#she’s a prisoner who says she’d rather starve than have dinner

[highlifeboat]

Tired

Also on my AO3 if anyone cares

If there was one thing Bela Dimitrescu had always prided herself on, it had been her loyalty to her mother.

Even when she and her sisters were young, she had tried her hardest to be perfect for their mother. She lived for the praise she earned, even if it was just the phrase “Good girl.” and a small pat on the head. It gave her a purpose. She wasn’t as nimble or quick as Daniela was when it came to hunting, nor was she as creative as Cassandra when it came to torturing prisoners and cattle, but she was at least efficient in following orders. In fact, she was so efficient, she even managed to go the extra mile and still get things done with a decent amount of time. Her efforts were rewarded, whether it was simply grabbing the glasses when she fetched the wine without being asked, or ignoring her needs for days on end just to learn a new song to play on the piano. Yes, she always earned her praise, and it had always made her feel so happy.

So why was it starting to feel like such a chore?

Bela tried, like she always tried, to get her mother’s attention, but lately it felt as if it wasn’t wielding the same results as before. She put in the effort, but her mother would only spare her a glance or quiet nod of acknowledgement before she moved back to whatever she had been doing. What hurt even more was that her sisters didn’t seem to be getting the same treatment. Daniela would run up to mother with her latest catch and receive a pat on the head. Cassandra would present a bottle of fresh blood, or a human heart, and be thanked and praised for her effort. All while Bela watched from the side. It made her question herself. Was she not following instructions to the letter? Had she done something wrong? Did mother simply not care anymore? Did mother not love her as much as her sisters?

Was there even a point in trying so hard if nothing she did was good enough? It had all made her feel horrible about herself.

She wasn’t sure when she’d stopped putting in so much time into her tasks, but she knew it did nothing to stop the wave of intrusive thoughts. If anything, it was only making her feel more useless. She didn’t remember when she covered her mirrors, either, but she knew when she did see herself all she saw was a waste of life. An utter disappointment. It had been days since she’d bothered to make herself eat, even longer since she’d left her bedroom for anything that wasn’t her mother calling. She still followed orders, of course she did, she couldn’t disobey her mother, but they were nothing more than exhausting chores for her. Even the ones she’d once enjoyed felt like meaningless busy work. When her sisters started to make jabs at how she wasn’t putting in the effort anymore, it only made her feel worse.

“What, you don’t wanna be a mama’s girl anymore?” Cassandra would tease, and Daniela would giggle. “Tired of being Little Miss Perfect all the time?” She knew it was all in fun, but it was starting to get under her skin. As if adding to the crushing pile of self-hatred she had for herself. Bela never bothered to respond to the comments anymore, instead simply retreating back to her darkened bedroom. Cassandra was right. She was tired.

Tired of the expectations. Of the unreachable standard she’d set for herself. Of being nothing but a burden, and a failure. She was simply tired of all of it, and she was starting to wonder if it would be better to step out into the icy winter air and let herself turn to dust. Would her sisters even notice if she did? Would her mother? Would any of them care if she were to just vanish? A small part of her told that was a stupid idea, and while a much bigger, more aggressive part told her it would be for the best, she couldn’t bring herself to move from her bed. So instead she closed her eyes in a vain attempt to fall asleep forever.

However, she was interrupted.

“Bela?” The chirp of her youngest sister’s voice made her groan. “Are you in there? Mama said you gotta come have dinner!”

The thought of eating made the blonde feel physically ill. She’d done nothing to deserve food today. Just like yesterday, And the day before. Yet her stomach growled like an angry animal, begging her to put something in it. She still didn’t move, and silently hoped Daniela would take her silence as a hint to leave.

She didn’t. “I can smell you in there, Bel!” She giggled, and Bela swallowed. When exactly… had she last showered? She couldn’t remember. “Mama said you don’t have a choice today! She really wants you down there.”

The eldest child sighed, forcing herself to roll over and stare at the door. She had a feeling if she didn’t come out on her own, Daniela would come in and get her. She already hated the thought of her sisters being in her room uninvited, never mind the state it was currently in. “...I’m coming.” She muttered, but her sister didn’t respond. The only indication that Daniela hadn’t left was the shadow of her feet at the door still shifting around. It took all her energy to stand, and even more to trudge to her bedroom door. She took one last deep inhale before pulling her hood up preparing herself for whatever awaited her.

She pulled the door open just enough to slip out without giving Daniela a chance to look inside. The redhead gave her a grin, which she tried to return. It must have looked awkward, either that or it was just hitting Daniela how musty her sister must have smelt, because her face became something that the blonde took for disgust. Bela pushed past her baby sister, aiming to get to this forced family meal over with.

“It’s about damn time.” Cassandra huffed when the two sisters entered the dining room, pointing her fork at Bela. “I’m starving, you jerk. You couldn’t have come out here any slower?”

You made them wait. They hate you. The blonde said nothing as she slid into her seat.

“Cassandra. I told you already, not tonight.” Their mother warned, getting an eye roll from her middle child, then turned to her eldest. “We’re glad you’re joining us, little one.” She smiled, but Bela only glanced at her.

She’s only saying that because she pities you. Bela looked to the food on her plate, then to her sisters who had already begun to devour it like starving animals. They worked hard for their food. She told herself. What have you done? As much as her body screamed at her, she found herself unwilling to eat, instead poking the food with her fork. You don’t deserve it. You’re not good enough for it. She wished the voices would stop reminding her of that.

Alcina watched her daughter curiously as she prodded the cuts of flesh on her plate. She didn’t understand, surely Bela was hungry. She hadn’t seen the girl eat all day, and she hadn’t had dinner the night before. Come to think of it, Alcina couldn’t remember the last time Bela had eaten dinner. Or at all, for that matter. She had been going off the assumption that her daughter was simply eating on her own time, but the longer she stared at her the more she was starting to realize that may not be the case. She couldn’t see the girl’s face under the hood, but she was certain Bela’s dress had not been so loose on her before.

“Are you gonna eat? Or just stare at it like a weirdo?” Cassandra suddenly questioned. When Bela didn’t respond she kept going. “What is up with you? Did you get your tongue cut out or something?”

“I’ll take it!” Daniela said, already reaching over the table.

Cassandra grabbed her arm. “Why do you get to have it?!”

“Because I had to get her down here!”

“You volunteered!”

“That shouldn’t matter!”

“Girls! Enough!” Alcina gave her two youngest daughters a stern look, watching them move back into their chairs, then shifted her attention to her eldest. “Bela, is something wrong?”

Bela dug her claws into her legs. “No, Mother… I’m just not hungry.” She muttered, as if that would be a convincing lie. She didn’t know what else to say, she couldn’t tell her the truth. She couldn’t admit to the fact she didn’t see a point in getting up anymore, that she didn’t seem to feel anything, that her body was trying to eat her from the inside out, and her hair was a disaster because she’d ignored her own needs for weeks. If she did, they would think she was weak. Her sisters would make fun of her and her mother would be angry. Disappointed. Disgusted. She jumped when a hand was placed to her forehead.

“Do you feel sick?” Mother asked, and Bela resisted the urge to lean into the touch. “You don’t seem to feel any warmer than usual.”

“N-No….”

“Would you rather have something else, then?”

Cassandra huffed. “So she starts slacking in her work and acting all sad and gets to pick what she eats?” The middle child crossed her arms. “How is that fair?”

“Cassandra-”

“No, for real, what the hell is your problem lately?” Bela shrunk under her sister’s glare. “You sit in your bedroom all day, you don’t talk anymore, you only come when Mama calls you-” She sniffed the air. “and you smell like you haven’t showered in weeks! What is going with you?”

“Yeah, we don’t do stuff together anymore!” Daniela chimed in. “And you’re getting really skinny. I didn’t even know you could get thinner.”

Bela looked between the two of them, her heart starting to pound, and her chest tightening. She couldn’t breathe. Her mother told them to hush. “I-I’m just…” Disappointing. Ungrateful. Unworthy. Disgusting. They pity you. They don’t want you here. You’re not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough! NOT GOOD ENOUGH! “I need to-I… I’m-” Her throat felt dry, and she stood quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly, because her vision spun and she found herself blacking out before she even realized she was falling.

There was a collective moment of silence in the room as Alcina moved to catch her daughter. Daniela stood from her chair and quickly made her way around the table while Cassandra simply stared in surprise. Alcina pulled the girl’s hood back, kneeling on the floor so her head could rest in her lap, and it wasn’t until that point she truly noticed how sickly she looked. There were dark circles around her eyes, her skin was almost as white as the snow outside, her hair messy and starting to mat, and face slightly sunken. It pained her to see, and she cursed at herself. Why hadn’t she noticed this before? Was she so blind to the well being of her own daughter? What kind of mother would allow their child to get so bad?

“We killed her!” Daniela cried, breaking the silence as she grabbed Bela’s face. “Bela, I’m so sorry, we didn’t mean-”

“She isn’t dead.” Alcina interrupted, brushing some of the hair from Bela’s face. “She needs to feed. That’s all.” She rolled up one of her sleeves and sunk her fangs into her skin before placing the wound near Bela’s mouth. The girl’s face twitched, and she was rather quick to latch onto it despite her unwillingness to eat a moment ago. “Good girl….” She hummed, smoothing out the girl’s hair.

Cassandra finally made her way over, tilting her head a little at the sight of her sister. “She’s... seen better days....” Alcina gave her a sharp look, and she tensed. “I just… Nevermind. Sorry, Mother.”

A sigh. “I’ll take care of her. You two go… occupy yourselves.” She said, turning her attention back to Bela. Her youngest daughters hesitated, giving each other concerned looks before leaving the two alone. Alcina gently stroked the girl’s hair as she drank the blood like a starved animal. “Oh, my poor girl…. What have you done to yourself?” She whispered, but she had to blame herself as well.

She should have known something was wrong much, much, sooner….

[tessaliagrey]

Day 7 - Free Day

Summary: A family visit.

Author’s notes:

Okay, you guys (may) know I’m a sucker for BoFenn. I mean, yeah, I know, we see them together in only two episodes of Rebels, but I mean, come on! They just have that “I made heart eyes at her/ at him when I was younger” dynamic. To me, it feels like they have met before, most likely during the Mandalorian Civil War when they were much younger and maybe again during Bo’s regency. The fighting scenes in those episodes look like they have fought side by side before. And the way they talk together about Sabine; they are no strangers. Face it, they have potential ;-P

I like the fact that in order to save Satine, Korkie teams up with Bo-Katan. It’s like “Let’s break Auntie Satine out of prison – again – but this time, we’re gonna bring guns”. To me, Korkie feels like someone who knows that violence is always the worst answer and who will always try to find a better solution to a problem. But he’s no one to just sit there and watch things go overboard. He will take action if needed. I like the idea that he is kind of a middle ground between Satine and Bo-Katan.

This is written from Fenn’s POV.

I wrote this in one sitting tonight because I didn’t have anything for today until today, so be merciful with your judgement 🥰

Tagging: @bokatanweek

This is quite long, so maybe its more confortable to read it on AO 3.

07 - Free Day

It wasn’t the first time that Fenn had been to Evaar’la Yaim, the colony of the New Mandalorian exiles. The place at the edge of the galaxy that Bo-Katan and Korkie had picked to hide the survivors of Maul’s and Death Watch’s coup on Mandalore and the subsequent rise of the Galactic Empire almost twenty years ago. Evaar’la Yaim was one of the best guarded secrets in the galaxy. A safe haven for those Maul and the Empire would rather see dead.

Bo-Katan had deemed it sensible after being made Mand’alor, that, as leader of the Protectors, Fenn should know about this place. Just in case.

This time, it wasn’t a visit out of necessity, but for joyful reasons. Korkie’s wife had given birth to their fifth child a few weeks ago, and now Bo-Katan had finally found the time for a short visit. Two nights was all they could spare; Mandalore demanded Bo-Katan’s full attention.

Fenn walked out of their ship and onto the grass-covered clearing they had landed in. He had taken his armor off and just wore some gray pants and a black shirt. Though Korkie seemed to have no problem with his aunt being a warrior and wearing armor, others on this planet would always frown upon it. Korkie and Bo-Katan had deemed it sensible that for the durations of her short visits, she’d forgo the armor. And since he accompanied her, Fenn followed suit.

The planet Bo-Katan and Korkie had picked was a mixture of everything. Woods, lakes, mountains, plains,… You name it. It must have been inhabited at one point by others; ruins of a different civilization dotted the planet’s surface all over the northern hemisphere. The people, however, must have been long gone.

The Mandalorians in exile had taken the ruins of the larger settlements and used them as a base for their own permanent settlements. Bo-Katan had explained to Fenn that in the beginning, all it was were tents and mobile command units. There was nothing else left. The rebuilding of the ruined settlements had taken time, but by now, they were viable towns, if not small cities. The planet had gone from dependent on supplies from outside to self-sustaining within just over a decade.

As Fenn walked out into the clearing, he saw that Bo-Katan was already waiting for him. Fenn had seen her out of armor more than once. Mostly in training gear when they sparred. But now and then… He was her Protector – the only Protector, for now – and as that, he was around her almost all the time. He’d had to go and wake her up on more than one occasion, and he was one of the very few who knew what clothes the Mand’alor slept in. Or how she looked with tousled hair. Or how beautiful her face was when she slept soundly.

Fenn sighed and reminded himself that he shouldn’t be having thoughts like that about his ruler. But he just couldn’t help it. Even now, with her wearing just standard black pants and a black tunic, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

At first, Fenn had thought it was just a crush. That she was ‘just his type’. But the better he got to know her, the more he fell for her. Now, a year later, he was pretty damn sure it wasn’t a crush. It was love. But still, she was the ruler, and he was her Protector. And that was all they could be.

###

They walked the short distance from the woods to the small city mostly in silence, enjoying the warm sun on their faces, the fragrant air blowing in a gentle breeze and the sound of small animals hidden in the undergrowth. This world was so different from the dust ball they called home.

After a few minutes, they came across one of the main roads and took it to get to the city’s main gate.

Other people were on the road, too. Some on foot like them, others in speeders or on speeder bikes. Someone was pulling a large, fruit-laden cart tied behind one of the domesticated larger local animals. Some people threw them sideway glances, others even ogled them openly. But most people just ignored them. And some very few even nodded their heads or smiled.

The first time Fenn had been here, Bo-Katan had warned him about all the different kinds of reactions her visits got. But that, given that she was partially responsible for Satine’s death, being largely ignored was probably the best she could hope for.

When they were finally in view of the main gate, Fenn heard a high-pitched squeal and saw a young girl break into a run in their direction.

“Aunt Bo!”, the girl yelled, making everybody around them watch and shake their heads.

Fenn was pretty sure the girl didn’t even notice. She didn’t even slow down much when she reached them, but threw herself into her great-aunt’s arms.

“Hey, Ca’tra,” Bo-Katan managed to say, despite her breath being knocked out of her. Fenn had to chuckle.

“I saw your ship!”, the girl explained excitedly. “Buir said I could go and pick you up at the gate.”

“Thank you, ad’ika,” Bo-Katan said smiling, detangling herself from her grandniece. She pointed at Fenn. “Do you remember Fenn?”

“Sure,” the girl said with a broad grin, waving.

“My lady,” Fenn said and bowed slightly, only to watch the girl role her eyes. He grinned.

The girl, Ca’tra, took Bo-Katan’s hand and started to pull her towards the city.

“Come on,” she said impatiently. “Dinner’s almost ready. And Ka’ra is like having a growth spurt, so if we’re not home on time, she’ll have eaten it all.”

And so, Bo-Katan let herself be pulled through the city gates by an eight-year-old, a big grin plastered on her face. Fenn followed smiling.

###

Like the first time he had been here about a year ago, Fenn marveled at the city the exiles had built. Or re-built, in a way. Everywhere, the old structures could still be seen. It was a symbiosis of old and new. Some houses had the ground floor made of the yellowish stones that all ruins here seemed to be made of, while the top floor was all dura- and transparisteel. Classical Mandalorian architecture, intertwined with the remnants of a lost civilization.

The city itself was positioned on top of a hill, and the three of them had to walk uphill to get closer to the city’s center. Bo-Katan and Ca’tra made easy conversation.

“How is everybody else?”, Bo-Katan wanted to know.

“Well, Elyria has been taking flying lessons, and I think she’s kind of good at it. Evy is kind of annoying right now. She’s like super giggly and she starts to think boys are cute.” The girl shook herself, like she couldn’t fathom how that could possibly be. Fenn raised his eyebrows, Bo-Katan snorted.

“And as I said, Ka’ra is having a growth spurt. I mean…How much food can possibly fit into a five-year-old? Apart from that, she’s as annoying as ever.”

“And your parents?” Fenn inquired.

“Tired,” Ca’tra said, grinning. “But that’s all Ijaat’s fault. She cries a lot.”

“She’s just a few weeks old,” Bo-Katan tries to reason.

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Ca’tra answers with a sigh, and Bo-Katan affectionately ruffled the girl’s hair.

Fenn realized suddenly that the girls name, Ca’tra – Night Sky – was very apt. The girl had the pale Kryze skin, but dark brown hair and rosy cheeks like her mother. Her eyes were a deep blue, just like the night sky.

About halfway up the main street, they turned right, and the girl guided them through several smaller streets and alleys, before she stopped at a door that could have been any door in the city.

“Home sweet home,” Ca’tra said and punched in the key code that opened the door.

As the door slid open, the noise of several people talking all at once suddenly flooded out into the street.

“We’re here!” Ca’tra yelled into the hall. “Tell me you haven’t started dinner yet!”

Two other girls suddenly appeared. One about fifteen; tall, and with red-blonde hair and green eyes, she looked much like Bo-Katan, though her face looked more like her mother’s.

“Aunt Bo!” she said and embraced her aunt, though much gentler than her younger sister had.

“Hey, Elyria, how are you?” Bo-Katan asked, hugging her back in return.

“Good. There is-“

“Move over, I wanna say hello, too,” the other girl said, tugging at her older sister’s clothes.

Elyria let go and let her younger sister throw her arms around Bo-Katan’s middle. Apart from the blue eyes, this one – Ka’ra, Fenn remembered – looked like a miniature version of Bo-Katan. The same face, the same flaming red hair. Even the same freckles. Just the eyes were the pale bluish-gray eyes of her father.

“Come on,” Ka’ra said, tugging at Bo-Katan’s hand. “I’m starving.”

“So we heard,” Bo-Katan answered grinning.

The rest of the family was inside the large living area. Fenn liked the Kryze’s house. It felt…yaim’la. It was a place so full of life. A bit chaotic, a bit loud, and lots of love.

“Aunt Bo!” Korkie Kryze exclaimed as he walked over to hug is aunt.

In Fenn’s memory, Korkie Kryze was a lanky fourteen-year-old with a talent to attract trouble. And though he had seen the boy – no, the man – only a year ago, Fenn still hat trouble to reconcile the adult in front of him with his mental picture. Korkie Kryze was just a tat taller than his aunt, his hair blonde, and his eyes bright blue. And one point, he had grown a well-kept, close-cropped beard.

The biggest shock, however, was seeing Korkie’s second daughter. Evy Kryze was the spitting image of Duchess Satine in her early teens. The twelve-year-old just waved over from the table she helped setting.

Korkie’s wife was walking up and down in front a large window front, gently rocking a small infant in her arms. She smiled at them and came over.

“Sorry for the chaos,” she said, gesturing at the general surroundings. “You’d think that by kid number five, we’d get the hang of it…”

Bo-Katan waved her off. “Who cares?” she answered.

Before they got any further, Ka’ra yelled across the room. “Can we eat now?”

###

Dinner had been a joyful and delicious affair, and Fenn felt stuffed and content. He was now sitting on one of the comfortable couches next to Bo-Katan and had to take care not to doze off.

It would be all too easy. He was sitting on one of the sides, being pushed into the downy cushions. Bo-Katan was right next to him, being pushed into his side by Ca’tra, who was leaning into her. All Fenn would need to do was rest his head at the back of the couch and close his eyes.

It was slowly growing dark outside, and the younger children were yawning now and again, though they tried to hide it.

“All right, girls,” Korkie eventually said. “Time for bed.”

He was met with loud wailing from his daughters, but in the end, he managed to usher them all upstairs.

Bo-Katan now had a lot more room on the couch, but to Fenn’s great surprise, she didn’t really move. Korkie’s wife flopped down on next to them, the baby asleep in her arms.

“I though Ca’tra might have exaggerated when she said how much Ka’ra is eating right now,” Bo-Katan began. “But dang…that girl really is on a growth spurt, huh?”

“Oh, and you haven’t even seen the worst of it,” Soniee replied. “It’s moments like that I’m glad we don’t have any boys. I remember how Korkie and Amis used to eat at fourteen… Nothing was safe from them.”

“I bet,” Fenn answered, and the women chuckled.

“You were like that, too?” Soniee asked, looking at Fenn.

“You bet I was.”

Before their conversation could get anywhere near other topics, the noise level upstairs escalated again.

“Mom!” yelled one of the girls. “Can you come up?”

Soniee sighed.

“Here, can you take Ijaat for a second?” she asked Bo-Katan. “I’ll be right back.”

“Uhm, sure,” Bo-Katan answered, but Fenn thought he detected a hint of panic in her voice.

Soniee placed the infant in Bo-Katan’s arms and headed up the stairs.

Next to him, Fenn could feel Bo-Katan let out a long, low breath.

“You alright?” Fenn asked quietly.

“I’m always afraid I’ll break them,” Bo-Katan answered, an apologetic smile on her face. “I mean sure, I carried Korkie around as a baby, but that’s like almost forty years ago now. And Ursa used to shove baby Sabine into my arms on occasion. But it’s not like I got any real practice or experience.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Fenn answered. And he did. Both of them had no children of their own. And though Fenn knew that neither of them actively regretted not having children, it were moments like this that still made you think of the what ifs.

Fenn leaned in closer to get a better look at the small child. She looked so peaceful in her sleep.

“She’s a lucky girl,” Fenn says, though why he says it out loud, he doesn’t know.

“She is, isn’t she,” Bo-Katan agrees. Then she sighs. “I don’t think I could live here all the time,” she continues. “But it’s good to be here now and again. With family.”

Fenn nods. Family. His family used to be the Protectors on Concord Dawn. But now his family was gone.

Before Fenn could get melancholy, the child moved in Bo-Katan’s arms, giving off small noises.

“What do I do now?” Bo-Katan whispered.

“I have no idea,” Fenn whispered back, and they both quietly chuckled.

###

Fenn couldn’t sleep. He tried; he really did. But every time he closed his eyes, he could see his fellow Protectors being slaughtered by Saxon and his men.

So, he had gotten up as quietly as possible and was looking out of the window of the Kryze’s guest room.

The last time he and Bo-Katan had been here, they had separate rooms. But with the addition of Ijaat, only one guest room was left and he and Bo-Katan had to share. Not that Fenn minded. But he didn’t want to wake her, so he tried to pass the time by looking at the foreign sky.

But Fenn heard the rustling of sheets behind him and turned around. Bo-Katan was pushed up on one elbow, looking at him.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked.

Fenn shook his head.

“No,” he answered. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” she assured him. “I…have trouble sleeping through some nights myself.”

Fenn nodded. He understood.

With no more need to be overly quiet, he went back to his bed and sat down at the edge of it.

“What do you dream of?” Bo-Katan asked him, sitting up herself.

“Concord Dawn,” Fenn answered.

Bo nodded. She didn’t really need any further explanation.

“And you?” he asked in return, though he wasn’t sure if she would answer.

“Satine.”

To Fenn’s great surprise, Bo-Katan got up and walked over to him, sitting back down right next to him on his bed.

“Do you think we’ll ever be free of our ghosts?” she asked, looking down at her hands in her lap.

“I don’t know,” Fenn answered honestly. “On the one hand, I wish they wouldn’t haunt me. But on the other, I don’t want to forget.”

Bo-Katan nods, and, to Fenn’s even greater surprise, she carefully leans her head against his shoulder.

###

The next day passes in a kind of blur. Maybe because all Fenn could think about was Bo-Katan’s head on his shoulder, and how, eventually, her fingers had laced with his. Fenn knew it had been for comfort, but poor mind had a hard time to leave it at that.

And even worse – or best of it all, depending how you looked at it – was that fact that at one point, they must have fallen asleep. In the same bed. Because when they’d woke up this morning, they had done so next to each other. They weren’t cuddled up, exactly. But still.

It was probably a good think it wasn’t a workday on this planet, as it meant that all the Kryzes were home and kept Fenn and Bo-Katan very much occupied.

As Ca’tra had already told them yesterday, Elyria had been taking flying lessons, and Bo-Katan had told her over breakfast that Fenn was – and those were her words – an extraordinary pilot. Fenn had felt himself blush like a schoolgirl. After that Elyria had talked him into letting her fly Bo-Katan’s kom’rk (with Bo-Katan’s permission, of course). And Fenn had to admit that girl had talent.

When they were done, the girl had headed off into town to meet friends, and Fenn had returned to the house. When he got back, only Korkie was home, carrying little Ijaat around.

“Where is everybody?” Fenn wondered.

“Grocery shopping,” Korkie answered. “How was flying.”

“Elyira is very talented,” Fenn answered. “It comes to her very naturally.”

Korkie nodded, a proud look on his face. But Fenn thought he also detected a hint of worry.

“Something on your mind?” Fenn asked, deciding that in his experience with Kryze’s, it sometimes paid off to be blunt.

Korkie grimaced.

“You know,” he began, “it’s easy for us grown-ups. We chose to live here. We chose to hide from the rest of the galaxy. The generation of our children, however, did not. They know there is a whole wide world out there. And eventually, they will want to see more of the galaxy than Evaar’la Yaim, beautiful as it may be.”

Fenn nodded. Then he had to grin.

“Five more Kryze women running around the galaxy…”

“Oh stars,” Korkie groaned, but then laughed.

###

Fenn felt almost a little wistful that their time on Evaar’la Yaim was coming to an end. They would be leaving tomorrow morning after breakfast.

Tonight, there was a small festival all around the central town square, and the girls had talked everyone into going. Bo-Katan had objected that a lot of people might not feel comfortable with her being there, but the girls had just told her that other people were free to go home if it bothered them.

Fenn was glad they had gone. It was a beautiful summer evening; warm, with a soft breeze. And the town square looked amazing. Lights were strung up around and above it, and groups of chairs and tables were placed everywhere. Street vendors were selling food and drink. Music was playing and people were dancing in the square below the lights.

The girls were running around here and there, talking to friends, but regularly coming back to their table to spend time with their great-aunt. Who knew when they would see each other the next time?

The adults had gone from water to wine and from dinner to desert. Fenn watched Bo-Katan try some uj cake. She took a bite and closed her eyes.

“Oh stars,” she muttered with a full mouth. “This is so good.”

Korkie snorted. “Of course, it is. This may not be Mandalore, but we are Mandalorians. Of course, we know how to make damn good uj cake.”

“Stars, Fenn, you gotta try this,” Bo-Katan said, and pushed her plate toward him.

Fenn obligingly broke off a piece and put it in his mouth. Dang, it was good.

The evening passed into night and if it were for Fenn, it might never end. Bo-Katan was sitting close to him, and at some point, she had put her head on his shoulder again. Fenn wasn’t even sure if she had noticed. He didn’t mind. Everybody else at the table had most definitely noticed but had the good sense not to say anything.

But it was getting late, and Ka’ra and Ca’tra had a hard time keeping their eyes open, and so they eventually headed back to the house.

###

Back in their guestroom, Bo-Katan leaned against the door of the ‘fresher and Fenn had a hard time keeping his eyes off her. She was wearing what she always wore at night. Comfortable pants and a tank top. But stars, she looked good in that.

Fenn cleared his throat. “I think your worries about other people’s reactions tonight were mostly unfounded,” he said.

Bo-Katan raised an eyebrow, but then smiled. “Yeah, I think after twenty years they trust me enough to not ruing their evening by blowing the place up.”

“Imagine how it’ll be in another twenty years.”

Bo-Katan grinned. “In twenty years, I might even dance and nobody will take any special notice of it.”

“Don’t you always say that you don’t dance?” Fenn wonders.

“True,” she admits. “But I will make an exception in twenty years jus to see their faces.”

Fenn snorted. “Maybe you should practice before that.”

“Ey, I said I don’t dance, not that I can’t dance,” Bo-Katan said. “I was raised at court.”

Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the uj cake, and maybe it was the lingering feeling of Bo-Katan’s head against his shoulder that inspired Fenn to make a bold move. He got up and held his hand out.

“Prove it,” he said.

“What?”

“That you can dance. Prove it. Take my hand and dance with me.”

For a fleeting second, Bo-Katan looked surprised. But then, she pushed herself off the doorframe, and walked over to Fenn.

“One dance, Protector,” she said.

“Yes, my lady.”

And then, she was in his arms, so damnably close that her scent filled his nose, and he felt the heat of her body radiate outward.

People never believed Fenn could dance, but his mother thought it important that he learned how to. And if it was just for this moment, where he danced with his Mand’alor in her nephew’s guest room. Danced with the woman he loved as moonlight filtered through the windows.

Fenn had no idea how long they danced. All he knew was that they moved closer and closer together until her body was flush against his and her head pillowed against his chest. Fenn was certain she could hear his heart hammering in his chest, pounding wildly against his ribs.

At one point, they stopped moving and Bo-Katan looked up at him. Stars, she was beautiful Her green eyes, her freckles, her lips. Damn, those lips. Fenn’s eyes lingered on them, watched how they parted and breathed out his name, and Fenn’s brain short-circuited. He leaned in and kissed her.

And to his great surprise – and great relief – she kissed him back.

[marmolady]

Homecoming: Part One

Read PART TWO here!

Main Pairings: Estela x (f)MC, Graleister

Summary: Endless Ending. Estela and Taylor spend one last night in San Trobida before returning to La Huerta and facing their future. This was going to be a two-parter, but I got all long-winded, so four-parter is more like it.

Word Count: 3342

Chronology: After 'The New Taylor' and 'A Ride to Remember', sort of midway through 'Inheritance'.

Tagging: @saivilo, @edgydepressedchoicesthot, @sceptilemasterr, @greengroove @mauvecatfic​

Thanks for reading!

Parrying the blows of her brother’s sword with the easy grace of a well-honed professional-- she had been doing this since her early teens-- Estela seemed to dance across the basement floor, totally in her element. Then Aleister lurched forward, and she jumped back, effortlessly dodging his attack. But in the landing, she found herself, finally, unstuck. Under the sudden weight of her whole body, her wounded leg gave way, and she stumbled. In a split second, Aleister’s cautious approach fell away and he pushed his advantage before Estela could recover. With a final flick of his blade, she was disarmed.

Estela laughed at the look of plain shock on Aleister’s face at his own victory. “Not half bad,” she commented, impressed that he hadn’t fumbled around taking advantage of her weakness. Her healing leg injury had been a source of great frustration-- despite regular massages of the Vaanti-made ointment concocted using the leaves from The Celestial’s roof, improvement had plateaued. The last thing she wanted was to be babied. “You’re still wasting too much energy with flamboyant gestures. This isn’t ballet-- it doesn’t have to look pretty.”

“Well, it certainly doesn’t appear that ‘pretty’ has hindered my performance,” Aleister panted, recovering just enough to be rather pleased with himself.

Offering a hand to take Aleister’s sword, Estela grinned. “Like I said, not half bad. Come on, hermano. We’d better give Tio a hand in the kitchen; it sounded like he had a big spread planned.”

Brother. That was still new. Only in the lead-up to his hand-fasting to Grace a few months prior had Estela gone so far as to utter that word in relation to Aleister. He reacted as he always did, a double-take, then his cheeks going immediately pink. It had been so long he’d craved that acceptance… now that it was there, it seemed it would take him some getting used to.

All attempts at helping Nicolas out with the farewell dinner were met with strong resistance. Some butting of heads later, Estela realised it really wasn’t a hill worth dying on; if her tio wanted to do something special for them all, she’d just have to step back and let him. After all, it could well be some time before he’d have this opportunity again. Come the next day, she, Taylor, and their friends, would all be on their way, and Nicolas would once more be left to an empty house.

As much as she tried to join in the energetic conversations over dinner, Estela found herself distracted. With her return to La Huerta, she’d be taking steps to move on with her life; to come to terms with the grief she’d suffered and get some closure. And then… she was faced with working out what the hell kind of life she’d forge for herself; something that had been made all the more complicated since Aleister had seen fit to bestow upon her half of everything he’d been left after Rourke’s demise. She’d made good progress on coming to peace with that connection, but she was not fool enough to be under any illusions… she still had a long way to go.

The subject of conversation turned to the case against Lundgren-- and the subsequent clearing of Jake’s name-- and Estela shook herself back to the present.

“The evidence is fairly damning,” Aleister was saying as he loaded his fork with beef, egg and plantain. “Certainly, the prosecutors were pleased. That we have access to every file my father ever touched, and a wealth of video and audio recordings, it would be difficult indeed to look at what’s presented and not come back with a guilty verdict.”

Jake smiled wryly, the grin failing to make his eyes. “I’ll give ya one thing, Malfoy, your old lady ain’t a dame I’d want to get on the wrong side of. I guess… we’ll see. Worst case, settlin’ down out here wouldn’t be half bad.”

“We won’t rest until you’re home,” Grace declared resolutely, her dark eyes shining. “That awful man isn’t going to be remembered as anything other than a power-hungry conniving brute. I’ll stand up and make a witness statement in court myself!”

She had, Jake knew, her own haunting personal experiences of seeing that exact brutality at close quarters. It made him sick. “Hey-- I won’t have you dredging up all that. Not for me--”

Grace spoke across him, calmly but firmly. “It’s my stand to take. I had quite enough of being helpless as Rourke’s prisoner; I need to take my power back.”

Jake’s mouth snapped shut. He wasn’t about to argue with that. “The poor defense won’t know what hit it.” The words rang hollow as exchanged a subtle dark look with Estela. The optimism was nice and all, but experience had told the both of them that the world was a corrupt place and ‘fair’ barely counted for squat.

“I know you think I’m naive,” Grace said, “and maybe I am, but the fact remains that we’re not giving in.”

Taylor grinned, confident because she had to be. “I didn’t offer my life force to some crystal alien only for you to not get back to your family. This is a matter of ‘how’ and ‘when’, not ‘if’.”

Beside her, Estela nodded. “Look, we’d be crazy if we just go in assuming this is gonna be a cakewalk. But Pollyanna here is right; we’ll make it happen. We’re not the kind of people who just roll over to injustice, and anyone who thinks they can force us is in for a painful lesson.”

“Dang, Princess… I think you broke Eeyore. She’ll be a motivational speaker at this rate….”

“It’s Katniss, cabron. Y vete a la mierda.”

Jake sniggered into his beer. So, motivational speaker was a little stretch.

With dinner over, the group started disperse. As Estela made to make a start on clean-up, Taylor gently turned her around.

“I’m pretty sure me and Al can handle this. Make the most of tonight.”

Estela looked out through the window to the front porch, where Nicolas had settled with his flask of rum. She took a deep breath. Taylor was right; she couldn’t just let this time pass her by.

Cold beer in hand, she pushed open the front door and stepped out. “It seems like Aleister and Grace’s first bandeja paisa was a hit.”

Nicolas beamed at the sight of her, and clinked her bottle as she sat down in the other chair. “Of course. Either that or they are exceptional actors.”

“No chance,” Estela laughed. “You’ve seen the looks he gives poor Taylor’s cooking. Her confidence has been shot since they’ve been here. At least Grace is polite about it.”

“You must be excited. I’ve said for so long that your potential was being wasted, and now… the world is your oyster. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Estela shifted in her chair and took a long drink.

“What’s that look for, mija?”

“Well, yeah, I’m excited. Terrified, but…. If I finish this degree, I really should think of what I want to do with it. And, well, all that money Aleister’s pushing on me.”

“That gilipollas. You poor thing.”

“Actually, I’m almost getting used to the idea. As much as it freaks me out, Mom would have been so happy to know I’ve got a leg up.” A small smile crept to Estela’s face. “I keep seeing so many things I could help with. Like the schools and universities-- how much could recovery be accelerated if people had better opportunities to learn? Or physically rebuilding so much that had been destroyed, or actually protecting the wilderness of this beautiful place?” She blushed as she caught herself getting passionate. “Rourke International has the capacity to do so much; we could actually have tourists coming here. That hasn’t happened in my lifetime!”

Nicolas chuckled, looking at his niece with clear affection. But he saw the cloud of doubt across her face.

“I…,” she continued, “I just don’t know that I have the right. We just got rid of one dictator, and Mom was collateral damage to a would-be dictator.” A would-be dictator who’s inescapably part of who I am. “Money comes with a lot of power. Even if I’m using it for what I think is good… I could cause a lot of harm.” By the time she finished, her voice was but a murmur.

“True. Alternatively, you could be one of those misers who sit upon their millions while the people around them starve and suffer, buildings crumble, and forests burn.”

“So, you’re saying I can’t win?” Estela demanded.

“I’m saying, the enemy here is ignorance. Ignorance of what greater impacts of your generosity might be, and ignorance of what suffering might go on if that generosity is withheld. The fact that you are even having these doubts tells me that you are not ignorant to the consequences of your actions.”

Estela huffed thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose,” she grumbled after a little while, “that you’d let me be, even for a second.”

“Of course not! I might be getting on a bit, but I am by no means past letting you know when you ought to unstick your head from your own backside.”

Again, Estela fell quiet. She was not going to be existing in an echo chamber. She’d surrounded herself with people that she trusted, with strong opinions and varied perspectives; people who would not balk from challenging her when necessary. If she tried, she couldn’t become a tyrant, regardless of what blood coursed her veins. At any rate, she’d simply be-- for the most part, at least-- channeling funds to others better placed to make the change she wanted to see in her world. She could be as anonymous as she wanted. Perhaps… perhaps it would not hurt to put some faith in herself.

“I take it from your silence,” Nicolas said, “that you’ve realised that once again I’m right. Now, go back to happily daydreaming about all the good you will do.”

Estela sighed dramatically, but smiled at her uncle. “I’m really gonna miss you….”

“I can’t pretend I’ve been looking forward to waking to an empty house again. But the missing you will be temporary; that’s more than I could have dared to hope for not so long ago.”

The same was true for her. And there was no way in hell she’d let goodbye be forever, not now. “Yeah. You’ve got a good point.”

“Again?”

She snorted. “Shut up, Tio.”

_________________________

The night wore steadily on, and Taylor eventually had to retreat from socialising with Nicolas’ other guests to start making headway on her night-time routine. ‘Self-care’ was something she now had down to an art; she even made a point of noting down the steps taken each night so she could easily track what was most effective. By this point, she had a fairly solid schedule. Yoga was followed by a calming cup of mint or chamomile tea, sometimes accompanied by a hot bath-- though tonight it was too late for the nice long soak she’d prefer--, and then she’d wind down even further with a half-hour’s guided meditation. Jake teased her mercilessly, but she really didn’t give a damn. If she could de-stress just enough to keep the seemingly never-ending stream of horrifying nightmares at bay, he could laugh all he wanted.

Slowly, Taylor wiggled her fingers and toes, bringing herself back to the land of the living with a long exhale. Fifteen nights without being woken up by visions of her loved ones’ deaths was the best run she’d ever had, but if those nightmares were triggered by stress, then the imminent return to La Huerta might just be the trigger that would throw a spanner in the works.

The little dog, Fenix, stretched forward and licked Taylor’s toes.

“Okay, okay, I’m back! Was I ignoring you for too long? Thanks for not interrupting my meditation, I guess,” Taylor chuckled. Having the pet had done wonders for grounding her during her regular existential crises. Fenix had come a long way from the mangy worm-ridden creature they’d taken in; still scruffy even with a full coat of hair, she was now bright as a button, and with a tail that never seemed to stop wagging.

“You’d better enjoy having me to yourself while you still can, Nixie-- this time tomorrow, we’ll probably have Furball sleeping on the end of the bed as well.”

Happily oblivious Fenix rolled and tumbled in her human’s lap. Foxes with ice powers were far beyond her frame of reference, but she could sense that whatever Taylor was talking about made her happy, so naturally there was every reason to be in a good mood.

The door creaked, and a just-showered Estela entered the room, clad only in a towel.

“Hey. I heard you talking to Nix-- figured you’d finished your meditation.”

“Hey,” Taylor cooed, feeling herself practically melt as her wife reached down to stroke her hair. “I just finished; went pretty heavy on the self-care tonight, just to be safe. You ready for bed?” She let herself be helped to her feet, and wrapped an arm around Estela’s waist. “Last cuddle in your little single bed for a while.”

Estela smiled. “Last cuddle in our little single bed.”

Taylor changed into her pyjamas and nestled under the covers, waiting and watching in quiet contentment as Estela slipped into a singlet and a light pair of shorts.

“You are so, so beautiful, you know that?”

“Taylor, you tell me that ten times a day.”

“Just making sure you’re aware, lover.” Taylor pressed herself against the wall, making room on the tiny mattress.

“You ordered a cuddle, yes?” Estela kissed and nibbled along Taylor’s jaw, feeling a tremor of an exhale, then sat back to look into the sapphire gaze of her adoring wife. Beautiful just wasn’t big enough.

“So… how are you feeling about tomorrow?” Taylor ventured.

“A lot of things,” Estela admitted. “Getting on that plane to La Huerta is going to bring back a lot of stuff. And saying goodbye to Tio… well, let’s just say, we’d better have a lot of tissues packed.”

Taylor squeezed her tight. “It’s not forever this time. And I think he knows that-- otherwise you’d be leaving again over his dead body.”

That made Estela give a little snort of laughter, but then she shook her head, sighing. “I know the guilt I’m feeling is irrational. Tio is just so happy to see how much things have changed for me. He wants me to go out and live my best life. But that doesn’t mean I can stop myself feeling it, just like that.”

Taylor didn’t have a lot of life experience, but guilt? That, she knew all about. “We’re just going to have to keep talking to that irrational part of your brain, then. Honey, your tio thought you were dead for so long-- you coming back every now and then, smiling, on your way to healing… that’s just the most amazing gift you could give him. And maybe… it’s going to help him move on too.”

“Yes.” Man, I hope so. Estela knew that her uncle had closed himself off to the world. That he’d seen that he’d done his part in life, and then retreated from it. He joked around, but for so long he’d been broken inside. Now, they could make strides towards something better, together-- even if there was a distance between them. Now, Estela had hope for them both.

Taylor snuggled close, spooning her wife from behind, and leaving  lingering kisses upon her neck and shoulders.

“What about you?” Estela asked softly, turning in the warm embrace so she could meet Taylor’s eye. “I guess this will feel like going home.”

“Yeah, I guess it will be. Something like that. It’s a very… it’s a very weird feeling, you know?”

“I can imagine. It’s going to be strange to be back on La Huerta without everyone. The village is gonna be like a ghost town.”

A small smile tugged at Taylor’s lips; in spite of her own worries. Estela sure was perceptive. “It’s kind of freaking me out.” Of course, Estela already knew that, but it had never hurt to actually put the words out there. It was quite clear that they both had to look forward to a crash course in moving on. But that they were alive, and together, and free to do so… it was everything they’d fought for. “I’m bursting to see Diego again, though. It must have been so much weirder for him these past months.”

There was a grumbling, grunting sound as Fenix settled herself into a nest made out of the clothes Taylor had left on the floor. Both women chortled. Nothing like a funny little dog to keep the mood light.

Estela tenderly stroked Taylor’s hair, loving her. “You’ll have a lot to catch up on. It’s gonna mean a lot to him to have you there.” She blushed. “It… means a lot to me to have you here.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

“Taylor, we all are. And you’re stuck with us. There’s nothing that can change that.”

As she looked into Estela’s soft gaze, Taylor’s heart swelled. If she knew anything at all, she knew that much. All she had to do was trust in that sweet certainty.

[screamting]

 Dick’s first day of school snuck up on them.

 Bruce drove him down in a rusty small blue honda civic from the 1990s. They’d picked it up off the lot for under 3,000 and were using it as a way to ferry themselves to the junkyard to pick up parts for their      special    car--but for now, they were using it to drop Dick off at school.

 Drop Richard Malone off at school.

On paper, Alfred paid for Dick to attend Gotham academy. A private school. It had both boarders and day students. Dick would be a day student, so long as it was feasible. 

...on the first day of school, Bruce drove Dick down to his alma mater (which translated to ‘place you never wanted to visit again,’) and dropped him off outside the gates.  

“Want me to walk you in, Chum?” he asked, despite it not being any  Malone’s alma mater yet, and Dick glanced back at him and shook his head sharply, mumbling a quiet “see you later,” before going off towards the gates. 

Bruce turned to drive home and realized, belatedly, that Dick had never  not been homeschooled. 

He waited for afternoon to pick Dick up again, and resolved to remember to pick up milkshakes on the way back, so he can ask how the day was with a backup plan. 

--

“It is not the right time of year to prune,” Alfred told him. It was far too close to school starting. Far too close to fall. “But, I suppose, it isn’t  impossible . It will just be a good bit trickier to know which branches need it.”

Bruce obligingly bought a new plant from a chain store--a nursery would’ve properly pruned it weeks ago, but chain stores didn’t have that same attention. Alfred brought it home in a little green planter: a tiny bush cut into a lopsided circle.

“This isn’t, in fact, how to do it,” Alfred said, setting it beside Bruce on the patio table. “Can you tell me why?” 

“..it doesn’t target the dead branches,” Bruce said, and Alfred gave a nod. 

“It’s indiscriminate. And  quite sloppy.” 

He handed Bruce a pair of pruning shears. 

“With it cut like this, it’s a little difficult to find the dead branches, but you’ll manage.”

...after a moment, Bruce shoved his hand inside the bush and just… gripped one of the little branches that didn’t have any leaves on it between his fingers. He glanced at Alfred, who nodded obligingly and gave a smile that felt far too much like it was meant for a child. 

“How far back do I cut?” 

“As far back as you can.” 

Bruce nodded and pushed the shears in. And snipped.

The metahuman had power over plants, the paper the day before had said. She argued she’d been acting in self-defense. Her children were crying out for help. And so she helped.

(“‘ I is hearing the scream of a flower as its stem is twisted from the ground,’”  Dick read aloud by Bruce’s bedside, trying to work through the recommended reading list for his level. One year behind his age level wasn’t bad for three years on the road, but it was a lot to catch up on all the same. “‘  I is hearing the soft moan of the old oak, like an old man dying, weeping, when it is felled.’ ”)

As the state of New Jersey did not recognize plants as people or her as the property owner, her appeal was denied. She would spend several years above minimum in Belle Reve for aggravated assault.

(even though the one she assaulted wasn’t there. Bruce hadn’t stepped into court. Bruce hadn’t said a thing. There was one phone call, and a woman, naked, trapped outside on a Gotham street, and then  five other people stepped forward, claiming to be someone she’d attacked. 

And he didn’t know what to think about that. If what everyone said was true was true, or if it was just falling into the fallacy of mob mentality. If it was easier to accept what was said as true. Even if he'd seen the violence first hand, it was  him  being attacked, that was  different--)

He kept his mouth shut, and reached for the next dead branch, and clipped. 

“...and how would I trim something that’s not dead, but it might… be overgrown? Or the wrong height?” 

“Hmm,” Alfred said, still watching him. “Well, first we will need to get you a proper ladder.”

Justly imprisoned or not, the metahuman--a former botanist called Pamela Isley--would be in Belle Reve for several years. 

Maybe he could change something in this town while she was gone.

Therefore, Mr. Malone came to the Gotham Parks and Recreation office, asking if when he got this 501c3 approved that he be allowed to enter Robinson Park and clean up the place.

And the budget-starved Parks office said  fuckin’ do it if you’re brave enough, man , and sent him on his way. 

It was… much easier than he expected, really. But perhaps the Parks department carried so little influence no one had even bothered to bribe them to keep people out. All the same, he’d listen to that backwards warning. 

He drafted the papers in two days. He worked over it at dinner, trying to fill the gap that had once been occupied by discussing with Dick where to travel next and how to best avoid a million impending dooms. He had a free consultation with an attorney in the morning who looked up at Bruce over his glasses, eyebrows up, and reminded Bruce that the park was where mob deals went down and that grassy lady attacked a fella the other day. 

Bruce said that was fine. He knew. He wasn’t here to cause a ruckus.

Legal documents. Articles of Affiliation. Mission Statement. It was helpful to have a second pair of eyes that actually expected the little bureaucracies innate in law, things that Dick and Alfred preferred to grumble at rather than knot through. Not that Bruce had been trained in law himself, but his school friend, Harvey Dent--

(was still in the hospital. Burn ward. He’d stabilized, but wasn’t often conscious--)

...Bruce submitted the paperwork after the Parks commission met with him, and then all he had to do was draw up a budget and wait. Alfred ‘lent’ Mr. Malone the startup money to establish a paper trail. After the initial donation, Bruce could make periodic donations to himself in various names; have miraculous windfalls whenever cash grew thin. Even without any backing or campaigns, he could make this startup impossible to fail.

--

...the problem is, Bruce has long proven his judgement is impaired.

When Dick returns from school not sniffling but  vibrating with stress all the same, Bruce’s first thought is to run and start over somewhere else. 

He thinks it might be an averted suicide response. The need to pack up and leave the current problems behind. With a hardline against being able to die, his mind latches onto another option. A fight-or-flight response that only hits  flight when the problem isn’t something that can’t be physically fought off, like a tween coming into the car and sitting down in the passenger seat with a deep sigh. 

...Bruce asks how his day was. 

Dick says it was fine. 

Bruce doesn’t ask if he wants a milkshake. He goes through the drive-through and buys some anyway. They go home and work how to install tail fins on the car frame slowly coming together in their garage.

--

...the ‘suicide’ response isn’t the only thing that lingers. Bruce isn’t really sure ‘lingering’ is the right term, actually. The flight response only arises when things can’t be handled directly in front of himself anymore, but the fight response--

Bruce has impaired judgment. 

He proved it as soon as his first ‘suicide’ response sent him to the League of Assassins, and he decided to not flee the moment they made it clear nothing would continue until he took a life. He proved it when he wasn’t able to avoid dragging a literal child in the middle of a personal crisis into his mess, rather than leaving him somewhere safe and far, far away from him. He proved it with each near-death experience from Deathstroke in Metropolis to Isley in Gotham. 

And yet, here he was again, finding himself cleaning up the Batman suit long after Dick was put to bed, adjusting it with better material to withstand a bullet’s penetration. 

The people at the parks department weren’t wrong. It would be dangerous to work the area while the mob still operated widely inside it, and he would not cooperate alongside the mobs for protection. The alternative was therefore relatively obvious: get rid of the mobs. 

Mobs weren’t  exactly like a snake, but they did function well enough like one. Cut off the head. And like a hydra, if new heads sprouted--smother them. 

...that, at least, he knew how to do. Kidnapping and recon, and finding information. Find proof of a mob boss’ wrongdoing and get a prosecutor not so cowardly to be bribed. Hand the information over. Don’t let them fail the charges. High profile dangerous people wouldn’t be kept in a local jail, but would likely be transferred to a higher-security prison, circumnavigating the cluttering, and with a focus on high-priority prisoners rather than most random people out on the street, they would be moved through the system more quickly, hopefully at least stalling out their operations in the meantime, if not shattering the whole system beneath them with the sudden departure. 

This was the best plan he had, and it relied far, far too much on too many external variables--finding a clean court, getting a jury that felt safe enough to actually put their foot down, finding witnesses willing to testify, a prosecutor who wouldn't be bribed--

(fuck) 

--and dealing with a Commissioner whose good graces he might’ve worn out. 

…

But the alternatives were to allow this to continue growing, complicit by his own inaction. 

(he was already complicit enough in too many crimes.)

(How did you clean up a world that you yourself aided in the destruction of?)

--

Prosecutors that couldn't be bribed?

They ended up like Harvey Dent. 

--

Batman appears without Robin that evening, because it is a school night and Dick needs to sleep. He stops what crimes in progress he comes across and starts watching Robinson Park more closely. 

He doesn't interfere inside it. He just watches. Plants cameras in the bushes and on the branches of trees, and zips his way out, to watch the footage and get to know the day and nighttime patterns of the area. 

It… will take time. That's something he's not used to. Dick and he worked fast on the road, and even before that he was either handed his information by the ones lower down the chain or only spent a handful of days doing legwork to verify things that'd been missed. Instant gratification, he guessed he could call it. Just… dealing out a death and being done with it. 

(And somehow, he'd drawn the line at known violent mobsters and Deathstroke.)

...he had to do a  lot of meditation to get through the park video feeds. He had a lot of work stacking up between tracking down faces from the feeds. Police database of mugshots helped more than he expected. He started a tally of how many people in the mugshots were brought in bloodied and who brought them in to look into later. 

After all, if Gotham was going to get rid of its mob problem, the police force would need some pruning, too. 

--

Gotham recidivism was above 80%. Bruce gargled his coffee and tried very hard to not spit it out somewhere, because somehow, he was more tired by this statistic than shocked. A bit of, ‘oh, I knew it would be high, but  really?’

No fucking wonder there weren’t enough cells in the world. 

(What do you do when you can’t put anymore garbage in a landfill?

Learning what a  fucking recycling program is might be a good first step.)

It's okay, though. He's totally got a handle on this. He's already been looking into what makes recidivism lower, and the difficulty of access to jobs for felons seems like a big one. Lack of change to living situations that caused pettier crimes like reselling material or shoplifting. The inside prison situation has an effect, according to Norway, which has a prison system Bruce isn't even hoping to replicate, even if he were a living millionaire with a clear conscience. 

Reading other people's’ writings on recidivism has… definitely helped clarify things for him, even if all he can think of for the worst of criminals is still to lock them in a cell far away from  everyone or until the death penalty finally takes it out of his hands. 

But it is one thing to lock up a murderer who sabotaged a family performance and killed in front of an audience, and children, and  child … versus locking up the child who killed trying to protect their family from an abusive partner. 

They’re different. They have to be. 

If Bruce has any right to be alive, he has to be able to believe in gray areas. 

--

Bruce drops the first of several Maroni forerunners on Gordon's desk in the northern precinct. When he finds the precinct desk vacant, he pays a visit to the commissioner’s house instead. 

The thought process is that it would probably be best to clarify that the dropoff isn’t an attack on the commissioner's authority. It’s an opening for compromise. Bruce will be mindful of the incarceration rates, but he won’t be leaving Gotham and he’d like cooperation from the police when it came to prosecution.

Unfortunately, he proposes it in the form of a paper note (written in his off-hand) slipped onto Gordon’s bedroom table where the man will notice it as soon as he returns for bed, which is much more threatening than he fully realizes.

(He doesn’t imagine Gordon’s daughter will find the note first and replace it just as she found it after reading. Then again, he doesn’t ever find out it happened, either.)

--

The county’s defense office wants to cut a plea deal with the gangster brought in, because no one wants to be the next Harvey Dent. The Assistant DA, a woman named Rachel Dawes, seems willing to try, but the department is extremely reluctant to support her, even as she steps up to take Dent’s place until another election can be held.

In the precinct, Bruce’s audiobugs catch officers he’s tracking placing bets on how long until someone finishes Dent off in his hospital bed.

Bruce decides he needs to be more aggressive.

-- 

Twenty-seven aggressive anonymous tipoffs and two synchronized FBI raids half a month later, and Bruce is startled when the door to his bedroom opens and Dick walks in. Bruce doesn't really jump in surprise anymore-- it’s more of… half reaching a position to fight, and stopping in a split second as he realizes the threat doesn't exist.

“Ah,” he says, “do you need--?”

“I was at school,” Dick says, answering the question in an odd way. He didn't need anything, he'd just come back from school--

Bruce’s neck snaps up to look at the clock, while the other part of his brain realizes that it’s nearly dark outside. 

“Did Alfred--” he says, a panicky shame he’s not used to rising up within him. 

“No,” Dick says, shrugging his backpack off and slumping onto bed. “When I realized you weren't coming I walked home.”

Bruce's throat feels tight. “You should've called.”

“Figured you were busy,” Dick says, watching the ceiling, “you've got more important stuff than school.”

Bruce remembers, the pain less raw with years, the slow agony of a school day, knowing there must be more he could do than sit through the farce. 

He remembers that agony of adolescent uselessness clearly, pain dulled or not, but he’s also wisened to its falsehood over the years. There was little he could manage at the time.

“...I’ll set an alarm next time, but school isn't unimportant,” he says, keeping calm and controlled for an extra moment, before doing a double-take on the thought he’d had just a moment before. 

Adolescence?!

--

School is over a month in. Dick’s anniversary is coming up soon. Bruce has gotten the Feds back in Gotham and an internal investigation into the police force for corruption. His nonprofit is finalizing some paperwork and looking into how to hire nonviolent offenders and start training them for small-time landscaping and cleanup by contracting with a local pre-established landscape crew that mostly does the outer and northern Gotham estates. Harvey Dent is conscious but minimally verbal in the hospital. And Dick is thirteen, officially a teenager. 

Bruce does not know how teenagers are different from younger children. He does not recall being any different than he is now at either age. Only morose haze interspersed by flashes of overwhelming tension and temper. 

Harvey once knew him at that age. Not that Bruce could talk to Harvey--not… as himself. The man Harvey knew was long, long dead, (or, it would be simpler if that man was dead, and Bruce as he was now was a new man entirely--) and it’s not as though Bruce could ask advice anyway. 

Still. Maybe he will send Harvey some flowers they’ve started in the backyard...

Once the Justice League gets out of his living room. 

Aside from Superman calling over the phone whenever he seems to please, once a month Martian Manhunter seems to show up, posing as just another social worker or lawyer or family friend, here to check in on how things are going with adoption, or the 501C3, or the… latest cookies out of the oven. 

And if it’s not Martian Manhunter helping Dick sneak cookies off the cooling rack, then it’s Wonder Woman, which is somehow even worse. 

There are not a lot of situations when Bruce would rather a mind reader with incredible telekinetic powers who could mentally and emotionally cripple him with a thought be in his presence, versus just a very strong lady who could rip him in two by breathing. 

Diana Prince has made that situation a monthly occurrence.

She came this time while they were in the garage, putting together a much-overdue car engine. Alfred had insisted on dinner before business. Diana Prince stands in his house for over an hour by the time the rope finally came out and they got down to business. It is an hour too long. Bruce doesn’t think he’s had more than a few words of conversation with her since they moved into Alfred’s townhouse late summer, but he has heard the same questions out of her mouth far too many times. 

“Have you been hurt lately?”

“No,” Dick says, because he only patrols on weekends, and Bruce makes sure he’s kept well away from anything that looks like it will have guns.

“Are you being treated well?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you happy?” 

“Y…”

...Bruce blinks for a second, before he realizes that Dick’s teeth are clenched tight and his face is turning faintly to another color. 

“Dick…?” Diana says, before Dick gives into the rope, and says the truth.

“No.” 

He’s not sure if anyone else can hear the air leave the room, but it does, and Bruce feels his lungs collapse in the vacuum left behind. His stomach shrivels into a ball. 

He wants to run from the room, but his feet are too heavy and slow to move, so he just crosses his arms even tighter, and digs his fingers into his ribs.

“...why is that?” Diana asks. She doesn’t even glance back at Bruce when she does it. She doesn’t even glance away in the first place, even as Dick is screwing his eyes shut. The color his face has settled on is red, and blotchy, and fast. 

Dick drops the rope from his hand and hiccups. 

Bruce can’t move to comfort him. 

...Diana looks between Dick, and the dropped rope, and pulls it back into the lasso loop. She stands. 

“...I’m going to head outside for a bit and give you two some privacy.” 

She turns and walks out to the garden, where Alfred is still watering the flowers. 

Dick hiccups again, and Bruce is a stranger in his own body as he sits on the floor cross legged, and pulls Dick into his arms. 

...he’s a lot bigger than he was when he was eight and curled into Bruce’s side, just minutes after his parents fell. Bruce puts his hand on the kid’s head, fingers running through the cropped dark hair. 

“...Dick?” Bruce says. “Dick?”

He doesn’t get a response. He sits there, uncomfortably rubbing Dick’s hair, until Diana returns some long minutes later, announcing it’s about time she headed out. 

“I’ll see you next month,” she says, mostly to Dick, who still hasn’t looked up. 

Even as Bruce wonders if it’s a threat, something in his chest loosens when Diana leaves and Dick stays behind. 

Eventually, they get up, and try to get ready for bed. 

—

Harvey Dent wakes up again.

The last thing he remembers is a gun being pulled on him; a court case that he  had to win, no matter what—

The nurses are alerted to his consciousness by the sound of his screaming. 

Bruce Malone has no reason to visit him. No clearance. No nothing. All he does is run a small nonprofit startup, currently sending out applications to the very criminals Harvey put behind bars. 

He doubts Batman would be welcome.

— 

Gotham elects temp-head Rachel Dawes to permanent DA to finish out Harvey’s term by seventeen votes. Bruce doesn’t rig the election, though he thinks of doing so. Instead, he spends the week beforehand trying to disrupt the bribery network connecting the ballot counters to the remaining mob and asking Robin to go make sure the paperless polls aren’t hacked the night before.

...Robin isn’t happy with Bruce going out on his own still. But they compromise, some. 

They send Harvey flowers.

They leave a note on Dawes’ desk. An offer, if she needs anything. They don’t want her to end up like her predecessor. 

—

In the morning, at the first hint of workable weather, Bruce has some on-parole inmates and recent-releases standing in the middle of the park, shivering, holding shovels and rakes. 

This is the first day they’ll be working together and training on the job. There will be a stipend associated with the work. Tools are provided. There’s just—they haven’t done this before. And neither has Bruce Malone, who failed to shake off his kid, Richard, who is sitting off on a picnic table not far away, arms wrapped around his snow pants and pouting furiously. 

...He stays quiet as Bruce starts showing the group what they’re supposed to be doing— first snipping the large bushes down to size, raking the sticks and leaves into piles, and then coming up the back with shovels to help define areas for mulch beds around the bushes. Generally they would not be pruning this early into fall, but… the bushes have to go. 

It’s step one (ignoring Bruce’s personal twenty-step plan midway through execution) to help keep the park safe and free-er of illegal activities: just being able to see into the damn park. 

Once they actually start working, Richard gets up from his perch and glumly takes a rake, helping follow along and pulling the old foliage and branches into a set of neat piles a couple feet out of the way. 

It would be one thing if Dick seemed to be having fun, but… he doesn’t really. He’s tolerant enough with the car (whose construction has largely stalled) but he’s never really had the kind of brain like Bruce’s which likes the simple, repetitive patterns of gardening, or kata, or math. 

(“I don’t  want to stay home,” Dick had said that morning. 

“Then wouldn’t going out with a friend be better?” Bruce said over breakfast. 

“I don’t  have any friends!”

Bruce did not respond to that, and had escorted Dick to the park.)

...they pack up in the later afternoon, when the sun is still high but before banks close-- Bruce gathering up all the direct deposit information for the ones who sound interested in coming back, and paying the rest with checks. Dick waits in the car.

When they drive back home, something big, and blue, and midwestern is already in their kitchen, and is talking to Alfred about pie crust technique. 

( Hell. )

Superman is wearing his full goddamn uniform as they enter. He turns and smiles when they come into the living room, raising up one big hand to greet them.

“Hey there! Decided I’d stop by.” 

“....You did,” Bruce agrees, while Dick seems to perk up, eyes widening at the very large and blue man leaning on the counter. 

Dick had  met Superman already. Spent a week at least on the same spaceship as him. Stared him down over Bruce’s unconscious body. Somehow, it wasn’t stopping him from having that bright excitement in his eyes, now. 

Maybe Superman was more exciting when he presumably wasn’t here to arrest anyone. 

Presumably. 

“Uh-huh,” said Superman. “And Mr. Pennyworth was telling me some about how things have been going for you here! Community service work. Sounds good.” 

Sounded  innocent was more like it. Sounded like prisoners in bright orange vests on the roadsides picking up litter for fifty cents an hour. Doing time, paying back society for all he’d done to it— yeah, he figured it would sound good to Superman. 

“It is,” said Bruce. 

Dick, maybe in a better mood now that they were out of the Gotham smog, saves him again. 

“Are you here for dinner?” Dick asked, not quite on his tiptoes—not on his tiptoes at all, actually. 

He’d grown again, Bruce realized. Now he stood almost to Bruce’s ribs, where once he’d had to stretch to reach. 

“No, I didn’t think I’d be  that  welcome,” Superman said, smiling sheepishly, and  good.  At least he  knew.  “I’m just the messenger this time. Because we  are going to have to start cashing in on that deal we made.”

For a moment, Bruce’s heart stills, and he feels Dick tense just a little bit beside him. 

(Is it wrong, for a moment, that he’s still glad that Dick tenses when they both know it won’t be him attacked?)

“Woah, woah, no scary faces—“ Bruce’s face had  not changed. “We just need your input. Information sharing, remember? Flash has had some weird things going on in his neighborhood and we thought maybe it’d be something you’d recognize.” 

...Right. 

Right. 

He was getting protection from This League in exchange for cooperation, not just his dignity. 

Before he could pull himself back into his body, Superman added, “and Robin too, of course.” 

“Robin doesn’t  need to—“ Bruce began. 

“—Robin would be  delighted ,” Dick said, raising his voice unnecessarily high and drowning out Bruce’s own. 

Bruce looked down at Dick, mouth flat. Dick stared back up at him, scowling and arms crossed. 

“You  hate busywork,” said Bruce. 

“It’ll be fine!” Said Superman,  suddenly in his face  , arms moving between him and Dick, pushing them apart, like they were  dangerous to each other— “Flash was just going to bring his kid, uh, flash along with him, and thought it would be good for them to meet. Should’ve led with that. Just, giving kids friends in their own age bracket.” 

Bruce had stood rock still, staring at the same spot Dick had been, now blocked by Superman’s arms. He did not look away. 

“Yes,” Bruce said. “You should’ve led with that.” 

—

...the next evening, his attempts at trimming his hair were interrupted by Alfred, who was quick to steal the scissors away and finish things himself. Soon, it was short enough he could slick it back for the first time in… a while. He pulled on one of his better dark turtlenecks. Business slacks. Dark shoes. Dark. Maybe too obviously a hide-away-in-the-background type dark. 

They met Flash… on the other side of a zeta beam. Bruce hadn’t ridden one since first being escorted from the Watchtower to Gotham. 

He hadn’t  forgotten how uncomfortable it was, but it was one thing to remember in the mind and another to be given a reminder in the body. 

Neither he nor Dick were in costume. There was no reason for Batman and Robin to suddenly be in Central. There would hopefully be no reason for anyone to suspect Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson to travel so far away from their little safe haven and attack.

Flash, however,  did have some things to protect still, and so he waited on the other side of the zeta with his bright red costume made darker in the night, and an unfortunately bright smudge of yellow standing beside him. 

“Hey, Bats,” Flash said, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you  nicely this time.” 

Bruce was really glad he hadn’t given in to breaking this guy’s legs. That would have made this reintroduction unbearably uncomfortable. As it was, he met the hand slowly, and enough of a sound for acknowledgement.

Flash didn’t say anything about it, turning instead to Dick. “And you! Also glad to see you’re doing fine; hooow’s the ankle. This is my sidekick, Kid Flash.”

There was no time to answer to the ankle before Flash had introduced and thumped the yellow teen him on the back, getting the very encouraging response, “I’m not a kid I’m a  teenager, ” which was too obvious to have needed pointing out, considering the cracks in his voice and the speckles acne surrounding his lips. “Don’t embarrass me!”

“I would  never do that.” 

(While Bruce remained cold in his skin despite the warm night, beside him, Dick let out a little bit of a laugh. Almost a few huffs of one, really. It was softening. It was enough to unfreeze Bruce some and get him going again.)

“You needed help with identification?” said Bruce, stepping forward to end the introductions. 

Flash’s expression changed back to serious in a… flash. At least he didn’t look disappointed. Or surprised. “Yeah. Follow me, there’s a place a little more private down the street.”

That place ended up being a deli bakery. One that had very much closed for the evening, and had shuttered its windows for good measure. This made very little difference to Flash, who pulled out a key from a very discreet pocket, and opened the staff door in the back. 

“They donate the day-old stuff to me,” Flash said, grinning, like that explained much at all. “Why don’t you kids go see if there’s anything set on top of the counters in the back?” 

The little yellow flash made a sound that wasn’t quite a whoop, but wasn’t quite quiet, either. 

And then the little hand reached out, grabbed Robin’s wrist, and pulled him through the door behind the counter.

“Woah, easy, chief.” 

Flash’s hand wasn’t touching Bruce, no, but it was  in front of him, ready to block and restrain in a movement as Bruce took a step forward to follow.

He turned to look at Flash, and met his same hard eyes looking back through Flash’s mask. 

“They’re just gonna look around and see if they can find some food. It’s fine.” 

Bruce  knew that was just what they were doing, of course. He just wanted to— check. Just to make sure. It was a closed up shop of people they didn’t know in a city that was too dark and empty at night, save for a few well-maintained streetlamps and a pair of teenage girls walking down the sidewalk to the seven-eleven, sticking close together in the Midwest fall—- 

“Let’s just get a seat and wait for them, and we can get started. How’s that?” 

Flash had removed his hand, and was gesturing now to one of the booth seats near the bar. Not by the windows. Maybe far enough from the windows that anyone who looked in and saw a book light on would just assume management was doing the books late.

(Bruce’s jaw was not  tight , it was just his teeth kept pressing down together. He sat down across from the seat Flash gestured to. It was better to get through work quickly, and head home.)

“Okay,” said Flash, suddenly in the booth with him. Bruce almost still felt the breeze of the movement as a book-clipped green folder was produced and laid out on the table. “So, this is a case that’s been going on a little while. Take your time and let me know what you think of it.” 

The file was pushed over to Bruce’s side of the table, and he took it quietly, removing the clip and flipping it open. 

He disregarded the notes and bios and instead turned first to the photos. 

...he did not  like  looking through other people’s photos. All he could think of was that he would have liked a  bit  closer look at the doorframe, or just a little bit out of angle, or frustration at someone’s focus being a little bit out. That was why you took  lots  of photos of course, but it was still a gnawing anxiety in him that they were going to just  miss something. All he had were his eyes through someone else’s lense and someone else’s word to take for it. 

Which he was very bad at liking. 

….but that was just what this was, he guessed. The case was from five years prior. A body of an older woman on the floor of an enclosed porch. Broken glass. Gunshot wound to the left shoulder, close enough to the heart she’d probably been dead within a minute or two, long before the first police officers had arrived. A bullet hole in the wall behind her. Fallen out of her chair. Glass window of the porch had shattered. A bullet had been extracted from the wall, looking like a .22– moderately furnished house with plastic sheeting over the couches. Wicker chairs. An expensive security system had captured what were rendered as stills of the moment the bullets entered the cameras view, and a man a minute or so later on the front door at the other side of the house, running inside, presumably to inspect.

There were other things. They seemed comfortably middle to upper-middle class, from the photos, and finally turning to look at the profiles confirmed it. 68. White. Retired with a moderate stipend. Married thirty years. No priors or connections that Bruce might consider linking to any of the people  he knew. Just things like public intoxication, driving violations, a few fines—

Her husband was found with her, and owned the same caliber gun that had broken the glass encasement, shot the woman, and knocked her out of her chair before lodging in the wall. He’d run in from across the street to investigate the gunshot, he said. He denied doing the deed, and circumstantial evidence was not enough to make a conviction on—

...Bruce flipped through the folder again, frowning. 

Flash, who had pulled out his phone, looked up. “Something?”

“...what is it you want me to say about this?” It was a neatly put together file. Very neatly. No real loose ends, if everything in it was true. What was he supposed to be catching, here?

“Just, I guess, your thoughts. Anything stand out?” He took the moment to arch his back and stretch his arms out a bit, one hand still holding the phone. Smiled a bit. Friendly. 

Bruce frowned while looking at Flash this time. 

“This is a test,” he stated, “and I doubt just to see if I’d throw out a name just to be ‘useful.’”

Flash blinked innocently at him, but he was still smiling. “I mean, haha, can’t blame us too much…? You found a  lot of trafficking chains, but, I mean—“

“The case has already been closed, and you’re certain of who did it,” said Bruce flatly. He flipped the folder shut and shoved it back across the table. “I’d rather see the scene myself, but if the numbers are right, the bullet hole is too steep an angle for a flat lawn if the husband shot from shoulder height. Someone half his height, or someone kneeling  or lying in the grass. He’s old enough to have trouble getting up from that position, much less from the edge of the yard, to run around to the front of the house and avoid grass stains from a new cut lawn. There’s not enough other information to know who might’ve had a motive to make it professional or not.” 

…

Flash blinked at him, leaning his elbows on the table to watch. He wasn’t smiling or laughing anymore. Good.

“Yeah,” Flash said. Moved the folder off the table, to the booth seat, out of view. “Some kids were playing with their new .22 in the yard across from the house and accidentally shot her through the window. They confessed a few months ago.”

It was a small enough crime that news wouldn’t have made it to Gotham. Or been widely publicized at all, if ‘kids’ meant they were  still minors. That would make them thirteen at most at the time of the shooting—

Bruce wasn’t sure if his throat was full of acid or metal as he said, “Is there anything else for me to look over?” 

Flash hesitated a moment (an eternity for him, surely) and said, “Well…”

Bruce stood and made a  straight fucking line to the door Dick had been pulled in and not yet emerged. Flash called out, “Hey—!”

….even as the hand fell on his shoulder and tried to pull him back, Bruce had frozen in the doorway. 

On the other side, he could only see a bit— the doorframe was too narrow and he dared not step closer—but he could see enough.

He’d wondered, a little bit, why Robin hadn’t emerged when he’d begun speaking. Surely he was loud enough to be heard from the back room. They were only meant to be separated minutes. Just a quick mission. Now, he could see, though—

Dick, sitting on an industrial chest freezer, his legs kicking, not near touching the floor. 

He was holding a popsicle. One of the fudge ones. Partly eaten and the top of the stick beginning to show, and Robin didn’t see how it was beginning to drip down over the crinkled plastic wrap, and would soon run over his fingers. 

He was busy, looking at Kid Fash. Kid Flash squatting on the floor with a creamsicle, holding it up to the color of his suit, and visibly whining with an orange tongue, a pouting face—

And Robin ignored his own melting ice cream to laugh.

...Flash’s hand tugged on his shoulder again, this time gentle enough that Bruce felt it. He turned with the pressure, and headed back for the booth. 

He sat down in it, across from Flash and his already-solved case folder. 

“...this was not for case files, was it,” Bruce said, staring at the table between them, feeling very stupid and small. 

“I mean,” Flash said, looking almost as embarrassed as Bruce was shamed. “...we did want to know. But… we thought maybe my uh, my cousin could use someone who could relate to him.” 

Ah yes. For  Kid Flash’s sake. For the boy who they’d never seen publicized before, who was complaining about his outfit color as if he hadn’t chosen it, who didn’t know that in Flash’s ‘occasional empty diner hideout’ he was allowed to run off and eat before being told. 

Not for the boy that for the past month Diana’s pitying face had hung over, the boy who had eagerly asked to Superman to stay for dinner, and who Martian Manhunter would deliver sleeves of choco cookies to, even though they had more than enough money to purchase a box for themselves.

...perhaps Bruce should be glad Flash wasn’t the best at lying. Perhaps Bruce was too used to looking for tells, and mistook super speed masking for the truth. 

“I see,” was all he said. 

When he’d been a child, there had been plenty of others who knew death, and who had never moved him an inch for all their crying. He’d done his best to make that untrue for Dick the past few years, and now they knew each other’s grief inside and out. 

Bruce did not know what else to do from there. 

It was grief all the way down. 

“He’ll need to learn how to counter people who might actually know how to fight speedsters,” he said, watching the table. “There’s pads in the basement, if he’d like to improve sparring with Dick sometimes.”

Flash blinked at him again. Flash sat up straighter, grinning. “Oh?”

“Oh,” Bruce agreed, looking up to scowl. “But for fuck’s sake, bring more than one casefile next time.”

—

On Robin’s anniversary, a gang fight breaks out in the Diamond District.

Something gone wrong. A shootout.

Bruce isn’t sure if it could’ve been called a shootout before the police arrive. By the end of the night, the building is on fire, and a gas vein has blown. Heavy smoke drifting down the street causes a panic, and then a stampede— 

He doesn’t want to let Robin out tonight. 

On the news, it looks like there are fights breaking out in the stampede. There are people lying down, specks of color on the ground as the helicopter news anchor tries to describe the scene. She’s pure professional. Cold eyes. Clear eyes.

The smoke momentarily engulfs the helicopter, and she begins crying. 

He does not want to let Robin out tonight.

He will deal with the outrage in the morning. 

—

(On Robin’s anniversary, Harvey Dent sees the fires and hears gunshots from his hospital room. He drags himself and his IV stand away from the bed, towards the window, and fumbles with the latch with ineffective hands. The nurses come with the heart monitor alert. When they sedate him, Harvey is still screaming “Burn it down, burn it down.” )

—

...as often as it happens, Bruce doesn’t think Gotham knows how to deal with tragedy. Wasn’t it common by now? Weren’t they used to it? But as much as the flags should’ve flown half mast and statues been erected, the world stood still— the next morning, school busses take the children to school, and their parents march out to work. 

Bruce has a distinct face, but with enough makeup and a red wig, he can seem to be a different person for a while. He can dress himself up as officer and with enough confidence and disdain walk right passed the caution tape and into the crime scene the next morning. 

Is it still accurate to call several city blocks a crime scene? Is it a crime scene at all? 

There’s caution tape around it. He knows what the words mean in his head. A shape, more than a real definition, with real letters attached— a block of space that has crumbled differently from the world around him. A depression of buildings, some with more tarps laid down than others. 

Most of the bodies have been taken to the morgue by now. Not all of them. But most. 

Is he going to sneak into the morgue tonight? Is he going to cut open an innocent person who gave no consent to him? To do more than what their family may have agreed to? Will he just steal the coroner’s report and assume they did their jobs properly? 

….it is Gotham. He will assume nothing until proven otherwise. Even now it feels like the police are more rattled than usual, like something has actually gone and bitten them and made them pay a bit more attention.

Inside the building where the shootout started, he starts to look for the bullet holes and take pictures. He looks for scorch marks to track towards the origins of the blaze. 

He doesn’t find a blown gas vein, no matter how hard he looks. 

There was a difference between a storage building and a warehouse. This was a storage building. It had perhaps had a secretary and some organizers. Someone in charge of keeping track of records. There had been unused parts of the building. Bare rooms without much beyond stripped light switches and unpainted walls. One or two empty office spaces, for meetings perhaps. For presentations. 

It was on the second floor where he found the lab. What appeared to be the remains of a lab, in any case. It had been shot up through the floors, and the papers had burnt up in the fire. Police hadn’t officially come up this high yet. The stairs didn’t seem stable. Bruce had not specifically used the stairs. As long as no one saw him slip back down, it would be fine. 

It seemed as if the lab had not been in use at the time of the shootout. Fortunate. The beakers were broken, but they were all clustered together near the sink, clean, and so presumably had all been put away after any use. There was nothing sitting out that seemed to have been mid-use. He would’ve believed a Bunsen burner might’ve started part of the fire, but there was none of that, either. 

...there  was one thing. A broken tankard in the corner that had caused most of the damage, to be certain. A high caliber round seemed to have punctured it, either from the floor below or fired from the hall outside. Otherwise, there would’ve been another body up here, or at least the remnants of one. But the sudden decompression seemed to have mostly left just… a badly scattered room and shrapnel damage on the opposing wall. 

He was about to move to the next room when he noticed the faint texture inside the tank and a matching sort of stain on the ceiling above. 

...he moved closer to the tank, holding his breath and not daring to hope (should he be  hoping  for something?) and investigated. 

A thin layer of green-ish white powder layered the insides of the tankard. An explosive cloud of the stuff must have also flown towards the ceiling and stained it during decompression. He’d assumed it was an oxygen tank. Assumed wrong. 

Taking out a few q-tips, he picked up a few wipes and sealed them away in an evidence bag, did another once-over of the room, now trying to double check everything and ignore his ‘assumptions’, but the burnt papers remained largely illegible, and the cleaned lab materials yielded nothing new. 

He moved on to the next room, and slipped out quietly from there to check the rest of the street. 

—

He arrived back home in different clothes just about the time that Dick (picked up by Alfred) returned home from school. 

The kid looks at Bruce as Bruce enters the front room, and a silent but perceptible drone passes between them. 

For a moment, Bruce simply looked back, wondering what it was he was supposed to say here. 

Eventually, he fumbles in his pockets and pulled out dust-covered q-tips. They’d done this lots of times on the road, hadn’t they? And it had been fun, then. “Want to help identify oddly colored dust?” 

Dick lets his head drop back with an open-mouthed groan at the ceiling, but he does come to the garage lab without… any other response than that sound and movement.

...Bruce was not sure what that meant. 

—

Who the  fuck was rigging exploding nitrous oxide cans to deliver green-dyed powdered LSD?

—

Monday, at the park, he tells the ones who show up they can stay and work in the park as they’ve been doing the last two weeks, or they can come with him to help clean up the areas damaged by the fire.  

Most of them, eight out of the ten, peel off to go help with the fire damage. He can’t say he expected that. But they wander out of the park, keeping together in a group, and spend the day with magnet sticks picking up nails and crooked metal and stacking bricks up out of the walkway. They hose down the ashes to stop dust and at Bruce’s insistence, scoop the ashes into garbage bags instead of just washing it all into the sewer. 

It gets him some weird looks, but no one is ready to argue with him after only working for two weeks, because these are the ones who  stayed  for that daily stipend-- there’s not a contract here; these ten are the ones who hate this work less than anything else they might’ve had available, so they break out two flat shovels and bag things up, wearing cotton masks to avoid inhalation. Bruce trots back to the park to get the truck and pick up all those bags for disposal.

He’s prepared for the ones they left behind to have skipped out early, unsupervised, but as he rounds the (now lower) hedges to look at their base of operations he finds… they actually have acquired an extra person. 

No, the shovels aren’t moving and the hedges don’t look that different from what they’d been like this morning, but that’s still not  abandoning a position. And instead they have some soda cans from the nearby vending machine, and are leaning on a termite-eaten picnic table, talking with rapt interest to Dick Grayson. 

Bruce paused to take it in a second time. Dick certainly clocked him coming into view even though the kid didn’t turn to look his direction. Dick was still there, though, sitting on the other side of the picnic table with a fizzy orange juice and his legs crossed under himself. It wasn’t Bruce’s day to pick him up, Bruce was certain, and yet he had a moment where he had to think of it again to make sure, and checked his phone, and his pocket schedule. But his instinct was right, and it was indeed Alfred’s day to pick Dick up from school while Bruce worked here in the park--

He started to walk over just as Dick turned and raised a hand in greeting, letting the recruits cue into his presence before he was close enough to startle them. And yet, they were still startled enough to look at their shovels and very obviously say “shit,” even when Bruce was still too far away to actually hear it. Then, one seemed to realize they had cursed in front of a tween, said “shit” again, and smacked themselves on the forehead.

Dick’s nose wrinkled up as he smiled. Bruce couldn’t hear it, but he knew it was a laughter snort. 

(He did not acknowledge his jaw untensing as he walked up to Dick who was smiling and sociable again.) 

He came over intending to smile and say words and have a nice conversation, and… then he was close enough and realized he didn’t know what to say. Did he tell them not to corrupt Dick? Would they take that as him implying they were poisonous to others? Would Dick take that as him being protective and spoil the mild good mood? If he told them to take the rest of the day off since clearly things weren’t going to happen, was that dismissal? Or was that chasing them off? Would it be a threat to their paycheck, even though he intended to pay the day’s wages fair as always?

Things seemed to be going almost well lately. The park was slowly being cleaned and Dick was in better spirits than he’d been for two days since the anniversary--

“Oh, he stalled out, don’t worry about it.” 

It is not  embarrassment, but Bruce does snap out of his train of thought and back into the present. “Sorry,” he says, and looks to the two grown men in their baggy jackets and laced up work boots and secondhand hats. “We’re just finishing cleaning up some of the ash. If you come help move the last bit, we’ll all call it a day.”

As they got up and started shuffling away from the picnic table, Bruce did glance at Dick, and after a moment of still confusion, say, “Coming?” 

...the expression Dick gives him was not a smile. But he did come. 

-- 

They throw the garbage bags in the back of the trunk, and pack it largely to the brim. Surreptitiously, before Dick can climb into the passenger seat, Bruce digs out a simple dust mask and hands it to him. With barely a second look, Dick puts it on and rolls down the window before settling in. It’s smooth, and no one asks questions or looks much askance, because he and Dick are good by now at not announcing  something is happening that is different than normal to the world at large. 

(And Dick has become very good at seeing through that with Bruce, but Bruce is… starting to wonder if perhaps, he has taught Dick too well to hide anything that would draw attention that something was wrong. Like a wounded animal could run on a broken leg, or a predator bleed from the mouth, and neither would ever make a peep.)

They drove the bags of ashes home to hide behind the house’s perimeter walls, and Bruce tried to explain. The dust, and the huge plume of heat and smoke that could’ve blown even heavy particles down the street, and the sort of cues that psychedelics took from the state you were in. How most people probably wouldn’t exactly get a good trip, surrounded by gunfire and smoke. And maybe there was something else he missed, in the ash, unsafe for casual disposal, how he wasn’t  certain he hadn’t missed something--

Dick laid his head back on the car seat, sighing through his mask, and Bruce stopped his mumbling.

Glanced over. 

“...maybe I can… arrange for Flash to take a look, if you want to come along,” he offered as they pulled onto their street.

Dick sat up a little straighter, a little light in his eyes.

--

...he wondered, maybe unkindly (but mostly tiredly), if Dick would rather move in with the Flash and his sidekick. He didn’t have any real evidence for this. Kids did tend to be fairly excited to see friends around their own age, and just because someone might enjoy a trip to a festival didn’t mean they wanted to live in one.

...yet, Dick probably would’ve been quite happy, adopted into a renaissance fair circuit.

Maybe it wasn’t that Dick needed more friends. Maybe the issue was Bruce.

But it’s too late to change that now, isn’t it? Dick drew his line in the sand in front of the Justice League, and Bruce had given him too many secrets to have to keep, and there was nowhere else to go. 

—

Bruce goes to Gotham Academy early. Very early. Two hours before pickup is meant to be.

Dick has gotten into a fight. 

The parents of the other kid are already there when Bruce arrives and is shown to the principal’s office (it is in the same place it has been since Bruce went here) and ushered inside to the sound of anger and snapping threats. 

The office is wood, with a centered carpet and a large mahogany desk at the center, and surrounded by three adults and two children, one of them his. 

Dick doesn’t have a scratch on him, unless you count a faint bruise starting to show on his knuckles. The other boy, who is bigger and taller in every way, has a tissue up to his nose and an ice pack on his ear, and is simultaneously shielded and towered over by his two parents, neither of whom have stopped arguing with the principal since Bruce arrived. 

He barely gets a chance to get to Dick’s chair by the wall when he is also pulled into the argument by a “Is  this little heathen yours, Mister Malone?” from the mother. 

Things are not going to improve from there, he’s pretty sure.

“What’s going on?” he asks the principal instead, who is a balding white man with age spots on his face and horn-rimmed glasses on his nose. 

“ Master Richard here has assaulted Master Reynolds--” the principal begins.

“--and we will be pressing charges if adequate disciplinary action is not taken,” says the father.

“But what actually happened,” Bruce says, and somehow the noise gets louder in the room. Not the physical noise of three or four people talking at once, but also the hot dissent from Dick in his corner, the hidden bloodied fear of the boy he attacked, the principal patting the desk with his hands over and over, trying to call attention back to himself. Fluorescent lights bright as static. Itchy polyester fake turkish carpets even though his shoes. The room is small and red-orange with wood stained to look like cherry, yellow copper accents on the studs of cushions and trophies and the frames of portraits and certificates hung on the clustered walls--

Dick is suspended three weeks. 

--

Dick is curled in the front seat of the car, furious that Bruce didn’t defend him enough and fight back, and get his sentence reduced or vetoed entirely. His body is balled up tight enough he’s no bigger than he was at eight, curled around the seatbelt in a haze of fury. 

“He was  picking on people  ,” Dick says in a way Bruce knows means Dick had seen it before, but this time it had crossed a line. “  He should be suspended.”

‘He’ is getting two stitches and a formal apology written (ostensibly) by Dick. Dick will not be the one writing it, even if it’s his name at the bottom. ‘He’ will be in school, not in trouble for bullying but now with free reign to his targets without Dick to stand in the way. If Dick was even in the way before at all. If being in the way without being physical meant anything in this case. 

“You’ll just have to be more subtle about it,” Bruce says, trying to be encouraging. Because Dick didn’t do anything  wrong to step in. Maybe it didn’t deserve a bloody nose, maybe it could’ve been handled some other way, but he still hasn’t been able to wrangle the exact story out of anyone but he is certain that--

Dick goes “RRR” and kicks the windshield hard enough that Bruce startles and slams on the breaks. 

Their seatbelts jerk tight and a car horn behind them blares. 

...there is the faintest tap on their bumper, but Bruce is already speeding the car forward again, heart pounding too hard to stop. 

There’s not even a scratch when they get out at their house later.

--

He goes to Dick’s bedside in the evening. Dick’s lying on top of his covers with the lights turned off in a darkening room, staring at the wall opposite the door. There was music playing before, but the CD player turned off as soon as Bruce turned the door handle. 

He sits by Dick’s bedside and asks if he’d like to go out for the evening. 

Dick agrees, but there isn’t much laughter that night, except the sort Robin scares people with.

The mood is still there the next morning.

--

It is Superman’s turn to check in. Apparently. 

The visit is unscheduled (and probably because of  Dick’s suspension) and today involves casserole, which Bruce is primed automatically to dislike. 

"Yes?" Bruce says upon seeing big blue and buoyant in their kitchen, hovering over the kitchen island with a glass dish covered in aluminium and Alfred looking over a handwritten paper beside him. 

"Oh, hey, good morning there," Superman says, as if he's surprised to see Bruce here when there was no other person for him to be there to  see . "I was just dropping off the casserole recipe Alfred wanted to try."

…one of the only people for him to be here to see. But Bruce still doubted a casserole was a real reason for a whole visit. So Bruce tries again. "Did you need something?"

Alfred looks up from the paper with a frown and without a word starts shooing them out of the cooking space if they're going to be talking business. "I dunno. Was there something you needed to talk about?" 

They make it to the couches of the living room, though neither of them sit down. 

"No," says Bruce.

"Alright then," says Superman, who Bruce is learning is an asshole. "I heard some stuff happened with Dick at school?"

Which is entirely unsubtle and a very clear sign that Superman is not leaving until Bruce asks  some  sort of question or resolves whatever this is. 

So fine. Bruce hasn't even had some fucking coffee yet. He'll ask a question. "What would you do if your child, who is aware that at nightime they can go out and punch abusers and rapists, during the daytime attempted to defend an underclassman, and as a result are threatened with criminal action or suspension while you are trying to lie low and causing a big fuss about it and fighting the decision will do the exact opposite of laying low, severely limiting their freedom regardless of if we win."

Like a coward, Superman's expression says he had been thinking of Dick as a kid who was not  Dick , and sheepishly says, "I guess, what would your parents do?"

Bruce thinks he feels it this time. The expression on his face turning colder. He feels it the same way Dick can always see the change. "I wouldn't know that, now, would I?"

...this was why he left in the first place, wasn't it. This eternal loop of days upon days surrounded by people who just  forgot or never could let him forget. It's been easier as an adult, almost-- it's normal now for people's parents to be dead. It's normal to not have people ask after them like limbs they can't see have detached. Even if Superman doesn't know his old name, doesn't know that stupid story about a boy billionaire and his rich family, its jarring to realize that even the most alien being on earth just assumes--

--well, of course. He would know  all  humans have parents. 

But the bite in Bruce's voice is cold enough, and the way Alfred's slight shuffling in the kitchen goes quiet, it's enough to get through apparently-- Superman's head is ducked down embarrassed and he says, "right, sorry," because perhaps Bruce returning to Gotham to the fucking Wayne Butler's House should've been enough reason to realize he didn't have any family left of his own. "The person who raised you…"

"Nothing they said," Bruce interrupts, "has ever done anything about this."

…

Maybe he's angry. He hasn't had any coffee yet. But he turns to end this conversation and walk out to the garden, and hears Alfred's sigh from the kitchen. 

But he's telling the truth. 

Even if Alfred had found something new to say in the years since Bruce tried to bite his therapist's face off, if he's tried to say it to Dick, it clearly hasn't been working. 

--

There is a thing like a piston beating up against his head. A hammering rhythmically at the front of his skull. One thing, then another, then another, then another, and when he wakes up the next morning to one more ring there will still be all the ones behind him, echoing through the halls still unresolved. 

He wasn’t made to live like this. How was anyone made to live like this? One thing after another and another and when he wakes up in the morning there are still more banal, useless things to do in a world that eats up and eats up and eats up--

How does the grocery store clerk wake up each morning? How does she go to bed at night knowing the same thing will happen the next day, but worse, and more tired, and less pay, over and over, for eternity.

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Field of Poppies Part 10

Summary: After being apart for six years, childhood friends Tommy and Amelia reunite under odd circumstances. Tommy is an outspoken young man and Amelia is pregnant and out on the streets. The bond of family can be unbreakable but it is tested often. Especially when Europe descends into war.

Part 10: Tommy gives Amelia a promise and Amelia talks to John about love.

//I cannot for the life of me remember if I gave Amelia a last name. And if I did, I can't find it. So if anyone remembers me writing a last name, you get fifty bonus stars. 

            Things were fine for a bit. Amelia put all her effort into looking after Max. Tommy worked pretty much all day and then some nights he’d be at meetings with Greta and Freddie. At night, he gave Amelia a rest from Max, making sure the baby was taken care of. He was growing accustomed to sleepless nights, even when Max started sleeping through the whole night. He would often stay up for hours, writing, planning. He would stay up at his desk near Max’s cot, squinting to see in the dim light. Usually, both Amelia and their son would sleep through it. Sometimes she would complain and tell Tommy to come to bed. He said he would but instead, went downstairs so she could go back to sleep peacefully.

            There never seemed to be enough hours in the day. Tommy’s mind was always whirring with things. With everything going so well, he began to feel invincible. And inevitably, pushed his luck too far.

                       One morning, when Max was six months and spring was just beginning to bloom, John came bursting in through the door.

            “Tom’s been arrested!” He shouted, breathless from his sprint back home.

            “What?” Amelia startled and turned to Polly who was looking after Max.

            “Jesus.” The woman sighed and handed Max back to Amelia.

            “What happened?” Amelia questioned John.

            “We were at the bullring and some coppers came up and arrested him!” John was wide-eyed. Police weren’t something the Shelbys were unfamiliar with. Often times, Arthur Sr. would be tossed in jail for the night due to petty theft or disorderly conduct due to drinking. Arthur and Tommy learned to not trust the police officers from their father and would sometimes tease local officers they knew well. But neither of them had ever been jailed. Usually, they were given a warning or marched home to be scolded by their mother. But now that they were older, and the things they were getting into, it was only a matter of time before law enforcement took notice.

            “On what charges?” Polly asked, the more level-headed of the three in the room. She’d been cleaning up after Shelby messes for years and knew the drill.

            “I dunno.”

            “Pol, what do we do?” Amelia held Max close.

            “I’ll handle it.” She promised and went to get her coat. “Stay here with the boys. Don’t answer the door for anyone.”

            Gripped with fear, Amelia nodded. She trusted Polly. Trusted her to know what to do in dark times.

            John prided himself in being as tough as his brothers even though he was younger. But Tommy’s arrest had greatly shaken him up. He always thought his older brothers were invincible. That’s how they acted. No one could touch them. But seeing the police wrestle Tommy to the ground and put handcuffs on him was too much.

            Amelia could see the fear in the teenager’s eyes. “Are you hungry, John?” She did her best to try and have some normalcy. There was no need to panic yet. Polly could handle everything.

            John shook his head.

            “Okay. Could you hold Max for me for a mo’?” She wondered. “I just have to grab something upstairs.”

            He nodded and walked over to take the baby from her arms. He sat down at the kitchen table, quietly cradling Max.

            “Thank you.” Amelia gently touched his shoulder before heading upstairs. There wasn’t anything she needed to grab. She just needed a moment to collect her thoughts. She locked herself in the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her face. This couldn’t be the direction their life was going. She would not tolerate Tommy flitting in and out of jail. He promised her he would be there for her and especially for Max. She didn’t want there to come a time when Max was old enough to know what was going on. When he asked why daddy wasn’t coming home.

            No, Amelia would much rather be on her own than live through that.

 ~~~~~~~~~

            As Polly expected, it wasn’t too difficult to get Tommy out of jail. He’d only been taken in because Danny had gotten in a scuffle with the police. They’d gotten Danny and locked him up for a day but Tommy, who was present, had given them the slip.

            Polly waited as they released Tommy who looked disgruntled. But that was nothing compared to the icy glare from his aunt.

            “Pol…”

            “Don’t.” She jabbed a finger at him. “You are marching home right now and apologizing to your poor brother. He was in a state seeing you get arrested. And Amelia too. You made a promise to her, Thomas, you cannot run around like some common street criminal. Be better.” She urged before striding off back to Watery Lane.

            Tommy sighed and followed behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

            Amelia was upstairs when Tommy and Polly returned. John and Ada were looking after Max who was contently sleeping in his bassinette in the kitchen.

            “Tom!” John looked beyond relieved when he saw his brother walk through the door.

            “Hello, hello.” Tommy let his sister hug him tightly.

            “John said you got arrested!” Ada said. “I thought we’d never see you again.”

            “S’alright. I’m sorry for causing a fuss.” He said. “John, you shouldn’t have seen that, that was my fault.”

            John nodded. “I knew you’d be alright.” He said, trying to maintain his image as a Shelby boy. He didn’t want his brother to know that he was just as scared as Ada was.

            “Where’s Mel?” Tommy asked when Ada finally let go of him.

            “Upstairs,” John answered.

            Polly nodded. “I’ll watch the baby.”

            Tommy headed up to the bedroom, knocking a couple of times before Amelia let him in. She embraced him.

            “Tom, for fuck’s sake. I was so worried.” She gasped.

            “It’s okay.” He promised and hugged her back.

            “What happened? Why were you arrested?”

            “Something to do with Danny, it was just a little mishap.” He assured her. “Nothing big. They didn’t charge me with anything.”

            “Christ, Tommy, you can’t play these games.” She warned but still wouldn’t let go of him. “You know how the police are, you can’t keep attracting their interest or they’ll never leave you alone.”

            “It’s alright, Mel. It’s over.” He felt her push him away, much to his surprise.

            “That’s all it ever is with you, isn’t it? It’s fine. It’s done. It’ll be alright. That’s all you ever say to me anymore!” She moved away from him and wrapped her arms around herself. “You keep promising me all these nice things, that you’ll always be there for me and always be there for Max. Then what happens? You’re arrested! And I can’t imagine this will be the last time.”

            “Mel…”

            “I hear things, Tommy, I hear what people are saying about you. What they’re calling you and Arthur and Danny an-and everyone else. You think this is right?”

            Tommy ran a hand over his face, exhausted by the day. He sat down with a heavy groan. “Mel-”

  ��         “The police don’t care, they’ll keep locking you up and then you’ve broken your promise to me and Max because you won’t have been there for us.” She paced the small room. “Is that what you want? You have so much potential, Tommy. You’re so much more than this. I don’t want you to rot away. I don’t want this city to make you some low-life like your father!”

            “Oi!” Tommy shouted as she had hit a nerve. He stood up and grabbed her arm to stop her from pacing. “I am not my fucking father. I will never be him. You say I have potential, yeah? Think I can just go out and make money like those fuckers in London, aye? They’ve got blue blood, they were born with money, Mel. I can’t make money the way they do. You’d have me go work in the factories? Fourteen-hour shifts every day? I could work all day and all night for the rest of me life and never make enough money to keep food on the table.”

            Amelia had tears in her eyes. “You don’t understand, I don’t care about money. I will be happy with whatever I have at the end of the day as long as I have you and Max. I don’t want you to end up in prison or killed because you want money. I will suffer and starve if it means keeping you safe.”

            He let go of her arm, shaking his head. “I won’t. I won’t starve and I won’t fucking suffer. Not anymore.”

            Amelia wiped her eyes. “So, I’m meant to wait for the call one day that you’ve been found killed?”

            “That won’t happen…”

            “You don’t know that!” She shouted. “You can’t control life, Tommy. If you go looking for trouble, you’ll bloody well find it eventually!”

            He went to his desk and pulled out a few pieces of paper. “See that.” He pointed forcefully.

            Amelia shook her head, not even willing to look. She felt like she’d been made a fool of by trusting him.

            “Five years.” He thumped his hand on the desk. “Five years and we’ll be legitimate. We’ll have a license; we’ll be operated legally. The money will come and there will be no need for worry about coppers.”

            “Those are just words.”

            “It’s my promise, Mel.” He cupped her cheeks so she would look at him. “Five years isn’t too long. I’ll be careful and nothing will happen. I may get nicked a few times but I’ll always be home for you the same day. Five years and we’ll be able to get a house and send Max to a proper school.” He wiped some of her tears away. “And if by five years I haven’t kept my promise, I’ll give you all the savings I have so you can have your own life with Max.”

            She sniffled and knotted her fingers in his hair. “You think it would be so easy to walk away from you?”

            Tommy sighed and wrapped his arms around her, letting her bury herself in his chest. He knew it would be impossible to walk away from her and Max, so he could assume she felt the same way. “Five years won’t be long.” He promised. “After that, we’ll have everything we could ever want.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

            “Hey, Mel?”

            “Mhm?”

            Both John and Amelia were sharing a very rare quiet dinner together. Arthur and Tommy were working late in the shop while Polly cared after Finn and Ada who had both come down with a nasty cold.

            Now fifteen, John was starting to grow into himself. No longer was he the little boy who was trying so desperately to be like his big brothers. He was growing and his voice had deepened a bit as well. It was odd because Amelia had hazy memories of seeing John as an infant. To see him grow so fast was alarming. It made her think of Max, hoping that time wouldn’t pass by so quickly with him.

            “How d’you know when you love someone?” He asked. Of course, it was a question the teenager would never ask his brothers. And, his baby sister would only tease him too. Polly wouldn’t be much help either. So, it seemed that the only confidante he had was Amelia, who he always looked at as an older sister.

            “Well, I suppose it isn’t easy to really know right away.” Amelia wasn’t that surprised about the conversation. She could recall being young and only thinking about romance and going steady with someone. Of course, that someone was usually Tommy. Although there was a small stint of time when he fell out of favor with her for a forgotten reason, and she chose to fantasize about George Connelly. Yet, it was Tommy’s initials she carved next to hers on the stone bridge by the canal.     

            She was so lovesick for him. But in all reality, she wasn’t sure she really knew what love was at that point. “It should be someone you know very well. Someone you get along with.”

            John gave her a look. “Of course.”

            She smiled. “Well, I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just a gut feeling.”

            He seemed a bit dismayed by the vague response. “I think I’m in love.” He confided.

            “Oh yeah?”

            “Yeah. Bloody stupid, Martha Boswell.” He muttered, disgruntled that he had developed feelings for the girl who had tormented him practically his entire life.

            “Do you think she feels the same way?” Amelia wondered. She couldn’t help but think how all-knowing Polly was. She must’ve known right from the start that the two were made for each other, just like she said she knew about her and Tommy.

            John got a little sheepish. “Yeah, we kissed at the fair. We’ve been writing back ‘n forth.” He admitted.

            “Then why are you so concerned about labeling things? Why can’t you just write back and forth and see where it takes you?”

            He grimaced. “’Cause her mum wants her to get married to this boy. But she says she doesn’t want to marry him. I said I could ask her mum if we could get married instead.”

            “Oh, John, you two are awfully young.” Amelia hesitated at the idea. Even if they were meant to be together, they should have the right to let the relationship grow organically, not have it forced on them.

            “I know.” He muttered. “But I don’t want to have her marry some other prick.” He seemed saddened at the idea of letting her go.

            “Maybe…maybe you can talk to Polly about talking to Martha’s mum.” She offered. “Arrange something more…reasonable.”

            He perked up a bit at the idea. “Would you talk to Pol with me?”

            Amelia nodded. “Of course. Let’s talk to her when Finn and Ada get a bit better.”

            John smiled. “Thanks, Mel.”

            The doors between the flat and the shop opened and Tommy came in looking tired. He tousled John’s hair and gave Amelia a kiss on the cheek. “Finn ‘n Ada getting better?” He asked.

            Amelia could sense some frustration or stress in his voice. “They’re still coughing a lot.” She answered. “Why don’t you eat something? I can make you a plate.” She offered.

            His eyes were wandering aimlessly around the room, not fully paying attention to her. “No, not right now, thanks.”

            Nervous something was wrong; Amelia tried a different route. “Do you want to take a walk with me?”

            He nodded. “Yeah, sure.” He agreed and helped her stand up. “John, could you look after Max for a bit?”

            After Amelia had helped him out, he nodded. “Okay.”

   ~~~~~~~~~~~        

            After they bundled up, Tommy and Amelia headed out into the cold winter night. He held her hand as they walked silently for a bit. Amelia wordlessly led him down to the canal, down beneath the bridge.

            “What’s wrong?” She asked.

            “Nothing.”

            “Tom, tell me.” She urged.

            He finally looked at her. “I’m just a little stressed.” He admitted.

            She guided him over to the stones, searching a bit before she found the telltale marker. “Look.” She pointed to the carving she’d made over five years ago.

            TS+AM

            “You made that?” Of course, he could recognize their initials instantly.

            “When we were twelve, thirteen, maybe.” She explained. “I just…I wanted you to know that you mean more to me than I think you realize. I need you to know how much I care for you.”

            Tommy nodded. “I know.” He said softly before leaning down to kiss her. Her lips were cold from the wintery air but soon warmed.

            Amelia could only imagine how thrilled her younger self would be had she known this was her future. Kissing Tommy Shelby by the canal just as it started to snow.

            They parted but he kept her close, savoring in her warmth among the chill. “Will you marry me?” He asked quietly.

            “What?” She found his eyes.

            He dropped a hand from her cheek so he could reach into his coat pocket, pulling out a diamond ring. It was modest, but for Small Heath, it might’ve been the Hope Diamond.

            Amelia’s breath caught in her throat. “Tom…how did…where did you get this?”

            “I’ve been saving, since right before Max was born. I’ve wanted this well…ever since you came back.” He let out a shy laugh. “I saw you there and realized how much I still loved you after all those years. I just know that I want to be with you for the rest of my life.”

            “Oh, Tommy.” She gasped and kissed him deeply.

            “So, will you?” He asked between breaths.  

            “Yes, yes, of course.” She agreed vehemently before pulling him back to her and kissing him again.

Permanent tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla​ @giftofdreams​ @biba3434​ @kimmietea​ @karmezii​ @enrapturedbythemoon​ @vampgirl1997​ @tarafaithe​ @evelynshelby​

Tag list: @shelbyblinded​

Masterpost

PB Masterlist

[skyisover]

ok a lot of this is going to use my own headcanons about their hobbies and such but as promised. silent hill characters and whether or not you should date them, in order of best to worst.

under the cut bc it’s long

Harry Mason: Harry is peak boyfriend & husband material without a doubt. He has some issues with staying in his own lane (always getting involved in other people’s business, even though he usually doesn’t mean to), but that just means you get to gossip together once he’s done working for the day. He’s a little on the sporty side surprisingly enough, but mostly because being an author requires being mostly sedentary. Harry prefers hiking, but he’ll go to the gym if he doesn’t want to/can’t do the drive. He’d be thrilled if you came with him, but equally happy if you looked after Cheryl/Heather so he can have a quick break.

Pros: considerate, respectful of you and your space, always makes time for you.

Cons: has a kid and that’s not a lot of people’s thing, a little airheaded even tho he means well.

Conclusion: You should date Harry Mason (if you’re okay with kids).

Henry Townshend: The shy, creative type of boyfriend. Marriage is a little hefty of a word; you’d have to be together for a long time. Henry doesn’t talk much (though when he does he has a fantastic, dry sense of humor, he’ll have you laughing so hard in public you’ll need to take a moment), but rather expresses himself both through body language and his art. Once you know him well, you’ll be able to recognize each little microexpression he makes and how he’s feeling. It just takes time. Henry will share his photography with you, and once he’s feeling bold, ask to take photos of you.

Pros: generous, kind almost to a fault, has creative outlets he’d bond with you over.

Cons: incredibly spacey especially with dates and times, has difficulty communicating.

Conclusion: You should date Henry Townshend (if you’re okay with sometimes having difficult conversations).

Eileen Galvin: A fun-loving party girlfriend. Marriage, but probably only if you two were a little too drunk. She’d only do it if she loved you enough, and Eileen loves everyone, but she takes serious relationships incredibly seriously. She’ll love all your interests, but you’ll be especially compatible if you’re in the same party scene as her; she wants someone light-hearted that she can have fun with, and Eileen has a very outgoing definition of a good time. But she’ll always be punctual when meeting up with her partner, be it on dates, appointments, shows, etc. She wants to support you in any way she can (and can sometimes be a bit embarrassing about it, in the best way).

Pros: supportive of all your interests, good with time management, deeply treasures your relationship.

Cons: has a tendency to be jealous, always wants to stay out a little longer, even if it’s 4AM.

Conclusion: You should date Eileen Galvin (if you’re okay with being designated driver. A lot).

Alex Shepherd: Alex is probably the most touch starved person on this list lol. He doesn’t really understand relationships, though. Alex is a good boyfriend, but he hasn’t exactly had any healthy role models for being one, so expect arguments when he doesn’t understand what to do or what he’s done wrong. He really does try his best, though; he knows how bad his parents were, and he wants to do better. His favourite thing to do is play sports in the park with his friends, and it’s kind of a dream date for him. If you aren’t sporty, you and Alex will usually grab lunch or ice cream after, depending on the time of day. Feel free to tease him for poor performance on the field. He’ll always laugh it off.

Pros: great sense of humor, high energy, puts hard work into a relationship.

Cons: horrible with emotional communication, stubborn.

Conclusion: You should date Alex Shepherd (if you’re okay with working through bad arguments).

Travis Grady: Travis has no experience with relationships. Period. When he’s not working (which is the majority of the time), he’s usually at home watching TV with a steak dinner. He’d probably meet you through the company he works for, or at the grocery store (both of you reaching for the same item?? Anyone?? Anyone??). That’s pretty much what the majority of your dates will consist of- he’ll occasionally go hunting and always invite you unless he knows it upsets you, but it’s never for sport. Travis is a believer in ethical eating and never eats meats that come from processors or the store. Rest assured he’d be more than willing to cook a fantastic homemade dinner for the two of you (and brag a little once you compliment his cooking).

Pros: laid back, a bit of a romantic, stable.

Cons: usually out-of-town making deliveries, prone to clamming up when frustrated and bringing work home.

Conclusion: You should date Travis Grady (especially if you like homemade meals).

Maria: Maria is an enigma. She doesn’t really do the girlfriend thing, per say; she doesn’t like to be exclusive. If anything, it’s a fear of commitment, but she’ll still take you out on dates. Maria’s fantastic company. Drinks at Heaven’s Night, walks by the lake, 2AM pizza runs, she loves it all. No bowling, though. As long as you don’t take any issue with her line of work, the two of you won’t have any real arguments. You go on dates, you sleep together, you’re free to see other people. If you ever need anything at any time, you can call Maria, and she’ll be there. Either a shoulder for you to cry on, threatening (jokingly, or is she) to kill whoever hurt you, or going out to get your mind off of it. Maria comes through.

Pros: a loyal friend, defends you to the death, always ready to go on an adventure.

Cons: only does open relationships, isn’t... like... real?

Conclusion: You should date Maria (so long as you don’t mind the lack of exclusivity).

Lisa Garland: Lisa is a very busy woman. On top of nursing, she struggles with her own addiction, and the abuse she survived. She loves wholly and incredibly quickly. Lisa would want to go on coffee dates, go out on the lake, watch romance movies together, the whole shebang. She’s a classic romantic. However, Lisa’s addiction isn’t something to be romanticized or taken lightly. She needs help, and she knows that; you’re the only person who supports her recovery, supports her dreams of becoming an actress, you are her best friend, and that’s more important. One day in the future, when Lisa is prepared, a relationship could be had together.

Pros: always willing to use her free time to see you, deeply loving, and always worries for your safety.

Cons: can be clingy, has a tendency to overstep when she’s concerned, but it comes from a good place.

Conclusion: You probably shouldn’t date Lisa Garland (at least until she’s ready).

Murphy Pendleton: Murphy tries his damnedest to be a good boyfriend/husband, but he has a lot on his plate. If this is before Charlie’s death, anything his son needs will always take priority. (He’s a good dad). If this is after, the murder of his son will torment him forever. That, on top of being a prison escapee- even though Anne presumably covered for him as per the good ending, he’s considered a dead man. It wouldn’t be a normal relationship, and it wouldn’t be easy. You can rarely go anywhere with him and you move frequently, putting a strain on your relationship. Murphy would love you, but he may break it off, just to keep you out of harms way.

Pros: honest, loyal to a fault, and passionate about everything he cares for, including you.

Cons: prone to anger, a legally dead felon.

Conclusion: You probably shouldn’t date Murphy Pendleton (unless you prepare yourself for heartbreak).

James Sunderland: James’ marriage lasted for years, so it’s safe to say he understands relationships. That being said.. we all know how that ended. James is miserable. He’s devoted to his partner but keeps to himself; a relationship with James is a relationship with his own desire for punishment. He wants his partner to treat him the way he deserves to be treated. Unless you have extreme patience and are willing to help James (and most likely Laura as well, going by the Leave ending), and even then, it’s not a healthy relationship. James can never move past the guilt of what he’s done.

Pros: gives you all the space you need, physically affectionate in private, emotionally devoted albeit in an unhealthy way.

Cons: trapped by his own guilt, often uses you as a personal therapist or mediator between himself and Laura.

Conclusion: You should not date James Sunderland (unless you like the smell of pillows and getting called Mary in bed)

Vincent Smith: The only person Vincent has ever cared about is himself. This would not be a healthy relationship. He uses you for physical comfort, for sex, for indulging all of his earthly desires that he knows the Order would look down on. Vincent can and will emotionally manipulate you if it benefits him to do so; even if or inevitably when he does grow fond of you, ultimately he won’t risk his position or any advantages for anyone else. He isn’t a bad person to spend time with, generally speaking, and can even be quite funny. Vincent leans on the obnoxious side, but if you aren’t emotionally invested, you likely won’t fall for any of his tricks.

Pros: a physical lover, intelligent, easy to have educated conversations with.

Cons: manipulative, selfish.

Conclusion: You should not date Vincent Smith (but you should hang out with him and give him a hard time).

Walter Sullivan: Walter is a man of obsession. If you were someone he met when he was alive and attending Uni, he was probably a relatively normal, albeit a little strange, boyfriend. He’d be clearly troubled but genuinely seem to care about you, and even is excited every time he sees you. Not in a weird way, but a sweet one. Things change after he dies. He becomes obsessed with bringing you into a better world, showing you to his reborn mother. He stalks you as he completes the 21 Sacraments, watching as you sleep, tracking your every move. All for a better world.

Pros: he literally looks like Brendan Fraser i mean -

Cons: i really don’t think i need to explain this one guys

Conclusion: You absolutely should not date Walter Sullivan. (But honestly, I wouldn’t blame you. He’s hot as fuck).

Anne Cunningham: ok bootlicker

Dahlia Gillespie: don’t.

[bethgreeneishopeunseen]

hi, so i see that you ship bethyl, and while i see them more of a big brother-sibling relationship, if the show had explored that type of sibling relationship, would it have been satisfactory for you? or would you just have them be together? i always wondered that about bethyl shippers

Hello! This is an interesting question, and I appreciate hearing from the other side of the equation. In regards to your ask, I am speaking for myself, though I wouldn’t be surprised if other Bethylers shared my sentiments.

With how season 5 went, I would happily take any additional Bethyl interactions I could get, though it would ultimately be unsatisfying because everything about the show in seasons 4 and 5 had communicated that Beth and Daryl were being set-up romantically.

I don’t have the time to go into every connotation of romance incorporated into Bethyl, so I will give a brief summary.

In terms of the show, there’s Daryl Dixon quipping, “It’s like a damn romance novel,” when looking at Beth and her boyfriend in the season four premiere. That kind of line screams foreshadowing. The sexual imagery in Still like the phallic knife and snakeskin. The romantic tropes plastered over Still and Alone; like the intimate conversations at night, the bridal carry, all the candlelight at the dinner table. The halted confession of love that had been punctuated with a gentle ‘Oh’. Because how else are we supposed to interpret that scene? I’ve read posts from people who didn’t even want Bethyl who saw it as romantic. Daryl wore Beth’s knife like a token of love for more than a season, and though it disappeared from his person, in 2018 Norman confirmed that Daryl still had it.

There was also the romantic music. Norman Reedus listened to ‘Very Nervous and Love’ while filming Still and had even pitched it as the closing episode song. For Alone, TPTB originally intended to use King of Carrot Flowers (presumably pt. 1) but couldn’t because of licensing issues. KoCF pt. 1 has the lyrics, “And this is the room/One afternoon I knew I could love you,” which summarizes Alone pretty well. (Alone’s other two storylines focused on romantic arcs, so it doesn’t make sense for Bethyl’s to be a random platonic pairing.) Emily ended up singing ‘Be Good’, a song about the fear of ruining a friendship after feelings mutually develop. Later Emily Kinney wrote a song called ‘Last Chance’, which she confirmed was from Beth’s POV. The lyrics describe Still in terms of romance and sexuality.

In addition, most of the show people who have talked about Bethyl talked about it positively and in romantic terms. (Example quotes posted below the cut.) The two links below include my sources and other romantic connotations I didn’t mention.

https://bethgreeneishopeunseen.tumblr.com/tagged/bethyl-is-more-canon-than-romeo-and-juliet

https://bethgreeneishopeunseen.tumblr.com/post/174242960046/bethyl-interview-masterpost

“I think it’s constantly changing, you know. Just like our relationships with each other. You know, I think the more she’s getting to know him, it kind of shifts. So I think that there’s been moments where she saw him just as a protector, and moments where she’s seen him as a team member and moments where she’s seen him almost like, maybe like a brotherly sort of friend kind of thing. And then probably moments too, where she’s been like, ‘Oh, maybe there’s something extra here. Something special’. So I think it’s the whole range of how she views him. I think, like, we’re still exploring that. […] He better find me! He better not forget about me!”

“So in this last episode, you were asking Daryl ‘how do you know there’s— you still think there’s good people out there? Why?’ And then you had a realization. Was it that he knew because of Beth? Do you know what I’m saying?”

Emily Kinney: Yeah, I think she realized how much he cares about her.

“I don’t know, my theory is— I definitely think Beth was having a ro— felt romantically inclined towards Daryl. That’s the way it came across to me, at least.”

Emily Kinney: Yeah, I think there’s realizing that there’s something else there.”

Emily Kinney: WSC Chicago; March 14th, 2014 (x) (x) (x).

-

“As the episode progressed, he saw something in her that was sort of like a little candlelight at the end of a dark tunnel. And she was saying that there are good people left, there are reasons to go on, and don’t give up hope. And I think she was that little glimmer of hope for him. And I think that’s what he was attracted. If he misconstrued those feelings as a possibly like a crush, but that’s even better. But I don’t think he went in there like, “Hey me and you.” I think he kind of like, “There’s something good in you, and I haven’t seen anything good in forever. It’s like being lost in the woods for miles and miles and starving and finding an apple tree with an apple. There’s something good out there and maybe that’s you. And maybe you could show me whatever you know and you can make Daryl have those hopeful feelings too. And I think some people might have interpreted as he thinks you’re cute or he wants to be with you. But I think it’s deeper than that.”

Norman Reedus: GoldDerby; June 12th, 2014 (x) (x) (x).

In the full interview, Bethyl comes up at 6:40. Full transcript here (x).

-

“When they pitched Season 4, they were talking about when the prison goes down and having Daryl and Beth be bunkered together. And it’s interesting because I get to see all the cuts and I see all the edits from the director’s cuts onward. And I loved the scene in the kitchen when they’re talking, and I got the sense that Daryl was starting to kind of fall in love with Beth a little.”

Greg Nicotero; SDCC July 2014 Panel/Interviews-

“It’s a gradual change [Daryl’s arc]. It’s a progression; his relationship with Beth, too. They’re always doing this sort of like chocolate thing: ‘Here, here, it’s delicious. Oh, psych!’ and they take it away…. These characters get harder as it goes on. They have more experience with loss and grief. Everyone’s in fifth gear right now…. You know, Beth was kind like this little flame at the end of a long dark tunnel, and he was getting closer and closer, and it was getting warmer, and then someone blew it out. You know, they took my chocolate again….The whole Daryl and his thing for Beth…I always saw it as if he didn’t understand those feelings. He might have felt them, but he was sorta hopeful; that with those feelings there might have been hope there. Down the line. And it was taken from him. Same as with his brother…taken. Found his family in the prison…taken. I mean, over and over and over again. That happens to all of us.”

Norman Reedus: Horrorhound; (Sept/Oct 2014) p. 8 (x) (x).

-

“Last year, I definitely felt like there was a really special connection between Daryl and Beth that happened. My take on it was that there was a very deep growing connection that could become something more romantic or could become just … you know that was my personal understanding of it. I do feel like Beth has opened up to Daryl in a way that she hasn’t with other people and I do feel like Beth has never been really in love even though you’ve seen her with the two different boyfriends. I don’t think she’s ever been like, ‘grownup in love’ in the way that you feel like someone actually understands you and in sort of that special intimate way. And I do feel like she’s been closer to that with Daryl then with anyone else.”

Emily Kinney: Business Insider; October 9th, 2014 (x).

-

“Kinney says that the song they were originally going to use in the scene was Neutral Milk Hotel’s “King of Carrot Flowers, but the band wasn’t interested in licensing their music. Something Kinney understands. “If you make something, you’re very precious with it,” she says. “I would love to cover that song on my own.” For now, she’s performing “Be Good” in her sets, along with another song Beth has sung on the show, Tom Waits‘ “Hold On.””

Emily Kinney: Radio.com; October 10th, 2014 (x) (x).

“And this is the room, one afternoon I knew I could love you.”

-

“Q: Do you think Beth was fortunate to be kidnapped and ended up in a hospital rather than go to Terminus? Emily: Terminus was awful […] Although she would be with her family and that’s worth a lot, isn’t it? She’d be with Daryl… and her sister.”

Emily Kinney: 5x04′s Talking Dead; November 2nd, 2014 (x).

Norman Reedus: AMA; December 21st, 2014 (x).

-

“That was just devastating, he chased that car all night long until it was daylight and he just couldn’t move anymore.”

“Daryl’s in such… a dark… state of mind, because of he lost Beth.”

Norman Reedus: The Journey so Far; October 2nd, 2016 (x) (x) (x)

-

[nothingeverlost]

Thanksgiving Henry Gold "What's for dessert?"

Emma tried to remember the last time she shared Thanksgiving dinner with anyone.  There had been foster care homes, of course, but the last time she could think of was the prison cafeteria when she’d been pregnant.  Not her favorite memory, or one she ever wanted to share with the kid who currently slept across the hall from her.  She’d offered to find something to do for the day and let father and son celebrate the holiday as a family, but Henry had asked her to stay and Gold had nodded at the table where a place was already set for her.  

“Thanksgiving is for family and you’re part of Henry’s family.  Our family.”  The only thing that kept Emma from tearing up at the matter of fact statement what that Gold was wearing an apron that said ‘This is how I roll’ above a picture of a rolling pin.

“Can I help at least?”  She wasn’t a wiz in the kitchen but she managed to make herself food without burning too much.

“You could chop up the onion and celery from the dressing.”  He was peeling apples with a small but sharp looking knife that was curved.  It seemed like it got close to his thumb often but there was no blood so apparently he knew what he was doing.  

“What’s for dessert?” she asked, figuring the apples didn’t fit into any of the traditional sides.

“Henry and I both have a fondness for apple pie.  I hope that’s acceptable.”  He picked up a regular knife to start cutting up the apples; he certainly was more competent than she was with the cutlery, but she got the onions and celery cut up well enough.

“You’re the one making me dinner, I’m not going to complain.”  He’d been making a lot of her meals, claiming that it wasn’t any harder to cook for two than for three.  More than a month of family meals was more than she’d had in her adult life. Then again family meals wasn’t how she’d describe most of her childhood either.

“They need to be cooked in oil, if you would.  Not too hot, you’re just softening them.”  He continued to give her the occasional task until the dressing was in the oven below the turkey and the potatoes were in the pot waiting until it was time to turn on the heat.

“Anything else?”  It was strangely easy to work in the kitchen in tandem.

“Not for an hour at least.  I was just going to open a bottle of zin and put my feet up.  You’re welcome to a glass, but Henry would appreciate a chance to stretch his legs a bit if you’d rather take a walk.”  They walked occasionally, all three of them, but just as often she and Henry would set out.  At first he played tour guide and answered questions, but now it was usually just a walk.  Sometimes they borrowed Pongo from Archie.

“I’m not much of a wine drinker, thanks.”  She was just about to leave the kitchen when Henry ran down the stairs.

“Is it ready yet?  I’m starving.”

“Breakfast was just a couple of hours ago, kid.”  Emma was amused at how much the kid could eat.  Then again he did a lot of running and walking around town.  “How about a walk before dinner; your dad says we have an hour at least.”

“Can we go to the river?  I call dibs on a turkey leg when it’s ready.”  He was gone in an instant, sounding like far more than a single kid when he thudded up the stairs.

“Turkey makes kids sleepy too, right?” she joked.

“The end of the Thanksgiving meal means the start of the Christmas holiday, according to Henry.  He’ll want to start making plans to go get a tree and bring down the decorations.  I’m afraid sleepy is the last thing that happens until he crashes at bedtime.”  Gold spoke with the familiar affectionate bemusement that was often heard when speaking of his son’s quirks and habits.

“I really should…” 

“Emma, are we ready to go?”  Henry appeared again wearing shoes and his coat alone with the familiar scarf she’d first seen him in.  

“Just give me a minute.”  She’d have to wait before she talked to Gold about apartments and finding a place of her own.  He and Henry needed their own space back, especially with the holiday season and their traditions.  

“Maybe next year the curse will be broken and we can have a really big dinner with your parents and the dwarves and my dad and everybody.”  It had been a couple of days since Henry had brought up the curse and his book. 

“How about we focus on this Thanksgiving,” she answered vaguely.  Archie had said he needed to believe in his stories right now and it wouldn’t help to make him face that they were just stories in a book.  They didn’t need to encourage him either.  “I think we’ll be eating that turkey for a week.”

“Dad always makes a lot so we can have sandwiches.  Tomorrow we’ll have turkey sandwiches and pie when we put up the lights.  Sometimes he even lets me have a piece of pie for breakfast.”  Henry grinned at the idea.  “You could have a piece too.  He makes really good pie.”

“Looking forward to it.”  The hairs on the back of her neck told her to turn around.  She didn’t hear any footsteps but she knew they weren’t alone.  She turned and found Graham, surprisingly dressed in jeans and a sweater.  She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him so casual.  “Hey.”

“Hey Graham.  Emma and me are taking a walk before dinner.  Are you making a turkey today?”  

“Didn’t have time to go hunting yesterday.  Too late today so I’m just going for a walk,” he shrugged.  

“You hunt?”  She had a hard time picturing it.  “Like with a gun?”

“Bow and arrow, actually.  Guns aren’t playing fair..”  He looked at the woods on the other side of the river.  “They deserve a fighting chance and respect.”

“All my meat come from the store.”  She tried not to think about it too much.

“Can I learn how to shoot a bow and arrow?”  Henry spoke up, excited.

“You’d have to ask your dad.”  Graham beat her to an answer, the same one she would have given.  She kind of hoped that he said yes, because she wouldn’t mind crashing the lesson, but she wasn’t sure she loved the idea of Henry hunting.

“He taught me how to use a sword.  I bet he says yes.”  He mimed releasing an arrow from a bow.  “Since you don’t have a turnkey you could come home with us for dinner.  Dad makes a lot of food.”

“Kid, I don’t think…”

“Thanks, Henry, but I made other plans already.”  Graham tousled Henry’s hair.  Emma wondered if he really had plans, or if he was being polite.  She hadn’t seen him with anyone that she could think of that might have invited him over. Then again it was her first holiday in town.  He probably had traditions.  For all she knew he had a girlfriend.  Or a boyfriend.  Just because he teased her occasionally didn’t mean anything.

“We should head back, it’s probably getting close to time to eat.”  If they walked too much farther with Graham she’d lay pretty good money on Henry trying to convince him to come over for dinner, and knowing Henry they’d probably come home with a guest in tow.  He seemed pretty good at adopting strays, though rarely kids his own age.  

“Have a nice Thanksgiving, Emma.  And Henry, of course.”  Graham slipped his hands into his pockets.  

“I’m gonna ask dad about lessons with Graham.”  

Emma glanced behind them to where Graham was walking in the opposite direction.  She tried not to notice how nice his ass looked in the jeans.  “Could be fun.”

They walked back to the house mostly in silence.  When they opened the front door they could smell the apple pie baking.  Gold was in the kitchen stirring something in a pot.  “Perfect timing, you two.  Dinner is ready.”

[marie-dufresne]

The New Mistress

It was a horrifying time for the Dobrescu family. 

Huddled in a damp jail cell in the dungeon of an unknown prison, the children clung to their mother, frightened and confused, while her ladyship gave an uncertain promise that everything would be alright. 

They hadn’t been fed in days and while her two oldest were silent, the little one clung to her, asking, “Where’s Papá?” 

Marie Dobrescu lied. She never lied, least of all to her children, but in that cell she lied and told them she didn’t know where Papá was and that he’d come to rescue them soon. But he wouldn’t. She knew it, her son knew it. 

Lord Feliks Dobrescu was dead. He wasn’t coming to save them.

She didn’t know what happened to the other noble families after the conquering of her country. She remembered shielding the eyes of her children as best she could as they were pushed into a jailer’s carriage, the palace grounds littered with bodies. Some wore breeches and coats, some gowns. She didn’t know who was alive and who was dead. She didn’t know why. 

And she didn’t know why her family had been spared. 

After a few days, she was pulled from the cell, her screams ignored when an armed guard slammed the barred door shut, cutting her off from the three children who all cried with their arms outstretched, reaching for their mother.

She was thrown into a carriage again, this time one with cushions, and when they arrived at a palace that did not belong to her people. she was ushered in through the servants quarters until she was dumped in a bedchamber befitting of her status (or former status? She wasn’t sure.) and ordered, by a rather disgruntled maid, to strip. 

A bath came next, one she desperately needed, but she couldn’t enjoy it for a moment, the question of what is happening to my children, repeating on her lips, but no one would answer her. 

After the bath she was dressed, her hair coiffed, and she was set with jewels that could very well have come from her own jewelry boxes. 

When the maid was satisfied with her work, she nodded. 

“Come. Now you are fit to see the king.”

Marie did not speak this language well, but she recognized the word king well enough and she took a deep breath. What could their king possibly want with her?

When she arrived before him, she barely began her curtsey before he stood, addressing her in a tongue common to the both of them. 

“Lady Marie Dobrescu,” he began, his arms opened in a welcoming gesture that chilled her blood. He was an attractive man, just over forty perhaps, but he’d ordered the execution of her people, of her husband, and she felt less than comfortable in his presence. 

“Your reputation precedes you, Marie. You are every bit as beautiful as the gossips have said.”

It took her a moment to speak, unsure of how to conduct pleasantries with a man who had locked her children up to starve.

“I thank you, your majesty,” she replied with a light smile, “it is an—an honour to be in your presence today.” 

He gave a light chuckle circling her and agreeing. 

“I have no use for small talk, Lady Dobrescu, and if you wish to keep your title, you’ll do well to listen to what I have to say.” 

Her lips pursed lightly and she bit back the noise her throat wanted to make. She had no choice but to hear him, did she? 

“Your husband—I hear he died begging not for his life, but for yours, is that right?” 

Holding her head as high as all five feet of her would allow, Marie stared at him, unblinking. 

“Family is worth more than gold in my country,” she replied, ice nipping at the heels of her words. 

The king laughed again, catching her chin in his hand and leaning in close to her face. 

“I thought you might say that. That is why you will be mine starting today.” 

With a light stagger, Marie stepped back, though there was nothing to catch herself on and it took her a few more steps to regain her balance. 

“I beg your pardon.”

But his majesty did not feel obligated to explain his desire, waving her insult away and continuing. “You will be mine and I will move your children here, with you. They will pampered, educated, and if I do not tire of you, I will make them good matches as they come of age. They will want for nothing.” 

Acid flashed in her eyes and she resisted the urge to raise her hand to slap him, knowing if he did, she may very well lose that hand. 

“My children will forever want for their father!” 

“And if you refuse me, you will be mine by force and I will shoot your brats inside your bedchamber.” 

Her mouth shut immediately. 

The king smiled, taking her hand in his and laying a gentle kiss on her knuckles, lips lingering as he gave her an authoritative squeeze. 

“I thought so, my dear.” 

Marie’s hand trembled when he released her and she bowed her head in defeat. She was too weak, too frightened to think properly, to resist in any way. 

Gesturing to a man who had stood silent thusfar, the king directed her attention to him. She hadn’t noticed him before, but he terrified her. Maybe it was his height that intimidated her, or the sour look he carried.  

“Consider this man your shadow from this day forward. Touch another man and I’ll take your head.”

Marie’s jaw set. Touch another man. She’d not been widowed a week, had been forced to become mistress to a conquering king within a ten minute conversation, and he was concerned about her seeking the comforts of other men? 

Lunatic. 

“And my children?” 

His majesty gave her a bored look that told her this conversation was through and he sighed, an annoyed tone clear in his tone. 

“You will be reunited before dinner. Now go. I have no use for you right now.”

@behindicyblueeyes

[chromecutie]

Not A Ghost - part 20

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Taglist: @emma-frxst  @ra-ra-rasputiin  @holamor ​  @empressme-bitch  @marvel-is-perfection  @hazilyimagine ​ @marvelhead17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash ​ @whitewitchdown ​ @master-sass-blast ​ @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

-------------------------------------

Piotr figured if he waited long enough, Rhonda would get hungry enough to come to the kitchen for some dinner. His patience was rewarded when she came in with an all too familiar satisfied smile and heavy breathing. She only smiled like that after dancing to some music she was really excited about.

Rhonda filled a glass of water from the dispenser in the fridge, drank almost the whole thing right away, and refilled it before turning and smiling at Piotr over the glass. She leaned against the counter by the fridge, a certain ease in her relaxed slouch.

“Had some fun?” he still couldn’t stop smiling at her green and yellow hair.

She nodded and hummed her affirmative as she drank another half glass of water.

“Are you going to eat tonight?” Piotr crossed the kitchen, leaving the big granite island between them.

Blowing some hair out of her face, she huffed, “Yes, I’m starving.” She angled toward the fridge, but Piotr was already opening it to pull out a few casserole dishes.

“Good answer,” he chided. Holding up two options, he asked, “Spaghetti or stir fry?” She made a face like he had just asked her if she would rather visit London or Paris. He let her struggle with her indecision for all of three seconds before he said, “Some of both, then.” With a little snicker and a wink, he plated almost twice what should be considered a normal portion of food. 

“Oh my god,” Rhonda laughed, “You know I can’t eat all that!”

Piotr knew better, but he played along and shrugged, “I will finish whatever you don’t eat, but I don’t want to put all this away just to have you--” he imitated a whiny voice, “Ooh, I’m still hungry, I need more!”

The microwave dinged and they sat at the table for Rhonda to eat -- with her third full glass of water. She ate a few bites of stir fry, then switched to the spaghetti, back and forth. Her husband’s cooking had always been good, but it was even better lately. Maybe he had found better recipes, maybe she had gotten so used to prison food, or maybe she was just ravenous from a few solid hours of dancing. 

As she ate, Piotr teased, “So, how was Mr. Hozier?” 

Sipping at her water, Rhonda answered between bites, “He made me forget how out of practice I am.” After handling a particularly big bite of spaghetti, she elaborated, “I tried to do some certain jetés, not thinking about it, but I can’t jump as high as I used to, my timing was off, stuff like that.” She sounded mildly disappointed, but mostly analytical.

“You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” Piotr barely resisted the urge to glance at her ankles, remembering all the times she had downplayed injuries like broken toes, bruised knees, or twisted ankles.

She shrugged it off, “Nah, no worse than I ever have.” For the look Piotr shot at her, she insisted, “I’m fine, really. What about you? How’s your evening been?”

Piotr held out his hand for her fork, and he stole a bite or two of stir fry before giving it back. “A lot of paperwork. I’m not on field duty, but I’m curating files, coordinating some things.”

“You miss it?” Rhonda asked softly. “Field work?” She wiped a stray spot of sauce off her mouth.

He hesitated, searching her face. Her shoulders had gone rigid when she asked. It had been a couple months since she had returned home, and he had barely left the house in that time. Of course he missed working on missions -- going out and handling young mutants losing control or adult mutants who had lost their way and turned criminal. Finally, he replied, “Not as much as I missed you.” Piotr took her almost empty glass and got her more water. “There will be more time in the field later. For now, what I want most is to know you are doing well.”

His cheerful smile melted the tension in her shoulders, and she resumed eating, but he could tell she had something she wasn’t saying. 

Rhonda looked down at her plate and realized there was only one bite of stir fry left and maybe two bites of spaghetti. Except for the bites Piotr had stolen, however, she’d had a huge dinner. Leaning back in her chair, she nudged her plate away from her. “I told you I couldn’t eat all that, babe.”

He slapped his thigh with a clank as he laughed, “I knew you would eat most of it!” His hearty laugh faded to a chuckle as he finished off the last few bites and pushed the plate aside to take her hand. Piotr let out a soft exhale as he studied her dark eyes and the fine lines around them when she smiled. His own expression faded as he schooled his features to something more neutral. “Sladkaya,” he began delicately, “Earlier today, with Russell.” Rhonda’s smile faltered and her brows started to furrow. “What did he...did he call you...Guestbook?”

She instinctively pulled away from his hand, just a fraction of an inch, but just before she fully broke contact with his steel fingers, Rhonda leaned closer to him and held her husband’s hand with both of hers. “It was,” her voice came out in a raspy whisper before she cleared her throat and started again. “It’s what they called me in the Icebox.” When she raised her eyes to meet his, they had that haunted look she got whenever she shared any details about what happened there. “I don’t want to ever hear or say that name again, if I can help it.”

The chair screeched on the floor as Rhonda suddenly pushed her chair back and made to leave the kitchen, but Piotr gently caught her around the waist. “Of course, sladkaya.” His long fingers spread over her ribs. He eyed the green sleeve that covered her right arm. “If there is anything I can do to help you, please tell me.”

Her throat too tight to speak, Rhonda nodded, and before the tears welling up could fall, she slipped her arms around her husband’s neck. He shifted in the chair to give her space to stand between his legs. Rhonda gave him a few kisses on the cheek before fully pressing herself against him in a tight embrace. He held her as tight as he could without risking some bruised ribs; his steel armor didn’t have the same give as his unarmored form. “[My sweet wife, I love you,]” he murmured in Russian against her ear. When she took a deep breath, he loosened his hold slightly.

“I think I could go for a shower,” she kissed her way from his cheek to his lips again. “I know it’s kinda early, but I’m ready for bed. Would you come sit with me for a while?”

Piotr took another taste of her lips before saying, “Of course,” and following her upstairs.

--

The next day, Rhonda was so sore she could hardly move. Piotr teased her about getting older and said she couldn’t roll around like the was twenty anymore. All the same, he brought her a protein shake in bed and massaged her feet and calves until she felt good enough to get up and start her day.

Piotr went about his day of handling paperwork and compiling case files while Rhonda continued working with the light bulbs and relearning how to stretch her abilities. To try to ease her soreness, she also did very light dance work, and stretched as much as she could. The sleeve cut from Yukio’s tights stayed in place pretty well while dancing, and Rhonda decided she would have to ask where she could get more. It definitely made it easier to walk around in tank tops without pulling on hoodies or cardigans.

In the afternoon, Rhonda checked in with Hank, who was developing ways to test the strength and control of her electrical charges, and it seemed like she was making a decent recovery, if still slow. “I think you’re ready to start practicing in the Danger Room, if you want to try a low-level simulation,” Hank suggested.

A cold feeling flitted over her as she remembered the echoing emptiness. “No, I can’t go back in there.”

--

Rhonda’s routine became less predictable over the next week or so. Ororo, Ellie, and Yukio had started insisting Rhonda join them for breakfasts, lunches, and afternoon coffee. Rhonda loosened up a bit and started to enjoy these low-pressure, small setting hangouts, but it was hard to shake off an underlying discomfort. Yukio had been right - maybe Rhonda was spending too much time on her own. Despite this, the feeling nagged at her that an hour for coffee was an hour lost that she should have been practicing dance or rehabilitating her electrical abilities.

Piotr grew worried when he started seeing dark circles return under his wife’s eyes. She was eating enough, she wasn’t waking up from nightmares as often anymore, and she was in bed at a reasonable hour. Despite looking tired, she also looked focused and happy. To his surprise, he realized she also wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder and actually held her head high when she walked. “You walk like yourself again,” he noted, “Shoulders back, toes turned out, like the dancer I’ve always known.” She smiled at the comment, but the dark circles worried him. While she was busy at lunch or something else Yukio and Ellie had talked her into, he checked the sedatives on her nightstand. It looked like she had stopped taking them, because there were a lot more pills than he expected.

At bedtime, Piotr stayed awake, pretending to sleep. He waited, and after an hour or two, he heard Rhonda stir beside him. He kept still, listening to the sheets rustling as she got up and tiptoed around the room. She hardly made a sound, even taking care to miss the one creaky floorboard near the closet. When the bedroom door clicked shut, Piotr waited another few minutes before sitting up and turning on his bedside lamp. 

Rhonda had taken her phone and the speaker from her nightstand, and her pajama shorts were laid out on her side of the bed. Piotr guessed she changed into some leggings, and also noted her old hoodie was gone from its spot on a chair. 

After careful consideration, Piotr decided not to get up and go look for her. Instead, he would wait to see how long she was gone. He thought it was possible that she stopped taking the sedatives, but still had trouble sleeping, so maybe she was taking walks in the middle of the night to help her sleep. He turned off his lamp and waited some more. It took a solid three hours before he heard the door open and softly click shut again, and the barely audible sound of her feet ghosting over the floor. There was a rustling of fabric, and Piotr guessed she was changing back into her pajama shorts or putting her hoodie back on the chair where she liked to keep it.

In the morning, he noticed a little dirt caked around her fingers and toes, but said nothing. He let them go about their day, following their respective routines. At night, Rhonda got up again, and again Piotr waited in silence, pretending to sleep. After a waiting a while, bored, he turned on his side toward the window, and saw bright flashes of lightning through the shades. He frowned, thinking it was weird he didn’t hear any rain or thunder. Then he realized there was something rhythmic about the flashes of lightning.

Piotr got out of bed and pulled back the drapes to look out the window, and saw the flashes weren’t coming from the sky, but somewhere on the ground. Another bright flash drew his eye and he saw Rhonda, near the old lamp post and bench.

She was cartwheeling and turning wildly on the grass, the same patch of lawn where she had sprawled after the Danger Room, and arcing brilliant pale green electrical charges from her hands and feet. Piotr watched for a minute, stunned, before noticing she was playing Hozier on her speaker.

The music layered earthy, deep drums and a twangy guitar that sounded like it had wandered in from an old blues song. Piotr was too far away to place the song or the lyrics as he watched Rhonda dance. She dove into a handstand, strong legs waving and wheeling around before throwing them past her head, which arched her back and carried her back to her feet. She leaped high in the air -- and tumbled to the ground, feet over shoulders. For a nerve wracking second, Piotr gasped, and relaxed once he saw her roll smoothly back to her feet, as if it were all one motion. The dramatic fake-fall-and-tumble was one of Rhonda’s signature moves that she loved incorporating into her performances. Piotr shook his head at himself, feeling ridiculous for having forgotten. All the while, Rhonda flashed lightning from all her limbs in time with the claps in the beat, streaking over the grass and high in the air.

As quietly as he could, Piotr climbed down from the balcony and crept closer. She was so beautiful, the way she moved, hair flying and no regard for how much grass and dew and dirt she got on herself. Rhonda didn’t move with the same flexibility and fluidity that she used to; there was something rougher, more raw than Piotr remembered. This was new, and he loved it.

One song ended and another began. Closer, Piotr could finally hear the vocals more clearly, and he was utterly transfixed. He was able to recognize part of the chorus:

When my time comes around

Lay me gently in the cold dark earth

No grave can hold my body down

I’ll crawl home to her

A weight settled in Piotr’s heart. He remembered their picnic on her grave and how she had been so quiet, staring at her headstone with a stern brow. It wasn’t just that Rhonda was dancing, she was processing something. 

He dared get just a little closer -- an arc of lightning snaked through the grass and Piotr stifled a grunt when it hit his bare feet. The sound was enough to draw her attention.

Rhonda paused and locked eyes with him. Her green hair was a tangled, sweaty mess, and torn pieces of grass were stuck all over her bare arms. Just when Piotr was afraid she would be angry, she smiled. It was an impish grin, like he had come across an actual mythical creature who was about to enthral him with her dance until twenty years went by without his notice. 

She went to her phone and tapped a few times, glancing at Piotr as she restarted “Work Song.” For a moment, she stood still, except for the heaving of her chest as she panted. Then she moved. She closed her eyes and let her limbs make slow, lazy lines. Her head rolled, the yellow tips of hair caught the lamp light. 

There’s nothing sweeter than my baby

I’d never want once from a cherry tree

Cause my baby’s sweet as can be

She give me toothaches just from kissin’ me 

Piotr let out a soft gasp when he realized he’d been holding his breath. Every time her eyes found his, her lips pulled in a smile that was sweet and wistful. She still flashed her lightning in a way that artfully meshed with the music, but she was careful to send the bolts upward so they wouldn’t hit her husband, just a few feet away from her with his bare metal feet on the grass.

Weak in the knees, Piotr beamed until the elation and love he felt was overwhelming. He let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Rhonda seemed to melt until she was a fluid mess of shoulders and spine and hips on the grass. She rolled and twisted on the ground, adding a sensual edge that made Piotr desperately want to put his hands on her and feel every inch of her curves. He knew better than to interrupt his wife when she was dancing, but the desire was there.

The song ended, and Rhonda sat up on her knees, showing her teeth in an exhausted grin. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” she said just loud enough to be heard over the beginning of the next song. 

Piotr rushed to pull her up into his arms and spin around, burying his face in her hair. “You are amazing,” he chuffed breathlessly. 

Rhonda circled her arms around his neck, bracing her toes against his legs. She pressed her cheek against his, and with the steel of his back under her fingers, realized he was out on the front lawn in just his underwear. “Did you jump off the balcony?”

He chuckled sheepishly, “I was afraid I would miss it if I took time to use the stairs.” He supported her weight with an arm around her waist, and pulled back to brush her hair away from her face with his free hand. “I have been wondering when you would let me see you dance again!” Piotr’s brows twitched together with concern, “Why sneak out in the middle of the night like this?”

Rhonda pressed a soft kiss to his steel cheek and rested her face against it. “It’s just…” she sighed, “It’s been hard to be around people, and...it feels so good to be outside and moving and touching something that’s not concrete and rebar.” She gave him an extra squeeze. “Does that make sense?”

With a sigh, he returned her warm squeeze and she felt his voice rumble through his chest. “You are not in the Icebox, sladkaya. Do you feel like you must hide from your friends?"

Rhonda tapped his shoulder and he let her slide back down to her feet. She went to turn off the music and grab her phone and speaker. In the quiet dark, she answered softly, "It's not that simple." She took a seat on a little garden bench next to some shrubs. "I'm not in that place anymore, but I still can't dance like I used to, talk to people like I used to... being there has changed how I do everything in my life now."

Shuffling his feet through the damp grass, Piotr came to sit beside her on the bench, listening.

"I'm different now, and I know everyone can tell, but they either ignore it or treat me like glass," she huffed, then added with an edge of surprise as she realized for the first time, "Except Michelle." Resting her head against her husband's shoulder, she continued, "I just think if everyone was paying attention, you'd all treat me with some reservation, like Michelle does."

He slipped an arm around her, as much to pull her closer as to keep her bare arms warm in the night air. "Has it occurred to you," he asked, "that we know you're different, and we love you just as we always have?"

"I am marked as a murderer," her jaw grew tight, clenching her teeth to keep her emotions from spilling too much. "How can anyone trust me in a house full of children?"

The answer was so obvious to him, he was baffled that she didn't see it herself. "The things you did, you haven’t told me much, but from what you have said -- you acted against your values, your nature. And it bothers you.” He shook his head, "If those things bother you, then deep down, you are still the same person we love. I love.” Glancing up at the stars, Piotr rubbed her arm, took a breath and said, “I think it’s important for you to forgive yourself and move forward.”

Nestled against him, she took a minute to let his answer sink in, mull it over. “I’ll try,” she said, “I mean, I’ve been trying, but...it’s hard. Sometimes the only thing that makes sense is music and moving.” Rhonda looked up at her husband, with his square jaw and chiseled cheeks. It had always been easy to talk to him, pour her heart out, but the Icebox had changed that too. She was afraid he just couldn’t understand, and that if he ever did, she wouldn’t be able to handle his disappointment. “And all this?” she flicked a little shot of lightning off into the grass. “This is all flash. Hank read me the volts and amperage and they aren’t anything useful. Not like when I could power an abandoned warehouse or overload the circuit breakers.” She chewed her lip, trying in vain to stave off tears, dreading saying it aloud: “I’m barely even a mutant anymore.” She concluded scornfully, “I’m a human party trick.”

 “Rhonda!” he gasped incredulously. Piotr left the bench to kneel in front of her, and made sure she was looking at his face. His brows met in a hard, angry line. For a moment, he just stared into her face as her teardrop tattoos were slicked with actual tears. Her four-fingered right hand clutched her phone and speaker. His furrow softened as he exhaled. Smoothing his thumbs over her cheeks, he said firmly, “Being a mutant has never been about whatever special thing you can do. Being a mutant is about adapting in order to survive.” Piotr paused, then continued slowly, “You were in dire circumstances that you would not have survived, but you adapted. And for that, you are every bit as mutant as the rest of us, even if you never light another spark again. Do you understand?”

Rhonda sniffled. Her face scrunched as she fought to control her tears, deliberately taking the slowest breaths she could manage so they wouldn’t come out as sobs. Eventually, she nodded. 

“Okay,” Piotr said in a soft whisper, “okay.” He laid his hands on hers and rubbed them. “[Rhonda, I love you. You deserve better than hurting all the time.]” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “[You must be exhausted. Ready to go back to bed?]”

Smearing away some tears with her knuckles, she replied, “[Yeah...one more dance first?]” Under the lamp and the stars, he saw her muster the slightest smile.

“[Of course, my love. I’ll watch from the bench here.]”

[enziroth]

No Future (Part 16)

Back in the swing of things, finally. Thanks to everyone who was waiting for being so patient, I know you guys didn’t get any warning that this would be late!

“Brother Katakuri is busy elsewhere this morning. Until he returns, you’re under my supervision.”

Sanji blinked up at her. Smoothie was relaxing in the hard-bread chair at the giant table in the middle of the room with a glass in her hand, which was funny, because Sanji couldn’t imagine how she managed to look comfortable with a sword that big strapped to her back.

He took a moment to absorb her words, trying to decide whether or not it was worth it to press for more information. He’d known Katakuri was missing the moment he woke up; there’d been a hollow feeling somewhere in his gut where the man’s aura usually pushed against him. He’d sensed Smoothie’s presence as well, but her aura was lighter and more pointed, piercing rather than blunt.

Sanji supposed it was for the best that he didn’t have to see Katakuri this morning, though. The warmth of the man’s hands had lingered on his skin long after he’d undressed and slid between the sheets, and from there it was a short, losing battle to keep Katakuri out of his head as he sought to relieve some of the pressure.

He rubbed his eyes, pushing the memory away before it could fully resurface. “Okay. Fine. What’s the plan for dinner tonight, then?”

Smoothie took a sip out of her glass, some kind of translucent orangish liquid swirling around in it. “A few attendants will be stopping by later to help with preparations. Dinner is at seven and the escort ships will take you over at five. Until then, it’s up to you what you want to do.”

Sanji waited a moment for any further instructions, but Smoothie didn’t seem to have anything else to say. He already knew what he wanted to make, and he’d had almost everything separated and portioned out before Cosette left last night, but after weeks of getting used to Katakuri’s precise instructions it was a little jarring to be-

Cosette.

He’d had plenty of time to think about her last night as well, and he’d resolved to simply ask Katakuri about his plans for her in the morning. No games, no trading, no trickery; just a straight-up demand to know what was going to happen to her.

But with Katakuri missing, Sanji had no way to know if he’d accepted his request or not. Smoothie had told him that the attendants would be here soon, so if she was amongst them, then he’d have his answer. 

If she wasn’t...

There was nothing to be done for it now. Worrying would get him nowhere, and with such a packed day ahead of him, Sanji didn’t have time to waste on things he couldn’t change.

He was already moving on, already addressing the next problem. He’d planned a sweet-sauce pot roast as a main course for the kids, and he’d need to get it into the slow cooker before he started breakfast or there wouldn’t be time to carve it.

The attendants arrived only a few minutes after he’d stepped into the kitchen, and though there were a good dozen of them standing all together in a crowd, it only took Sanji half a second to realize that Cosette wasn’t one of them.

The first feeling to hit him was relief. The less time she spent in his presence, the safer she would be.

But where is she, then?

A surge of worry rose in his gut, catching at the back of his throat, but he found he could tamp it down with relative ease. Katakuri had told him Cosette was valuable, and Sanji had seen firsthand how talented of a chef she was; it wouldn’t make sense for them to hurt her.

They’d likely just send her back to wherever she’d been before, some peaceful home in a minister’s town. Why would they do anything else? What would be the point of holding her life over his head? A cooperative chef like her was probably worth twice as much as an enemy chef like him. 

Katakuri had nothing to gain by using her as blackmail, either. He could already trade for practically any information he wanted, so why would he even bother going through extra steps?

In the light of day, without the panic clouding his mind, it was remarkably easy to see logic. Cosette would be fine. His secrets were safe. No one was going to die because of him, and he couldn’t recall how he’d ever thought otherwise.

Sanji clasped his hands together, surveying the lineup of cooks in front of him. “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do…”

After he’d finished giving his instructions to the chefs, his first order of business was to immediately kick them out. He hadn’t even made breakfast yet, and considering how chaotic his kitchen was going to be when all the dishes started coming out, he wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasted.

Sanji felt more like himself than he had in a while, more calm and in control. His eyelids weren’t heavy from lack of proper sleep, his mind seemed less clouded with a million different worries, and for the first time since he could remember, the light chill in the air didn’t seep into his bones. He was humming as he whisked spices into an egg mix, smiling as he thought of how delicious the air would smell with all the food he’d be making today.

Perhaps it’s because Katakuri’s gone. The man alone was enough to drive him crazy, between all the trades and the posturing and the constant sense of being on-edge.

But there was a heat in him that hadn’t died down even now, a comforting memory of strong hands and soft words that grounded him and told him he wasn’t alone. The fact that Cosette was gone spoke for how Katakuri had actually listened to him, even if his reasons for allowing the change were probably self-serving.

Sanji poured the mix into his pan, then swung across his kitchen and popped it into the oven. The cutting board was his next stop; he planned on a simple fried rice for the youngest of the kids, and it’d be easier later if he prepared the chicken now.

It was so easy to distract himself from his own thoughts, now. The fear and guilt were still there, at the back of his mind, but they felt…distant, more like unpleasant memories than actual feelings. There were other things to think about, like how much he was looking forward to making his favorite macaroni tonight and how good his breakfast quiche would taste.

The chicken gave easily beneath his knife, tender and juicy, and Sanji felt the familiar thrill of working with top-tier tools and ingredients. Thinking of how much work he had in front of him was energizing rather than daunting; it’d been so long since he’d been able to go all-out on a feast that the challenge excited him.

Perhaps that was what had lifted his spirits, along with Katakuri’s absence. He loved being relied on, loved having people look forward to his food and trust him to deliver. Making desserts for the Charlotte kids had been all fine and dandy, but their demands had left little room for his input. Here, his skill had been explicitly requested, Katakuri choosing him to make this dinner over all the other chefs in Totland.

With his crew, he’d hardly gone a day without the reassurance that he was wanted. Luffy begging for his food, Zoro seeking him out as a partner when he was itching for a fight, Nami requesting he turn her fresh harvest of tangerines into that juice she loved so much…with them, he knew he had a place.

Franky’s hand on his shoulder as he pulled him back to ask for seconds, Usopp tugging his sleeve to sheepishly ask for more fish bait, Robin running her fingers through his hair as she pulled it straight to make a clean trim.

Heat all around him, hanging in the air but somehow safe, a massive presence near him anchoring him with its strength.

“Just tell me what you want, Sanji.”

His fingers clenched tight, involuntarily, and the knife’s smooth movements came to a stuttering halt. He swore under his breath, fighting the urge to shake the memory away, but after a few more uneven slices he was forced to give up and toss the knife down.

There was no point in denying it. The helplessness that came with being a prisoner had struck a little too close to home, and over the past week, he’d been in an uncontrolled freefall sliding deeper into the dark pit inside his head.

It wasn’t Katakuri’s absence that had lifted him from that pit, and it wasn’t the thought of a new challenge, either. Warmth ran through his limbs in thin pulsing tendrils where there’d only been ice before, the steady heat a constant reminder that he was still alive and still fighting.

He could pretend all he wanted, but his body didn’t lie.

Sanji knew it was the touch he really craved, the steady presence of another human being near him that assured him he wasn’t still dreaming of freedom only to wake up to a cold, friendless cell. Isolation was the fear that stalked him, the terror that was waiting behind a few lonely nights, always ready to spring up and take hold if he didn’t fight it off.

Katakuri’s hands around him, strong, comforting, had been a lifeline he’d sorely needed. Being starved of soft words and a warm touch for so long had made him weak, frantic, desperate for-

The timer dial on the oven squeaked, a shrill high-pitched sound that pierced the air; his quiche was done. Sanji snapped out of his thoughts and reached for the oven mitts, making his way over to take it out and shut off the noise before he got a headache. There were bonuses to having the newest, most technologically advanced appliances in his kitchen here, but god, what he wouldn’t give for the pleasant little ding of the simple oven on the Sunny.

On the way over, he had to duck to avoid Smoothie’s legs, then duck again as she tried to move them out of his path and only managed to further obstruct him. It was funny how difficult it was to work around her, especially considering she was actually a little smaller than her brother.

Katakuri had made it feel almost natural, his presence heavy but rarely overbearing. It had always been a little cramped in the kitchen with him present, especially before the dividing wall had been knocked down, but Sanji had never worried about tripping over the man’s feet.

With Smoothie, it was far more obvious that she was out of place. While he’d went about preparing breakfast, she’d kept awkwardly moving around, trying to find a place to stand that wasn’t in his way. When she’d finally sat down in the chair in the corner of the room, Sanji then found himself maneuvering around her crossed legs as he gathered pans and ingredients, something that had never been a problem with Katakuri.

He had to duck under her legs once more to drop his quiche off on the cooling rack, narrowly avoiding whacking his head on her kneeguard when she tried to shift to the side. He could hardly be annoyed with her, considering how she was obviously trying her best to stay out of his way, but he was so unused to having obstacles in his kitchen that it took him by surprise each time she moved.

But only a moment’s thought told him that this was normal, and that Katakuri had been the outlier. The man’s foresight had to be a part of his everyday life at this rate, and Sanji suspected that without it he’d have been stepped on or tripped over ages ago. Considering that, it was a wonder Smoothie hadn’t squashed him yet.

Either way, Smoothie’s presence was just another issue to be dealt with in the long day ahead of him, and Sanji’s mind had already moved on to other things. He was crunching numbers in his head and flipping pancakes at the same time, determining when he’d need to start the pork in the second crockpot and how many of the children were likely to even touch the carrots.

Absorbed as he was, it took him a few moments to recognize the stale feeling in the air, and another few moments to realize that it was coming from Smoothie. It was a familiar feeling, albeit one he hadn’t come into contact with for quite a while, but it was easy enough to pinpoint. He had plenty of experience with it during the long sailing weeks on the Sunny, when island stops had been few and far between.

Boredom.

Smoothie, for all her carefully stiff posture and steady gaze on his back, was absolutely bored out of her mind.

There wasn’t any reason she shouldn’t be, really. She was stuck in the same place for however long it would take for Katakuri to return, with nothing to do but watch a bunch of chefs dart around in a kitchen that was far too small for her. Sanji never got tired of his work, but for a Sweet Commander who was probably used to battle plans and the dealings of a Yonko, it had to be pretty dull.

Funny that he hadn’t picked the feeling up from Katakuri before, considering how much time the man spent just sitting around watching him. Maybe he was just better at hiding it; he was a master of observation haki, after all.

Well, he could hardly let boredom run rampant in his kitchen, especially when the kind of food he was making today would hardly require his full attention. Sanji snagged a plate down from a cabinet above him, neatly slicing himself a square of fresh-baked quiche and leaning back against the counter to face Smoothie.

“So, what does a Sweet Commander do for fun around here?”

“…and he’s throwing noodles at me, out of his body, and he’s not even a devil fruit user! He’s just carrying around this big ramen-making machine all the time, and he fights by beating people up with noodles!”

The timer on the oven squeaked its shrill alarm, but it only got a half-second of it out before one of the dozen chefs scurrying around the kitchen banged its shell to turn it off. A blast of heart seared the room for a moment as the massive oven was opened, the succulent-sweet smell of roasted fruits filling the air, then the oven door slammed shut and the completed dish whisked off to the main room to be stacked with the others.

Smoothie leaned in a little closer to see Sanji around the massive turkey he was slashing away at. “I’ve heard stories of the kinds of men the government recruited for their special forces, but I’ve never fought one myself. Was he truly one of their best?”

A knife brandished in the air, a quick flick of his wrist, and the meat slid cleanly from the bones in thick, steaming slices. “I don’t remember what team he said he was on…six? Seven, maybe? But they trusted him enough to have him guarding a train to Enies Lobby, so he was definitely somebody.”

“I would like to face the Cipher Pol, one day,” Smoothie mused, leaning back in her chair and sipping from her glass. “I hear there is a man who can transform into a giraffe. It’s my favorite flavor, and Zoans always have a delightful spice.”

Sanji stacked the slices on a giant silver platter, arranging them in tasteful piles with ease before sliding the plate down the counter for the next chef to garnish. “Promise you’ll bring that juice sampler next time you visit? The way you described that cherry oak and pine mix makes me think it’d be perfect in a vodka sauce.”

“I promise,” Smoothie assured him, pulling up her legs to allow a pig-snouted chef to pass by with the last sizzling tray of fried dumplings. “And if you promise to give my personal team the recipe for that sour peach compote, I’ll squeeze you anything you like.”

Sanji grinned as he wiped down his knives, tossing them behind him to land perfectly back in their slots in the cutting block. “Deal.”

Smoothie smiled down at him behind her glass, a delighted shimmer in her eyes as voices rose around the kitchen informing Sanji that all the dishes had been completed. He clapped his hands, ushering everyone outside as they all swarmed around the gigantic array of food that had been piled into the main hall and congratulated each other on their work.

Heavy pounding came from the front door, and Smoothie rose from her chair to follow Sanji out of the kitchen.

Dinner was ready, and their escort was here.

[metalzombiemiss]

Secret--Chapter 3

Characters: Negan x OFC (Lily) Fluff, introductions.  Language, mentions of abuse. This is a bit of a shorter chapter.  Might post chapter 4 later today if my laptop cooperates.  Tagging: @azanoni as requested. If you want tagged, send me a message or an ask and I’ll add you to the list.

Chapter 3

           “Glad you could join us!” Rick hollered.  A smile crept up on Lily’s face, “Hey!  I couldn’t stay away from the delicious smell!” “Go grab a plate and join us,” Michonne stated.  

Lily walked over to the buffet-style spread and helped herself.  She took a seat with the beautiful couple and began to eat.  “So,” Rick began, “Michonne tells me you have a master’s in psychology?”  Lily nodded, “Yeah!  I’m not sure if that’s helpful at all.”  “I think it could be.  After dinner, I want to show you something.  Or rather, I want to introduce you to someone,” he suggested. “Okay.  Yeah.  Um, do you think we could maybe go in the morning?  I’d like to try and get some sleep after dinner,” she responded.

“No problem. After breakfast, then,” he said. “So, I met Carl today,” she changed the subject.  “I heard!” he exclaimed.  “Good kid.” “Well, he can be a good kid.  Teenagers are a handful,” he jested.  She giggled, “I remember being a teenager!”  “Me, too.  I try to be patient.”  “It’s hard, I’m sure.”  “It is. Did you have kids, Lily?” he asked.

She shook her head, “No.  I was pregnant once but…I lost it.” “I’m so sorry,” Michonne rested her hand on Lily’s arm. Lily shrugged, “Honestly, it’s for the best.  The dad was a loser so…I’m okay.” Michonne and Rick looked at each other.  “The one who got bitten?” he asked.  “Yeah…” she replied.

“So, can I ask what happened?” Michonne asked quietly.  “He was hitting me one night...  Forced miscarriage.  Or accidental abortion.  Whatever. He was a piece of shit so it’s better this way,” Lily explained, very distant from reality.  

Rick quickly changed the subject, “So tomorrow after you have breakfast, come by my place and I’ll explain what I’m going to need from you.”  Lily nodded as she took a bite of her potato, “Okay.  Sounds good.”  They continued to chat as they ate.  Lily learned more about Rick and Michonne.  Her brain was still overwhelmed with all of her nightmares as she explained her journey to them.  

“It’s amazing that you survived so long alone,” Michonne said, taking the plates away. “I was determined to stay alive without him.  I’m just glad I found this place.  I’d be dead by now.”  Rick stood up and grinned, “We’re glad you found us, too.  Have a nice night, Lily.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

She made her way back home.  Looks like you’re going to be spending some time with him, she thought.  Her stomach fluttered at the thought.

 The sound of eggs cooking on the stove was one she never thought she’d hear again.  The smell filled her nostrils and she couldn’t help but smile.  I don’t know what I did to deserve this but holy fuck, I’m so happy, she thought as she slid the eggs onto a plate alongside the fresh bread she couldn’t believe existed.  She finished the last bite and took the final sip of her coffee.  She walked over to the front door and slipped on her boots.  Her breath caught in her throat as she prepared herself for the meeting. Time to act like you never have before, her internal monologue demanded.

She walked over to Rick’s, greeting everyone on the way.  The door opened before she could even get onto the porch.  “Good morning!” Rick greeted her with a huge smile. “Morning, Rick!” she exclaimed. “You ready to discuss your job?” “Let’s get started!”  “Come on.  Follow me.”  He shut the door behind him and led her to the makeshift prison.  “Negan was once an extremely dangerous man.  Without his group and without his weapons, he’s nothing. He has a mouth on him but I assure you, he’s harmless now.  What I need from you is to help get him rehabilitated. I want him to help us. Working against each other won’t get us anywhere,” he explained.  

“I mean, I’m pretty rusty but I’ll do my best.  Now, when you say he has mouth…?” she asked, pretending to be completely clueless. “Vulgar.  Curses like a sailor.  Can be offensive,” he listed.  “Well not much offends me so I think I can handle it,” she shrugged.

Rick smirked as he opened the front door to let Lily in.  “I believe that, actually.  You ready?” he prepared her.  She firmly nodded.  He opened the basement door slowly.  “Rick! Really hope you have my mother fucking breakfast!  I’m starving!” That booming voice gave her chills for a reason she couldn’t place. “I’ll bring it later.  I have someone you need to meet.”  Rick said, sternly.

Negan turned around, “You liar.  You did bring my breakfast.  And my, oh, fucking my is she tasty.”  Lily rolled her eyes.  Negan winked and asked, “What’s your name, gorgeous?”  “This is Lily,” Rick lectured, “She’s going to be helping us with your rehab.”  “You don’t say?” he beamed, “I feel like spending time with her is more of a reward than a punishment, Rick.  Have I been that good?!”  “This isn’t going to be a pleasant thing for you so put your dick away,” she snapped. Negan’s eyes got wide, “I’m gonna fucking marry you.”  “Uh huh. We’re going to start with you not hitting on me.  If you don’t stop, I’ll start water boarding you,” she claimed.  “You just made it fucking move…” he whimpered.

“Jesus Christ, Negan,” Rick sighed, “Enough.  You’re going to follow whatever she tells you and if we see real progress, we’ll talk about letting you out of there.  Deal?” Negan smirked.  “I think that will work for me!  I have no problem doing whatever she fucking tells me to.  Say jump, I will ask how god damn fucking high,” he chuckled.  “We’re not off to a good start…” Lily crossed her arms, “Mind giving us a second, Rick?” He nodded and headed upstairs.

As soon as the door shut, Negan expressed his concern, “Water boarding?  Really?  I thought we were friends!”  “No, we’re not.  Looks like you’re my patient.  Do you want to get out of there and have your own place?” she demanded.  He nodded as his eyes fell, “Yeah.  I would like that.”  “So just make an effort to get better or you’ll never get out of here.”

“I’m flattered that you care so much.”  “I don’t care about you.  I just want to prove to Rick that I’m capable.  So, just…behave, okay?  And I’m serious about the hitting on me thing.  Pretending like you’re into me won’t get you anywhere.”  Negan chortled, “I’m not pretending.  You are hot as fucking fuck and I have been fucking imagining you naked since you walked the fuck down here.  Let’s make a deal—every time I open up and talk about my shitty feelings, you take off an article of fucking clothing.  Cool?” She scoffed at his suggestion.

“No.  You’re a fucking idiot.  Seriously, your jokes aren’t funny.”  

“Not a joke, sweetheart.  I mean every fucking single fucking word.  I want to be so deep inside you that we just fucking fuse into one person,” he growled.  “Jesus. Okay.  Your first session will be at lunch time.  We gotta get you out of this habit.”

He laughed, “Come on! There’s no way you’re not fucking turning fucking heads out there with that crazy amazing ass and gravity defying fucking tits!”  “Wow. Goodbye,” she turned on her heel and stormed up the stairs.  “See you in a few hours, beautiful.”  She rolled her eyes as she opened the basement door.

“He’s a handful but I think you can handle him,” Rick greeted her at the top of the stairs. She nodded, “Yeah.  I think I can whip him into shape.”  “Great.  I need to get him his breakfast.  Thank you for being so willing to help,” Rick noted.  “Like I said, I’m a bit rusty but I think I’ll get him to turn a new leaf.”

They walked outside into the Virginia heat.  “Good luck. I’ll check with you weekly about his progress.  After today, I’d like for you to bring him his meals and water.  Get him used to your presence,” he suggested.  “Can do.  I’ll see you later, Rick,” she said.  “Let me know if you need anything.”  

She walked into her house and grabbed a glass of water.  “He is going to be impossible…” she whispered to the empty kitchen.  She sat down at the table and brought her fingers to her temples.  “I need a cigarette.” She laughed at herself for even thinking about it.  She didn’t even smoke but she already could tell what Negan was about to put her through.

[mareshmallow]

Beauty and the Beast (not really) Pt II

Part I

Her prison cell wasn’t a cell at all, but rather a modest, plush bedroom.

Mare tried to hide her surprise when Cal led her up to the east wing as he called it and not down into some filthy cell. Sure the room was grand and all, but it was still something to keep her contained. That was further evidenced by the click of the lock which Cal had shut.

He had left an hour ago and barely said anything which suited Mare just fine. Her time inside her comfortable prison had been spent looking around for any manner of escape. All she had come up with was a few tied up bedsheets. Her room was located at the top of a tower, and unlike the princess who had managed to get down with her ridiculously long hair, that seemed very scientifically impossible to Mare.

She huffed in annoyance and boredom as she wandered the sitting room for the fifth time in the past hour. It was a large space with two flower printed sofa’s, a few table stands and one glass coffee table supported by elegantly carved metal legs in shapes of vines and fruits. The ceiling was painted in a sky blue accented with gold. The walls were coated in a flowery print which Mare thought looked ridiculous. The amount of flowery things in this room was ridiculous. Thank goodness she didn’t have allergies or else the situation would have been much more miserable.

Mare scanned the room, hoping to stumble across some secret passage of sorts. In her novels, castle’s were filled with them. All she needed to do was find them. A rattling sound outside of the door halted her in her tracks. Mare dove for the sofa and snatched up a book that had been laying on the coffee table all the while trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

The charade of a calm appearance was all for naught as a cart strolled in with a teapot and cup seemingly all on it’s own. Mare furrowed her brows as she came to inspect the cart. What the hell was this even? Did Cal send this? Mare had an inkling that there was more to this castle than met the eye.

“Are you just going to sit there or can I leave now?” a voice said seemingly out of thin air. Mare jumped and scrambled away. Instinct screamed at her to pull out the knife her father gave her, but what good would that do against an invisible target? Besides, she was saving it for that Beast.

To her disbelief, the pot turned at gave her the most unamused expression she had ever seen. It raised a painted brow and Mare resisted the urge to collapse in shock. “You-you…” was all she could get out. The pot rolled it’s eyes. “Yes, yes I’m a talking appliance, now let’s get on with it,” it said dismissively. “Do you prefer sugar with your tea?” it asked, ignoring Mare’s openmouthed stare. It turned it’s gaze on her with exasperation. “I don’t have all day, what do you want?”

Mare gulped down her fear and confusion. She would have to sort that out later. “I don’t want your tea. What I want is information,” she said carefully. She could’ve sworn it’s lips tilted upwards into a small smile.

“Well at least you’ve got somewhat of a brain on you. I was starting to wonder,” she commented. She bristled at that. Mare couldn’t help but think that this was truly a terrible day if she was being berated by a teapot. “And where’s your brain? Lodged in your spout perhaps?” she spit back. Her fingers itched towards the knife. She had no idea what this strange talking teapot was capable of.

The teapot let out a whistling noise in what she assumed was a sound of amusement. “That knife won’t help you much, girl.” As if in response, the cutting knives that lay on the tray spun in an neat arc, their edges gleaming in the soft rays of sunlight. It was menacing to say the least. Mare gritted her teeth and stepped back, acknowledging her defeat.

“That’s a good girl, very smart of you,” the teapot said. “Now, do stay right here. They’ll be here to address you shortly.” With that said, the cart wheeled itself out. Mare let out a deep sigh of frustration. She did not want to see him again, for she was fairly certain she wouldn’t be able to contain herself before the time was right. Doubt wormed its way into her heart no matter how hard she tried to fight it though. When it came down to it, when the perfect moment really did present itself, would she be strong enough to use the blade? To be haunted by the memory of blood on her hands till the rest of her days?

Cal was an unpleasant person, but could she really kill someone?

It doesn’t matter, she thought. I’ll find out.

Mare slumped into the bed feeling utterly exhausted. The past few hours had been so strange that Mare was convinced that this was all a bad dream. Well, she had thought that until she cut herself with the knife to prove that this was her new demented reality. Mare idly rubbed her fingers over the cut. It would definitely leave a scar, but she didn’t mind.

Another slight rustle at the door made Mare jump. She then settled herself to sit in, refusing to stand for him. It was a small childish act of rebellion but she couldn’t help but feel resistant. When the door swung open, Mare didn’t look. The clomping of feet didn’t sound like him though, compared to his graceful steps, almost dancer-like she thought. No, this was someone else. She turned her head but to her surprise she couldn’t see anyone. Out of panic, she jumped from the bed, grabbing a pillow though she wasn’t sure how much use it would be.

She peered down at the floor only to inch back in shock. No, no, no, there’s absolutely no way this is happening, she thought. You’ve been confined in a strangers castle for plucking a rose, seen a walking, talking teapot, her mind hissed. And this is the strangest thing you’ve claimed to have experienced?

Unfortunately her mind did have a point. But that did not provide an explanation as to what was before her. 

“Sorry miss, did I startle you?” the candelabra inquired, peering up at Mare who could only stare back in shock. It–he–had a thick french accent. The small clock next to him rolled his eyes, it’s hands twitching in annoyance. “Oh no, of course not. This is just another ordinary day for her, you know? Conversing with candelabra and teapots and the like,” it spit with sarcasm.

The candelabra shot the clock a glare. “I was only trying to be polite. Thanks for that captain obvious.” The clock let out an exasperated hiss. Or at least Mare thought it sounded like a hiss. “Honestly Rafe, why do you have to do this now?”

“Um I’m not the one making such a big deal out it?”

“I’m not making a big deal out of it!”

The candle raised it’s eyebrows.

“Well you–!”

“Okay, okay,” Mare said once she finally shook herself out her dazed stupor. She held out her hand, gesturing for them to stop. Their words halted and they looked at her, like they had forgotten she was there at all. Mare tried not to bristle at that.

“You weren’t supposed to be here anyway,” the candelabra muttered.

“God knows what you’d do without me, possibly terrorized this poor girl,” the clock shot back.

“I said enough,” Mare repeated, this time with an edge sharpening her tone. They paused at that, finally giving her their attention. “First off, don’t speak about me like I’m not here, secondly stop your pointless bickering, and lastly, where is the–” Mare hesitated. She couldn’t very well call him beast, could she? “–Owner of this castle?” she demanded, feeling out the new words. Oh did she have many names for him, but being disrespectful wouldn’t help her much. She knew she would need help, and that began with determining where his staff’s loyalties lay. 

“Er,” the candelabra stuttered while the clock shuffled nervously beside it.

Mare raised a brow.

“He’s in the west wing,” it said at last, almost reluctantly. This had to be important information, Mare thought. But how?

“What is in the west wing?” she asked, feeling her eyebrows narrow in curiosity. “It matters not, my lady,” the clock cut in smoothly. That only rose her suspicions. “Come now, dinner awaits us.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes dinner, a formal evening meal, typically held in honour of a person of importance, though it may also be casual–”

“I know what dinner is,” Mare snapped. “I want to know why he wishes for my presence. Aren’t I his prisoner?”

“Are you being held or tortured in a cell?”

“No.”

“Are you not at this very moment being kindly invited to a wonderful dinner by two of the most handsomest appliances you’ve ever seen?”

“That debatable actu–”

“I don’t see the problem, and you must be starving,” the candelabra added. He held out a still burning candle stick as a handshake. Mare shied away from the flame. “My name’s Rafe by the way, and this grumpy buzzkill,” he nodded to his right, “is Tyton.” Tyton grunted as a way of a formal greeting. “The charming pot that was just in here goes by Farley though her first name is Diana. Call her that though and you’ll find that you’ll probably be dead by morning surrounded by her favourite knives and tea bags.”

“She’s sweet once you get to know her,” Tyton offered. Rafe snorted. “Yeah and I’m as cool as a cucumber. Helloo,” he waved his flaming hand, “oh wait, I’m literally on fire.”

Tyton didn’t respond to him. Instead he turned to Mare. “In truth, the Master does not know of this and we intend to keep it that way. Think of it a gesture of kindness.” He smiled warmly at her.

Mare dragged her eyes around the room. It was the finest she’d ever been in, but that did not change or help to ease the truth as to why she was there. To serve time for a foolish crime. As if reading her thoughts, Tyton said gently, “it is only a prison if you make it so.”

Mare hated to admit it but feeding her thoughts on hate wouldn’t do much for her growling stomach. But if she was to escape, she couldn’t very well be a sack of bones running through those woods alone.

While this was still the place keeping her confined, that didn’t mean she couldn’t spin it to her advantage. That began with investigating the mysterious west wing and its secrets. Hopefully it contained a tool in helping her to rid the world of the beast for good.

But before she could do any of that, she needed to eat.

Mare stood, dusting off her skirts.

Tyton beamed while Rafe only gave her a lazy smile and gestured at the door. 

“Be our guest.”

*** This is hella late but I’m tagging @breebarrcw, @lilyharvord, @maudthebookeater, @chaoslaborantin, @redqueenfandom, @iris-cygnets.

[pizza-is-my-buziness]

Set at the end of 4x22 of course because that diner scene was awesome? Though it could have used some Skimmons...

Daisy can see the eyes of the patrons in the diner shift in their direction the second they start to file through the door. Coulson leads the way, seemingly oblivious to the weird looks that they're getting; he looks almost like a proud father taking his kids on an outing, a trip to the zoo maybe, a trip to a diner necessary to make the day perfect. He smiles at the waitress behind the counter and she smiles back, uncertain, her eyes flicking toward the back like she's hoping someone will emerge and tell her how to deal with them. Coulson, at least, is smiling; May is scowling and Daisy has no idea what it says about their relationship that she recognizes this as her put-upon scowl and not her death is eminent scowl. It's the type of expression reserved pretty much for Coulson.

It's almost funny, seeing the diners shifting nervously in their seats at the sight of Mack and Elena, how they avoid looking at them directly. They eye her a little more closely, studying her face -her black eye and split lip- trying to figure out where they know her from. Jemma and Fitz look innocuous coming in behind them, small, silent and rumpled.

Coulson takes in the layout of the diner, the full booths and no empty tables big enough for them all. "I guess it's the counter," he says with a shrug, leading the way toward the row of chairs. Each one of them is empty, almost like the universe had known that the team was on the way.

The waitress shifts nervously as they take their seats, looking toward the back once more. Once she seems to decide that help isn't coming, she busies herself gathering up some laminated menus, passing them out. "How ya'll doing tonight?" She asks in the same sort of accent that Daisy feels like every waitress in every diner she's ever been to has.

Coulson starts making small talk and Daisy just stares down at the words on the menu and it suddenly feels like her stomach is going to start chewing holes in its own lining. She's pretty sure everyone in the diner can hear her stomach growling and she's not even about to be embarrassed.

Beside her, Jemma is also staring down at the menu but with blurry eyes, her head nodding forward like she's about to fall asleep right there at the counter. Daisy pokes her side and it's almost comical how she jumps, her knee knocking against the countertop and doing little to endear them to their waitress. "Sorry," Daisy says but she figures the sincerity is lost because she's trying not to laugh. "Food now, sleep later," she suggests.

Jemma nods, blinking and sitting up a little straighter. "Yes, of course," she says and she shakes her hair over her shoulders and Daisy loves how her locks are still wild and she still smells like oil from the gun. It's a sharp contrast to the exhaustion in her eyes.

When the waitress makes her way down to the three of them, Jemma asks for a tea and can only sigh heavily when the waitress nods, goes to write it down and then asks if she means iced or sweet. Daisy does a terrible job of hiding her smile and Jemma glares at her, poking her side with more force than Daisy had used moments earlier.

Daisy glances over at Coulson. "You picking up the bill for this, AC?" She asks with a smile that she intends to be cheeky but she's pretty sure it's just hopeful. "Because I'm feeling like this is a three dinners kinda night."

Coulson looks uncertain for the first time since hatching this plan but Daisy feels better to see Elena nodding her agreement. "I was kinda just thinking breakfast," Coulson remarks hopefully, trying to deter Daisy from her previous plan.

Breakfast, right. Daisy can totally do that. "Pancakes, got it," Daisy says with a nod. "And waffles. Oh, what about eggs? Bacon?" She's practically melting at the thought. "French toast?"

Jemma gives her a look. "You should at least aim for something healthy," she chides affectionately. "Some fruit, perhaps? An English muffin?"

Daisy is saved from the embarrassment of the retort on her tongue by the reappearance of the waitress, who sets their drinks down in front of them and then starts making her way down the line, taking their orders.

It feels a bit like the end of the world all over again having to decide between French toast and waffles but Daisy finally makes her choice, making herself feel the slightest bit better by ordering eggs and bacon to go with it. Jemma orders waffles, prompting a raised eyebrow expression from Daisy. "What?" Jemma asks innocently. "I got fruit on the side."

Daisy has never been good at waiting, especially when it comes to food. Especially when her stomach feels like its eating itself. At least the conversation in the diner seems to have resumed its normal din, though she can still feel the uncertain eyes of the other patrons on her back. The waitress does seem to be relaxing somewhat, no doubt soothed by Coulson's easygoing mannerisms.

When Daisy glances back at Jemma, she's looking morosely down at her tea, which looks like little more than tepid, brownish water with a Lipton bag floating in it. "We should go to England," she remarks. "So you can get a real cup of tea." She tries to mimic Jemma's accent toward the end of her sentence, smirking.

Jemma only sighs. "Yes, let's," she mumbles, "after running from a government that wants to imprison us."

Not even a single comment about Daisy's horrible accent. She furrows her brow. "Are you okay?" She questions and her voice gets quieter without any sort of conscious thought. It's almost as though her body is conditioned for these stolen moments of privacy amidst the rest of the team. "I mean…you know…just normal, post-mission stuff?"

Jemma offers her a reassuring smile. "Yes." She lays her hand on Daisy's knee, squeezing gently. "Just a bit tempted to turn myself over so I can enjoy a nap in my cell."

"What happened to food first?" Daisy questions. "You know they won't have food this good in prison."

They both smile and Daisy figures it says something about their life that they're joking about the potential of being arrested. A pretty fast-approaching potential if previous experience is any suggestion. It suddenly makes her even more desperate for her food to arrive.

Instead, Daisy just puts her hand over Jemma's, threading their fingers together. "It'll be okay."

"Yes," Jemma says but there's a hint of exhaustion in her voice. "I suppose so."

No one talks much as they wait for their food, unable to put into words how it feels to be sitting in a diner after the place they'd just come from. The Framework, the base, it all seems so far away, impossibly so. Though Daisy figures there's nowhere else that she'd rather be except for right here.

Especially when the waitress starts bringing over their plates. She names the foods cheerfully as she sets them down and Daisy's mouth starts watering as soon as the smells of crispy bacon and toast reach her nose.

The waitress sets Jemma's plate down in front of her, giving Daisy an apologetic smile. "Yours is coming, honey," she says before turning to disappear back into the kitchen.

Daisy almost falls off her stool, so seized by the unfairness of the entire moment. Instead, she looks over at Jemma. "You're going to share, right?"

Jemma lifts an eyebrow. "You got food, did you not?" She picks up her silverware, carefully laying her cheap paper napkin in her plate.

"Yeah, but…" Daisy points at the empty space in front of her. There's a paper placemat on the countertop, mocking her with pictures of food that she is not eating. "I'm starving."

It definitely comes out as a whine and she's not too proud to admit it.

Jemma makes a noncommittal noise. "Patience," she chides. "She said it was coming."

Daisy watches as Jemma slowly and methodically starts cutting her waffles into pieces. A part of Daisy is certain that Jemma is doing this just to torment her but another part of her knows that Jemma is just being Jemma.

When Jemma reaches for the syrup, Daisy reaches around her, snagging a bite of waffle off her plate and popping it into her mouth. "Yum," Daisy sighs, closing her eyes as she practically swallows the bite home. "Those are good waffles."

Jemma huffs out a breath. "Good to know," she says. "Are you finished?"

It might not be the best idea but Daisy reaches forward, grabbing a few more pieces of waffle. "Now I am," she assures Jemma, though she's not entirely sure it's a promise she can keep.

"You could have at least used a fork," Jemma remarks as she drizzles syrup onto her waffles.

Daisy picks up a fork, reaching over Jemma's arm and spearing another piece of waffle. She eats it, grinning. "Even better with syrup," she confirms. "Good call."

When she reaches for another bite, Jemma blocks her fork with her own. Daisy can't help but feel like the smirk she's wearing looks good on her.

Further theft is put on hold when the waitress finally returns with her plate of French toast and another one of bacon and eggs. "Sorry for the wait, hon." She goes off to refill Coulson and May's coffee cups.

Daisy's mouth is starting to water all over again. So much delicious food, where does she even start?

She's too distracted to see Jemma's assault coming. Jemma reaches right past her defenses and grabs a handful of bacon off her plate, leaving Daisy with only a few, pathetically skinny pieces. Daisy looks over at her, horrified. "I feel betrayed," she whispers.

Jemma shrugs, taking a bite of one of the pieces. "Turnabout is fair play," she remarks cheerfully. "And what's the saying about love and war?"

"I'm definitely getting the war part," Daisy assures her. "Not feeling the love so much."

When she can't get the bacon back, Daisy reaches for Jemma's plate, pulling it closer to her. Jemma swats her hand away. "You have your own food now!" She protests with a laugh, trying to pull her plate back. She bumps the coffee mug, sloshing lukewarm tea onto the counter.

"Well, I did have bacon, but it seems to have disappeared."

"Oh?" Jemma smiles innocently as she eats another piece. "How terrible."

Huffing, Daisy releases Jemma's plate, returning to her own. She cuts a piece off the French toast, stuffing it into her mouth. It's pretty much perfect, which takes away a lot of the sting of having half of her breakfast stolen.

It doesn't take long before the rest of the pilfered bacon has been returned to her plate. Daisy looks over at Jemma, who is smiling. "Truce?"

Daisy is still nodding even as Jemma steals a forkful of French toast off her plate. The grin on her face takes away any sort of annoyance that Daisy might have felt at the situation. "I couldn't resist," Jemma says, somewhat apologetically.

By the time it's all said and done, Daisy is pretty sure that she's eaten half of Jemma's breakfast and half of her own. Their sharing is much more amicable and Daisy getting full enough that she is starting to put a little more thought into what Jemma had been saying about turning herself in for the sake of taking a nap.

But then the waitress comes around asking about pie and suddenly Daisy feels herself develop a second wind. She gives Jemma a warning look. "You get your own pie," she says. "Mine is off limits."

Jemma smirks, reaching forward. "You have powdered sugar on your nose," she remarks, brushing it off. "How do you manage these things?"

The smile on her face and the look in her eyes makes Daisy's heart beat funny, though that might also be the way that Jemma's fingers are lingering on her skin, brushing lightly across her cheek. She wants to lean closer, to kiss her, to ignore the rest of the team and everyone else in the diner for just a minute.

But then the lights snap off, momentarily plunging the diner into darkness and Daisy can't help but roll her eyes. Figures. The government always has had terrible timing.

[dragonydreams]

The Care and Feeding of Training Assassins 1/3 - Captain Canary

Title: The Care and Feeding of Training Assassins Fandom: DC's Legends of Tomorrow Rating: Teen Pairings/Characters: Sara Lance/Leonard Snart Summary: @gawkydoteficus prompted: FLUFFY PROMPT FLUFFY PROMPT FOR CC: Sara will forget to eat when she trains to Len starts leaving little snacks for her in her room/around the ship/in the training area? Timeline: sometime during season one Word Count: Overall: 4,186, This Chapter: 1,462 Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over these characters. I am merely borrowing them from Berlanti Productions, DC Entertainment, and Warner Bros. Television. Betas: Thank you to angelskuuipo and shanachie_quill for looking this over for me.

Chapter One: Observations & Revelations

Leonard Snart considered himself to be an observant man, especially in new situations.

Being on board the Waverider with a group of strangers twenty-four hours a day wasn't exactly a new situation - he'd been in and out of enough jails and prisons in his life that being enclosed with strangers wasn't entirely new - but the general lack of hostility with these strangers was unusual. So he observed them.

One of the things that he'd observed was that Sara Lance liked to train. A lot. She'd been some kind of assassin, apparently, which intrigued him all the more. One didn't generally associate gorgeous blondes with lethal assassination. Yet, that was exactly what Sara was.

Not that he could blame her for spending so much time training. There wasn't a whole lot else to do on this ship.

Sometimes Leonard would offer to spar with Sara, to avoid his own boredom. She always readily agreed, despite the fact that she held back when sparring with him. Leonard tried not to be insulted when he realized what she was doing, but at the same time, he was grateful not to be on the receiving end of her full strength. He knew that she could kill him with little effort; which turned him on much more than it should.

Amongst his observations of Sara, he noticed that when she was training she often forgot to eat.

Expending that much energy as often as she did, without replenishing it, was dangerous.

So he took to leaving snacks for her. If he knew she was up training early he left her a protein bar, a banana, and Vitamin water on her desk. If she worked out through lunch or dinner, she could find a sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of water in her room.

He was always careful to make his delivery and be gone before she'd finished her training session. He wanted her eating, but didn't want her to know that he was the one feeding her.

~~*~~

At first Sara had been annoyed by the food left in her room, but when her stomach inevitably growled upon registering its presence, she'd cave and eat it, silently grateful that someone had left it for her.

After several weeks of this, Sara finally asked, "Gideon, do you know who my food elf is?"

"Yes, Ms. Lance," Gideon responded.

Sara rolled her eyes, only slightly annoyed that the AI was making her ask the unasked question. "Who is it?"

"Mr. Snart has been leaving food in your room when you train through mealtimes," Gideon reported.

"Thanks," Sara mumbled, surprised by the answer. She'd thought for sure that it had been Ray. He was the thoughtful type that way. Then again, Ray would have said something about it to her.

But Leonard taking care of her?

Sara thought about what she knew of the man as she ate her sandwich. He was a master thief, used to planning heists and taking care of a crew. However, she doubted that he would leave meals for his criminal cohorts.

He had a sister, though. A much younger one, from what she'd gathered. They'd talked about their sisters a couple of times while playing cards and Lisa was one of the few people that Leonard would die for. From what little he'd said, Leonard had practically raised Lisa.

Maybe he saw her as some little sister he needed to take care of?

That idea pissed Sara off to no end. She wasn't some child that needed to be looked after and fed.

Besides, the last thing Sara wanted was for Leonard to see her as a kid sister. Not with the growing attraction that she felt for him.

"Gideon, where is Leonard now?" Sara asked through gritted teeth.

"He is in his room with Mr. Rory," Gideon answered. "Shall I tell him you're looking for him?"

"No, he'll find out soon enough," Sara virtually growled. She grabbed the apple off her desk, stormed out of her room, and around the corner to Leonard's open door.

Leonard was reclining on his bed, reading, while Mick sat on the floor tinkering with something.

Sara lobbed the apple at Leonard, who looked up just in time to catch it before staring at her in shock.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"I'm not some child you have to take care of," Sara fumed, stepping into the room, completely ignoring Mick.

"Busted," Mick chuckled. He gathered up what he'd been working on and made a hasty retreat, closing the door behind him.

Leonard stood; hands up in a placating gesture. "That wasn't my intention."

"You've been leaving food in my room like some kid that can't remember to eat. Or a pet," Sara growled.

"You weren't eating, though," Leonard pointed out. "I have eyes, Sara. I've seen you training hard and not eating after. That's not healthy."

Sara snorted. "And you care about my health?"

"You're our best fighter," Leonard said, hoping to avoid revealing his growing… dare he say, feelings... for the assassin. "We need you in top shape; which means replenishing the nutrients you're expending when you work out so hard."

"And how do you know I wasn't just eating later?" Sara asked, crossing her arms over her chest; only just realizing that she was wearing just a sports bra and low-slung sweatpants.

"I asked Gideon," Leonard admitted.

"And you told him?" Sara shouted at the ceiling.

"Yes, Ms. Lance," Gideon answered. "I, too, was worried about your lack of sustenance."

Sara seemed to deflate at that. "It's not like I was starving myself," she said, looking down at her bare feet.

"I didn't think you were intentionally trying to harm yourself, but rather than make it awkward between us, I thought it best to just leave the food for you to find," Leonard said.

Sara smiled at that, looking up at him through her lashes. "So I made things awkward?" she asked, her usual teasing tone back in her voice.

Leonard smirked. "Well, you did insinuate that I thought of you as a kid, which I assure you, I do not."

Sara sucked in a sharp breath at the flash of desire she saw in his eyes.

Completely dropping her defensive stance, Sara slinked closer to Leonard, allowing some of her own desire to show through. "I suppose that I should probably thank you for thinking of my well-being," she purred.

Leonard swallowed hard at the sudden change in Sara's demeanor. He just barely resisted the urge to pull at his collar as the temperature in the room seemed to skyrocket.

"You're welcome," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. It was hard for him to think with her so close.

Without touching him, Sara rose up on her toes and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Before he could think about it, and before Sara could move away, Leonard reached out and pulled her body against his, sealing his lips over hers. Sara moaned her encouragement, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as she returned the kiss.

When they parted, panting for breath, Leonard said, "That was quite the thank you for a few sandwiches. I wonder how you'd thank me if I actually cooked you dinner."

Sara laughed, sinking back on her heels as she dragged her fingers teasingly down his chest. "Why don't you ask me to dinner and find out?"

Leonard groaned and had to close his eyes as his imagination filled in all the delightful ways Sara could thank him for a home cooked meal. When he opened them again, he met Sara's eyes. "Sara, may I cook dinner for you tonight?"

"If you can keep the others out of the galley, then you've got yourself a date," she promised.

"What would you like to eat?" he asked.

"Surprise me," she answered, slipping from his embrace. "You've been doing a pretty good job so far."

Leonard watched Sara go, admiring the view, and then went to knock on Mick's door.

"Good, you're not dead," Mick said, letting Leonard into his room.

"Far from it," Leonard said. "I need your help with something."

"Name it," Mick said. "It involve Blondie?"

"I'm gonna cook her dinner tonight," Leonard said, ignoring Mick's whistle of surprise. "She said she'd let me as long as the rest of the crew wasn't there."

"You want me to threaten them to stay away?" Mick asked gleefully.

"Bingo," Leonard said. "You up for it?"

Mick picked up his heat gun. "Been waiting for a chance to scare this lot."

"Thanks, partner," Leonard said, making to leave.

"Hey, boss," Mick said, causing Leonard to turn back around. "If you don't mind my sayin', it's 'bout time."

Leonard smirked. "Can't disagree with you there."

Chapter Two: Preparations

[youngerdrgrey]

if you don’t, it’s cool (untitled 04) // a queen sugar moment

.

written for day 15 of the 30 x 31 writing challenge; prompt: line from a song as the title ("untitled 04" by Kendrick Lamar)

+ on ao3

/

When Remy's frustrated, he licks his lips. He'd done it back in the storm, when she'd pushed for the workers to stay and he hadn't been able to convince her otherwise. He'd licked his lips like he was gearing to say something, then just stood there beside her. He does it whenever he holds himself back. So, when they're in his office after a long day of going over plans for the mill, she keeps an eye out for the tick. Just to keep track of his limits.

She checks off another farmer's name from her list. The goal for today is to finish drafting up paperwork for all of the farmers about to take a chance on her. She will hand deliver the paperwork to each of the farmers on Friday, along with a signed notice explaining the suggested next few steps in getting out of their contracts with the Landrys. The first one to get paperwork will be Ralph Angel, more as a courtesy than anything else. And even then, Charley rolls her eyes once she comes to his name on the list.

"I don't understand why he keeps fighting me on this."

She says it like they're mid-conversation, but Remy doesn't miss a beat. He tends to respond to her as if he's an extension of herself at this point. It should be unnerving, to have someone come into her life and so quickly integrate himself into her. And yet, at this point, it's mostly just comforting to have someone who hears not just what she's saying but what she can't quite put into words.

He shakes his head from his place at his desk. "Ralph Angel just wants to be consulted. He might be on pay roll, but he runs the farm."

"I thought the money ran the farm." She saves her template document under his name and starts filling in the blanks. "And it's not like I don't listen to him."

Remy snorts. She glares at him, and he does glance over then. He says, "When's the last time you heard that boy? And I mean, actually heard him. Not just let what he said go in one ear and out the other."

"Just about the farm or anything?" Because if it's anything, then she heard him just yesterday. He'd wanted to order in from the good barbecue place rather than cooking since Vi was taking some personal time. And even though Charley wanted spaghetti more than anything, she'd compromised. And announced that spaghetti would be dinner tonight. Which reminds her -- "We'll have to be going soon."

Remy turns in his chair. "Don't try to get out of answering me." Honestly, it shouldn't be fair for him to sound so sexy when he tells her no. His voice gets gruff around the edges. She pushes her laptop half closed to get a better look at him.

The office has one desk, then a long table that she's taken over for the night. The chair all the students sit in for office hours has been repurposed as her own. She's even got a box of old files acting as a foot rest. But she has to bring her feet back to level so he can know she's serious.

"I'm not trying anything. It's getting late. We haven't eaten--"

"And you haven't listened to your brother in weeks. Not since before we got the cane in the ground."

Even then, she mostly listened to him when delegating suited her interests. Why bother hearing anything when she was still dealing with Davis? But now, she can give her full attention to what's happening, and Ralph Angel has a tendency to hear what he wants. Which, Remy seems to be telling her, is a family trait.

"Fine." She puts her hands up in mock defense. "I don't listen."

"You don't. And I swear, if you didn't look so good, you wouldn't get away with half of what you do."

And there's the Remy she's coming to know. The one who finds a way to slide a compliment into everything he says. She finds herself smirking before she can help it. Notes the way her chest rises and her eyes latch onto his. "I thought we were talking about Ralph Angel."

He shrugs, wheels his seat over to the table so they're across from each other. "We were. But I think we could talk about the bigger problem."

"Which is?"

He closes her laptop the rest of the way. His voice comes out light, like it's a fact rather than an attack. "You don't know how to trust people."

Her husband cheated on her for years. "I'd think it's pretty understandable."

"But there are people who've proven themselves worthy of your trust. At least, I would think so. People who haven't steered you wrong, or taken more from you than you could give."

The people in this category are pretty limited. Vi can be there, Micah, Remy, of course, but Ralph Angel did a lot of asking without backing himself up. And Nova stole money, for which she still hasn't apologized. Though, in his defense, Ralph Angel shouldn't have to explain everything he does. But he has to because he makes such dumb mistakes. He'd pulled a gun on the men who tried to take the tractor. He'd brought Darla to Vi's house after everyone in the world knew how much Vi hated Darla. He'd -- well, he'd gone to prison.

That's what it came down to. All his life, Charley trusted him to make the right choice. He had the whole of the family looking out for him, not to mention how much their dad worshipped the ground Ralph Angel so much as glanced at. And he'd managed to do everything wrong. Got Darla pregnant, got into drugs, got locked up, and Charley had to find out through half a voicemail and a reporter from TMZ who wanted to watch her crumble in person.

She'd been picking up Micah from school when a reporter had rushed up to her and asked how she felt about her baby brother getting locked up. If she and Davis would be going to get him out. If she thought this bad behavior would affect Micah. And she'd laughed off the reporter saying that her family would never. Her brother would never. Then she'd listened to Nova's voicemail in the car. 

"Hey. Sis, listen, Rah's in some trouble, and we're trying to figure it out now. We'll call tonight, okay? Keep your phone up."

Hadn't told her a damn thing. Left her looking stupid and feeling even more lost in the world.

She doesn't want to think about this. She wants to flirty with Remy, finish her paperwork, and eat some spaghetti at Vi's house. Or maybe just the first one and the last one.

She slips her laptop off the table and places it in her bag. Grabs her notepad and papers too.

"Hey, where you going?"

She zips the bag up. "I'm starving, Remy, and--"

"And you're running away. See that's -- that's something right there."

Does she detect some judgment in his voice? "We can keep talking."

"On your terms," he adds. He leans back in his seat, and he turns his head to the side before licking his lips. Her eyes widen, and he comes back to face her. "What?"

Nothing. She swallows that word down. "You can finish your sentence."

He shakes his head. "I just want you to know that you can loosen the reigns a bit. Give him a longer leash. Give us all some room to make mistakes."

Oh she can? Every time she gives people some rope, they trip her with it and leave her with her ass in the air and her face to the pavement. But he's already frustrated, so snapping at him won't help. He's already wanting for something that she's apparently not giving him freely enough.

But she really does want to know what he thinks she'll get out of giving people space. Sure, they might surprise her, but they might also ruin her plans with that. Like, if Ralph Angel had made his plan and gone through with it, her mill wouldn't have the farm's support. Her mill wouldn't have her own family behind it. It wouldn't work. But, his plan did work with what they had for the most cost effective solution. Well researched and actually, honestly doable, which is more than what could've been said for the Ralph Angel of the past.

But Nova's still a mess. She never apologized for the money. But she had been right to say that Charley would've done anything for Micah. And Nova cared for Too Sweet so much in such a short period of time. Every instinct in Nova's body to protect and love and nurture came through ten fold and Too Sweet's all the better for it. Even Micah's a little better for it, since he saw it and got to meet Too Sweet, got to know that his aunt is more than just words and thoughts. Nova's a woman of action. Their whole family acts before thinking most of the time. It's stressful, but it gets results.

So long as no one gets locked up again, and no one steals ten thousand dollars, "I'll work on it. Now, can we go eat?"

Remy nods and slides back over to pack his own stuff up. "You know, when I first invited you to my office, I got this image. Of you, on the desk." He whistles low while rolling up some of his sketches and plans.

She could give in, but she really does need to eat, and if he'd wanted that particular image, he probably should've left the conversation alone.

"Maybe next time."

He glances her way, licks his lips with a different sort of meaning behind it. "I'll hold you to that."

.

.

.