economic criteria that rule the fictional world. The criteria aren’t there—or rather, as in every hermeneutic circle, they have to be presupposed even as you are trying to infer them from the evidence of the text. For this reason, reading is like a bet. You bet that you will be faithful to the suggestions of a voice that is not saying explicitly what it is suggesting."

(Eco, Umberto, (1994), Six Walks in the Fictional Woods)

#idk if i did the citation format right..o.o #chatgpt #di4ry

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jeaneybean · 2 years ago

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In tonight’s session:

-The group heads to a town there were pointed out to that Vera’;s childhood pastor is in, to go murder the shit out of him in a legal way

-Before they leave their current city, Vera goes into a church of Mal and sits for service and is very werided out on how very normal it is. The lesson she learns? She grew up in a cult. -’Yeah, I thought every congregation of Mal had to change houses every week because outsiders would persecute them, and my one uncle had a worship room behind a sliding book case and- oh my god I grew up in a cult.’

-'Hey Vera, you were in the middle of your cult rant. Is this halberd nice?’ ‘oh that’s really nice.’ Oz has again used the party’s gold to fabricate an item for Vera to sell to people for way too much money. It’s fine. We like gold

-Bip gets a letter from his pen friend, Count Von Rothrine. They have nice talkies. Vera gets a letter from Coot, the brass progenetor. Coot is like ‘hey I don’t know who made that ring, also, my post office is not dealing with any more mail for anton bellek. So his runin didn’t go well.

-We travel across Duermond so that Irving’s magic items can get done and so that Havilah can do a tour across the country and earn more money, stopping in the town where Seigfried is. We head up to the house and Isskol smells undead, for sure. So back to the caravan we go.

-we come back to make an apointment to meet Seigfried and Bip already is. So he gets a slot before hte party, vera makes one (And gets the butler to agree to let their ‘horse’ come in the house) and bip makes a second apointment after.

-Vera asks Volya if he wants to come along to watch the party murder their old cult leader, he agrees that sounds great. We work out when we’re going to go, and Bip has a response from Count Von V about his letter agian, where Count Von V tells Bip he likely knew the shadow of cruelty. The party talks for a while about who the shadow could be, and eventually the talk turns to an old party member from bafck in the early days of hte party, Jilly Jimbo, a hafling bard. But he disapeared after a certian point.

-A point that Vera has a very different recolection than the other early party members. She remembers him being there when they got Oz, he was the one who bent down so that Jake could trip Oz’s master down the stairs. And he was with Oz and Vera making fun of Havilah when Havilah brought the donkey into the Inn and the Inkeepers though he was gonna fuck it. He was there when Havilah was bitten by the werewolf, trying to pry it off him. He was there helping with the perform check to aid Havilah into beating lycanthropy.

-But she also remembers at the same time: No he wasn’t there when Jake pushed the man down the stairs. There was nothing there. It was just her and Oz making fun of Havilah in that wagon. She was the one desperatly trying to shove her hands into the werewolves mouth to save Havilah. She’s got two sets of memories jumbling in her head. Bip uses detect thoughts to look at her memories, and then over to Havilah to compare. The man in Vera’s memories is the same one that Bip remembers, the Shadow of Cruelty. But he’s not in Havilah’s memories.

-”It was the chair” A few weeks ago, Vera, Bip, and Irving destroyed a chair made up of modify memory arrows that Bip had made and were made into a mind altring chair. However, they destroyed it by breaking the chair when Bip temporarily dispelled the magic on it. When the dispel magic wore off, the chair exploded, hitting Vera and Bip and Irving (But magic doesn’t effect him he’s fine) with arrows. But they were fine. Their memories were fine.

-(You dispell modify memory by a second casting of it)

-Oz meanwhile is using a weird spell to use a spell he doesn’t know, modify memory. And he remembers Jilly too. So now Oz is P I S S E D and uses the spell again to use sending, and after a moment of thought he sends it to Lady Angathel. The highest level Bard we know, a level 20+ character we met very early in our adventures. He sends her a very simple message. “You helped us once. Convince me to be kind.” Her response is equally short, basically: “I had to stop you from chasing shadows.” Oz is not convinced and is now planning some awful stuff for Lady Angathel that Vera will likely convince him not to do.

-Oz once more does his weird spell and returns Havilah’s memories. The party continues to freak out for a while more, with Volya inside his wagon like ‘bruhhhh’ before Vera’s like WELL AT LEAST WE GET TO GO KILL MY CULT LEADER TONIGHT

-head over. Greet the butler. Get let in, no problem. Vera and Volya get brought into another room to meet with Seigfried. The party’s offered booze, but Vera advises against it because if it’s anything like what her father liked, it’ll be rancid.

-(Seiger kept the body of his first wife in a whisky cask int he basment and he fucking served that liquor to people he didn’t like)

-There’s blood in the whisky. Iskoll likes it.

-Meanwhile Vera and Volya vibe and wait in the room. But it isn’t Seigfried that walks in. It’s Seiger Medvedev, their dad. A man Vera was positive that had died a year ago- But she hadn’t stayed around to make sure he had, had she? She’d left the courthouse with Allahandra to walk her back because Allahandra Fell, and Vera felt it would’ve been better to walk back with a Sister than to stay and watch the man she hated (and so desperately loved and wanted to be loved by) puff into dust.

-Brightly, delighted: “Oh, time for round two?”

#The idiots do a adventure

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crows-of-buckets · 6 months ago

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I have Ideas for puffing 2 wardens in one world state.... Okay hear me out

So the whole idea started with like. I wanted to make an Amell. And then I remembered that out of all the origins, Amell/Surana are the only ones that seem to not exist outside of their origin. By that I mean if you pick Amell, Surana has no mention and vice versa (they are mentioned elsewhere in other origin runs i think idk its been two years since my Mahariel run)

And THEN I had the idea of like. Both of them helping Jowan escape, and therefore both becoming wardens together. And of course, like I usually do, I had to find SOME way to make this about Aviae.

So, I decided that she had an Amell tagging along with her. As of right now his name is Wolfe (he's a shape shifter /blood mage. When Morrigan offered to teach him to shapeshift he decided to be the funniest bitch ever. His main form is a wolf. Who would have thought) , and in general he just. He's just there for the ride man. If he was the one forced to be the hero of Fereldan, Fereldan would be FUCKED because he would have just gotten high and taken a nap lmao. Generally his moral compass is "whatever lets me leave here fastest" (although he has big no no's on slavery and killing children. Most else is free game. Also generally against mass murder for no reason, but he can be swayed) Despite his general laid back nature, he fucking HATES Alistair. He finds his "whininess" exhausting, and wishes he would just DO something about his damn circumstances. If he doesn't want to be king, put his foot down. Say no. Run away. Something. Stop moping around and just fucking do the thing. While Wolfe hates doing things, he hates doing things inefficiently more. He's the type of guy who would skip every damn side quest just to beat the game faster yk?

Generally he gets along well with everyone else though. He's insanely loyal to Aviae, mostly because he's just glad he's not the one in charge lmao. The two become a bit codependent on each other after ostagar because they're the only ones who really get each other yk? Before they became wardens, they were not close at all. Friend of a friend type of thing; they would occasionally hang out because of Jowan, but they didn't really talk. When Irving caught them, originally Duncan was only gonna recruit Aviae, but she practically forced him to recruit Wolfe as well. He recognizes that she quite literally saved him from being made tranquil lmao. The entire blight they're attached at the hip; to his great displeasure Aviae brings him EVERYWHERE. Every stupid errand, every stupid battle he is there. He does get a break at Orzammar, which he is eternally grateful for (not really. She took Zevran with her so now he has to deal with all the people that he doesn't like. At least Morrigan is there, and Alistair isn't)

For Morrigan, he likes her well enough to call her a friend. He's head over heels for Zevran. Hot accent, pretty face AND he's an assassin? What more do you want in a man. He thinks Leliana is crazy as shit, but he still enjoys her company and stories. He thinks Sten is "a bit of a dick". The two don't talk much. Shale scares the piss out of him. Aviae agreeing to recruit her was one of the few times Wolfe actually spoke out about her decision because what the FUCK. He stays on the opposite end of camp he is NOT getting crushed by a golem thank you very much. He wishes Wynne would cool it on the lectures about blood magic (he didn't like her when he was an apprentice and he likes her even less now). Oghren stinks. That's all he has to say about him really.

Despite Morrigan trying to get him to do the dark ritual, he refuses so Alistair still ends up doing it. Why does he refuse? Because his plan was to just make Alistair be the one to sacrifice himself. It was such a good plan too he was gonna make sure him and Aviae were standing back while Alistair did the stabby bits. No room for error. None, whatsoever! He is extremely disappointed when Alistair survived the battle.

After origins, him Aviae and Zevran travel together for a time. After about a month or two Aviae leaves to be the Warden Commander in amaranthine. Wolfe however, stays with Zevran. Eventually the two have to split, so he does make his way to Amaranthine, except it's right when the Mother attacks Vigil's Keep. Since Aviae defended Amaranthine, Vigil's Keep still falls; however, he does manage to keep Sigrun and Velanna from perishing in the battle (here's how the Amaranthine crew can be happy and alive-)

When Aviae runs off looking for Morrigan, Wolfe takes over her Warden Commander duties. He thinks it's a much more temporary scenario than it ends up being (if he knew Aviae was gonna run off with Morrigan, he would have made Nathaniel do it). He, however, is shit at this job. Too much work for too little reward, plus he doesn't remember half the shit he needs to be doing. This is how the templars end up getting to Anders under his watch; Wolfe may not have been close with Anders, he does feel he owes it to Aviae to keep him from being killed. Which he is doing a very poor job of, might I add.

Eventually Aviae does return to her Warden Commander duties briefly, and he steps down and joins back up with Zevran. Eventually Nathaniel takes over Aviae's duties while she's not there (which is VERY often)

The two don't reunite until a few years down the line, when Aviae approaches him about searching for a calling. He agrees to help her, since Zevran has unfinished crow business to settle at the time, and the two go searching for a calling together

For other things that happen in canon, I think he drank Avernus's mixture. In my latest run Aviae did it, however the more I think about it the less sense it makes for her to do so. Shes extremely fade sensitive, so any kind of blood magic would fuck with her connection to the fade, and her ability to do spirit healing. However, those damn spells CARRIED my ass, so someone needs to have them. Wolfe figures "how bad could it be?" And downs the whole bottle. I think he would side with the Dalish (maybe he tries to make a peace between them, but it's so much WORK. Killing werewolves is more work though), Sides with the mages (he knows those people, he can't just let them die), Doesn't really give a shit about orzammar politics (Aviae sides with Bhelen, so he just follows her lead). If Aviae wasn't there, he would have had Jowan kill Isolde. He wouldn't have made a deal with the demon, because Connor is a Child. He learns blood magic from Jowan before they leave Redcliffe; Alistair bitches about it and Wolfe wants to make his insides explode. They do not get along at all it's funny. I actually really like Alistair however this guy I made wants him dead so bad

So yeah I think that's all I got. A lot of this will probably change since I literally just made this dude today lmao. Bonus for reading my yapping, here's a drawing I did of him earlier

#dragon age #oc: wolfe amell #oc: aviae surana #worldstate: mage rights #wolfe amell 🤝 lucio hawke #blood mages from the same family #like i said a decent bit of this may change #but as of right now im being self indulgent lmao #its MY worldstate and i can do what i want with it #generally aviae is still the only one called the hero of Fereldan #because she did all the heavy lifting #wolfe was just there to be pretty and bat his eyelashes at zevran #my ocs

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thegrimbarbarityofoandd · 7 months ago

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Ok, after just starting the scene where Devon goes for coffee after a contraction and thinking about how very odd it all is, and trying to fit it with my theory that she is a babysitter. Maybe she’s a spy, she knows Ricken is an Eagan and is a sleeper agent and that’s why she is so into gabby and wants to go poking around over there. It still explains her being way over tolerant of Ricken being weird. Or maybe she’s being held hostage and wants info to help her and mark escape?

Her answer, during labor, to I think lumon might be up to something, from mark, is who have you been talking to?

And she exclaims during a contraction, why do people do this? Weird.

At the birth when mark is flashing back Ricken say she did so good, I’m gonna pass out. Who is he talking to? Alexa would know that, why tell her she’s the doula.

After hellys return from the hospital why is mark there? Why isn’t it someone more important and qualified if not that they are observing these guys reactions.

When asked why she sent ms Casey to monitor Helly she says the light of discovery shines truer upon a virgin meadow than a beaten path. I’m trying something new with Ms Casey. Bc Ms Casey’s innie is so young? Or bc this is a new tactic she’s using being someone mark knows on the liaise to his inside?

Now Ms Casey is wearing black/grey/white. She was wearing blue, and red.

How tf does Ms Casey know irv cares where Burt is?

Okokok. Burt telling of the joke theory that mdr have punches for their larval young, who will eventually eat and replace them?!? This is def alluding to the Eagans dusties lying dormant in at least in mdr. Maybe mdr are dusties and o and d are regulars? Dylan calls them duplicitous snakes to a one. Why would there be such beef between dusties and non dusties?

Is this Romeo and Juliet relationship meant to mirror this one more than just superficiallly?

Why is Ms Casey so scared mark and Helly got hurt on the mental health walk? Who has she lost before and what happened to them?

Upstairs wouldn’t look kindly on this, says graber to cobel, in the same convo where they make it apparent it is his job to surveil mdr. Which means, on top of them not knowing about the hanging, that nobody is watching these guys like they are watching mdr. Or, if they are, they are being just as secretive about it.

I still can’t get over that line. I thought I was being trolled the first time I heard it. I was agog. Bonded by the spirit of industry, just like these two lovebirds.

Maybe it’s an Eagan by birth vs Eagan by revolving thing?

#severance #the grim barbarity of optics and design

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making-sense-of-oversomnia · 7 months ago

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Analysis and Theory: Lucky's personality and her relationship to Irving

Since Lucky has dialogue and is featured in a number of events, there’s actually quite a bit we can say about her personality (or at least, what Irving thinks she acts like) based on how she reacts to everything!

1. Cautious

Whenever you show her any of the more violent or ‘risky’ effects, she offers words of warning. Vampirism: “Don’t do anything you’ll regret” Brimstone: “Be careful with that…” Skeleton key: “Doors are often locked for a reason, you know.” She's also not seen wandering around in the dream world at all like most other characters, and if she IS around, it's usually in a stationary location.

2. Casual, or at least on a familiar-enough basis with Irving to cast away pretenses

Formal: “No need to be formal…” Not to mention she always looks half asleep when she’s on the job at her shop. There’s a sense of nonchalance to her dialogue in general.

3. Sarcastic, fucks around (at least, that’s how I’m reading these lines, especially when you take into account the prior points)

Bellhop: “I’m not hiring at the moment. Anyways, what’s up?” Bed hair: “Good morning. What’s up?” Ice Sculpture (when transformed into a sculpture of her): “Oh? A true work of art… Anyways, what’s up?”

4. She cares about Irving and gets concerned for him, but also isn’t particularly proactive about any of it

Angler: “Doesn’t that hurt?” Brimstone: “Be careful with that…” After seeing Ending 1: “...Are you alright? You look like you’re worried about something, are you--” (she cuts herself off here) She's quick to ask concerned questions when things seem bad, but never actually follows them up with any actual advice or help beyond the usual "What's up?" In the case of effect dialogue, it could just be for the sake of gameplay brevity and getting you to the shop menu ASAP, but the way she cuts herself off with the post-ending dialogue is especially notable given her presence IN ending 1. "Are you--" what was she going to say there that she decided against saying? Does she not help him because she can't, won't, or doesn't know how to?

Lucky’s toeing a weird line where she’s easily the person who’s most helpful and there for Irving, but in every event besides her shop in the Nexus, she’s perpetually out of reach. She watches Irv drown in Ending 1, she’s inaccessible behind the fence in Dreaming Serpent’s World, she literally leaves him in the dark when she’s on the computer in the Lowest Point event and glitches out if you try to talk to her, and then she isn’t even at her shop if you go looking for her immediately after seeing that happen.

She’s always around, but always slightly out of reach.

I don't think she's malicious, nor do I think she's a bad friend. Irving's bestiary is proof enough that he's perfectly capable of vibe-checking people and places (including his friends, as seen in entry #4) and if he thought something about her was REALLY bad news, I don't think she'd be allowed to just hang out in the Nexus. That said, there's definitely something weird going on. I'm personally betting that these two got accidentally themselves into a bad situation and they haven't quite figured out how to navigate it yet. Lowest Point is clearly not pleasant for either of them, and I think whatever was on that computer is probably, to some extent, at the core of their problems.

BONUS TRAIT BECAUSE THERE WASN’T ENOUGH EVIDENCE FOR ME TO SAY IT WITH CONFIDENCE: Musician and/or perfectionist. When you show her the tuning fork, she remarks “I used to have one of those.” I don’t know what the hell she would use it for beyond possibly dream exploration of her own, or if she’s a musician. Additionally, the tuning fork's description if you try to look at it in reality is "A perfectionist memory” which could just be a fun nod to the fork's function, or it could mean something. 50/50 shot on that!!

#oversomnia #theory #lucky #entry 1 #lowest point #ending

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synonymouswithanonymous · 10 months ago

Text

New magazine interview!

I've only read the excerpt from the article so far.

I think she sounds like a well rounded, positive, intelligent woman. She had a good childhood, has great parents, been through some hard times emotionally and romantically. The emotional/romantic troubles are certainly not a fairytale story by any stretch of the imagination. Especially not to those that have had to suffer from disorders or bad (abusive) relationships. But she came through it, worked through it to find peace, love, strength, and balance in her life which has led to her now healthy relationship and more success. She stood up for her life and is winning that battle. ❤💚💜💙💛💖 wishing continued happiness for her and him. And lots of success for both.

I'm happy she has supportive people around her, from parents, friends and her boyfriend. I'm glad he has her too, bc she probably helps him too, as he also has struggles with mental health. They've both been through the proverbial wars, they know, love, and understand each other. She's right couples are a team, bc you're a unit growing together. 😊😊 love and support.

It also goes to show just bc you have a strong confidant personality, or are strong willed, that abuse can happen to anyone. Disorders can happen to anyone. Hard things can break too, or be broken.

I liked that she helped the older gentleman who had fallen. It was probably fresh on her mind since is happened the morning the interview took place. So many people would/will walk by something like that without even helping, or even making eye contact, or just filming it for their own content. I'm glad she was respectful and helpful to him. Also I'm glad she got angry bc it's not right that no one else cared enough to be bothered to help, how long had he been there? With people walking by ignoring him bleeding like he doesn't matter. But I'd bet they'd want help if it was them.

I also liked how well she described her anxiety, even with examples of her thoughts, a very vivid portrayal of how your own mind can attack you. The visuals. Her describing her having to hold her parents hand made me sad. It reminded me of Sally Klempton's words "it's hard to fight an enemy that has outposts in your head."

And I also like this quote and want to throw it in here bc I think it applies to everyone, not just us women. Her interview made me think of it. If you're not there yet, trust yourself that you will get there, even if it takes awhile.

"There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity." -w Irving (it's been attributed to several so don't know where it originally came from)

Good for her, I'm glad she's doing better now and is happy. 😊😊 And she's so pretty! I love all those pics of her.

Edited to add, read the part of the interview where she talks about AHA and their relationship. I like how she talks about challenging each other. How well they understand/process each other in a healthy way. They're imo adorable. I like how she and he did take it slow, they may have dated a few months before getting officially together. But that's normal, reasonable and responsible.

That's better than meeting, and two weeks later living together, engaged, or married lol. Like she said you can't live at 180kph and expect not to crash. So I was probably right they started as friends and it grew to more than friends, then dated and then realized it was serious. It's always good to be sure and secure in yourself before becoming a couple. She learned from past mistakes of jumping in head/heart first, and now it's worked out great for them. I'm glad she's not afraid to be in love and receive real love anymore. 💖💖

And I like how she talked about she used to feel she always had to be "on", having to be funny all the time bc she was afraid to be seen as not good enough. I'm glad she's worked through that and can just be herself and take time for herself when needed.

Also really glad they don't take strangers opinions of them seriously or let it get to them too much. It's the best way to handle it. Just ignore that and focus on themselves And their lives. I'm sure it was an adjustment for her, but he probably already knew haters would happen (like with every female acquaintance, friend, possible love interest, coworker in the past that was researched and then trashed online. Every single one). He liked that "insufferable fans" comment, which maybe means he finds it horrible and frustrating that people act like that towards him and her. I don't blame him. But I'm glad they're able to brush it off as something they can't help, and that such opinions have no bearing on reality. None of us know him or her in real life. As I've said before he knows who his GF is, good days and bad. This interview helped solidify my opinion that she's really lovely. 😊😊😊

#alex høgh andersen #johanne milland #New Interview

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hexagonalhavoc · 1 year ago

Note

Romantic with Sado, please! Reader is a another game character, weak, silent, He/Him. Not Angst

Jailbreak

Sado x Reader

You never thought you would be in the npc detention center. You didn’t even know what you did wrong. Your memories are nothing but a blur, every time you get a snippet of the past you’re greeted with more questions than answers. You can’t even remember the game you came from. You were wearing some sort of circus outfit but that didn’t help to ease your confusion. Everyone else could remember what game they came from so why couldn’t you?

You hated it here. All you could do was sit around in your cell and listen to your cellmates talk. It gave you such a headache to hear them all talk at once, screaming and banging on the blue force fields that kept them within their cells.

It wasn’t unusual to see Irving roaming the halls and acting as a warden. You doubted anyone could leave this place and he made it very clear what would happen if they tried but he still patrolled regularly to make sure no one was planning to cause trouble. He walked with one hand behind his back and the other on his earpiece. The most entertainment you got was listening to him talk to people over the earpiece and even that was boring.

“Yes I got her. There should be no evidence left that Dosa’s game ever existed.” A game being deleted? You lean closer and press your ear up to the front of your cell. Maybe you can’t remember your game because it was deleted. Irving starts to walk away from your area and it’s harder to hear what he’s saying. You can make out very few words.

“Game breaking…npc hostage…lured…”

He starts walking your way so you move away and keep your head down. He doesn’t even seem to know you were there, you wonder if he would even care if you’re listening or not. “So keep an eye on her, she’s smarter than she looks. Once we’re sure that she is secured with no chance of escape we can get rid of him, there’s no point in keeping him here.” Irving slams his fist against your cell, causing you to flinch back. There was no reason for him to do that other than to mess with you. This wasn’t the first time he’s done something like this and he only seems to do it to you.

Someone else is being detained here? But where? You don’t see any new faces. Whoever “she” is, she must be at the very end of the hallways in the cell that has the most security. This new prisoner must have done something really bad.

And who was Irving talking about? Whoever was the topic of conversation was unlucky as your wannabe warden made it very clear that they wouldn’t be alive for very long. You shuddered at the thought of that. No one that had been locked up had deserved to die. Being a video game character was hard, if you do even one thing out of script you’ll be punished harshly.

He’s no longer talking but he’s still patrolling. You’re starting to get irritated by the sound his tacky dress shoes made against the sleek floors. You wonder if he has some sort of personal vendetta against you because he’s right in front of your cell again.

“I bet you feel pretty small in there.” Does he just like picking on you in particular? He ignores everyone else. It’s not like you’ve done anything to him, you haven’t uttered a single word to him. “You want out, right? I bet if you ask your friend for help she’ll let you out.” You lift your head up to look at him. Your friend? You have no clue who he’s talking about. You can hardly remember who you are let alone any people you might have known in the past. If you were braver you would have questioned his words but you just lowered your head down again, assuming that he was just trying to get to your head.

In reality, he was trying to get into Sado’s head. With how powerful she is he’s unsure if she’s capable of freeing herself from her shackles. Normally you don’t try to provoke a powerful force like her but Irving has a sizable ego which makes him think he’s untouchable.

He knows that you don’t remember Sado but Sado remembers you. And you ended up being the perfect bait to catch a normally allusive entity like she was. Who would have guessed that her kryptonite would be such a person like yourself? There’s no disturbance on her end so maybe she really can’t escape her confinements. Irving can’t spend his whole day tormenting you so he takes his leave.

Everything has quieted down for now and so you sit in your cell, your finger drawing invisible patterns on the ground out of sheer boredom.

The sound of electricity crackling fills your ears. That wasn’t a sound you were familiar with. Then you hear the commotion of your fellow npc’s as a dark void draws near, ready to consume everything in its wake. You defensively curl up into a ball in the corner of your cell. You close your eyes with your hands on each side of your head. Is this really it? Are you meant to spend your last moments in confusion?

Click! Click! Click!

That’s a familiar sound to you, the sound of someone’s shoes against the hard floors. It doesn’t sound as heavy as Irving’s footsteps. Slowly, you lift your head up. There’s darkness right outside your cell but it doesn’t dare enter. The voices of the others are gone. Your cell door opens but the darkness doesn’t spill in.

You stand up and go the very edge of your cell. You’re afraid but there’s no point in keeping yourself cooped up in there. This may be your chance to escape. You have to hype yourself up but you stick your hand out of your cell and into the darkness just to see what happens. The void rips itself apart to make way for your hand. You shakily inhale and step out completely. It’s like an invisible force field prevents the darkness from swallowing you up like it did all the others but why? What’s so special about you?

The darkness continues to split itself down the middle until you can see a figure down the hallway. This dark clothed silhouette walks over to you slowly, as if savoring each step of her introduction. Naturally, you should feel afraid of a stranger in the darkness approaching you with such a cheshire grin but you don’t. Something in your heart is telling you that everything is going to be okay. You almost feel nostalgic in the strangest way.

Now she’s right in front of you. She’s so close but you don’t feel the need to shy away like you do with other people. Her smile is uncanny and her eyes are unblinking but you feel safe right now.

“You don’t remember me?”

You’ve never been much of a talker. The only thing you can do is nod.

“That’s a pity.” She takes another step towards you. You’re so close that if she takes another step you’ll be touching. “And yet…you didn’t run away. You know you’re important to me, don’t you?”

You nod once more. How can her words mean nothing but everything at the same time?

She tilts her head to the side. A pale hand slowly goes to your face as if she’s trying not to startle you. Black fingernails gently graze your cheek but you hardly feel them. Is this the one Irving was talking about? The one that was such a threat she was locked away with maximum security? But she seems so gentle.

“I’m not too worried about it. I’ll get us out of here and we can work on jogging your memories together. I wouldn’t mind falling in love with you all over again.” Her expression is still the same but her eyes look glossy and you can’t if it’s because she’s happy or sad. Her voice doesn’t much inflection in it.

It feels like there’s a hand pressing on your chest and it makes your eyes water. You’ve never heard such words before. You never thought someone could look at you so tenderly. You slowly reach your hand out to hers but then the whole building shakes. You would have fallen over if not for the hands that steady you.

“Well would you look at that, they finally showed up. They’re behind schedule.” Before you can question her she turns to face you. “You have two choices. You can let the space marines save you or you can come with me. We’ll see each other again no matter what you choose.” Sado was going to wait for one of them to free her but they had came too late. All she had to do was lead one of them to the Hex Artifact. Unfortunately she couldn’t complete the ritual on her own. If she wanted to get you both to the real world she would have to let them take the artifact.

You grab Sado’s hand, making your choice clear. Her hand tightens around yours. “You made a good choice. Stay close to me, we won’t part ever again.”

#the hex #the hex game #the hex game x reader #The Hex clown #the hex clown x reader #S@do x reader

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asoulofatlantis · 1 year ago

Text

Oh don't worry. She likes him.

(I had a hard time deciding if I start a new big sims brother Project in Sims 4 or if I finish at least Timber in FF8, but as you can see, I decided to get that ridicioulus Train-Mission done and over with as fast as possible. So... which me luck! XD)

Urg. I can not belive the bullshit they pulled. And we are in the middle of this bullshit. ALSO this looks way more complicated than it is. The first time I played this game I was totally overwhelmed by all this and fucked it up out of cheer and nervousness because it looked so complicated. The only real troublesome part is the Uncoupleling because they quickly give you a number and you have to remember it while also watching out for Guards. And even that isn't too hard either, its just... tedious ^^'

In my experience the guards hardly ever notice you no matter what you do, since their range is so darn small, but... I guess this is just the game making it sound more complicated then it actually is.

You would not find bullshit like this in a modern Final Fantasy game - I say that, but remember the dancing minigame with Cloud in FF7R? ^^'

Right? Its embarrassing to be part of this.

If you think I miss out on giving Rinoa a piece of my mind, then you are wrong. I gladly give her some of Squall's cold, rational and absolutely right harsh words. MUHAHAHAH!

I guess the reason why Rinoa truly wanted Seifer there weren't her feelings for him, but the fact that she knew he would do whatever she wants whenever she wants it. He does this here for her. Rushing in on the president without a second thought and disregarding what would happen if he threatened the president live on TV. That is how far he would go for her, no matter how stupid her plans. In the meantime, Squall told Rinoa that the way they operate, they can hardly take Rinoas Little Organisation seriously and that he only does what she wants because it is his job. Rinoa wanted a bunch of friends who helped them because they believed in her values and dreams, Seifer would have done that... that and obviously a lot more - too much in fact, because what he does here, was what Rinoa had backed out from.

Why she was talking to him like he was a lost little boy was a mystery at first, until you find out who she really is.

I once accidentally did not get out of the train at the right stop... it was quite the footwalk I tell you XD

To be fair, if they had imprisoned Seifer, they would have found out where he came from one way or another anyway...

Its time to play that "moron" again that Squall got his rather prominent cheekbones from XD

We are currently at the Lunatic Pandora and as we have to return to this thing later in the game, it might be wise to somewhat memories the layout a bit - and I wish someone had told me that back in the day when I was playing this game for the first time XD

First of all: It was your idea! And secondly... you basically pushed them XD

Works for me. This is my favored team anyway XD

This is a bad too much, don't you think Selphie? Also... I think Irving is enjoying this way much than Cloud ever did. (Seriously, I feel like that idiot Cloud never noticed what a lucky bastard he is XD)

A perfect walkthrough made it possible to get the brothers GF out iof that godforsaken tomb - I think this is only my second time to get them, the first time was just luck as I have played the game multiple times at this point, its almost emberassing to admit that ^^'

Aaaaaaanyway... that shall be it for today. The end of the first Disk is near tho.

#ff8 mona version

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idkthisisjustforfanfic · 4 years ago

Text

that makes four.

story page | talk to me + join the tag list

PART 1

Your feet dangled down from the stool, elbows on the granite counter when Jeff turned around. “Alright,” he said, lips in a thin smile when he revealed the plate of reheated lasagna that someone dropped off in the last few days. “Smells good.”

You looked up at him with an unimpressed stare. “It looks a little disgusting.”

“It’s vegan, I think.”

“Jesus,” you rolled your eyes. “You start one all natural skincare line and people think you only eat plant-based shit.”

He let out a small laugh, set the plate down and watched as you picked up the fork. One bite--mediocre. Not exactly hot enough, but after all Jeff had done for you the last few days, you didn’t have the heart to demand he put it in for another minute.

“So--do you think it went well?”

You laughed around the food in your mouth, picked up a paper napkin and let your head tilt to the side. “As good as a funeral could be.”

The lights in your kitchen were dim and the sun had already faded behind the trees, the house quiet after people finally filed out. Friends, extended family, strangers you’d never met had flocked to Los Angeles for the funeral of your famous father.

It’d been coming from a mile away. His health declined, an obvious result of the cocaine and the cigarettes and whatever else he’d ingested regularly in the 70s. A heart attack a year ago put him on a fast track to the afterlife, but he always joked that he’d probably end up in hell.

Being in the music industry ruined him, in a way--it ruined your parents’ marriage and it ruined a lot of the relationships your father had. Blow outs and big fights that left him exiled from a lot of social circles, sometimes never speaking to people again after one bad phone call. But it was never like that with Irv.

“Well, I’ve never seen my dad cry so hard,” Jeff smiled. “He really loved him.”

Another bite of the soggy noodles and fake cheese. “I know.”

A comfortable silence, the doors off the kitchen were open, a breeze from the backyard let the southern California warmth blow through the sheer curtains when you sipped at your left over wine.

Jeff was the closest thing you had to a sibling, his family was all you had left at this point. You were tossed in the bathtub with him and his siblings as a baby, shoved into family photos and tagged along for vacations.

Being closest in age to Jeff meant people always hoped it would be the two of you that would end up together. Happily ever after or having babies of your own. But when you saw Jeff wolf down a whole pizza at his bar mitzvah, any hope of a spark between the two of you had been permanently extinguished.

His older sister was the one who told you what it meant to have sex, and after your mom died, his mom helped you pick out a dress for your Sweet Sixteen.

She was the one who talked you off the ledge when you found out you were pregnant only a few years later, she was the one who threw you both baby showers and she was the one who helped you through your divorce only six months earlier.

So now that your dad was gone, too, you wondered where you fit into their family and what your definition of family even was.

Before the thought could cross your mind, the front door was pushed open and the sound of high pitched giggles floated in from the foyer.

CeCe’s tiny voice echoed down the hall. “Uncle Jeff?”

“Is that my CeCe?” He took a few steps forward and she ran straight into his legs, he hoisted her up onto his hip when Maeve rounded the corner with Tristan in tow.

“Hi honey,” you opened an arm so your ten-year-old could fit into the side of you. She leaned her head on her shoulder. “How was ice cream?”

The easiest ploy to get them out of the house while you hosted some kind of awkward afterparty.

“Fine,” she sighed. “But Tristan said that funerals are a selfish attempt by the living to hold on to someone after they’re dead.”

You blinked a few times and looked down at her, shocked by the words and apparently, her ability to understand them. You looked over at Tristan, arched eyebrows to communicate how displeased you were.

His eyes went wide when Jeff choked down a laugh. “I didn’t--I don’t know what you’re talking about Maeve.”

You kissed Maeve on the head. “Well, Tristan is wrong about a lot of things, trust me. But you two should go get ready for bed, it’s been a long day.”

You looked over at him again--younger by two years and easily one of the most important people in your life. You met him only a year after you started your business, he had a knack for brand management and eye for design that you couldn’t pass up. He was way too sarcastic and cynical to be your regular babysitter, but Jeff and his family were basically in the receiving line beside you.

Jeff let CeCe climb down and Maeve took her by the hand as they headed for the kitchen stairs to the second floor, leaving you alone at the island with two of your closest friends.

He waited until he heard the water turn on from their bathroom sink, then whispered in Tristan’s direction. “Great idea to say that to a ten-year-old and a six-year-old after their grandpa dies.”

Tristan rolled his eyes theatrically, “she asked why so many people came and why she’d never met any of them if they loved her grandpa so much.”

“Well, you can expect a bill for their therapy in a few years,” you laughed, forking more lasagna into your mouth.

Tristan made his way over to the fridge and pulled out the glass dish, helping himself to a piece when Jeff took a seat beside you. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” you glanced at him sideways, suspicious about any ulterior motive he might have.

“Okay, Y/N,” Jeff laughed, Tristan eyed you from over his shoulder like he didn’t believe you. “Let me try again. How are you feeling emotionally?”

You cleared your throat and swallowed the most recent bite of dinner. “Oh, you mean cause my husband left me six months ago and my dad just died and now I’m a single mom with two fiesty daughters who just inherited a giant house aaaaaand,” you drew out the word for dramatic effect. “I’m a business owner who barely gets any sleep?”

“That’s what I was getting at, yes,” Jeff nodded and fought a smirk.

“I’m alright,” you sighed. “Tired. Kind of freaked out about what the fuck is going on in my life, but, I’ll survive. I always survive."

You knew you would--in fact, you’d been waiting for this moment for the last few weeks. When Jeff’s mom called to tell you your dad needed to be put in hospice, you prepared. You talked to Maeve and CeCe and explained it all in a way they’d understand. His life on earth is over, but we can still talk to him and visit a pretty garden to remember him.

It was a lot to deal with only a few months after your high school sweetheart turned husband admitted he’d been having an affair and moved out, you saw on Facebook that he’d since bought a motorcycle and was spending most of his time at bars along the coast. That whole fiasco was harder to explain to your children.

And now suddenly everyone wanted to make sure you were okay. Frozen dinners, offers to drive your kids to and from their extracurriculars, a lot of attention was suddenly thrust onto you and your family, as if you hadn’t always hated that growing up.

But you knew the time would come when life would settle back down. Cousins and aunts and uncles would fly home, people would stop asking how you were doing post divorce. Dust would settle and the sun would set on this chapter and frankly, it couldn’t happen soon enough.

So here you were, the funeral was over, the dinner in his honor at Jeff’s parents, the media coverage was starting to die down and life could return to normal. Or, at least, a new normal.

Your dad had been a fixture in your life--weekly dinner dates with grandpa gave you a minute to yourself after working long days and answering endless phone calls. A glass of wine on the couch or even dinner with Tristan and Zoey was a nice escape from breaking up fights or figuring out how to reattach the head of a Barbie doll after someone shoved someone into a closet and tears and screaming ensued.

“You will definitely survive,” Jeff nodded.

Tristan came and sat, forked into the lasagna and made a face when he realized how bad it was. “Is this fake cheese?”

“Unfortunately,” you nodded.

Tristan made a face and then cleared his throat. “I, for one, think this is the start of a new chapter for you. New opportunities, new love,” he smirked.

A quick retort: “Yeah, that’s obviously the first priority right now.”

“He’s right, though,” Jeff said. “You have a fresh start, a totally new chapter.”

You nodded--they were right, but easing into a new chapter felt a lot better than trying to dive right in.

“Speaking of a fresh start, you know, changing things up,” Jeff forced a grin in your direction. “Can we actually talk for a second?”

You eyed him suspiciously, put your fork down to bow out from eating the world’s worst lasagna. “Yeah?”

“I have kind of a weird favor to ask. And--I know it’s kind of bad timing, with everything going on, but--just hear me out, okay?”

Instead of replying, you watched him, lifted your brows to encourage him to continue and tread carefully.

“So I have a client who isn’t from here, he bought a house but it’s in the middle of getting renovated. There’s kind of been a lot going on, it’s a long story.”

“Okay,” you nodded, unsure where he was going with it.

“He needs a place to stay, and I was wondering if maybe he could stay here for a little.”

“Here, like, here here?” You pointed to the floor of your kitchen, an elegant upgrade from the more modest house in Woodland Hills you’d occupied before the divorce.

Along with the death of your father came the inheritance of his Bel Air estate and all of the bedrooms, the four car garage, the manicured lawn and the pool out back. Some people thought you should sell it, use the cash to make trusts for the girls or save for college.

Selling it didn’t feel right, though. It was the house he worked so hard for, the house you called home for the later half of your teen years and the place you always came back to when things got hard. So instead of putting it on the market and closing that chapter, once again, you returned to the safe haven in the hills when you didn’t know where else to turn.

“Yeah, I know it sounds crazy, but you have the room and it might be fun to have someone else around and--”

“I have two daughters, Jeff, I can’t just let a stranger live with us.”

“He’s not a stranger, Y/N, he’s my friend. We’re really close.”

“Who is he?” Tristan asked, waving his fork in the air to remind us that he was still present.

“Harry Styles.”

Tristan’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “The kid from the boyband?”

“No way,” you shook your head, dismissing it before you could even let his name register. “I’m not having a pop star boy band kid stay in my house.”

“Okay,” Jeff held up a hand to get Tristan to relax, then moved to point at you. “He’s 24, number one. He’s not a kid, he’s, like, only a few years younger than us.”

“Yes,” you nodded, “exactly. I don’t need a 24-year-old living with my daughters.”

“He’s not like that, though. He’s responsible and he’s a family friendly dude, and--”

“Then why can’t he live with you? Or with your parents?”

“I don’t have the room,” he said. “And my dad hates house guests.”

You rolled your eyes, it was obnoxious, but it was true. Irv hated having people stay over almost as much as he hated it when your dad beat him in golf.

Jeff took your silence as an opportunity to continue selling you on the idea. “He just finished his tour, he’s working on his second album. He’s probably going to be in the studio a lot, Y/N. Do you really think I would let some crazy party animal live with my nieces?”

Another eye roll from both you and Tristan.

“Is this like, just a few nights?” You asked.

“Like, two weeks. Tops.”

“Two weeks?!” You shook your head. “No--I can’t put them through that after all the shit that’s been going on this year. Why can’t he just stay in a hotel?”

“Cause that’s lonely and he’s a people person and--I don’t know, it might be good for you to have someone around.”

You rolled your eyes that, was it a jab at your new status as a single mom or new status as a fatherless daughter? Unsure.

Jeff stood from the counter and grabbed for his phone on the far end of the island. “Just think about it, okay? I’ve gotta run. A few weeks, built in babysitting, maybe--he’s great with kids.”

“I’ve already thought about it,” you told him, resting your chin in your hand and offering a sugary sweet smile. “No fucking way.”

“Mommy!” CeCe’s voice called from upstairs, you hoisted yourself up, ready to tuck them in and forget that Jeff had ever asked such a ludicrous question.

“I would owe you big time--it might be fun! You’ve got the room, he could be a positive male influence on the girls.” He wiggled his eyebrows at the end of his sentence--like that would really sway you.

“And I’m not that?” Tristan pulled his head back, offended.

“You’re the one who told them funerals are stupid,” Jeff said with a sarcastic smirk.

“And you’re the crazy one trying to let a stranger move in here like it’s an AirBnB,” you shot back at Jeff. “So maybe they do need a better male influence than both of you.”

“Mommy!” CeCe called again, more impatient this time.

“I’m coming!” You shouted. “You, let yourself out when you’re finished eating this terrible meal,” you pointed at Tristan and the lasagna. “And you,” you pointed at Jeff with a smirk. “Please never speak to me again.”

He was already heading for the door, keys in hand when he blew you a kiss. “Love you, see you soon!”

“Love you,” you called back, bounding up the stairs, mom mode activated.

A text message the next day when you were at work:

Jeff Azoff (1:43pm): 🙏😇🙏😇

You blew air from your lips, Zoey sat across from you at a conference table when you took a late lunch. She was the first friend you made when you started high school, your long time confidant aside from Tristan and Jeff and a sure bet to tell it like it is.

Now she regularly popped into the Luna offices and she loved nothing more than acting like she was a higher up at your business. She’d rather be doing that than admit she was a new mom with no clue what the next chapter of her life would look like. You had that in common.

Her two-month-old son, Benny, sat in a carrier on the ground, his eyelashes fluttered when Zoey put her feet up on the chair beside her.

“What’s the sigh for?”

“Jeff is being annoying.”

“What’d he do now?”

You looked over at her, nose deep in her phone when you took another bite of the burrito bowl she’d picked up for you. You didn’t know if it was worth it to explain it all. Zoey was excitable, never one to turn down an adventure and her aptly timed identity crisis that came with becoming a mom was sure to make her encourage bad decisions even more.

She looked up at you, suddenly aware of the wheels spinning in your mind.

“Spill it,” she instructed. She put her phone down and let out a breath, clasped her hands and waited for you to fill her in.

“He asked me to let a friend of his stay with us in my dad’s house.”

“Your house,” she corrected. “Deed’s in your name now.”

“My house,” you nodded. “And I feel weird about it.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“Some client of his,” you tried to wave it off as if the name didn’t matter.

It didn’t, really. You’d long been exposed to the rich and famous just because of the nature of your father’s work. He was one of the biggest managers in the music industry in partnership with Jeff’s dad, so you were no stranger to beautiful people with beautiful cars and beautiful homes. When Jeff took on the family business, you only grew more accustomed to it.

“So a celebrity?” she shimmied her shoulders in excitement. “Which one?”

“Harry Styles,” you said the name slowly, quietly, even though it was just the two of you in the second floor conference room and even though this was your office that you bought and you owned and you ran.

“He’s hot,” she nodded casually, less impressed than you’d expected.

“He’s also like twenty-something, so it's disgusting for you to say that.”

“Oh relax,” she dismissed your concern. “He could be your pool boy.”

Zoey--who also grew up in Southern California and spent plenty of time at your house as a kid--hadn’t yet grown so accustomed to the coming and going of celebrities. Her parents owned a florist shop in Santa Monica and in high school you had to tell her she could only come to a Britney Spears concert if she didn’t cry when you inevitably met her in the green room thanks to your dad.

“I have children,” you reminded her. “A ten-year-old who might as well be fifteen and a six-year-old who would think I literally bought her a human playmate.”

“But if he’s friends with Jeff I highly doubt he’s a serial killer,” she reasoned.

“Wow, you are completely missing the point.”

“What’s the point, then?”

“It’s weird--I can’t have a stranger move in with my kids.”

“Why not?”

“Because first their dad left us and now their grandpa died.”

“Sounds like they need a new man in their life.”

You ignored the similarity of her words with Jeff’s from the other night. “I just think it’s crazy.”

“Okay,” she sat up straight and suddenly looked like this was morphing into a business conversation. “How long?”

“Two weeks.”

“Oh my god,” she turned her palms towards the sky. “Just do it.”

“What? No!”

“It’s two weeks--it’ll take your mind off of all the shit that’s been going on, it’ll be a fun distraction for the girls. You have so much space in that house you will never even know he’s there. And you’re helping a friend.”

She wasn’t wrong: Harry could likely stay in the bedroom all the way on the other end of the hall from where the girls slept. Maeve was thrilled to get her own room in the move and CeCe would occasionally run into your room after a nightmare, so the space was a plus.

He’d have his own room, his own bathroom. Hell, he could even park in the extra garage and enter from the back of the house. Maybe you wouldn’t even notice he existed.

You sighed, tugged at your necklace when you met her gaze. “I just feel really protective over them right now. I feel like Luke ruined their sense of family and now with my dad gone--”

She stuck her tongue out in disgust at the sound of your ex’s name. “I get that--but they have you. They have Jeff and his family and they have me and Shawn and now Benny.”

You offered a small smile at her reassurance. She was right in a lot of ways. The Azoffs were as much a family to your daughters as they had been to you. Shelli and Irv were like grandparents, they offered to babysit plenty of times and they always managed to get the girls the most amazing birthday presents.

But something in you knew it wasn’t the same. You’d dreamed of giving your daughters the sense of family you never had: a mom and a dad who loved each other. One house, not two that had two different beds and sets of books or toys.

Luckily and unluckily, your ex hadn’t made a huge deal about custody. Visits here and there were outlined in your divorce papers, but at this point in time he didn’t seem the most interested in maintaining a relationship with his daughters, even though he promised way back when that he’d never leave.

Getting pregnant with him during college wasn’t planned, but he swore you’d make it work and you tied the knot only a few months before Maeve was born. Things were good at first, you always knew you’d have more than one--if only to combat your own only-child loneliness--and then CeCe came five years later when you felt a little more prepared.

“I don’t think it’s going to traumatize them, Y/N. I mean, the least you could do is meet the guy.”

You watched her for a minute, blew air from your nose in a huff before you picked up your phone.

Y/N L/N (1:56pm): Fine. I’ll meet him.

Three days later you pulled up to a cafe in Brentwood and took a deep breath in the parking lot. If he was creepy, you wouldn’t go for it. If you got even the slightest weird vibe from him, you’d ex-communicate Jeff and only go over to visit his parents with the girls when he wasn’t around.

You’d already been leaning towards just doing it, especially once Tristan got a glass of wine in you and reminded you what your dad would have said: he who helps is one who prospers.

A few sleepless nights left you staring at the ceiling and wondering if you were crazy. You just now had the chance to let life settle down and here you were, mourning the loss of your biggest supporter, trying to piece yourself back together post divorce, and considering letting a stranger move in? Grief really did do strange things to people.

But when you walked in and found them sitting at a table in the back, something clicked.

Your dad was already fond of your possible houseguest, which you only knew from overhearing previous conversations between him and Irv about how proud they were of Jeff for picking up the family business, and now it all made sense.

A small part of you--probably the stupidest part of you--wondered if there was something cosmic about it. Your dad was always one to let his artists stay in the house, if they weren’t creepy, of course. You grew up with bands rehearsing in the backyard and going to shows at the Troubadour before you were old enough to drive, and you turned out fine.

“Hi,” Harry stood, offered a hand and introduced himself after Jeff gave you a kiss on the cheek. “Harry, pleasure to meet you.” Polite, maybe a bit of a kiss ass. Your dad must have loved him.

“Y/N,” you nodded, sat down when Jeff tugged out a chair for you. “Thanks for--uh--meeting with me, I guess.”

“Thanks for maybe letting me stay at your house,” he offered a sheepish smile, held your gaze for a second when Jeff adjusted the sunglasses clipped to his shirt.

“I’m actually surprised you guys haven’t met before,” he said.

“I’ve been a little busy this year,” you reminded him with a nod. “But--nice to finally meet you.”

Harry nodded, a dimple in his left cheek ignited a tiny spark in your chest, but you pushed Zoey’s words out of your mind. Two weeks, it wasn’t a big deal. He’d be in and out and this would be a blip on the radar.

“We can order coffee or something, but Y/N, I’m assuming you have like, a whole interrogation mapped out?”

You pretended to laugh at Jeff’s joke, turned to Harry and offered a no-nonsense smile. “I have two children, I got divorced earlier this year and my dad just died. So I don’t need any drama or anything. This is temporary and I’m doing this to help out a friend. Jeff, that is, not you.”

He laughed at your clarification and nodded. “Right. This is just me living in your house. No drama. Short-term.”

“And obviously my children will be there, so no guests.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Okay I’m not that much older than you,” you said it quickly, offered a small smile when he looked a little scared.

“Sorry--no, I didn’t mean that in a rude way.”

“No ma’am,” you added a rule, pulling a laugh from both of them when you lifted another finger in the air to count them off. “No drugs or alcohol, unless it’s like a glass of wine at dinner or something,” you shrugged.

“Look,” Jeff leaned forward. “Y/N’s kids are great, she’s got a great skincare company and she’s a kickass human. And you need a place to stay, so don’t fuck this up.”

“You both have my word. No drugs, no alcohol, no guests, no ma’am,” he smirked in your direction. “I’ve lived alone for a while, so, it’ll be nice to have some roommates.”

You nodded slowly and watched him for a second. A hoodie with the name of the management firm your dad and Irv had started, a backwards baseball hat and simple Ray-Bans. You ignored the fluttering in your veins from just looking at him, your own words echoed against the walls of your skull: he’s also like twenty-something, so that’s disgusting.

This was his brand, you were sure. Something Jeff had worked hard on--the looks, the smile, the exact formula that management firms drooled over was playing out in front of you. You sipped your drink once the waiter delivered three cappuccinos. Two weeks, tops.

Los Angeles afternoons were meant for playing outside, which is what your daughters did best if they weren’t busy pulling each other’s hair. You had dinner on the stove--enough for five--and a knot of nerves in your stomach when the wheels of his fancy car crunched atop the gravel.

The girls ran to greet him and Jeff showed him around the house. Now, Harry sat across from you at the table, Maeve to his left with an unimpressed look on her face when you cleared your throat. “Okay, gratitude time.”

Jeff set his fork back down, a guilty look on his face to admit he’d forgotten about your pre-dinner ritual.

CeCe squirmed in her seat, let out a sigh when Maeve protested with a flutter of her eyelashes. “I don’t have anything to be thankful for,” she informed you.

“That feels a little hard to believe,” you nodded, losing patience for her attitude over the last few days. “CeCe, do you want to go?”

Your younger daughter looked up at you, scrunched her mouth and thought about it. “I don’t have anything either.”

You tried not to groan aloud. After the week you’d had and the sudden changes in your life, disciplining your daughters felt like the last thing you wanted to do, if only they’d just behave.

“I can go,” Harry lifted his hand sheepishly as if he was sitting in a classroom and not in your dining room, a dimple on his cheek when he smiled sheepishly.

“Take it away,” you motioned towards him.

“M’thankful for being here, having a place to stay--and what looks like it will be a delicious meal.” By now he had a bit of smug look on his face, maybe proud of the fact that he’d broken the ice and stepped up to the pre-dinner prompt.

“Mom’s cooking is a solid six out of ten on a good day,” Maeve looked over at him, her fork now in her hand as if she was ready to dig in.

“Okay,” you leaned in and caught her gaze. “Drop the attitude or go to your room.”

“I’m thankful for Emma,” she named her friend, her quick submission after she rolled her eyes told you she just wanted to eat and get this over with. “She warned me today that Hayley was wearing a shirt I wore last week so I think she’s copying me.”

“Okay,” you nodded, you’d accept anything at this point. “CeCe? Last chance.”

“I’m grateful for pudding.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh, you nodded and said: “Great. I’m thankful for you two,” you smiled at them, hopeful that this nightly tradition would hold some type of meaning, more than just eye rolls and pre-pubescent angst from Maeve.

Jeff looked over at the girls, “I’m thankful for my friend Harry getting to meet my other friends, CeCe and Maeve.”

“Aww,” Harry smiled, a hand clutched to his heart when he looked between them.

“Alright,” you were annoyed by how good your daughters were at turning on their charm for anyone but you. Jeff was often the fun uncle, just like your ex had been the fun dad, which left you forcing them to play this gratitude game every night after they finished their homework.

CeCe wasted no time digging into the spaghetti on her plate, leaving Jeff to ask Maeve: “so what are you going to do about Hayley?”

“I don’t know,” Maeve sighed. “She’ll die when she finds out that you’re sleeping over,” she pointed her fork at Harry.

“He’s not sleeping over,” you corrected. “He’s staying in one of the guest rooms, remember?” You’d already explained it a few times to them. A few weeks, he’s working on more music, he’ll be busy, he’s not here to play with you.

“Whatever,” Maeve said. “Maybe I’ll hold it over her.”

“Maeve,” you looked over, unsure what had gotten into her. “I thought we talked about this stuff with Hayley?”

“I know--but she just keeps annoying me,” Maeve explained.

“Dump pasta on her head,” CeCe suggested with a giggle.

“Don’t do that,” you looked at CeCe and poked her in the stomach.

“I personally am a big fan of that idea,” Jeff smiled over at CeCe. “But it’d probably be better to just forget about it. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

“Or the sincerest form of annoying,” she retorted.

Harry let out a laugh at that, caught your gaze when you wondered how soon it’d take him to get annoyed with your kids.

They were great--smart, funny, clever, definitely witty and sometimes dramatic. But they were good kids.

You remembered how tough it was to adapt to motherhood, even though they were your own. Something told you that Harry, no matter how short his stay would be, was not in the chapter of his life that entailed finding joy in playdates and pillow fights.

But he made it through dinner, quiet but friendly and as soon as Maeve was finished, she begged him to play squishball outside before sunset.

“Squishball?” his eyebrows dipped together. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s basically just baseball but with a softer bat and a foam ball cause mom doesn’t want us to break our skulls,” Maeve informed.

“I never said break your skulls,” you argued.

“But it’s what you meant,” she shrugged.

“I would love to play,” Harry laughed, unbelievably entertained by the back and forth he’d already witnessed. They yanked him outside and set up their tiny diamond, CeCe pulled on a tutu just for flair and you and Jeff were left to handle the aftermath of a family dinner.

Jeff put the final plate into the dishwasher after a little bit and offered a hesitant smile when he turned around. “So?”

“So what? It’s been like an hour and a half of him being here.”

Their laughter from outside was audible, CeCe shrieked when Maeve made contact with the bat and sent the ball soaring into the air. “The girls clearly love him.”

“Of course they do--they love anyone for the first two hours.”

“I think he’ll be good for you guys.”

You rolled your eyes, wiped the counter with the sponge when he continued.

“And you guys will be good for him.”

This got your attention. “How so?”

“He’s a people-person, never likes being on his own too much. Some structure and responsibility is good for him.”

“So I’m babysitting him?”

“Oh my god,” he laughed. “Relax, will you? This could be a mutually beneficial thing if you let it, that’s all I’m saying.”

You didn’t read too much into it, you figured Jeff was peppering you with reassurance only to calm your nerves or quell your concerns. When he was finished helping you clean, he hugged the girls goodbye and waved over his shoulder, leaving Harry alone in your house with you and your daughters and nothing but good intentions.

You left him downstairs at first, helped CeCe brush her hair and sat on the floor when Maeve picked out her clothes for the next day: hopefully Hayley doesn’t own this dress.

When you headed back downstairs an hour later, the girls were tucked in, the lights were off, and your usual plan would have been to check your work emails if it weren’t for the dimpled guy in your living room.

He stood at the bookcase, hands clasped behind his back when you found him.

“Hi, sorry--bedtime is always a--” you paused, not even knowing the right label. “A shit show. But thanks for playing with them earlier.”

He laughed, turned around and offered a smile. “No worries--they seem like great kids.”

“They are,” you assured. “Maeve’s been a bit snarky lately but I think that’s just the whole beginning of puberty thing.” You cringed a little when the words left your mouth, wondering if it was too much information for someone who likely had cooler things to do than talk about ten-year-olds and training bras.

But he smiled, shoved his hands in his pockets when you said: let me show you around.

He’d arrived at the worst time. Homework, dinner prep, CeCe crying because Maeve finished her homework first. You didn’t have the chance to give him a tour and you figured it would be better coming from you than from Jeff, that way you could remind him of all the rules.

You showed him the ground floor first. The library, the family room, the two offices and the three different remotes that all worked different TVs or speakers or lamps. He marveled at the pictures on the wall in your dad’s old office space, he was a legend, he told you.

He climbed the stairs behind you and whispered in response when you pointed out what was behind each door. Bathroom, Maeve’s room, CeCe’s room, guest room, another bathroom, master suite, guest room, his room.

You pushed the door open and stepped aside to let him in. Gray walls, a wooden four-post king-sized bed. Throw pillows you’d picked out when you moved in a few weeks ago, a dresser to the left. He looked around and nodded. “S’perfect.”

“Good,” you said, walking over to a small linen closet in his attached bath. “Towels are in here, should be soap and stuff in the shower--had our housekeeper stock it.”

“Thanks,” he nodded again.

“I don’t know where you parked, but there’s a garage in the back that my dad used to keep some of his sports cars in--there’s definitely room and that way you don’t have to leave yours out if it rains.”

Were you talking too much? You just wanted him to feel at home or at least welcomed.

“Amazing,” he said. “Thank you.”

A repetitive answer but it didn't stop you from rambling.

“Keurig’s on the counter--creamer in the fridge. Should be plenty of food but obviously feel free to stock what you like. Except like, weed.”

“Weed doesn’t go in the fridge...” he eyed you suspiciously, the same dimple appeared on his cheek and you rolled your eyes.

“I know--I know weed doesn’t go in the fridge.”

“Just the no drug policy,” he nodded.

“Right. Am I forgetting anything?”

He shifted his weight on his feet and shrugged his shoulders, a subtle shake of his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” you nodded, one final look around the room to make sure he had what he needed. His duffle bag was already in the corner, you’d told Jeff to put it upstairs and out of the way so CeCe and Maeve didn’t get nosy.

“I just have a question actually, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah?”

“When did you move in here?”

“Uh, beginning of August, so like, almost a month ago.”

He nodded, his eyes curious despite the fact that he didn’t ask more.

“We had to put my dad in hospice, I was looking for a place anyway after,” a quick motion over your shoulder to gesture to the girls. “My divorce, so--a lot of change, but it’s been nice to be home.”

He nodded thoughtfully, the quiet of the bedroom suddenly felt heavy. “S’a beautiful house.”

“Thank you,” you looked around the room again, if only to put your eyes somewhere other than his face. “I felt shitty about redecorating it at first, but--it was a little too much of a 70s bachelor pad.”

“Leave it to Walt,” he joked.

That piqued your interest. “Did you know my dad? Like, did you spend any time with him?”

He pushed his lips out in thought but shook his head when he sat down on the bed. “Not really--met him a few times at events with Jeff, but I never spent any quality time with him.”

You nodded--he was a busy guy, popular and well respected in his industry. “He was a good person, good grandfather, too.”

Harry smiled at that. “Always heard that Irv was the balls but your dad was the heart.”

You laughed, scrunched your nose at the saying you’d heard a hundred times. The two of them were partners in crime, two peas in a pod, yet they couldn’t be more different. He spoke again before you could reply, voice soft in the sleepy house.

“I mean, if you're his daughter he obviously did something right.”

He held your gaze just long enough for you to feel something, something you pushed out of your mind so quickly that your hand was on the door knob before he could even say goodnight.

Two weeks, tops.

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