#shows that knowledge does in fact lurk in your brain. it just waits for the right time to scare the living shit out of you one saturday | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

welllpthisishappening · 4 years ago

Text

On This Night and in This Light (1/3)

Emma Swan knows she's pretty good at what she does.

Helping the magically afflicted and affected find jobs in this realm isn't the most glamorous thing in the world, and, sure, there's a lot of paperwork, but she figures she's helping people and that's the important thing. It's structured. Calm, even.

Until. It's always until.

Killian Jones shows up with his stupid smirk and his tendency to lean against the door frame in Emma's office and his distinct lack of magic. Or knowledge of what they're really doing at Mills Personnel. Everything kind of goes off the rails after that.

----

Rating: Teen, but I’m me, so kissing is guaranteed Word Count: About 6.5K this chapter AN: About a week ago @shireness-says sent me this post, about a job agency that specifically helped people with supernatural abilities or supernatural problems find a job. I believe my exact response was “Don’t do this to me” and then Devon probably laughed or something and over the course of the last three days I wrote about 19-thousand words. Nonsense is guaranteed, as is the kissing, hopefully some banter and a bunch of magic. The next two chapters probably Tuesday and Thursday of next week?

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

----

“So, that’s basically it. The guy was cursed, super greedy and—” “—Babe c’mon, that’s my dad.”

The guy shrugs.

Which Emma figures is pretty fair, all things considered. Although she also can’t remember his name, so maybe she’s a quasi-villain in this story. She’s fairly certain it’s in the paperwork. The guy’s name, not her potential villain status.

In her defense, that one lightbulb above her head is very distracting. Flickering on and off, she’s going to have to tell Graham about it, which will probably somehow alert Regina and Emma isn’t sure she’s capable of dealing with Regina right now. It’s been a very long morning.

At— she glances at the tiny string of numbers in the bottom corner of her computer monitor, nine twenty-six in the morning.

“Jeez,” Emma mumbles, drawing the attention of both of the people sitting in front of her. Not very often that a pair comes in. She supposes that’s nice.

In an overwhelmingly, romantic kind of way.

God, maybe she’s bitter.

She’s totally bitter. Thinking anything else is ridiculous.

And if Emma doesn’t get some coffee soon, she’s going to fall asleep at her desk and inevitably offend this nameless, albeit nice-looking guy who until recently was spending his days as a solid-gold statue in front of an antiques store on Broome Street.

“Not—not you guys,” Emma says quickly, and the girlfriend’s eyes widen. Her name is Abigail. Emma’s, like, forty-six percent positive.

“You know he didn’t mean it,” maybe-Abigail says. “It was...well, Freddie was very heroic about it. Protecting my dad and—he was head of security at the building. Kids thought it’d be funny to try and break in, but Freddie was—” “—Courageous?” “Very. The kids wanted my dad’s gift, but Freddie wouldn’t let them near him. Of course that made sure he was close to my dad and he...well, he got touched by accident and....”

Humming noncommittally, Emma lets the rest of the details float into the back of her mind. She doesn’t particularly want to hear this story. Most of them are the same, anyway. Heroic deeds beget undeserved rewards, and there’s always some sort of deus ex machina fix that’s inevitably magical, and she figures that’s part of the deal at this place, but that bitterness of hers runs far deeper than she’s willing to admit. “And you didn’t want to go back to work at the cursed dad’s office?” Freddie shakes his head. “Not really all that interested in security anymore. Ya get frozen for three years and it kinda loses its shine, y’know?” “Makes sense,” Emma replies, and she hates to admit it takes her that long to realize what he just said. Maybe she should have read the paperwork closer. She didn’t have time. “Wait, wait did you say three years?” “And, uh, like fourteen days. That’s right, right babe?” Abigail smiles. That must be the answer. “We’re just looking for a fresh start. My dad is—well, maybe greedy is the right word. He doesn’t view this as a curse, it's...I called it a gift before, didn't I?” Emma nods, trying desperately to ignore the state of that light bulb. “Nothing we do is going to change his mind. He’s going to keep it, and he tries to be careful, but—one wrong move and there’s a golden something right in front of you. We don’t want to risk it again. That’s why we came here. It’s supposed to be the best placement service in the city.”

Biting back the immediate retort of it’s the only placement service like this in the city, Emma plasters what she can only hope is an encouraging smile on her face. The lightbulb stops flickering.

It dies. Completely.

She hopes that’s not a sign.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” she stammers, before turning back to her keyboard and a monitor with time that must be going backwards. “So, three years removed from any interaction with society and that’s—” Her smile is making her cheek muscles ache. “What kind of skills do you have, Mr. Greyston? Any specific interests or ideas about what you want to do?”

Freddie does not have any ideas. Or interests. Or concerns besides Abigail, it seems. Who is not just his girlfriend, but his fiancée, and a rather vocal wealth of both ideas and interests, none of which fit any of the potential jobs Emma spends the next forty-seven minutes finding.

Something is wrong with each and every one. Wrong location. Too far a commute. Weird hours. Requires a uniform and—“Have you seen the width of Freddie’s shoulders? There’s no way he’d be able to wear a mass-produced jacket like that.”

Emma hasn’t been paying much attention to the width of Freddie’s shoulders, honestly.

She’s far more preoccupied with the pain blooming behind her left eye and, somehow, at the base of her skull and she’s a few seconds away from turning both Freddie and Abigail into frogs when she hears footsteps approaching her half-open office door and he actually has the gall to cross his feet at the ankle when he leans against the frame.

“What about personal training?”

Both Abigail and Freddie freeze. One of them tilts their head. Presumably in thought. Emma can’t be bothered figuring out which one.

Not with her fingers hovering over her keys, the pop of her lips as they fall open sounding far louder than it should and the stranger leaning against her door frame smiles at her.

Smirks, really. One side of mouth tugs up, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled halfway up his forearms. It’s offensive, that’s what it is.

As is the overall shade of blue in his eyes.

“Can I help you?” Emma asks. Demands, honestly. One word comes out sharper than the last, drawing a soft chuckle from the questionably good-looking stranger and that’s—

No. No compliments. Just insults. Of the sharp-tongued variety.

Most curses require a sharp tongue, in Emma’s experience. And she suddenly finds herself fantasizing about the several different ways she could curse this self-assured bastard to the other side of the office.

“I think, love,” he says, leaning forward like that’s allowed, “I might be able to help you. Couldn’t help but overhear—” “—Because you were eavesdropping?” “Inevitable when your voice carries the way it does.”

Her mouth is already hanging open, so Emma can only imagine what she looks like when it feels as if her eyes are also intent on falling out of her face. Not great, if the increased smirk'ness of the smirk is any indication.

Smirk'ness is not a word.

“Personal training could be kind of cool,” Freddie muses with interest. Abigail beams. Emma comes up with twenty-nine different curse possibilities. “Don’t you need something for that, though? Like a certificate or something?” Blue-eyed bastard, fuckface chuckles again. “You do, in fact. ‘Fraid you can’t simply approach strangers and start training them. But the requirements aren’t hard to complete and there’s always a fairly high demand for trainers. People want to get in shape, y’know?” Suggesting that there’s no way this guy with his stupid sleeves could know the exact tone Freddie had used to a voice very similar question not even an hour earlier is as stupid as his sleeves, but Emma cannot rationalize any of this and she should have known he was out there.

Lurking in the hallway, as it were.

There’s always some sort of—signal. A smell. A flicker of familiarity that ripples up her spine and latches to the back of her brain and she assumes the migraine that now seems pretty inevitable is not that. It’s just painful.

Nothing else. She didn’t feel anything. She should have felt something, unless—

“No,” she gasps, and she’s got to get a handle on her audible reactions. “I, uh—I mean, no, no, that’s a great idea, actually. What do you think Mr. Greyston?”

Freddie narrows his eyes. “I...I just said it sounded cool.” “He did,” the wanker with that one piece of wayward hair hanging across his forehead says, “I heard it. Didn’t you hear it?” Nodding emphatically, Abigail is far too quickly swayed by all of this. “I did and that’s—Emma, why didn’t you think of that before?” Anger curls low in Emma’s gut. Rises in the back of her throat and threatens to scorch every inch of her tongue, like that’s something an emotion is capable of. Fisting her hands under her desk, the edges of her nails leave crescent-moon shaped cuts on her palm, but she doesn’t have another outlet for the energy running through her.

Especially if she’s right.

She’s seventy-two percent positive she’s right. Which is better than how she felt about Abigail’s name, and she was totally right about that, so.

Math, or whatever.

“Didn’t even cross my mind,” Emma admits through clenched teeth. “But thankfully we’re a collaborative effort here at Mills Personnel, and it’s always good to get multiple opinions, including some from our newest—” Swallowing her tongue isn’t the most embarrassing thing Emma can do in a moment like this, but it’s starting to feel somewhere in the top five and if this guy doesn’t stop staring at her like that she’s going to scream.

Or self combust with magic.

Her magic appears to be running on overdrive.

“Killian Jones,” he says, answering a question she hadn’t actually gotten around to asking. “It’s my first day,”

“Is it just?” His answering hum isn’t as sarcastic as Emma’s was. She supposes that’s another failure of hers today. Her brain’s already started making a list. “Did you know they have an espresso machine in the break room?” “I work here,” Emma answers.

“As I can see. Just—” “—Trying to tell me about espresso?” The other side of his mouth moves. That suggests Emma is staring at his mouth, which she might be, honestly. When she isn’t wholly preoccupied with his eyes or that one strand of hair, and she can’t believe that one strand of hair exists, but she’s also a witch and Freddie was made of gold and she never did ask how they managed to fix that.

Emma’s starting to wonder if she actually sucks at her job.

“Make conversation,” Killian says. “And maybe help a little bit. That’s the gig, isn’t it?” None of the muscles in Emma’s neck are particularly interested in nodding, but her hair moves so that must mean she accomplishes at least some sort of movement and the two pairs of eyes sitting in wholly uncomfortable chairs opposite her are watching the scene with open interest. “Alright,” she says brusquely, certain Killian’s eyes get brighter, “Mr. Greyston, let’s start working on a plan for getting your certification and then we can set up some contacts with area gyms.”

She’s not sure when Killian leaves, exactly.

Only that he doesn’t try closing the door behind him and when Emma walks into the breakroom thirty-one minutes later, there’s a post-it with ridiculously swirly handwriting clinging to the espresso machine. Try this one, it says.

And that doesn’t really make sense. It’s an espresso machine, there aren’t a ton of different options. Emma’s almost charmed all the same.

It wasn’t True Love’s Kiss.

Frederik Greyston wasn’t released from his gilded prison by the most sweepingly romantic bit of magic in the world. It was water from Nostos, which Emma knows is expensive and hard to come by, but knowing the little she does about Abigail’s father, it makes sense and she’s disappointed all the same.

Six years working at Mills Personnel and still not a single person has been saved by the power of True Love’s supposed Kiss.

She’s starting to think it doesn’t even exist.

Honestly, the whole thing is Mary Margaret’s fault.

She’s the one who got Emma the job after all, and maybe that’s more a commentary on Emma’s disinterest in joining the traditional workforce or being a functioning member of society, but she’s also quick to argue that society hasn’t really done much for her lately. Not a ton of professional options for someone with a record and the tendency to glow every now and then.

So, Emma had agreed to the interview.

On a Thursday at two in the afternoon, at the office tucked into the bottom floor of a building on 62nd Street, with etched letters on the door.

Mills Personnel, it said.

And still does, really. Not much has changed since Emma first walked into Regina’s office, least of all the lettering on her door, but she’d like to believe she’s maybe a bit more confident than she was that time and—

“Regina, is this a joke?” Emma asks, not able to sit in one of the chairs. Pacing seems entirely more reasonable, even as the muscles in her calves start to ache. “Because it can’t—none of this makes any sense.” “Why not?” “Repeating myself is redundant.” Making a noise Emma can only assume is an agreement, Regina doesn’t bother looking up from the paperwork in her hands. Another client. Another problem. Something else Killian Jones can probably solve.

Nearly a week after the incident in Emma’s office, the new guy is apparently some kind of job placement wunderkind, able to match any person with their dream position while also boasting a wealth of contacts across the city. Yelp reviews have appeared in droves — sent to Emma nearly every morning because apparently Ruby has some sort of sick sense of humor, and only a few of them mention Killian’s rolled-up sleeves.

That’s insane.

Emma can’t imagine not mentioning his rolled-up sleeves.

Maybe she’s part of the problem, actually. Just like—with society, as a whole.

“You want to repeat yourself, don’t you?” Regina asks knowingly, drawing a strangled sound out of Emma that nearly makes her trip mid-pace. One should not affect the other. And yet. Everything seems to be falling apart in rather quick succession, the kind of worry that’s already taken root in the center of her and wrapped its way around every single one of her ribs, and she’s got no idea how many ribs she’s currently in possession, but she figures it’s got to be a lot.

Based almost entirely on the constant tightness in her chest.

“How are you not freaking out about this?” Regina shrugs. “Nothing’s going to happen. People love him.” “People think he’s got a good-looking face.” “You think that and—” Sputtering on her own inevitably witty retort, if only she could get it out, Emma can’t do much more than dramatically exhale as soon as Regina does lift her eyes. Leveling her with that same look she’d used during Emma’s initial interview, like she’s got all the answers in the world and will be willing to share them.

Eventually. At her leisure.

“He doesn't have magic,” Emma hisses, feeling as if she’s lost her last tether to reality. No one else is worried about this. Ruby has at least eighty-four opinions on Killian’s face. David’s not totally swayed, but thinks the guy’s at least doing a good job so far. Mary Margaret wants to invite him to game night next week.

To play goddamn Settlers of Catan. Like they’re normal people. And not witches, or some other unnecessarily gendered description of magic-users.

“He—he,” Emma continues, and now her hands have joined the fray. Waving them around her head only makes her feel more insane. “How can you think that he’ll be able to place people in jobs when he doesn’t know why they really need jobs?” Her voice cracking on the question can’t help her cause much.

But Emma needs this to stay the same. She needs consistency and maybe not comfort, but comfort-adjacent and the fucking Settlers of Catan. At some point, she’s going to win that dumb game, she’s positive.

And Killian Jones poses a very real threat to all of those alliterative sentiments.

Because Mills Personnel is not a normal job placement organization. Emma’s not even sure it’s an organization, technically. Maybe an LLC.

She’s not a lawyer.

The point is, it caters to—a slightly different sort of clientele. The kind that’s been affected by magic. Whether that’s because they’re in possession of it, or have been cursed by it, or are only spending some time in this realm while hiding from a revenge-prone dragon in their homeland, who also happened to be their mother, and need a job while they wait it out.

That last one has always been Emma’s personal favorite. Lily spent three years working for an appraiser on Park Avenue.

She was really good at it.

And Emma is good at this. At helping. At providing people with their own plan, and their own possibilities and she has got to get off this alliterative kick because—

“Hey,” Regina mutters, nodding towards Emma’s hands. Both of which are dangerously close to phosphorescent “Reign it in for me, huh?” “Seriously, how can you be so calm about this?”

“He needed a job.” “What? How did you even find him?” Squeezing one eye shut, Regina clicks her tongue thoughtfully and it’s almost enough to make her seem like a normal person. Instead of a person who can regularly summon fireballs from her palms. “Friend of Robin’s. I think you met him last solstice party, but—that’s not the important part. Anyway, we worked with Scarlet once. Or David did, helped him get a job in Brooklyn after he’d been stoned in Wonderland.” “I’m sorry, stoned in Wonderland?” “Mmhm, literally. Anyway, his girlfriend’s known Killian for years and he just moved to New York and one thing led to another and here we are.” “Here we are,” Emma echoes. “The repeating thing isn’t just redundant, it’s obnoxious,” Regina sighs, finally moving the papers. It’s not a victory for Emma. Not when it only ensures Regina can also lean back in her chair, cross her arms over her chest and tilt her head at that very specific angle that practically radiates judgment. “He just needs some money for a couple of months. He’ll be out of here before anyone will have a chance to enlighten him on what he’s actually doing.” “Giving jobs to magical people.” “Not all of them are magical,” Regina argues, “some of them have just been impacted by magical forces.” “Yuh huh. And how exactly are we hiding all of these magical forces from Killian Jones, totally mortal human being?” The head tilt’s at nearly forty-five degrees now. “You are mortal, you know that right? It’s important that you know that.”

“I know that,” Emma snaps, flickers of light falling from her fingertips for good measure. “I just—when you hired me, you made it very clear that the line between magic and the rest of the world was tenuous at best. We just...we exist and hope no one burns us at the stake, but now you’re totally cool with some inherently normal guy being here. Everything we do is going to freak him out.” “It hasn’t already. And so long as you stop sparking at regular intervals, I think you’ll be fine.” “I’m not worried about me.”

Widening her eyes, Regina's judgment reaches across the questionably originate mahogany desk, hangs in the air for all of fourteen seconds and then smacks Emma squarely across the face. In a magical sort of way that makes her skin tingle.

“Not cool,” she mumbles, but Regina doesn’t do much more than sneer. “Alright, fine, fine, you think this is a totally great idea—” “—I didn’t say it was great. I said it wasn’t going to be as bad as you thought it was going to be, and we’re doing some old customers a favor.” “Sounds suspiciously like nepotism.” “Or good business.”

Emma rolls her eyes. She’s getting another migraine. “Tell all your friends about Mills Personnel, the only option for the magical and magic-damaged to ensure they can keep paying their rent.” “Not as catchy as I’d like, but I accept that it’s a work in progress.”

“Yeah, yeah, something like that.” Having never sat down, it’s easy for Emma to make a quick and relatively drama-free exit from Regina’s office, swinging open the door and marching into the hallway and—

“Ah, fuck,” she grunts, slamming into something far too solid to be anything except another human being. Who smells suspiciously like laundry detergent and salt water.

“Swan.”

She blinks. Once. Twice. Tries to remember that she is in fact mortal, and that requires a consistent stream of oxygen in her lungs. But breathing is something of a challenge now, and he’s smirking at her when she finally lifts her head. “What are you doing?” “Walking,” Killian answers easily, but there’s a hint of laughter clinging to the word that manages to frustrate Emma and do the exact opposite all at once. “Do you have somewhere especially important to go?” “No, no, that’s—why do you say that?” “Seems you’re in something of a rush.” “Or you take up way too much of the hallway.” Full-blown laughter is at least twenty-thousand times better than the clinging variety or whatever sound Emma’s managed to imagine he makes in the last week or so. She hasn’t imagined it that much. She’s a God awful liar, actually.

“That might be true,” Killian admits, taking a step back, and there’s a pile of papers resting on his hip. A pen barely stays behind his ear, that same wayward strand of hair taking up residence across his forehead and the rolled-up sleeves of this shirt appear to have some sort of floral pattern on them.

“What are—” Emma swallows. Licks her lips, Tries not to spend too long thinking about the undeniable way Killian’s eyes fall to her lips. “Where are you going?” “Back to my office. Woman in there who claims her only talent is singing, but she’s not too keen on performing. Says she doesn’t want to draw a spotlight. So, trying to come up with some other options for her.” Mind racing, Emma tries to figure out what the woman actually is or who she’s hiding from, but explaining any of that is impossible and she’s admittedly having some trouble forming sentences when Killian keeps doing that thing with his face. Having one.

“Any suggestions?” he asks, and there’s no sarcasm. No joke. Just blatant interest and possibly some veiled hope, which is not a word Emma’s all that familiar with.

That’s more Mary Margaret’s schtick, and at least this is passably cyclical. Somehow this has to be Mary Margaret’s fault too.

“What about working for a promoter or something?” Emma ventures. “You know—backstage sort of stuff. Keep her in the industry, let her work with other talent, but none of that pesky spotlight. Probably plenty of people looking for an assistant or something.”

Stunned surprise could be very insulting, as far as expression-based responses go. Luckily for Killian and his face, it’s a pretty fantastic look. Particularly when it’s directed at Emma. And mixed in with something that feels suspiciously like awe.

She’s not especially concerned with the adjectives. All she knows is it makes her magic roar in her ears, threatening to knock her knees together.

“Wow,” he mutters, “that’s genius.” “Happens from time to time.” “More often if breakroom information is anything to go by.”

On second thought, embarrassed regret is her new unexpected favorite. Color dots Killian’s cheeks, a red tinge to the tip of his ears and it really says far more about him than Emma’s powers of observation that it’s only now she realizes he’s missing his left hand.

“I, uh—” Killian stutters, and Emma can’t help the stretch of her smile, “well it’s not that I’m gossiping about you per se, just...making conversation.” “And I’m a hot topic of conversation?” “No, no, you’re just—” His inability to finish sentences is also oddly endearing, the muscles in his throat moving as he swallows back what Emma can only hope would be a slightly twisted compliment. Regarding her and the word hot. “Well, I appreciate the help. Sometimes it feels like it’s impossible to get a straight answer out of these people. None of them know what they want to do.” Cold sweeps over Emma, in the form of crushing realization and a return to a reality with starkly-lit hallways. He doesn’t know. Can’t know. About this place, or what it really does, and Regina’s surprisingly cavalier attitude aside, non-magic users finding themselves in the entirely magical world never ends well.

Someone always gets hurt.

“Yeah, no problem,” Emma says as she takes her own step back, and that shouldn’t be as difficult as it is. “If—I mean if you ever get another hard one or…”

Her face is on fire, she’s sure. Spontaneous combustion would be a small miracle, giving her a legitimate out of this conversation and the latest expression that’s now standing several feet away from her. Self-satisfied, that’s the word.

Or phrase, as the case may be.

“If you need some more ideas,” she clarifies, “I’m around. You helped me with that Greyston case, after all.” It’s not a cease fire or metaphorical hatchet buried under Regina’s questionable taste in carpet, but it’s something and if this is going to happen, then Emma reasons she might as well try and keep it all in check. Helping Killian helps everyone, really.

She’ll repeat that on mental loop for several hours if necessary.

Right after she stops obsessing over the precise way he leans forward, ducks into her eye line and says, “thanks, Swan.”

It isn’t until she’s managed to plug her phone in, exhaustion creeping up her spine and fluttering behind half-closed eyelids that Emma realizes she never once told Killian her name.

When she was twelve years old, she lit up. Like, her whole body. Light hung from the ends of her hair and circled her right wrist, wrapped its way up her arms and settled on either one of her shoulders until it was difficult for anyone to spend too long looking at Emma.

None of it was on purpose.

Magic’s always been something almost instinctual, at least for Emma, and the yelling from the living room of the latest foster home she’d only recently been shipped to had been grating on her ears long enough that she didn’t know what else to do. She reacted. Power rippled off her in perfect cadence with her frustration, and she hadn’t known all those words when she was twelve, but she’d known exactly how everyone would respond and Emma was not disappointed.

At least not like that.

Standing halfway down the steps, she’d glowed. Bright and determined, like being strong enough would protect the rest of the kids in that house, and that was never really Emma’s job, but she always felt like she could do something more, or should do something else and—

They’d sent her back the next day.

Something about a bad fit and just not right and that second thing could have been the sub-headline of Emma’s entire life.

Just not right.

Nothing about her was right. Her magic was often untempered and prone to outbursts, flashes that Emma couldn’t always control and inevitably led to lingering glances and confused stares that rather quickly morphed into fear when they looked too long.

Sometimes people pretend they’re not totally freaked out. Sometimes they tell her that she’s ok, every lie settling under her skin like it’s something she should believe in, and it’s been awhile since Emma’s allowed something like that to happen, but she imagines there’s a cliché about scars and the way they don’t always disappear and—

That’s not important.

History is just that and Emma’s not one to make the same mistake twice. Or at least make it more than twice, and she might be intrigued by Killian Jones, with his smirk and his stupid sleeves, but she doesn’t entirely trust him yet.

She can’t imagine that changing any time soon.

She nearly runs into whoever is opening the Mills Personnel front door at five-oh-four on a Friday evening.

It’s a habit Emma would like to break sooner rather than later, this trend of not looking where she’s going — although, if she’s being honest it’s also because she’s distracted, and has been since the game night announcement, and the phone in her pocket hasn't stopped buzzing for the last hour, the most recent texts regarding pre-game night plottings and alliances for Settlers of Catan or whatever else they decide to play.

She has respond to Mary Margaret soon.

Presumably after she apologizes to the woman she very nearly plowed over, and it’s almost the end of business, but this woman doesn’t look like she operates on traditional schedules and—

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma says, backing up quickly. Partially because of good manners. And the rest because of the look on the woman’s face.

Furious. A little threatening. Decidedly magical.

“I’m looking for Ms. Mills.” “Right, yeah, of course. She’s, uh—” Emma’s phone buzzes again, and she knows it’s another message about games. What she can figure out is why that particular thought leaves her feeling frozen and a little threatened and the woman’s eyes narrow at the first shift of Emma’s magic. “Still in her office, I think. I can let her know you’re here, if…” The woman doesn’t nod. Doesn’t move, really. And all Emma wants is to sprint out of that office and maybe to her couch, but she can’t seem to move any of her limbs and the clack of Regina’s heels is strangely hypnotic.

“Zelena. What are you doing here?” Rolling her shoulders back, the woman Emma assumes is Zelena only looks passably annoyed at being addressed by her first name. “We have some things to talk about.”

“That so?” “Several, I’d say. You have a few minutes?” It doesn’t sound like an actual request, hackles that are more likely part of Ruby’s genetic makeup than Emma’s rising as Zelena breezes by her. Glancing over her shoulder, she notices a muscle in Regina’s temple jumping.

“You want me to stick around?” Regina shakes her head. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“Ok, but—” “—Go, Emma,” Regina finishes, and there’s no mistaking the command in those words. She nods once, not running into anyone else on her way out and hoping the sense of dread currently twisting itself around one of her kidneys is only those pessimistic tendencies of hers, instead of the warning she’s worried it actually is.

The problem is, she likes him.

Like, as a human being. Mortal or otherwise. No other reason. Nothing to do with his hair or his eyes or that dim, but still visible scar on his left cheek.

She just—

They might be friends. Emma hopes they’re friends.

Over the next two weeks she comes to realize that Killian is not only very good at his job — the siren who was certain her only talent was singing in dimly lit clubs and inevitably luring grown men to their doom, but wanted to turn over a new leaf, without telling him any of that, of course, sent a gift basket to thank him for all the help — but he’s funny, and more than capable of working the espresso machine so it doesn’t produce its usual bitter swill, and, Emma realizes, one Wednesday afternoon, a little lonely.

“Trying to find somewhere to live in this city is impossible,” he announces, slumped in one of the breakroom chairs with a stack of files splayed in front of him. “Like a needle in a haystack.” “Try finding somewhere with laundry on site,” Emma grins, “and then talk to me.” “Sounds like a palace, and that’s far too mythical for me to believe a place like that exists.”

Stomach flying into her mouth, Emma bites the side of her tongue so she doesn’t do something stupid like list all the clients of hers who, at one point, lived in a vaguely mythical palace. She can think of at least a dozen off the top of her head. “No palatial experience wherever you are now? Where are you now, actually?” “Scarlet’s couch.” “Ah, so decidedly non-palatial, then.” Killian grins. “Not as such, no. Although if you could not mention that to him, that would be great. Bastard won’t ever say it, but I've vastly overstayed my welcome and I’m pretty positive he and Belle spend their nights plotting ways to kick me to the curb.” “Metaphorical or…” “Absolutely literally,” he says, and that smile is nearly blinding in a way that isn’t quite like Emma’s magic, but feels as powerful. “You didn’t hear it from me, but I’m pretty positive they want to have a family soon.” “You think I gossip about Will Scarlet way more than I do.”

His ears do that thing again. That blushing thing, that apparently only Killian’s ears are capable of, but it’s also entirely possible that Emma is just far more aware of Killian’s ears than anyone else’s. She’s also perfectly aware what a psychopath she sounds like.

“Did I apologize for that?”

“For?” “Not necessarily gossiping,” Killian says, “because it wasn’t entirely that, but—getting information on you, I guess.”

Tensing, Emma’s jaw clenches hard enough that she’s briefly worried about what it will do to her teeth. And it takes her a few moments to school her features — more than enough time for Killian’s eyebrows to lift, and the ends of his mouth to tilt down, but she’s almost confident she doesn’t look like she’s totally freaking out when she opens her mouth.

“What did you find out?” Ah, so not freaking out was a total lie, then.

Killian’s lips twist as he stares at her, like he’s considering the exact tone of her voice and how to properly proceed from there. Leaning forward, his hand inches towards hers and for one genuinely blissful second Emma is certain he’s going to cover her fingers with his. He doesn’t. He pulls away at the last moment, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter and that’s fine. It’s fine, everything is fine and great and—

“You’re very popular here,” he replies, “good track record of even better work, which is why If we’re also keeping track of required apologies, I should mention I’m sorry for butting in on the Greyston case. Was an absolute dick of a move.” “Would you use of in that situation?” “I mean, I just did so—” “—You were kind of a dick,” Emma agrees, “but that was mostly because you were showing off and it totally worked.”

His eyebrows get higher. Pointier. It’s absolutely absurd. “That so?” “Don’t sound so amazed, you know it did. Freddie the former—” She’s about to say statute. The word sits on the tip of Emma’s tongue, waiting to be said because if she was talking to anyone else she’d be able to say it, but she’s not talking to anyone else and doesn’t really want to and she can’t imagine it’s very comfortable sleeping on someone’s couch for the better part of a month. “Former security guard,” Emma exhales, “is reportedly doing really well at the new gig. Ruby said she saw a bunch of social media posts advertising his recently-certified personal trainer services.” “An ambitious start for Freddie.” “Eh, you know how it is when you get psyched about something. Full-speed ahead and all that.”

“I believe that is the appropriate cliché, yes. So what do you think?”

“About?”

“Accepting my apology for being something of a dick, and because Ruby is the absolute worst gossip in this office who told me in no uncertain terms that she thought our prospective children would be very attractive.”

Emma’s not drinking anything, so the choking sound she makes at that bit of information is not really correct for the situation, but she can’t stop herself. Laughter bubbles out of her, mixing with something that isn’t quite stunned surprise, but might be a hint of put-upon frustration and the overall width of Killian’s smile is in the realm of overwhelming.

“How did you end up here?” Emma asks, and she’ll blame the state of her teeth on her inability to censor her own questions.

His smile falters. For just a moment, before it’s back and a little less legitimate than it was a moment earlier. “Worked with Belle at the Central Library in Boston. For years, actually. And you know how it is when you meet someone who...well, they’ll go to bat for you?” “Another good cliché. And yeah, I do.” “It was like that for us. She’s—it’s pedantic to suggest she’s my best friend, but that’s what it is and what it’s been and we’ve always helped each other. So, couple months ago when they cut staff, she told me to come to New York.” “She was already in New York?”

Killian nods. “Has been for a while, ever since she met Will.” “And how did she meet Will?”

If he’s put-off by her twenty question approach, Killian doesn’t show it. He just keeps leaning into her space, like there are magnets involved or several other words and feelings Emma’s wholly incapable of dealing with right now. “Strictly happenstance as far as I know. She was in New York for a library conference—” “—They have those?” “Mmhm, whole bunch of nerds losing their minds over recently stocked books and stories that fascist governments said we should burn.” “Do those normally go together?” “More often than you’d think,” Killian laughs. “Anyway, Will was working at the bar he owns now and—” “—He owns it?”

“If you keep interrupting, I’m never going to get to the interesting part of the story, love.”

Goosebumps explode on her skin. Her heart threatens to explode out of her chest. Magic rushes from the top of her hairs to the toes of sneakers that are now emitting a faint gleam, and maybe Emma should trim her nails.

So as not to keep cutting up her palm.

“Took him some time to save up the money to buy the bar,” Killian continues, “but if you know Scarlet, you’ll know he’s something of a stubborn asshole. Which also circles us right back around to the romance of the story. Suffice it to say, there were conversations, requests for phone numbers, a refusal to let time or distance damper their connection and—” He clicks his tongue. “—Two years ago, I gave a very impassioned speech regarding the power of love at a wedding that made several people cry.“

“You included?”

He winks at her. Not very well, but it’s the thought that counts or something and Emma’s starting to have several thoughts about Killian.

None of which are going to make it any easier to keep her magic a secret.

And part of her isn’t even sure she wants to. The other part of her wants to stretch across this wobbly table, some of which is deceptively sticky, grab the front of Killian’s floral-printed shirt and kiss him until neither one of them think about anything except how fantastic they are at kissing. One another, specifically.

So, really, she’s absolutely and monumentally fucked.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #on this night and in this light #not the originally advertised spooky fic #but spooky all the same #everything i write is really just devon's fault at this point

60 notes · View notes

lovelikedestiny · 4 years ago

Text

Snow and Ashes

Booker wants to laugh when Joe almost stumbles into a tree in the darkness in front of him, but the exhaustion weighs leaden in his bones and the past mission pulls the corners of his mouth down with sad certainty. He is content with a snort, which doesn't even sound amused, just wounded and painful.

Every one of his steps carries the weight of the innocent lives they could not save today. His hands are covered in the blood of the children who were killed a few hours ago, the sight of tears smeared faces and empty eyes has burned itself into his mind - because they made a mistake.

It was supposed to be a relatively simple mission: free the detained young women, men and children, and kick the human traffickers into Tartarus. But something went wrong. They made a shitty mistake and now the victims - people who had families who prayed for their deliverance - are dead and the world is no better place.

Booker wants to throw the responsibility of saving as many lives as possible on the ground and trample on it at times like these because he doesn't know how the hell to live with the knowledge that he let people die he could have saved.

The cries for help still echo in his ears, as well as the gunfire and the screams. Pale, non-existent fingers cling to his equipment, begging him to take them back to their families, and Booker almost chokes because his throat is suddenly too tight to breathe normally.

"The tree wasn't there two seconds ago," Joe says in an attempt to loosen the depressed mood that has settled over the four immortals like a threatening storm cloud. But his voice sounds dull and flat and when he straightens the scimitar on his back, his gloved hands shake.

Still, Booker steps in immediately to prevent Joe's attempt to come to nothing and although the words feel like broken glass in his mouth, Booker brings them out. “I bet it was just waiting to hop in your path. So that you would literally be a blockhead."

Joe doesn't laugh, but the grateful look he gives him over his shoulder is enough to take the pressure off Booker's throat a little. At least for now. “Exactly. This forest is dangerous.”

“I heard that beeches are supposed to be particularly smart,” Booker says, straightening the straps of his backpack, which dig into his shoulders as if their failure would make his backpack even heavier.

"Then I'll keep an eye on beeches," Joe says and the weak, narrow smile on his face is atypical for him and his broad grin with the radiance of the damn sun, but Booker doesn't blame him and clings to the much smaller version of this smile.

They've been wandering through the forest for two hours after rushing to leave the place on their mission after they screwed up. It's freezing, the wind feels like little blades in Booker's face, and to top it off, it looks like it is going to start to snow soon. Booker has hated snow since his first death in the icy winter of Russia and after the complete failure today he is not exactly eager to deal with snow.

The darkness has long since settled over them, but the full moon gives them enough light. Booker has no idea what time it is, and he doesn't bother to check. What does time mean when there are people whose time ended today because of them? While they are still walking around and alive despite the bullets that hit them?

At the head of their formation, Andy doesn't seem to be deciding to take a break anytime soon. Her steps are determined and harsh, though she's still limping slightly from the force of the grenade that hit her and Joe.

While her lower body was most affected and it was sheer luck that none of her legs were completely torn off, Joe had been hit mostly in the upper body. His jacket is torn, and his sweater is barely there and dark from the blood and remnants of the intestines that had previously oozed from his open abdominal wall. He protested when Nicky handed him his jacket on the grounds that his hoodie was thicker than Joe's barely existing sweater, but he put it on. And that is sorely needed.

Even Booker is already freezing in his intact, well-filled jacket and the thought of just trudging through the forest in a sweater gives goosebumps to his goosebumps. At least the numbness has disappeared from his left arm, which lurked there since one of the criminal bastards rammed a knife into his shoulder.

However, this does not lessen his exhaustion and if he is so tired, it must be worse for Joe and Andy, who suffered the most severe injuries on this mission. Without a word, he watches as Joe stumbles more and more over roots or branches, which are actually easy to see in the moonlight. And even if Andy continues to keep her tight pace, Booker reads in the way her shoulders hunch that she is drained too. There are still a few miles to go to the place, where the hut they are aiming for to gather from today's loft, is. At least if Booker's brain hasn't completely shut down yet.

There is almost nothing to be heard from behind him and if Booker had less faith in his team, his family, he would be of the firm belief that Nicky would not be walking behind him at all. As he always does, he brings up the rear this night too because he prefers to cover their backs. And although Booker doesn't hear anything from Nicky other than the occasional cracking of branches or the sounds of his weapons, he feels a little better knowing that Nicky's watchful eyes are on them.

When Joe stumbles so hard that he has to support himself on a tree trunk within his reach to avoid falling, Nicky glides past Booker more gracefully than he should be able to with all the equipment strapped to him.

One hand curves gently around Joe's neck, the other carefully grips his upper arm and he asks Joe a question so quietly that Booker can't hear him.

"Boss," Booker calls to signal Andy that they have stopped briefly, and the warrior immediately comes to a halt and turns around to them.

“We can't take a break. The fucking bastards who are still alive could be on our heels and I want to get to the fucking hut before the snow sets so that it can cover our tracks,” she says impatiently, but in her old eyes the hopelessness is visible that Booker currently prefers to drown with vodka.

"Andy, you have to rest," Nicky says quietly, without letting go of Joe, who no longer leans on the trunk, but practically clings to Nicky, even if he tries to look as if it doesn't cause him any problems to keep his footing. "Major injuries take their toll and it is not advisable to ignore your body's signals."

The fact that he speaks so steadfastly and confidently is in stark contrast to the blood that covers most of his face like a grotesque mask. Head wounds have a habit of bleeding like a stabbed pig, and although Nicky's cut was relatively small and healed quickly, the residue is all too obvious.

“It's not wise to take a break while these fuckers might be after us. We pretty much ruined their day because they lost their hostages through us and if they want revenge, I don't feel like dying in this motherfucking forest.”

The effect of her words does not go unnoticed: a muscle in Nicky's jaw twitches, Joe lowers his head as if he wants to hide and Booker can't suppress a jerk of his hands. The truth of Andy's words is like salt in a wound that cannot heal. And it shows Booker how much damage they have done today instead of helping.

The innocent are dead and those who deserve to die may hunt them down because they lost their wares to the immortals.

If Booker's stomach wasn't empty, he might throw up. Purely on principle.

Nicky doesn't look satisfied, but he doesn't argue, and Booker believes this is just because of Andy's demeanor, which is so crooked as if she could feel all her millennia to the core.

They start moving again and Booker is tempted to hold his backpack in front of him to protect himself from the razor-sharp wind that makes his eyes water. After a few meters, Joe sways slightly in front of him, but before Booker can move to help him, Nicky is already at Joe's side.

“Tesoro, you are tired. Give your body a break,” Booker hears him say.

Joe makes an indefinable hand gesture that was originally supposed to be a wave aside sign. "I'm fine," he mumbles, blinking like an owl. Booker, who knows what a deep sleeper Joe is, grimaces sympathetically. “I can go on in five minutes. Just five mnts...” The last sentence is so mumbled that Booker can only understand the content from the context.

Five minutes later, Nicky carries Joe piggyback, his own backpack on the front of his chest. Joe's faint protests are silent now, his head resting on Nicky's right shoulder and his curls brushing Nicky's cheek regularly in the rhythm of his steps.

How Nicky doesn't even falter despite his sword, the two backpacks, the sniper rifle and Joe with his scimitar, is a mystery to Booker, but it is very likely that Joe is the reason. And this tender consideration from Nicky for the love of his life on his back causes a bittersweet pain in Booker's chest.

He breathes on, however, and is relieved that the memories of his wife and babies are not surfacing in addition to today's shit and that the pain goes away as soon as it comes.

Booker really doesn't begrudge Joe and Nicky their relationship, despite the occasional touch of envy, for the two never behave cruelly, never rub their love under anyone's nose, and embrace everyone in their aura of joy. Booker is one of those people lucky enough to experience love from them. In the form of the jokes and hugs from Joe, the derisive comments and headbutts from Andy and the barely visible smiles and blankets that Nicky carefully puts over him when Booker has drunk himself into a coma again.

He is not alone in the sinking ship that the world seems to be from time to time. But sometimes it feels like that.

Because Nicky now carries Joe on his back, he has taken his position in their formation and even if Booker is not often at the tail, he has nothing to complain about. Having no one behind you has the advantage of being able to think about it without having to pay attention to how you appear to the outside world.

It's not the first time Nicky has carried Joe because he's too tired, and Booker has seen it the other way around, albeit not very often. Nicky doesn't retire until he's made sure they're safe and everyone is fine, but when he was injured so badly that he couldn't walk alone and they had to leave, Booker got the chance to watch Joe carrying Nicky.

The familiarity with which the two deal with each other always tells of the length of their relationship without needing words and it is equally fascinating and frightening: fascinating because they are the only people in this world who have been together for centuries and have reached a depth in their connection that no one will ever reach and scary because Booker doesn't want to find out what happens when one of them ultimately dies and leaves the other behind.

Nicky's lowered voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and he is happy about it, preferring to concentrate on something other than his head and what is in it. "Andy, please wait.”

Her leader walks two more meters before she complies with Nicky's request and turns her head to them with a raised eyebrow in question. "What is it?"

Instead of answering her, Nicky turns to Booker and the request in his bright eyes is so clear that, for once, he doesn't have to put it into words for Booker. "If that goes wrong, you'll pick up my remains," Booker grumbles so quietly that Andy can't hear him as he walks past Nicky.

Andy takes note of his approach in silence, but then rolls her eyes when he stops next to her and takes his backpack from his back to put it on his chest like Nicky. "Fuck off, Book. I don't need to be carried.”

Andy's hard shell is easy to see through with centuries of practice and Booker sees her exhaustion as clearly as if it was broad daylight and the lines of tiredness had been circled with a marker on Andy's face. It's no wonder Nicky spotted the signs long before Booker. When it comes to their family, he never misses anything.

“I know you don't need to be carried. You don't have to tell me,” Booker replies casually, but makes no move to put his backpack back on its proper spot. "But we both know who wins when Nicky has a say in this matter, and what we need least at the moment is a discussion with that stubborn man." They both know what Booker is doing, but Andy doesn't address it and Booker pretends not to notice that she got it. "So, it would only be beneficial if we could avoid these problems by letting me carry you, even if you don't need help, right?"

As Booker follows her gaze backwards, Nicky's focus is not on them, but on the sleeping Joe, whom he carefully pushes higher on his back to get a better grip on his legs. But it is no secret that Nicky was still following their exchange closely.

With a low growl, Andy lets out a sharp gush of air through her nose, which rises into the sky in clouds of steam. “For fuck's sake, fine. But if you drop me, I'll break your nose.”

Booker coughs a strange kind of a dead laugh. "Got it." It's not the first time he's carried Andy either, during missions there is no time to make out who is carrying whom with which injury and when she climbs onto his back, he finds her warmth a little comforting.

Read more on AO3 ;)

#the old guard #team as family #Booker #Joe #Nicky #Andy #emotional hurt/comfort #fanfiction #snow and ashes

11 notes · View notes

blancheludis · 6 years ago

Link

A/N: @iron-man-bingo square: Stony Soulmate Tattoos

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Relationship: Tony Stark / Steve Rogers Tags: Soulmates, Kidnapping, Minor Violence, Whump, AU No Powers, Mob Boss Steve Words: 8.002

Summary: Tony meets his soulmate under the worst possible circumstances. It is not just a kidnapping gone wrong. It turns out Steve and his gang picked him on purpose and they want some personal revenge. If only he had managed to say the words written on his soulmate's arm before they threw him back out into the streets.

---

As far as kidnappings go, this one is almost civilized. Apart from the fact that they greet him by pulling a bag over his head and knock him unconscious before he can say a single word.

Tony wakes up in a mostly clean warehouse, though, instead of some cell in a ratty basement where he is sure to catch pneumonia and die before Stark Industries would have a chance to pay ransom, even if they were in the habit of doing so. His hands and feet are bound with rope that sits tight but not enough to hinder his blood circulation. It feels like a professional job, fancy knot and all.

Most importantly, he is not hurt beyond the distant throbbing of where they hit his temple earlier.

Blinking fully awake, Tony finds himself facing a man. He is rather short and stocky. A mop of dirty blond hair sticks up over the mask covering his face.

“Good evening,” Tony says amiably.

The man narrows his eyes at Tony but does not lash out as he half-expected. Somehow, he does not think that is a good sign. It feels as if they are waiting for something.

“Do you think we could deal with this unfortunate business quickly? I’ve got –” A slap cuts Tony off, the sound of flesh on flesh ringing loudly in the otherwise empty warehouse.

It was not hard enough to split his lip. Tony is not sure it will even bruise. It was a warning, nothing more. More so, this is all still so terribly polite that he considers heeding it.

Before he can decide on a course of action, the man steps forward and puts his hands on Tony’s jacket – or rather inside it. He goes for the inside pocket and gets out the USB drive Tony has taken to carrying everywhere as if he has known exactly what to go for. On the drive are Tony’s personal projects and some stuff he does not exactly want to fall into the hands of his board members. All of them have constant dollar signs in their eyes but Tony thinks there are limits to what they should make their money with.

Truth be told, his conscience got more or less only reborn when they refused all of his attempts at steering the company in new directions. Green energy, communication, medical technology. Tony is good at what he does. He can revolutionize more than just the weapons market. That would come with risks, though, and the board does not want to take any as long as Tony is making them enough money without them.

Tony glares at the man, who holds the drive up in the air, looking at it with some disdain as if he does not think that little thing is worth all the trouble of snatching Tony Stark off the street. He obviously does not know the kind of gold mine he is holding. The data on it is saved elsewhere too, of course, but getting the drive is much easier than breaking into Tony’s home and getting the information from there. This feels less and less like a random kidnapping.

Tony’s mind immediately runs through the handful of people who know about the existence of the USB drive. Pepper and Obie do. Some of the board members should at least suspect that he is not going to stop making plans even if they rejected them. A few people down in R&D might know, not anything specific, though.

In front of him, the man speaks into an earpiece. “Got it.”

So there are more of them lurking somewhere. At least two where present when they picked him up, but Tony does not think that will be all. Getting to him, even if he is rather lax with his own security, needs more than two brains.

“If all you wanted was the USB drive, you could have asked, you know?” Tony speaks up in as nonchalant a tone as he dares. Sometimes, it is better to show some fear, but Tony has never quite managed to let go of his pride long enough for that. “There was no need to drag me all through town to your stunningly clean lair.”

The man’s mouth twitches, but Tony is sure it is not from amusement.

“Don’t they teach you posh people when to shut up?” the man growls, but makes no further move.

“Conversation furthers the horizon,” Tony quips, watching the man closely without being too obvious about it. “Perhaps you should try it sometime.”

The man takes a step forward until he towers over Tony. The hand holding the drive is balled into a fist. Tony knows how this story goes. They tell him to be quiet and follow their rules, he keeps provoking them until they make a mistake. Sometimes they do not make mistakes, but Tony has made it out of every kidnapping alive up until now.

“Don’t.” A woman steps up. Bright red hair, moving in her combat boots as if she is doing ballet. This one is dangerous.

“Why not?” the man asks. He whips up his hands but instead of them breaking Tony’s skin with a hit, he produces a mass of dirty cloth out of thin air and forces it into Tony’s mouth, effectively gagging him.

The woman glares. Even though it is not directed at Tony, he feels the primal urge to flee or at least duck. The man does not even flinch. Perhaps she looks tougher than she is, although Tony’s gut tells him it is the other way around.

Before they can continue their argument, two more men enter the room. They are both tall, but where one is blonde the other is dark. The dark one’s glare is almost as potent as the woman’s and definitely meant for Tony. His eyes are unforgiving, making Tony feel like this might be personal after all. All of their masks reveal just enough of their faces to make them fearsome, definitely human but less approachable for it.

When the men come closer, something metallic glints between them, but Tony cannot get a good look. It could be a gun but just as well a strangely coloured glove.

Without a word, the short guy hands over the USB drive to the tall blond, who studies it briefly then pockets it with a sigh. Just a moment ago, it seemed like they were only after the drive. Now, though, the air is filled with a new tension, harder somehow.

They communicate silently and it feels like an argument. For once, Tony thinks better of disturbing the silence. He would probably even do so if he were not currently gagged. The blond, who has to be the leader, considering that they are all waiting for his verdict, nods tersely. His shoulders are painfully straight, almost as if he does not want to be here.

“All right,” he says. His voice sounds like it could be melodic if it were not infused with disdain. When he turns his head and looks at Tony, his eyes are cold, making Tony shudder. “Let’s do this.”

Ice spreads through Tony at this and it has nothing to do with the sense of impending violence filling the air. He knows these words, knows them by heart. During his childhood, he used to recite them to himself as if they were a prayer. He has never imagined hearing them in a situation like this.

The words alone would not mean anything, of course. He has heard them a thousand times. They are accompanied by a burning sensation crawling up his arm, however, touching a place he has kept covered up since he was eight years old and woke up to these exact words in a sprawling script across his forearm. The first words his soulmate would ever say to him. It is just his miserable luck that he would hear them during a kidnapping.

Tony’s focus zeroes in on the man who has spoken them, oblivious to the fact that he has just now declared his soulmate fair game to his companions. He is still looking at Tony but no recognition flickers to life in his eyes.

Tony strains against the rope keeping him mostly immobile and then against the cloth in his mouth. He does not know what he would say, even if he had full control over his tongue, but he feels like he has to do something. He yells something unintelligible. It does not have any effect.

Before he can do anything else, a dark shape steps in front of him, obscuring his view of the gang leader, and the first punch hits him square in the stomach, dispersing all rational thought.

The first hit is never the worst. It feels like it, certainly, because no matter how unavoidable a fight appears, that first step from a simple argument into a violent, physical altercation will always have something unreal to it, something impossible to brace for.

This time, Tony did not know he had to brace for something. Despite the kidnapping and the harshness in these people’s words and movements, their encounter has almost felt like a straight up business transaction. Someone wants Tony’s personal files, so they are getting them. This does not feel like part of a deal, but not like they are just roughing him up for the fun of it either.

All other thoughts leave him when the fist hits him again, hard enough to throw him out of the chair. Distantly, he feverishly tries to concentrate on possible reasons for why they are doing this so he does not have to think about his burning forearm and the fact that the gang boss who has just ordered Tony’s beating is his soulmate.

Tony hits the ground with a crack. Years of practice have him guarding his head with his arms, even though that leaves the rest of his body unprotected. He rolls up into as tight a ball as possible and tries not to count the blows. His brain being what it is, he cannot help collecting information anyway.

Despite the flurry of blows and kicks, Tony is sure that only two of them are actually working on him, although they do not hold back and do enough damage on their own.

Some of Tony’s ribs crack with a dry sound. It is not so much the pain than the knowledge of what is happening to him that has whimpers escape his throat. When he instinctively reaches downward, the next blow lands in his face. The taste of copper and iron explodes on his tongue and blood clogs his nose, making him unable to breathe. A kick hits his ribcage and pushes the rest of the air out of his lungs.

After that, everything blurs, pain and the ringing in his ears and the proof that fate hates him. Hours might pass in which Tony is undone. The worst part is that, even caught in agony, Tony cannot stop wanting to know why.

Several long minutes after Tony is certain that he cannot take any more, he hears the leader say, “Enough.”

It is impossible to say whether anyone argues, and Tony does not even notice the exact moment the blows stop coming. All he can focus on beyond the impossible state of his body is his soulmate’s voice. Even like this, it causes an instinctive longing. If this were not one of the worst nights of his life, Tony might laugh.

“Are you feeling better now?” Tony hears he leader ask once his senses begin returning to him. There is a dry kind of humour in his tone that belongs anywhere but here, washing over Tony’s broken body.

“No,” comes the answer. Tony does not know that voice so it has to be the dark-haired man, the one with a grudge.

“We could cut off his arm,” the short man supplies with unholy glee. He barely sounds winded. “To make it fair.”

Terror has Tony flinching back from them. He tries to curl up around his arms, to protect them as best as he can, but stills when the pain is too much to bear. They cannot take his arms from him. He needs them so he can keep working. He has given so much of himself away already to satisfy the sharks constantly surrounding him, he cannot lose his arms too.

Distantly, the voice of the leaders filters through the rushing panic in Tony’s mind. “I said enough.”

The pathetic truth is, if Tony could, he would thank the gang leader for his mercy. He would push himself onto his knees and bow his head before him. He would –

“Let’s get rid of him.”

Steps are moving closer, but Tony stays where he is, pressed against the floor. When he blinks, his entire vision is stained red. If he is lying in a puddle if his own blood, it would explain the wetness on his cheek.

Hands reach for his arms and legs. He feels the sharp coldness of metal against his skin and then the ropes keeping him bound are cut. Tony’s relief at the sudden loss of pressure is short-lived, because then they are pulling at his limbs, stretching him to pick him up like a sack of flour.

No, Tony wants to scream. It comes out as nothing more than a muffled whimper as a new wave of agony rips through him. His head is dragged over the ground for several feet until the hoist him higher with an abrupt movement.

Tony is sure he loses his consciousness for several seconds because the next thing he feels is cold air against his skin, biting against bruises that are not yet fully formed. He is lying on the ground again, which is rougher now, like broken asphalt. Groaning, he tries to swallow but finds the rug still in his mouth.

It takes him an eternity to lift his hand to pull the gag out of his mouth, and then he still tastes more blood and ends up coughing when he tries to spit it out. After that, he greedily pushes fresh air into his lungs, no matter that this intensifies the pain in his ribs – or rather his pain everywhere. Tony feels like one giant wound, a plaything of fate, now abandoned by it.

His soulmate, he remembers then, and that pain is almost more acute than the physical one. Sentimentality has never had a place in their family but Tony has never stopped hoping he might find that one person who is best for him in all the world. Howard and Maria had not been soulmates but Jarvis and Ana had. Tony has always known whose life he would rather have.

Now, though, life has taken another cruel turn. Tony is not sure he can take it.

With a slow but impatient movement, he rips the brace from his left forearm, staring at the words he knows better than anything else in the world. Words that, tonight, have turned from grey to black, meaning that there is no mistake. He has met his soulmate and his soulmate has turned him into a wreck.

Let’s do this.

Tony has not needed this proof. The burning was enough. The feeling of a hook sinking into his intestines, pulling him apart, was enough. Perhaps Howard was right and Tony is really going to ruin everything he touches, and everything that touches him will ruin him more.

Defiance rises in his stomach, almost indistinguishable from fury. Staring at the words on his forearm, Tony yells, “Are you fucking kidding me?” It ends up as more of a whisper, but it tears at his throat as if he had screamed.

To his surprise, he hears footsteps closing in from behind him. Immediate fear takes hold of him even while he tries to crawl away. He does not come far, the pain makes it hard to properly coordinate his limbs.

The gang leader crouches down in front of him. Out of all of them, he is the one Tony wants to see the least. In fact, he would rather take another beating than face his shame head on.

“What did you just say?”

For the first time, he sounds angry. Inside the warehouse, he had been tense and resigned, but now it looks like he feels the first sliver of the disappointed rage that is nesting in Tony’s bones too, the sense of betrayal. Because this cannot be true, that the best thing in the world should be reduced to this.

A thousand different things sit on Tony’s tongue, ranging from curses over accusations to pleas. Instead, he blinks the blood out of his eyes and focuses on the man in front of him as best as he can.

“Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me,” he repeats his words, spits them out as if they do not mean anything, as if they are not tearing him apart anew.

“That’s not possible,” the gang leader says.

Tony opens his mouth to laugh, but there is somehow still more blood trickling down the back of his throat, so he ends up having another coughing fit.

Possible is such a pedestrian word. It has never played much of a role in Tony’s life. Everything is impossible until it is done for the first time. That said, he wishes that this were a lie too.

Impatiently, the blonde pulls Tony’s arm towards him, staring intensely at the black words curling condemningly over bruised skin. It is hard to say in the dim light and with just one eye working as it should, but Tony thinks the man has gone white as a sheet.

Not saying anything, he holds his own arm next to Tony’s and rips up his sleeve, revealing words that Tony knew would be there.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Still silent, the gang leader raises his head slowly, then stares at Tony for several long minutes. They are at an impasse. There is no good or right way forward from this. They have navigated themselves into a dead end before they even met. Well, mafia guy has done all the leading. Tony has been dragged in screaming and was kicked into place.

With a sigh that sounds like he is no stranger to impossibly fucked up situations, the gang leader pulls his mask from his head, revealing a handsome if tired face. Right after noticing the strong jaw line, Tony shuts his eyes and turns his head away. There is nothing for him to see here. Tony does not want to know the face of this man. He remembers the heaviness of his cold eyes well enough.

“Did you know?”

Incredulity spreads through Tony at the question. Still, he clenches his jaw and keeps his mouth shut. Nothing good will come of engaging in a conversation with the other man. Their story is already over. All he wants to do now is to go home, take a hot bath to soothe his bruises, and forget any of this ever happened.

A hand settles around Tony’s chin. It is gentle but he instinctively flinches away from it. The gang leader does not let him escape though. Firmly, he pulls Tony’s head back around, then leaves his hand there for a moment longer to make sure Tony stays facing him.

“What?” Tony snaps. He hates himself for noticing how handsome the man is, how easily he can imagine him smiling. “How could I have known? You obviously know who I am, so it should not surprise you that I don’t make a habit of dealing with the mob.”

Lips curling up slightly in what can only be amusement, the man replies, “We’re not the mob.”

That is so not the point, and still Tony lets himself fall into the argument willingly. He is lying on the cold ground, bleeding, with broken ribs, but talking about technicalities is better than dealing with the fact that this man is supposed to be the one person he gets his happily ever after with.

“No?” Tony drawls, feeling the split in his upper lip throb. “Yet someone paid you money to beat me up and you happily agreed. Quite thoroughly too.”

Fury, Tony knows, helps with the pain. It gives him something to cling to.

The man has the audacity to look embarrassed. At the same time, his face clouds over with the same hardness he carried when he first joined his men.

“We were told you’re dealing with weapons under the table.”

Tony stares. Tonight is a night of utter strangeness. Curiously enough, he finds this bit of information more unbelievable than finding his soulmate.

Dealing under the table? That does not even make sense. Stark Industries has countless standing contracts. They are making enough money. There is absolutely no reason why Tony would sell his weapons illegally. He would not even know to whom. It is not as if he wants there to be even more fighting in the world. On the contrary. With less war, he would perhaps get his board of directors to approve some of his personal projects.

“Oh wow, good point,” Tony drawls, unable to help himself. Fury might help with the pain but not exactly with keeping his tongue in check. “Even if that were true, you really would have done some good work today. Clearly I’m cured from my evil ways now.”

There must have been more to it. They went for the USB drive with the coldness of trained professionals. The rest of it felt personal and not like part of the job. They did not even give him a reason, did not attempt to teach him a lesson. It was just raw rage unleashed on him.

“We’ve had some reservations where it comes to weapons,” the gang leader says without explaining anything.

Looking at his soulmate, Tony finds himself believing that someone must have told these people that he is dealing with weapons and that they took it at face value. They obviously have a problem with it, but they are clearly no pacifists. Threatening to cut someone’s arm off, too, goes far beyond reasonable indignation.

Still, he finds he does not actually want to know. The faster he gets out of here, the better. He has no desire to cure them of their misconception. Few people react kindly to that and he has had enough of their hospitality.

“Who paid you?” Tony asks, concentrating on the important things.

A big part of him wants to stay ignorant, to hide his head in the sand and continue on with his life. He needs to know, though. Accusing Tony of dealing under the table makes only sense if there is some evidence to back up the claim, and if there is evidence, Stark weapons might just really be out where they do not belong. Since Tony is not selling his weapons on the black market, someone else must be doing it. Tony can turn a blind eye to a lot of things but not to causing more death and destruction for profit.

“I can’t tell you that,” the gang leader says, although he has the decency to sound apologetic about it.

“Of course, you have to be the honourable kind of mob boss.” Tony sighs, feeling annoyed. All the while, he thinks he should be glad about that fact. Otherwise, the two men inside might have just beaten him to death or permanently maimed him. Tony knows which of these options he is more afraid of.

“We’re not the mob,” the blonde repeats, “and I’m no one’s boss.”

“Is that why your mob friends waited for your signal to split their knuckles on me?”

The blonde winces slightly, but Tony takes no satisfaction from it. The only reason he is still talking to the other man at all is because he is afraid of trying to move again. Now that he is lying very still, his body has turned into one throbbing wound, sharp spikes of warning shooting through him whenever he takes too deep a breath. Any kind of movement will throw him right back into agony.

“That’s not how we normally do things.”

How reassuring. Soulmates are supposed to protect each other, and even if they had not known, there should have been more reluctance about taking another man apart.

“I feel so fucking special right now,” Tony snaps and pointedly stares into the darkness above him.

The gang leader sighs and shifts his position so he sits down next to Tony. It would serve him well if his legs would hurt from crouching too long.

Tony would like to ask what he is even still doing here. They got the USB drive and a bit of personal revenge thrown in. They are done. The burning in their forearms will fade with time, so they can just go back to their own lives – which will hopefully never touch again. This once was enough.

“My name is Steve.”

The words fall into the silence between them like stones in a well. It feels like they are echoing several times inside Tony’s mind before they fully register. The gang leader – his soulmate – has a name now. Somehow, that makes it too real.

“Don’t tell me that,” Tony says shortly, wishing he could burn the knowledge from his brain. “I’ve already seen your face. You don’t have to give your guys more reasons to kill me.”

At the same time, he thinks the name fits. Despite his occupation, there is a kindness to his face, an all-American wholesomeness that matches the name. Tony still thinks he would have rather not found out. The more his soulmate turns into an actual person rather than a masked mob leader, the harder it will be to leave this behind.

Steve looks partly amused, partly guilty. “We’re not going to kill you.”

“Tell that to my body. Did you know that I have a heart condition?” Tony is rambling, he notices that too late. The exhaustion is creeping up on him.

“What?” Steve asks quickly as if he is actually concerned. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Another laugh is stuck in Tony’s throat. This situation gets more surreal by the minute.

“Stop this,” he croaks, batting away the hand that comes up unexpectedly, pressing against Tony’s sternum as if they have somehow passed into the level of intimacy where that is all right.

“What is wrong with your heart?” Steve asks, unimpressed by Tony’s attempts to push him away.

Momentarily, Tony is glad that whoever hired them did not know about his weak heart and the pacemaker sitting right under his skin. That might mean that it is not someone out of his inner circle – or they just thought the information irrelevant.

Distantly, he notices that Steve has now both of his hands on him, propping Tony up into a sitting position. Every fibre of his body protests at the sudden movement.

“What are you doing?” he demands, breathless from the pain.

“Getting you back inside,” Steve answers as if that is a reasonable thing to say. Inside is where Tony’s latest nightmare happened. Inside is where Steve’s friends are waiting, ready to cut off his arm after all.

“Like hell you will,” Tony mutters and puts all his energy into getting out of Steve’s hold.

It does not help much. He wants to struggle more, but the world is swimming in and out of sight before him as blackness creeps into his vision.

One of his blind hits actually meets flesh but Steve barely seems to notice. He does not react, in any case, other than readjusting his grip on Tony. Before he knows what is happening, Tony is lifted into the air, feet dangling, head pressed against Steve’s shoulder. The utter embarrassment of being carried bridal style by the very man who gave the order that has Tony currently unable to walk on his own is turning his cheeks hot.

“You’re hurt,” Steve explains as they are walking back towards the warehouse.

This time, Tony does not have it in him to even try to laugh. “I wonder how that happened,” he says, acid coating the words. “Let me go,” he then demands. His authority is dampened by both his physical state and the position he is in, but he tries his best. “Either you kill me now or you leave me alone. Choose one option.”

Abruptly, Steve comes to a halt. He does not let go of Tony, which has them standing awkwardly in the dim alleyway behind the warehouse, looking at each other with all the incomprehension of strangers unsure how to deal with each other. He seems actually contrite about Tony suggesting they would kill him. Finding his soulmate has certainly addled Tony’s wits too but not so much to entirely forget the past hours. If Steve is going to pretend nothing happened, they are going to have a problem with each other.

“But we’re –” Steve says but does not come any farther.

“Nothing,” Tony snaps with as much viciousness as he can muster. “We are obviously nothing.” Almost as if to punish himself, he adds, “I always thought that soulmate business was dubious. Guess I was right.”

He can deal with his disappointment later. With the crushing realization that Howard was right about so many things, that Tony will never be like Jarvis. There is no happy ending waiting for him here.

Still holding onto Tony, Steve looks down at him, face painfully earnest. “I didn’t know.”

Fury roars its ugly head in the pit of Tony’s stomach again. He wants to spit in Steve’s face, wants to scratch out his eyes. What does it matter if Steve has known? He is a gang leader, a thug. He took money to kidnap Tony, steal his private thoughts and projects, and then let his friends beat him up.

Tony sneers. “You say that as if it’s going to make anything better.”

It implies that, if Tony had not turned out Steve’s soulmate, it would have been all right what happened here tonight. Whether or not Tony is actually the one dealing with weapons. Steve is running a gang, they are kidnapping people up for money and possibly do worse. None of that is okay.

Slowly, Steve begins walking again. “Someone’s got it out for you,” he says calmly, ignoring Tony’s barb. “We can help.”

Unable to help himself, Tony snorts a laugh, even while he clenches his jaw to keep in the hysteria he feels rising inside himself.

“No, thanks,” he drawls, the disdain tasting bitter on his own tongue. “You’ve done quite enough. Also, wasn’t I just now still the bad guy? Just because your little tattoo is burning doesn’t mean I’m not selling weapons under the table.”

Looking down, he sees that Steve has covered up his arm again before he picked Tony up, probably unwilling to let his friends see the black words.

“You said you don’t,” Steve answers, sounding so earnest that Tony is not sure whether he should feel disgusted by it or in awe. “And you’re in no condition to lie.”

Just like that, Tony’s awe disperses as quickly as it has come. “Oh, darling,” he clicks his tongue, “if you believe that, don’t ever go into politics. People like us can lie even with our mouths sewn shut. It’s all we ever do.”

Steve frowns but does not stop walking. “You’re not a politician.”

It is a small mercy that Howard never had any patience for politics, or Tony would have been forced to deal with that too. Still, he smirks.

“I’m a businessman. That’s almost as bad.”

Despite the situation, despite who they are, Tony would have preferred to continue their argument to going back into the warehouse. Before he can add another barb or try to struggle out of Steve’s hold again, they are at the door – and Steve does not hesitate to go in.

As soon as the relative brightness inside is washing over them, Tony goes limp in Steve’s hold. No matter what is about to happen, he is not going to draw immediate attention to himself but will try to glean some more information from their surroundings.

What he sees are the three people from earlier, two men, one woman. They are still wearing their masks, although the stocky blonde has pushed it up far enough to eat something that looks suspiciously like soggy pizza. It smells like it too – which has Tony’s stomach roiling. Not only did someone think of picking up food before they went to beat someone up, their bloody work has also not diminished their appetite.

When Steve steps closer towards them, still carrying Tony with unexpected gentleness, they all look up. Their behaviour is not exactly deferential, but they do respect Steve, that much is obvious.

“What happened, Stevie?” the dark-haired man asks, taking a step closer. “Did the bastard die?”

There is unmistakeable glee in his voice. If his instincts had not let him go very still, Tony might have poked Steve and asked whether he would admit yet that taking him back inside was a bad idea. He is not sure what he has done to these people, but they are overly interested in his permanent demise.

“No,” Steve says. Tony feels the rumbling of his voice through the cheek his has still pressed against Steve’s shoulder. “He’s alive.”

That has the blond man perking up with interest. “Then what are you doing? Are we taking kill orders now?” He sounds a little bit too eager for Tony’s taste.

The woman, too, looks up, scrutinizing them more critically than either of the men. Tony is sure she knows that he is awake and listening to every word they say.

“We’re not going to kill anyone,” Steve says, making this sound like a normal conversation. “He didn’t do it.”

A stunned silence follows, in which Tony can feel their stares on him. Steve, however, does not let that push him off course. He lowers Tony down onto what feels like a metal table, perhaps a workbench. It is not comfortable but certainly a step up from the cracked concrete outside. He decides not to think too much about the way Steve runs his hands down Tony’s sides as if to make sure he is not going to fall off the table. Only when he is satisfied that Tony is secure, does he straighten his spine and faces his friends.

“And you know that how?” the blond asks, aggression crackling in his tone. “Did he look at you with his big innocent eyes and tell you? You know these assholes sing such pretty songs when they think you want to hear them.”

Tony dares to hope that it is a good sign that he waited for Steve to look at them before he voiced his argument. They step up closer, forming a half-circle in front of Steve. It does not look like they are going to go against Steve’s orders but Tony does not like to take any chances.

Swallowing down a groan, he pushes himself slowly into a sitting position. His movement has Steve whip around, eyeing him with concern. He neither stops nor tries to help him. Tony is unreasonably glad for that.

“One of his eyes is innocent,” Steve argues calmly, pointing at Tony’s face, which is now easily visible. “The other is already swollen shut, but I’m sure we’d find the same thing there.”

As if the mention of his eye triggers some reaction, Tony feels the pulsing pain covering most of his face. He also becomes acutely aware of the optical information he is missing while looking with just one eye.

“That’s still one eye too many he can still see with.”

While the blond man does most of the talking, Tony still feels the glare of the dark-haired one the most. Just as worrisome is the knife the woman is twirling almost absentmindedly. He does not doubt she could hit him with it before he ever noticed she is moving.

Steve’s position changes subtly. Where he was the very picture of nonchalance only moments before, he now shifts his position and his mere presence demands respect for his authority. Where he had just now been simply standing in front of Tony, he is now shielding him, declaring him off-limits with just the way he stands.

“Call Bruce,” Steve orders, causing a ripple to go through the room.

The twirling knife comes to a smooth halt in the woman’s hands, ready to be thrown. Next to her, the blond man is taking a step forward, arms half-raised to gesticulate wildly.

“We’re not going to patch the bastard up,” he yells, but could have been screaming against a wall for how little Steve reacts to it.

The most interesting is the dark-haired man, though. He somehow becomes even more still than before, his expression crumbling into something alive with betrayed fury. “Steve?” he asks, crossing his arms before him.

Only now does Tony see that the metallic glint he has seen earlier belongs to a prosthetic replacing most of the man’s left arm. That comment about cutting off Tony’s arm appears to be less random with every passing minute.

“He needs medical attention,” Steve says as if his friends have not been the one to put Tony into this position.

For several long moments, it feels like the tension is going to resolve not in their favour but in another bout of rampant violence. They are staring at each other, either communicating silently or simply waiting to see who caves first. Tony has never been good at being patient, though. Neither does he like to leave his fate up to anyone else.

“I can totally see that you’re no one’s boss around here,” Tony drawls. It takes him a few moments to realize that the words have come out of his own mouth. When all the attention shifts towards him, he can already taste blood again.

“Shut up, Stark,” the blond man hisses, taking another step forward until he is almost level with Steve, “or I’m going to kick out your teeth.”

For a fleeting moment, Tony thinks he would regret causing Steve’s men to turn against him. He does not owe Steve anything, but he is not going to deny the connection between them either. It might be frustrating to feel somewhat beholden to a man who has happily thrown him to the wolves just earlier this night, but fate is funny like that.

“That’s enough,” Steve speaks up. He does not exactly raise his voice, but it is still cutting through the tension easily, as if the pent-up wish for violence parts before his words.

The blond man glares for a second longer, then visibly steps down. The woman does not lower her knife, though, and the dark-haired man has not changed his stance at all.

“But he’s the one –” he trails off, his expression stricken, not the kind of helpless that comes from not knowing what to do but something angrier. He half-raises his prosthetic, holds it between them for a moment, then lets it fall back to his side.

Even without seeing Steve’s face, Tony notices that his entire being grows softer. “I know,” he says. These two words hold so much emotion that it has Tony’s throat constricting again. “But he says he didn’t do it and I believe him.” Before the storm of protest that is brewing in front of them can hit, Steve raises his arm. “He’s my soulmate.”

All eyes fall immediately on Steve’s arm before wandering over to where Tony is still sitting hunched over on the table. He feels like he should straighten, meet their judgement head on, but he is glad that he manages to remain somewhat upright at all.

“He’s –” the dark-haired man narrows his eyes. Before he can make his argument, the other man takes over.

“That’s awfully convenient, don’t you think?” There is still anger in his tone but it is more contained now, almost uncertain.

Steve keeps his eyes firmly on the man in the back. A whole lot more passes between them than the words that are being spoken.

“You want to have a look at my tattoo?” he asks, almost gently. “You know the words were still grey this morning.”

It reveals a lot about how close they are if Steve is so comfortable asking about his words in the open like this, has obviously shown them to at least the dark-haired man. The only people knowing about Tony’s are Jarvis and Rhodey.

Nobody says anything while the two men look at each other, waiting for the verdict. The hierarchy between them confuses Tony. He feels like an intruder, like he should cover his ears and close his eyes to give them some privacy, even though they are discussing his fate.

Then, the dark-haired man nods. His prosthetic hand, which had been clenched into a fist, uncurls slowly. With it, some of the tension lifts.

Unfortunately, the blond man decides that, now that this argument is over, he can start pushing his own again. “Just because you found your soulmate doesn’t mean we’re playing nice with criminals now.”

Despite himself, Tony has to snort, half in amusement, half in mounting frustration at them getting nowhere. He is hurting all over. All he wants is to go to bed, to get back to his old life. Navigating the board members and the press following him everywhere is still better than waiting to be judged by these people.

“Yes, because I’m clearly the criminal here.”

The blond turns on him, face a distorted grimace. “For the last time –”

“Clint.” Steve’s voice whips through the room and has them all standing straighter. Even Tony pushes his shoulders back, even though it makes breathing so much harder. Steve’s tone does not leave any more room for further arguments. “Call Bruce,” he then orders. “Nat, you find out exactly who hired us. And keep the USB drive safe. We won’t do anything more about this until we know what really happened.”

Distantly, Tony is aware that he should be worried about Steve throwing all their names out there where he can hear them. If this goes south, it reduces his chances of survival greatly. He is already not very happy to hear that his stay with Steve’s gang has apparently been extended for an unknown amount of time.

Clint stares balefully for a moment longer. “Fine,” he says with petulance, “but don’t expect me to hold his hands.”

Right in front of his eyes, Steve undergoes another transformation. From authoritative and unflinching, he grows smug and smirking. “Thank you,” he says with the kind of pleasantness that grates, “but I’ll do that myself.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony mutters, sharing a glance with Clint that could almost be conspiratorial if they were not both acutely aware of how very much they are not allies.

Turning around, Steve grins at Tony. “You already said that. But you’re welcome to continue. It makes my tattoo tingle.”

Briefly, Tony is tempted to ask Steve to repeat his words too, just to find out whether he is telling the truth. He holds himself back, though, thinking that they have more important things to deal with – and he does not suddenly think of Steve as a friend.

“Now,” Tony decides out loud, “would be a good time to wake up.”

He does not exactly think he is dreaming. He has the occasional weird dream, but he is too much in pain for this to not be real. Also, he is not in the habit of flirting with people who could order him dead with a single nod, asleep or not.

“You won’t say that tomorrow,” Steve says, returning to Tony’s side as if he wants to make true on what he said to Clint and hold Tony’s hands. “Everything will hurt more.”

Tony knows. This is not the first time he has gotten a beating. That does not mean he wants to be reminded of it.

“You’re not as encouraging as you hope,” he replies, realizing too late that he should not be joking. Soulmate or not, Tony is still in danger.

“We’ll get there,” Steve says cheerfully.

Before Tony can find something appropriate to answer, the woman – Nat – appears at their side. She has removed her mask and revealed a face that is all the more stunning for the control she has over it. No matter how practiced Tony is at reading people, he cannot say at all what she is thinking.

“Here,” she lets two pieces of rope fall onto the table next to Tony.

“What’s that?” Steve asks, eyeing her with some amusement. “He’s not exactly in any condition to run.”

Tony thinks of protesting but he is still needing a lot of energy simply to keep sitting. Also, it might not be the worst thing if Steve underestimates him a bit, even though Natasha does not seem to be as easily fooled.

“You know who he is and what he can do,” she explains simply, no discernible judgement in her tone. She is just recounting facts. “Even if he’s not the one selling under the table, he can still do unholy things with his hands. I’d rather not find out first-hand.”

She really is smart. Despite the newspaper stories about Tony’s accomplishments as a child, and his race through school and then MIT, people often think he is just a nice face and playboy who inherited his father’s company, making his only achievement that he has not yet managed to crash Stark Industries. People like to forget that he is the head of the R&D department, that his name is not for nothing on their products.

Tony cannot say whether she has done her research or is just that good at assessing people. In any case, Steve appears to believe her without doubt. He picks up the rope, throwing an apologetic glance at Tony.

“I’m not going to pull it too tight.”

Tony shrugs as if it does not matter to him and holds out his hands. It is demeaning, to be bound like a dog, offering up his own head for the slaughter. He does not have the energy to fight, though. And while he wants to leave, he also needs to find out what they know about who sold him out. He cannot go back to his old life ignoring what has happened here tonight.

The rope is tugged almost gently around his wrists, although Steve does not hesitate to make a proper knot. Once Natasha is satisfied with Steve’s work, she turns around and vanishes without another comment. When they are alone, Steve reaches out again, caressing Tony’s left forearm and the words sitting there innocently.

“I’ll get you an aspirin,” Steve promises. He still sounds like he expects everything to be all right.

Tony stares at him. Then his mouth opens without him knowing what he is going to say. “I wish I’d never met you.”

Inexplicably, it feels wrong to say that. Steve’s eyes turn sad for a moment, but he does not seem to believe it any more than Tony does. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of their meeting, this still feels like a beginning rather than a dead end.

“I know,” Steve replies quietly. “But I’m glad we did.” His lips curl up, making him look much more carefree than before.

“Don’t say it,” Tony warns but knows he will be ignored.

With a smirk, Steve says, “Let’s do this.”

With equal parts dismay and excitement, Tony realizes that Steve has been right. Saying the words again does make the tattoo tingle. Perhaps they will have to do some further study in whether or not that effect will fade over time.

#iron man bingo 3000 #stony #fanfiction #soulmates #soulmate tattoos #no powers #kidnapping #mob boss steve #tony stark #whump #ao3 #my writing

344 notes · View notes

thewhumpstuff · 5 years ago

Text

You and I, Me and You [8]

@badthingshappenbingo [Original characters and content for prompt - Backhand Slap] Special thanks to @simplygrimly and @lettuceknighted for all their help and it was a lot! I feel like a child learning to walk and you guys held my hand throught this ;) --------------

[Teaser and Master List] [Archives of our Own] (You and I, Me and you: Chapter 9)

[<– Previous] ~ [Next –>]

Below the belt.

“Should’ve given me a chance if you really wanted to know. But you know what they say, if at first you don’t succeed, try try again.”. Her voice echoed in the cell and in his head. Jared clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes as she seemingly, threatened his life. Her words were blatant too and hurtfully so. She twisted the words he used to encourage her playfully. Not that she had any way to act on her words. Does she really want me dead, then? He looked down at the implement in his hand. And he hated her for being right. He could not simply channel the spirit of someone like Scarlett… Brutally, and yet, systematically thrashing a victim with a cane, especially an incapacitated one like Akira. Especially against Akira herself. It was not something Jared could pull off, not unless he absolutely had to. And he hated being in that situation, he had been there too many times.

But there were other things he could do… Death would merely be an unlikely sequela. In the end, it was an inevitability any way. He recognized that some part of his brain, did not quite reject that outcome as vehemently as it should have. He let the thought come… and go. No, I won’t let her take anything from me anymore. Besides, I’m better. Jared snorted. “Yeah? You wanna have a go… Shira?” She looked at him resolute, neck slightly craned to accommodate for the collar. Her eyebrows shot up with a certain eagerness. Tempers were smouldering. “You really are that curious, eh?” He answered by shoving his hand into his pocket, he clicked something, and the collar expanded. “The chain needs a valve, but the lock opens with a button…” She muttered with a mild fascination, it had enough room for her to wriggle it off her head, but it was heavy enough to require some effort.

He kept his distance and chuckled at her observation. “Didn’t expect us to employ designed theatrics?” A part of her could not fathom why he still insisted on associating himself with SpecSyn. It was her turn to slow clap. She beamed with mocking exaggeration. “Congratulations, my Red Knight! You have successfully risen to the level of your enemy. Because, honestly. SpecSyn does play nastier don't they? Either way, aren’t you proud?” Her accusation was against him as much as it was against the organization she had sworn her loyalty to. So she just decided that SpecSyn was nastier? Is that why she decided to simply stop doing her job? She really had a knack for killing the small joys he was trying to derive. The ghost of his chuckle echoed in the room. His palms were itching now. He dug his nails into them as he opened and closed his fist, stretching his fingers. “Go on then, get the shard, Akira, I’d hate for this to be one-sided.” Back to Akira instead of Shira. The sharper ache she had once felt at the loss of endearment, was much duller now.

She was tired, she was hungry, she was addled, and she was pissed. So, she leapt off her feet and flung herself at him. That was just insulting and pathetic. He had enough time and warning. His free hand wound towards the opposite shoulder, then it swung towards her face, once she was close enough. Smack. The combined momentum was enough for the impact of his knuckles and fingers to knock her back. Her face swivelled. Everything blurred. She panicked briefly, but he did not follow up with anything… yet, and gave her a chance to compose herself. Was he going to draw this out? Was this some perverse lesson? She gasped and stumbled backwards, carefully avoiding the smaller pieces of glass still on the floor. She held her ground. The sting of the slap felt intense enough to leave a lingering sense of numbness. Her ear rang a little. Her tongue jutted out to catch the trickle of blood that snuck out of the corner of her mouth, her lip split a little. Slowly, she righted her head to glare at him again. He had successfully evoked the feral in her. Never, had he struck her like that before. So, it was truly over then. This was it. At least, that is what it felt like. Her breathing was uneven, so was his.

“You expected me to roll over and die for you, Shira?” A drawl was not a common tone for Jared, but it suited him fine now. She realised that he adopted Shira whenever he got his taste of a small victory. He is mocking me… by mocking us! Or… Despite her being the captive, the interrogee… Being at his mercy, maybe she still had some hold over the situation. A part of her revelled in that knowledge. She wished to savour it for as long as she could. The power struggle between them was palpable. Akira wasn’t sure about killing him before, but she sure as hell wanted to now. An animalistic war-cry tumbled out of her lips. She threw herself at him yet again, but this time, her leap was measured.

He really did not peg her for the sort to make the same mistake twice. But then, she was being bullishly bellicose. Was she still not thinking with her head? He decided to use the cane this time, swinging it over his head almost warningly as she got closer. She did not stop. So, he decided to follow through. But he should have trusted his hunch. She was thinking with her head alright.

She did not simply lunge at him, she had a plan. Akira stepped in, towards him. Her arm shot straight out, as a wedge between him and his outstretched limb. Hers was flattened against her ear and blocked the incoming strike before he got the full-swing’s worth. The stick slid against her; she rolled her arm over his, to lock his stick-wielding wrist. Before he had the chance to wriggle out of this, which he certainly could manage with sheer brute force, she jabbed her knee into his crotch, once… twice, reared up for thrice but couldn’t follow through as her hatred waned. He exhaled sharply, then grunted as he keeled forward. The other hand caught her knee, her hesitance gave him time. “Below the belt… really?” A raspy, strained voice called her out. She would have retorted that after the slap, this barely left them even. But she was more interested in shutting him up.

She rearranged her knee, pulling it closer to herself. Her joint whisked his blocking hand on the way to its target: his face. He pulled away enough to prevent a nose break and almost opened his mouth to let his teeth graze flesh, but he did not want to fight dirty, or worse… end up with his teeth knocked in. His lips split in two places too. All he had to do, was to wait for her to make a mistake, because he was certain she would. She manoeuvred him to the floor, with his arm still in her grip. She pivoted him, by twisting the arm cruelly, as he fell. She ensured that he landed on to the glass shards on the floor. The cane slipped out of his hand. “Here, have your god-damn shards.” She hissed pressing his face into the ground with her knee and holding his arm in a lock, her hip flush against his elbow.

The small cuts against his jaw and cheekbones spouted crimson. But there were other pressing matters to deal with. Literally. Something was pressing against a joint he was rather attached to. Her legs stretched over his throat and neck as she sat back, with his arm pulled across her. She kept her elbows tucked in and his wrist in a strong lock as she slowly bucked upwards, rolling her hip against his outstretched elbow. “Having fun?” His words were still laboured, but the implication in his voice almost made her head cloud again. Almost. Keeping her motion controlled so she could draw this out, took effort, so her own voice was worn too. “You betcha!” But to show him that she was serious, she notched upwards just a little faster and just a little higher. He drew a sharp breath; he choked out a sound and swore with anguish. “F-FUCK…” Akira could have sworn she heard something crack. She loosened her grip.

In fact, she had not heard a thing, because nothing was broken. He was still reeling from the explosive pain between his legs. But his arm was fine. He flexed his elbow, it was close the fork between her legs now. In a moment of flitting anger, Jared considered taking revenge for the crotch shots but thought better of it. He sharply tucked his arm towards himself. His wrist slipped out of her grip. The moment the hold was broken, the two of them snapped away from each other, and they got to their feet in a hurry. I will walk away a better man.

Barely though, he did just test her concern for him and was surprised to find it was still there. He was not happy about the tactic he used, especially because it worked. In the recesses of his mind, he wished she did not betray any evidence of feelings that she may or may not have for him. That uncertainty, complicated things, in intent and in action. Akira let out a hollow, giddy giggle, it cracked the words she used to call out his cheap tactic. “I thought I’d be able to tell if you were ever faking it.” He rolled his eyes and absently flicked his thumb over the cuts on his face, to assess the damage. Expectedly, the touch elicited a sharp sting across the wounds and viscous crimson painted his skin.

She stumbled backwards to keep her distance, till her back was flush against the wall. “I mean… You could never tell when I did.” Her words dripped with bitterness. Naturally, she was hurt that he had exploited the fact that she still cared, it came as a surprise to her too. Now that it had been used against her, that tendon of attachment broke like the arm had not. It made her want to hurt him again. Somehow.

He had never paid much mind to the lurking feelings of inadequacy when it came to her, of not being social enough, happy enough… experimental enough. She had never let him dwell on it too, not until she left for Q.B… and met someone else, or so it seemed. It was not the original source of his antagonism towards her. He did not wish ill upon her for moving on as the distance and circumstance made communication impossible. But, with the backdrop of friction and guilt, her words touched a nerve he did not know had been exposed all this time. Neither did she.

Jared was unexpectedly swift. He really should not have let her petty words drive him to lash out. And he realised as much, in the time it took for him to close the distance and throw a punch. She barely managed a guiding parry and a small side-step away from him. The air his motion perturbed, whisked against her side. His knuckles collided with the wall. His own aim had wavered enough for him to miss, just barely. Her side step assured it. He was glad he did, even though, this time something did break. He groaned, but his fist remained against the wall and his arm stood like a fence between them. Aki’s fear rose like bile. She swallowed. If that had connected, she would be… considerably hurt. Without giving her a chance to recover from the shock, or himself from the pain, he stepped in closer yet and folded his elbow. His forearm fell across her throat. His shoe fell across her bare feet. Panic. There was the mistake he had been expecting. She tried to claw her way away from the wall and he let her, just enough to slip his arm around her throat. That's it then, for real this time. He's going to kill me. She thought as the arm coiled around her like a snake, tightening to slowly choke the life out of her. She almost wished she had taken the chance to tell him everything. She felt just as breakable as his arm and just like she could not break a limb, he certainly couldn’t break her. He did pull his arm towards him and squeezed, carefully. Not to kill, just to neutralise. As he slowly felt the struggle melt out of her body, his rage followed suit and melted out of him. She slackened in his hold.

[Category 2] [Tags: @cashieeetime and @beckstriad (because you’ve already seen the process ;) )]

#whump #badthingshappenbingo #captivity #interrogation #backhanded slap #fighting #playing-dirty #you and I me and you

5 notes · View notes

diveronarpg · 6 years ago

Photo

In fair Verona, our tale begins with CASSIAN BHATT, who is THIRTY years old. He is often called CASSIUS by the CAPULETS and works as their SOLDIER. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

He never loved his father, not even as a child. Perhaps it was their differences, a long list he’s kept since the moment he could write. Maybe it was the way Cassian had always detested what other little boys his age lived for—playing catch, riding their bikes, skinning their knees with kids in the neighborhood—and instead found comfort in the logic and reason between book pages far more interesting. One would think an avid reader would have adored a son who took to written word just as he, but the division always came down to one thing. Preference. His was non-fiction. REALITY. Looking to the clouds, Cassian never saw some great, profound potential, nor fluffy animals and fun shapes like other children; what he saw was weather patterns. Mother Nature rearing its ugly head on those too stupid to know they’re hurting her. He saw a world wrought with misconception, filled with beasts and famine. Misrepresentation of the plague an entire people had reaped by being WEAK. He had no time for their dreams, for their wild imaginations, or their incessant need to color outside the lines—just like his father. A renowned professor who always asked the two simple questions, what if? and why? He sought out the answers of the universe, pondered the wonders of man’s most celebrated philosophers as he spoke at colleges and universities throughout Cassian’s youth. And while his father loved language, too, written word to eat up with his hands like a barbarian, he also favored the unthinkable: man is good, man is worthy, man is trying. His son knew better. And he preferred a fork and knife when he consumed his DOCTRINES.

It was only fitting his mother was a POLITICIAN, another lover of words, but spoken to the masses with the conviction only a snake could possess, spinning lies into truths with such flawless execution. Part of him was proud, as he aged and watched her take over the whole city, secretly wanting to do exactly the same thing. Afforded the best possible education, Cassian spent his teenage years not with his nose exactly in a book, but at dinner parties where the guests were the best names in Science. The most progressive thinkers on cancer research were regulars of his parent’s Saturday night euchre party and the highest ranking government officials spent two weeks in the summer at their villa in Naples. And that’s not to say he spent these nights hidden in a corner, keeping to himself so as to not disturb theSHARPEST minds in the world—no. Cassian offered the quickest of wit, the most illustrious of answers to their questions, a rigorous debate over gender politics once ensuing one Sunday during brunch. He’d said something scandalous like society is the only reason we conform so strictly to such labels, nearly causing the bulging blood vessel in the poor, old cazzo’s forehead pop. He met the man with bared teeth, smug grin plastered along his reckless features. Without abandon, that’s how he always spoke, but only when it counted. Only when he knew his breath wasn’t going to be WASTED.

He dealt in cruelty the more he aged, grinding it out of the bones he deemed less than, those not worthy of his time then suffering the worst FATE of all: his attention. It was rare that one could easily draw his gaze; Cassian is not readily amused, if ever. He deals in facts, in history and how it so clearly repeats, saving little time and even less energy for brevity, for romance or comedy. But when you dare to look a monster in the eye, when you issue that kind of challenge, when you provoke a man who takes pride in evisceration, one gets exactly what they bargain for: DESTRUCTION. He harnessed this power by way of making the rules bend to his will, not a creator of such a power, but someone strong enough to wield—to tame such a brutal thing. Law school was met with eager ears and a hollow hunger in his chest, a craving for knowledge making a home in his throat, never to leave again. But he put it to use when he ran his mother’s second campaign and managed a full schedule with the ease and grace only a man meant to rule the world could possibly possess. And it was a dangerous thing at that, the poise with which Cassian carried himself, with such avarice for not money butINTELLIGENCE. The smartest man in the room, that was what he truly wished to be, and it wasn’t too hard assert such dominance with the title of dottore of the Law now fashioned securely on his shelf.

It didn’t take long for him to have to put his newfound degree to the test, in fact it came the moment his mother’s name was SLANDERED in the press. Dragged through the mud so clearly by the opposition that he couldn’t not defend her, if for no other reason than not a soul speaks ill of the Bhatt name whilst he still has air in his lungs. His father may have soiled it with his prophesying and idealizing, but Cassian and his mother—though she loved the man for some reason; he can’t imagine why—still had something left of their lives to need Bhatt free and clear of any skeletons in its closet. Suing for libel, he won the case in record time, his words more convincing than that of the piss poor District Attorney who dared to try and poke holes in the confidence of a man with EVERYTHING to lose. So he took the sad sack’s job instead, convincing his boss to offer it up in under ten minutes flat. I just beat him, he’d said with a smug smile. And? he’d asked, brows raised at the sheer audacity of this sore winner. I can do the same for you. And with that, he had him. The position was his and he’d stood in the hallway of the courthouse, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, watching as the fool lost everything. True power doesn’t come from giving orders, nor does it come from brandishing fine weapons or throwing mean fists; it comes from being the best, and Cassian Bhatt is just that. PERFECT in every way imaginable. Just ask him yourself.

LILLIAN WEN: Fiancée. A trophy, something to show off, to place upon his mantle with pride and evidence of his of true ambition. She is that and not much more, but what a pretty face indeed. Glistening like a diamond, he’ll wear her around town if for no other reason than how good she looks with his Versace loafers. Lillian is a prize he thinks he’s won, but he’s yet to cross the finish line. Don’t bite the hand that feeds, and silly boy, does she ever feed yours. Gloat all he wants, parade her around like a doll and forget all she’s giving him, but if Cassian isn’t careful his intricate little plan will foil right before his eyes as she walks out the door. There’s only so far to push someone standing on the edge of integrity. Best he start appreciating the good deed that’s come his way before it blows up in his lap. He can’t survive another tarnish on his good name, not after how hard he’s worked to clear it. Cherish her, Mr. Bhatt, lest you lose the one thing to make you look halfway decent: a good woman to love you.

MONA CHEN & TIBERIUS CAPULET: Extortionist & Captain. She has pictures, hundreds of them, and despite his best efforts to seize them time and time again—even going so far as to hire the best thief money can possibly buy—they remain in her possession. Kept taught between her palms, held tightly against her chest, used to pull the strings of a man not used to answering to God or anyone, let alone a Madame. But she’s smart, he’ll give Mona that, always protecting her Sparrows first even if it means ruining a good man’s reputation in the process. He has no other choice than to obey, no other option than to come to heel and kneel before her and her boss. Though it’s his captain he’s more worried about. Cosimo’s nephew isn’t a man he wants to find the bad side of, but he’s well on his way if he doesn’t do his part. If he doesn’t do exactly as she says, execute every single order perfectly, it’ll be his ass that’ll need saving. Not hers from whatever sort of wrath he thinks he can come up with to outsmart the most clever woman in Verona. Nor Tiberius’ from whatever power play the lawyer thinks the heir won’t see coming. Checkmate, Cassian.

CRISTIAN DE LUCA: Interest. He’s never been one to lust after kingdoms, preferring to stick to the shadows as a powerful entity of demise with the flick of his wrist not a booming voice. Cassian wishes to be flocked to, praised for his deeds not his ability to bring people to their needs but his knack for dissecting the brain, its desires and every machination. He sees something quite similar in Cristian, and it’s so very enticing, so exhilarating to spot a creature just like himself out here in the wild. He wants to know more, see more, hear more from the man who has done nothing but kick up dust in the subtlest of ways since his feet landed on Italian soil. Pulling at the strings of chaos is his specialty, but to watch a man so apt at his favorite wicked game is exciting to say the least. He knows the man’s allegiance, on which side of the bridge his loyalties lie, but when have rules ever stopped Cassian from getting what he wants? And what he wants is a look inside that beautiful Montague mind.

TAMURA CHIKO: War dog. Be careful with that one, they bite. Of this Cassian is positive, what with how many times he’s been on the receiving end of such sharp teeth. But there’s something lurking behind those eyes, he’s sure of it, if only he could just—no. They don’t let him. With an arm outstretched, Chiko keeps him at a distance, and with good reason. He’s every bit as dangerous as he looks, a serpent slithering beneath the shade of the brush, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce; and sink his fangs into their neck he will. Dio does he want to, oh, so very much. There’s something so fascinating about their restraint, their constant will to never break composure. They are a puzzle Cassian is desperate to find all the pieces to, if only to marvel at his handiwork for having put it together. Paying no mind to the wreckage looking at such a visceral image could cause. They are everything his opposite, all violent combat and trigger fingers. He wonders what it would be like to hunt a creature like that. Satisfying, he muses.

Cassian is portrayed by RANVEER SINGH and was written by SIDNEY. He is DECEASED.

#ranveer singh fc #bio rp #mafia rp #literate rp #lsrpg #cassian bhatt #d

4 notes · View notes

sunstriderling · 7 years ago

Note

The princess and the hitman Au for Gency? Or maybe just a fluff of Genji confessing to Angela ^^

+ @nappi‘s request for sick!Angela & caring!Genji. :> Writing this took 7 000 years but to be honest I’ve been really sick myself for three weeks straight and my brain’s ability to put together coherent sentences was non-existent, so, uh, here we are.

( AO3 )

It’s late, well past ten in the evening - after a mission, most of them would be in bed at this hour. Yet here they are, both her and Genji, in the medical bay; the cyborg busying himself with the drink dispenser, the day’s newspaper, and a blanket-covered chair as if he’s set to move in, and Angela, well, cross-legged on the elevated hospital bed with multiple plush pillows piled behind her back. It’s uncomfortable. Unbelievable, really; it’s as if she’s forgotten completely what it feels like to be ill. All these years she’s tended the sick and the wounded and truly, she’s seen it all, but a mere cold, at worst a flu, something so ordinary and mundane and, most of all, survivable, now feels to her like she’s dying.

How long has it been? Fifteen years?

The puncture wound in her lower back aches like a gunshot wound, only so much smaller, like the infected bite of a mosquito or a horse-fly. It throbs with her fever-stricken everything, a drumming inside her brain and bones, an ache in her muscles, and she sniffs idly with glassed-over eyes, finding the whole situation… ironic, almost amusing. No, whatever was in that dart wasn’t poisonous. It did nothing but stunt her body’s artificially improved regeneration rates, her boosted immunity system, perhaps in the hopes that she’d get shot or just break a bone, leaving her vulnerable or, in the best case scenario for Talon, dead. What she’d actually become was just… sick, like her stellar immunity collapsing on her meant nothing to the lurking germs sticking to her but the open opportunity they’d waited for for a good half of her lifespan. Suddenly, it was as if her basic, unmodified biology no longer knew how to handle a simple virus.

This was a flaw in the design of the regenerative design she’d previously regarded as a succesful experiment. She’d realised it the first thing after noticing the aches in her joints, the thickness in her throat, and the slowly growing soreness everywhere. She’d have to fix that, this sudden immunity collapse syndrome, at once when she wouldn’t be shaking madly with the sickness anymore. When her brain worked again. When something worked again.

Everyone had been quite concerned. They couldn’t recall ever seeing her sick and even though surely they had, they may have not noticed it; sickness had never stopped her from working, she’d just chosen projects that didn’t risk her patients on those days, or her colleagues. Sickness made her antisocial, brought her mind back to the workings of her own body, what it was going through, and how she could turn this intimate knowledge of the process of the illness in her and the stages her body took towards recovery into the building bricks of medical science. Even now, that was where her mind had been, and perhaps it was that fact that had calmed the team down in the end. They’d all gone to bed, hadn’t they? She’d told them she’d be fine self-medicating and sleeping the fever off in the medical bay, and they’d told her they’d see her in the morning, wished her a swift recovery, and disappeared into their little holes inside the Watchpoint like a strike team of exhausted foxes.

Everyone except Genji.

He’s got tan lines over his cheeks and forehead, Angela notes as he sits on the side of her bed, offering her a steaming cup of hot chocolate from the dispenser. It’s summertime, and after settling in, after growing comfortable with his companions once more, he’s spent quite some time outdoors with his visor off. She wonders if sunlight still hurts his modified eyes; she didn’t quite know how to fix that after the repairs, after the improvements. She simply told him to get used to it.

Retrospectively, she always felt guilty about that, yet - he doesn’t seem to squint as much anymore, if at all.

“I am afraid it is not Swiss. I keep disappointing,” Genji says with a hint of a grin.

She chuckles, rolls her eyes and lets out a gentle cough that masks the desperate pressure in her throat demanding a much bigger, much sharper relief. She’s not holding it back for him as much as for her own body’s sake; she’ll cough hard when it helps some, but for now, the only thing it does is bruise her from the inside out.

“Silly. I wouldn’t be able to taste it, even if it was Swiss - my body will hardly know the difference,” Angela huffs in response, bringing the cup to her lips and taking the smallest sip to try how hot the drink is.

Quite.

Genji chuckles.“Are you telling me that there are no magical healing qualities to Swiss chocolate, Angela? For all the praise you’ve had for it…”

“I am telling you that, yes.”She thinks it over for a moment before taking another sip and placing the mug between her crossed legs, over the baby blue blanket thrown over her.“You do know that I will do just fine on my own, Genji. Go to bed.”

“No,” Genji replies casually, picking up his own blanket; it’s fuzzier, and sand brown; “I’ll stay here. I know you would do just fine on your own, Angela, but it is a special kind of loneliness, being alone when you are feeling under the weather. So I will be here and accompany you, so you can focus on getting better. It is what a friend would do, is it not?”

She smiles. Then, slowly, she nods.“I had forgotten all about that. I never let myself have it; my career left no time for sick leaves, and it left very little time for friendship, too. So I worked while I was ill and… the kindness you’re showing me is like remembering something from childhood. All those nights as a little girl, with my mother or my father bringing me cold medicine or soup to eat.”

It takes her a moment to get back to the present day, but when she does, she sees Genji tilting his head with a gentle expression on his face.“Tell me more,” he prompts her, “I have never heard you speak of your childhood.”

A quiet chuckle escapes her and she shakes her head, lowering her gaze to her steaming drink on her lap. She waits for some time, perhaps for her mind to start working again, to form a thought one way or the other, but it seems - feels - as if there’s some technical issue with her functions, the whole of her mind reduced to a blank state of white noise. Finally, she brings the mug up to her lips again, shaking a little at the contrast of the hot drink touching her otherwise so cold-feeling body.

“There is not much to tell, Genji. Or - perhaps there is, but it all seems quite mundane and so distant that I wouldn’t know what to talk about. Surely you have similar experiences. Surely nothing I had was that special. I had a mother and a father once, and I was small, and I was cared for and sometimes I was sick, and my mother would sit by my bed singing me lullabies, my father would read me lighthearted poetry from children’s books, and I - would fall asleep and have nightmares. I had a lot of nightmares as a child, from fevers, I remember that being the worst part of being ill. Strange dreams, that you wouldn’t think were scary; objects from the real world beginning to spin around the room, levitating. Impossible things. My blankets and bed turning to thorns. Those dreams scared me then, but I grew out of them.”

She lifts her gaze and examines him.

“What about you? Would you share some memories from your past with me, too?”

Genji’s eyes narrow, but the lingering smile on him is both thoughtful and a little bit amused, as if she’s challenged him.

“When I was a child,” he begins then, “being sick was the only time when my brother would stop pushing me around. Literally. I was our father’s favourite as a young boy - he gave me much of the attention he would not give to my brother, who had to be raised tough for the future of our bloodline, you see. So maybe I was raised like a little girl, too. I did not care for poetry, however. I remember playing video games and being bored out of my mind through illnesses, my body going through phases of fever chills and floods of sweating… Funny, I have not recalled these things in a long time. I have not had to.”

He eyes her, and a small chuckle escapes him as well.

“I suppose that is on you, Doctor Ziegler?”

Angela nods slowly.“Your body’s regenerative abilities -”

“I understand.”

They’re silent for some time, and Angela leans her sore back into the pillows, rests her head and breathes deep, as deep as her itchy lungs allow her from the spasms in her chest threatening her with coughing fits. No, not yet, she tells her body and relaxes; all of that will come soon enough.

“I quite missed your company,” Genji tells her then, his voice softer, quieter now, as if he’s either not quite sure how to approach this subject, or if he’s not sure if she’s asleep and doesn’t want to wake her up.

She peers at him lazily through a partially opened eye, then closes it again, nodding. The nod compresses her throat and she coughs unwillingly, but it passes quickly, letting her relax again.

“It seems strange, all those years we exchanged letters and yet I feel as if I am just now meeting you for the first time,” the cyborg continues.

“It is all quite different since we last met, face to face,” she mumbles, cheekbones burning with fever and most her attention directed towards the fact, “Much has changed; we are older, but we are also very different people. You are no longer lost, and I am no longer an overgrown child.”

“Was I lost when we last met? Were you an overgrown child?” Genji asks her, his voice amused.

“Would you contest either of those claims?” she asks him back.

He thinks for a moment.“No,” he says then; “With confidence, I can say that I was lost. And perhaps I saw you differently then, but now that I have met you once more, you are indeed a woman. I am not quite sure I saw you that way before. You were my doctor, but you were very young, and you seemed out of your comfort zone, even when you were the most experienced person in the room, doing what only you could do.”

“Precisely. I have grown since, Genji. Not quite like you have, and yet, if I could meet my younger self from those days, I would have much advice to give that silly girl.”

They look at each other, and there’s warmth in Genji’s eyes, acceptance, and somehow, Angela realises she needed to see that. She smiles at him before reaching for her hot chocolate again.

“Back then it seemed absurd that there is merely a year or so between us,” she says then; “in my eyes you seemed - immature. Boyish, as if you were stuck in the worst of your teenage years. And I was not done growing up myself. I quite never gave myself the chance to experience youth, and I suppose that made me young for a very long time in the developmental sense. I thought I could bypass the nonsense that other teenagers got caught up in, so that when I turned 20, then 25, all that unspoken rebellion and most of all the confusion and insecurity that I’d never worked through was still there. Yet I still thought of myself above you, because my way of carrying myself was so controlled, so pretentiously mature, and you were caught up in your unpredictable moods like you had no skills in fighting them. Trauma does that to people, and yet I allowed myself to think that this was simply who you were. A silly boy, to project away the truth that I was also a silly girl inside. I hope my words don’t offend you.”

Genji shakes his head.“No. If you’d spoken them to me then, I would have become very angry, but I see the truth in what you say today. I was very lost and I was very afraid, Angela. Perhaps I took much of that out on you.”

“You were angry at me very often.”

“You were safe to be angry at. And you had that annoying professional smile every time that just made me more frustrated. I hated that smile, the way it implied that you pitied me, the way it highlighted how unstable I was, how it made me aware of my behaviour. I hated it, and I knew that you wouldn’t leave me if I showed just how much.”

She nods.“You are not angry anymore,” she says.

“And you don’t give me that professional smile either,” Genji tells her, his eyes twinkling.

She laughs, a careless act that leads to another cough. When she recovers, she nods again, barely noticing the man’s fingers touching her arm with concern and affection.

“Trust me,” she says to him, “I am even more capable of giving that look today than I was back then; that pained look covering up my frustration with a difficult patient. I give that same smile to my male colleagues who think they can outperform me by the grace of their XY chromosomes as well. I have practiced it, Genji, and I have practiced it long and hard.”

He lifts his brows, looking playful.“Which must mean that I do not frustrate you anymore. Am I wrong?”

“You are quite correct. In fact, I find myself quite fond of your company. I was nervous to meet you again after all these years; what if we wouldn’t have the kind of a - how would I describe it? That kind of a connection that was so apparent to me through our letters. I waited for them so eagerly each time, but the thought of seeing you in person after being separated for such a long time…”

“The fear that the person you were in writing would not be the person you were in flesh, I understand. I felt that too. I had butterflies in my stomach when I landed here, in fact, and the worst of them I felt when I had to shake your hand.”

Her smile softens, turns quite strangely gentle. She feels it linger on her lips even when she runs out of words, as if he’s said everything there is to say.

“Angela,” he begins then, if only to prove her wrong; “I have a confession to make.”

“And what would that be?” she asks him, sipping her drink with her eyes never leaving his.

He seems more confident now, but there’s a tension in his act of relaxedness, a relapse to that nervous tension he described before.

“There is another reason I was so nervous to meet you once more. It is a long story but I think the sum of it is very short indeed. Would you mind if I spoke it now, or would you rather sleep off the fever, and talk with me once you are in a clearer state of mind?”

Angela squints at him, then shakes her head.“My mind is quite functional. I would not work with it, but when it comes to mere interaction, I am not that far gone quite yet.”

He smiles at her, but his smile shivers and shrinks fast, and he seems to second-guess his intentions before regaining confidence.

“That boy you knew years ago, Angela, grew quite fond of you. He would always wish that perhaps we would have a chance to meet again under different circumstances, when he wasn’t quite so angry, and when you wouldn’t see him as that bed-bound project that he felt like then. After all, you were a girl, and he was a boy, and you spent much time together outside the professional framework. He enjoyed those times and when he left this place, those were the times he regretted losing the most.”

Her breath hitches a little, matching the inconvenient pause between her heartbeats, but she says nothing; the cold that grows in her fingertips, her toes and the tip of her nose has nothing to do with the fever chills now.

“That’s why he sent you the first letter,” Genji continues. “Over time, that boy became me, and his affections became my affections. I don’t feel the same way about you as he did, for many things changed since, and the girl he knew is not the woman who sits before me tonight. And yet, the affection is still there, and like myself, it grew over time, and as I learned more about you, it seemed to feed off all those new, wonderful things that I discovered. This is an awful time to ask, Angela, but I was wondering if, once you are feeling less ill, you’d like to have dinner together, or perhaps watch a movie with me? This - I promise you I used to be much better at this, but I also promise that I am doing my best, and yes, I am asking you out for a date. Of course if you’d rather do these things only as friends I understand and I would not mind, and -”

“Genji.”Angela closes her eyes, slipping deeper into her bed; the pillows rub at her raw back and her throat feels sandpapery and sickly, but for the time being, the dizziness, the cold, and the frantic beating of her heart aren’t connected to the illness.“I have a lot on my mind right now, but the first thing I found myself asking while listening to your rambling was that I can’t quite believe you are looking at me like this, with my swollen eyes and red nose and disheveled hair and dry lips, and yet decide to ask me out anyway.”

He gasps a little, physically pulling back from her.“Oh,” he says clumsily, “I - I understand, I should have waited, I don’t want it to look like I’m trying to pressure you while you’re not feeling up to it, I’m… very sorry, Angela, that was not my intention.”

She throws a bored look at him, her eyes unfocused but judgemental.“Calm your nerves,” she tells him, but there’s a hint of amusement to her harsh tone, “Like I said, I am quite in my right mind. What I am not is in my right anything else; I am a sniffling, sneezing, coughing, gooey mess of sweat. And yet, you see this, and you think, yes, this is still the woman I would like to take to movies with me.”

Genji’s quiet now, quite still; she enjoys the confused, yet increasingly hopeful look on his features.

“Of course I’ll join you for a dinner, or a movie, or a dinner and a movie, once my condition improves. I would like nothing better, Genji. As friends, or else; we will have to find out about the details later. Who knows? You are charming, and I’ve more than occasionally felt weak in your presence, or inspired, or yet something wholly different. I didn’t think you might feel something like it too - I never let myself linger on it, thinking it inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” Genji lets out, and by the sound of it, the word is his first exhale in a very long time.

She nods.“Trappings of my profession, I fear. I quite simply don’t see myself as… dateable. Psychologically speaking, I think that may be something I need to work on in the future.”

A breathless laughter escapes the cyborg, and he shakes his head.“Trust me,” he says, his eyes playful once more as he looks at her, “You are quite dateable indeed.”

#gency #overwatch #genji shimada #angela ziegler #fic #mine

46 notes · View notes

peachhoneii · 6 years ago

Text

Little Garden of Horrors: 1/5

Characters: HDLW (OC) Shipping: N/A Summary: In a house unlike any other four children play hide and seek, but it’s impossible to tell what lurks underground, what hides under Time’s shade.

Bolivar is an actual character from Disney animated canon. He’s appeared in comics an an animated short. St. Bernards are adorable.

Hide and seek. Their decision was made on a whim after their school lessons were concluded. Webby grasped the game’s simple rules five seconds after Huey’s explanation, and she squealed in poorly controlled enthusiasm, unable to wait for the boys to choose a seeker.

She ran down the corridors, wondering what hiding area would name her champion hider. Each room held potential. A dimensional hopping corner, a hidden wall, a secret compartment under the floorboards leading to unimaginable horrors, and she knew her best friends were capable of discovering each of these with little to great effort, depending on the seeker. Webby stopped, clasping her hands in prayer position. “It needs to be good. It needs to be best,” she mumbled aloud, able to hear the distant counts to thirty or maybe fifty. She nearly slipped on a small tuff of hair on the floor, and she grunted, testing its fluffy texture. “Oh Bolivar,” she groaned, dropping the abandoned strands, “Granny is going to have to give you a haircut.”

There was no time to falter. In her impatience, she didn’t know the designated number count. He may have stopped at twenty, forty-five, or even one hundred. Jumping on her toes, she flickered to each of the doors, weighing their potential until she made it to the last door on the left. An arbitrary decision, the chosen door wasn’t spectacular in anyway. Its faded paint was somewhat chipped, but Webby knew, for one reason or another, this was the door for her. Hearing the voice grow stronger, she hurried inside without a second thought, and gasped a little at the sight. “Scrooge’s private study.” Closing the door, she stifled an amazed giggle-cackle. This room was one of Scrooge’s many private studies. His mansion had countless studies currently abandoned or forgotten, and she had visited the majority of them, except for this one. She pranced to the bookcases and fingered the worn, dusty leather spines, childish glee squirting out of her mouth every second. Webby swirled in the new room’s knowledge. She was transfixed, and didn’t hear the door quietly open. She didn’t hear the intruder’s quiet footsteps. Curled on the floor with a botany book on her lap, she pretended the quiet footsteps approaching her was the passing wind, although every window in the vicinity were closed shut. She murmured in rich hisses, closer to a pinched squeal than a serpent. The intruder reached towards her shoulder, ready to grip her and do untold things to her momentarily defenseless position. “Hi, Louie.” She propelled the book in his face, unintentionally pushing him backwards. Her finger pointed to page 185, "Though hemlock is one of the most poisonous plants in existence, someone utilized oleander's fatality's into an unmerciful curse!" Louie's silent horror remained so as she pressed the book to her chest, a dreamy expression swallowing her exuberant enthusiasm. He'd never understand her affection for most deadly, odd things. “Okay.” Louie said, “Shouldn’t you be hiding?” Webby tilted her head to the side, “Shouldn’t you?” “Hide and seek is for children.” “But we are -,” “And it was more for Huey than us anyways.” Walking to the far end of the room, a disinterested glance passed over the numerous books, maps, and paintings the room offered, “He’s searching for Dewey.” “Dewey is the easiest find.” Louie shrugged, “Huey’s going to check the kitchen first. He always does.” Stopping in front of a portrait, his scrupulous stare studied its contents before shrugging back o Webby, “And he’s probably hiding in the snack pantry, typical Dewey.” “It means we don’t have a lot of time left.” Webby returned the book to its shelving area, “And we’re in the same room. We’ve narrowed the game down to a few seconds.” Louie scoffed, “Hubert’s good, but he isn’t that good,” spreading his arms open, “there are like a million rooms down this hall alone. He’s going to get lost.” “Or Dewey’s going to get lost, and Huey has to find him.” Smiling back, she headed towards the door when she noticed an old Grandfather’s clock near the wall, “Oh, this is new.” “What?” “This clock?” Its smooth glass sent tingles up her spine while the gold pendulum swung slowly within. Infatuated, Webby tipped on her toes, peering to see its contents, “It’s an unusual Grandfather clock, that’s all. “He has a million of these,” which was true. Every other room contained a minimum of one Grandfather clock, some short, some tall, all made of an unidentifiable wood Huey had yet to discover in the JWG. He tipped toed to the large hand, pushing it up a little, and then he did the same to its shorter twin. “What are you doing,” Webby gasped. “Eh. Wanted to see what happens.” He looked out the window, “They’re near the pond,” he chuckled softly, “okay, Dewey may have tried hiding in the pond, the dork.” Walking away, he failed to notice Webby’s breathless expression, or the fact she had stepped several inches backwards, eyes growing wider with every step. “Louie!” She whispered - hissed, “Louie, what are you doing!?”

He didn’t look back, dragging a yawn he didn’t bother to cover up, “Going to the kitchen for a can of Pep. Haven’t had my peak Pep limit today.” “You can’t leave.” She hissed, “Not now.” “Eh, it’s not a big deal. I’ll get there before they get back. We’ll have another turn to hide.” Opening the door, he turned to grin, but felt his grin slip off his beak, replaced with wordless shock. “Now, you want to look!” Whitish blue light engulfed the room. The Grandfather Glock levitated off the floor, filling the room with a great, whoosh sound. Louie pressed his back against the door, shutting it tight. “What’s going on?” “You tell me!” Shielding his gaze with his arm, “This feels strangely familiar,” one foot in front of the other, he was at Webby’s side, “why does this feel familiar?” “I don’t know!” Webby pushed him out of the way the moment the Grandfather clock fell to the floor, landing in a perfect position with steam rolling off its wood. Silence. The light, its sounds, everything was emptied, leaving the private study in absolute silence. Louie crashed onto the floor with Webby on top of him, shielding him from whatever anticipated explosion, but they were left empty handed. “What was that?” Louie sat up, a little fringed but otherwise unharmed, “What was that,” he gestured to the now quiet Grandfather clock - even its pendulum no longer swung, “Are Grandfather clocks supposed to do that?” “Normally, no.” Webby dusted her skirt off, studying the clock a bit harder than earlier, “You see,” she tapped the glass, “look at the pendulum.” “No.” Webby frowned, “Are you going to do this now?” “What’d ya’ mean?” “I mean,” she drawled, “if you hadn’t touched the hands, then none of this would’ve happened.” Glaring back at the glass, there’s something in the pendulum, I thought it was just crystal,” she scrutinized the gem cut rising in pendulum’s center, “but it seems to be something else.” “Oh, is it shiny?” “Well, yes, it’s a gem, naturally.” Webby answered, “But it seems to be cracked.” A thin, miniscule crack seeped into the gem’s blue-green-indigo mixed body. “It isn’t diamond,” Louie observed, “or gold.” “It’s a mineral of some kind? Chrysoberyl, perhaps?” “Oh, you mean Alexandrite.” “Right!” Webby snapped her fingers, “Alexandrite! This must be the legendary Clock of Chronos,” she paused, staring at Louie, “wait, who said that?” Louie’s and Webby’s shoulder stiffened. Their necks leaned backwards while their stares rolled to the ceiling where the third voice’s person came into view. Teal stared wide-eyed at them, “Oopsie.” Webby dodged. Louie didn’t.

Louie wasn’t dead. He wasn’t harmed. He wasn’t sure what happened, but knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he was far from safe.

“Um...Webby,” an arm securely wrapped itself around his neck. He tried to move, to create some distance, but slender, short arm was firm, “Webby, I’m not safe. I’m so very, very, very not safe.” “You’re not Donald.” He was thrown to the floor. Glaring ahead, he snapped back, “What’s your damage?” White blond curls fell over a shoulder, “Damage?” Kneeling down, inquisitive worry showed on her face, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” “You could’ve!” A thick gasp pounded on her bouncy curls, “I’m sorry!” Grabbing the front of his hoodie, he was suddenly pulled on his feet, and she clasped his hands, bright eyes shining with unshed tears, “A young lady does not put strangers in chokeholds, Duckworth tells me, and what do I do, put a stranger in a chokehold!” “Especially in their house!” Louie jerked away, “Chokeholds in our house, what’s your damage?” She frowned, “I-I don’t understand.” Confusion graced over the bookcase, walls, paintings, and windows, “This is my house. I live here.”

“This is the manor of Scrooge McDuck,” Louie said. He scrutinized her, “Unless you’re some kind of ghost - are you a ghost?”

“No.”

“Well, unless you’re a ghost -,”

“Didn’t you say Duckworth,” Webby interjected.

“I did.”

They exchanged uneasy glances, “Oh.” Adjusting their positions, reflected on the painting positioned near the Grandfather clock, “Oh.”

Louie smacked his lips, “You’re the creepy girl in the painting.”

“Creepy-cute is less rude."

“Wait, so…,” the clogs in Webby’s brain worked faster than Louie’s. A shrill squeal freed itself as enveloped her arms around the girl, hugging her in a tight, unforgiving embrace, “Hi! I’m Webby!”

“Hi!” The girl's stare widened in shock, resuming its normalcy as she settled in Webby's embrace. Returning the hug with identical intensity, she giggled, “I’m Opal!”

“What?” Shaking his head, pulling them apart, “You need to tell me,” glaring at Webby, “what’s going on here?”

Webby bounced on her feet, fists clenched in poorly contained excitement, “Don’t tell me you don’t know,” gesturing madly to the girl, “it’s her! It’s her!”

“Who!?”

“Opal McDuck!” She sighed, “Scrooge’s daughter!”

A pause. “Wait.” Another pause, “Hold on.” Louie let the information sink into the depths of his knowledge, but even as it sat at the very bottom, it didn’t settle.

No. The information rocked unsteadily in his brain like a ship battling through a raging storm.

He repeated in dumb shock.

“Scrooge’s daughter,” he shook his head, “he has a kid!”

Louie's lips puckered in, absorbing the girl’s - no, Opal’s very existence. His right eye twitched, and all the cogs in his usually fast working brain came to a screeching halt.

“Hi.” The girl waved sheepishly, "I'm Opal."

#ducktales #ducktales 2017 #della duck #donald duck #scrooge mcduck #mywritng #duckfiction

4 notes · View notes

triggeredcollin-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Love’s Remedy | Chapter 1

(Sorry i haven’t posted this sooner! I got a fever ;;)

Written by: Evvy (Evan)

Edited by: Lamebagel (Shane)

Alderkit looked around, his reddish-brown fur fluffing up. He could almost feel butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He was going to be apprenticed today! How exciting! He couldn't wait! Oh StarClan, I wish Dandelionkit and Juniperkit were here to see this! He ruffled his pelt, trying to look bigger and stronger, and he sure did plan to be. He wanted to impress his leader Bramblestar and show him that he would be a worthy warrior.

But, among his excitement lurked a stabbing anxiety. What if he didn't know what to say during the ceremony? Did he have to answer any questions? Was it a test? Would it hurt? What if he made a fool of himself, what if- "Alderkit! Are you excited?" Sparkkit trotted up to her brother, bouncing up and down with energy. You couldn't mistake her for being nervous, anxious wreck like Alderkit. Only a fool would think that. "Y-yeah," Alderkit replied in a shaky voice, the tone of his voice giving away the fact that he was lying. But of course, like always, Sparkkit didn't notice. "Let all cats old enough to catch their own prey, gather beneath the high rock for a clan meeting!" Both kits jumped up when they Bramblestar's yowl coming from the across the camp. "Straighten your whiskers! Make your fur smoother Alder-I'll do it myself!" Sandstorm rambled as she began licking Alderkit's fur furiously and quickly. Alderkit was embarrassed when Jaypaw looked at him. The tom's icy blue gaze seemed to see more than most other cats did,even though Jaypaw was blind. Hollyleaf and Lionblaze, his siblings, both let out a mrrow of laughter. Jaypaw had stared at him, emotionless and bland. He blinked once before setting his light blue, blind eyes on Bramblestar. He heard where his voice was coming from. When Alderkit and Sparkkit were ready, Brblestar beckoned for them to come closer with a flick of his tail. Alderkit's heart was pounding and his paws felt numb. He couldn't feel anything, it was like he was walking on air. He could sense the eyes of his Clanmates staring right at him, piercing him with their slitted pupils and shades of amber, blue, and green. It made him tingle inside and he fidgeted, petrified.

"Alderkit and Sparkkit. You have been awaiting this moment for six moons. It's finally time that you begin your journeys as apprentices." Alderkit's heart swelled with pride at these words. "Alderkit, from this day, until you receive your warrior name, you will be known as Alderpaw. I ask Starclan to watch over you and guide you until you find in your paws the strength and courage of a warrior. Molewhisker, you have shown great skill and a determination to do your best, and I believe you are ready to take on an apprentice. You had received excellent training from Rosepetal, a d I expect you to pass on that knowledge to your apprentince. You will be the mentor of Alderpaw, and may StarClan light your path." As he finished his speech, Alderpaw and Molewhisker stood up, dipping their heads in gratitude.

"Thank you, Bramblestar. I am honored. I promise that I will teach all I know to this young apprentice." Molewhisker mewed as Alderpaw jumped down to touch Molewhisker on the nose with his. The same thing happened with Sparkpaw, she was apprenticed to Cherryfall. Bramblestar made the right choice for sure, Alderpaw reckoned, noting that Cherryfall was a very bubbly and extroverted kind of cat, just like Sparkpaw.

"Alderpaw! Sparkpaw!" Alderpaw heard his Clanmates around him chant his and Sparkpaw's names. Suddenly, his anxiety washed away and he lifted his head up high, letting his pride swim through him. He heard a voice that stood out to him the most. It was Jaypaw. Alderpaw shuffled his paws and turned to his mentor.

"So, uh.... What are we going to do first?"

"I'm going to show you around the rest of the territory, and your sister and Cherryfall will be coming, too." Molewhisker mewed in response.

Oh yeah, that's what all apprentinces do first. Great StarClan, Alderpaw, pull yourself together!

But, seeing as Sparkpaw had already stopped by the fresh-kill pile, Alderpaw asked Molewhisker if he could get his breakfast first. He replied with a quick nod and went up to the fresh-kill pile. He grabbed a vole and padded up to Sparkpaw. "Hey! Do you want to share this with me?" He asked his sister. She looked away from her mentor for a small moment and nodded. she looked back at Cherryfall and tried to confirm her answer. "Of course, get your strength up!" Cherryfall meowed, walking away from the two littermates. At once, they had started to share the plump vole. "So, did you wish you had another mentor?" she asked, twitching her tail. Alderpaw shrugged. "Not really," he meowed back, letting his eyes wander the camp. From across camp, Jaypaw's icy blue gaze caught him like a claw. He didn't show any emotion, not a single shred of joy in those blind blue eyes. How does he live like that? Does he know something nobody else does? He always looked like that, like he didn't give a rat's tail about anyone. Though Alderpaw felt pity for the blind tabby tom. Maybe he only looks like that because he's blind.... We might not see any more of him than he does of us. Alderpaw wished he could cheer him up and make him smile. But he does realize that it's almost impossible. "Who are you look-oh." Sparkpaw stopped and turned to look at Jaypaw too. She tried to act distracted by a moth to avoid staring. There was something about Jaypaw that made everyone uncomfortable. He was sitting in front of the medicine den, twitching his tail with his ears back. He looked tired and unhappy. Well, Alderpaw gets it. He has to wait till the next half-moon, which is very far away, to become a fully-trained medicine cat. While on the other paw, Hollyleaf and Lionblaze were made warriors not too long ago. Alderpaw longed to get up and talk with him, to get to know him, but he knew what it would result in. Alderpaw could just imagine how the conversation would go in his head.

"Hey, I'm Alderpaw... Uh.... Wanna share a blackbird with me?"

"Bah, those have almost as much feathers on their wings as you do in your brain. Don't you have tick duty to get to work on?"

And then he'd give me that cold, dead stare and make me leave.

After Alderpaw and Sparkpaw finished the vole they were sharing, Alderpaw licked his fur clean and walked to Molewhisker where he was chatting with Cherryfall if they should explore together. They both agreed and nodded at Alderpaw, Sparkpaw catching up a few heartbeats later. I hope that this training ends up going well.

#Jayfeather #Alderheart #Alderjay #Love #Remedy #Mlm #mlm positivity #drama #gay #LGBTQ+#Warrior Cats

3 notes · View notes

codywalzel · 7 years ago

Text

A short essay about what Twin Peaks means to me. I remember certain landmarks in my experience watching movies. I remember the first time I ever walked out of a theater disappointed, was after seeing Sahara, starring Matthew McConaughey. I was a young teen and I remember thinking “Hey…. that wasn’t good. Wait, just because I’m interested in a subject, doesn’t mean the movie will be good… I guess there are good and bad movies, I should be more careful what I choose to go see.” Another big one for me was casting. I actually became aware of casting too early. Too soon because I knew about bad casting before I even knew about bad movies. I remember the moment I became acutely aware that people were specifically chosen from among other options, and that hiring a specific actor effected the way the film felt. It dawned on me so early, because the casting in a movie was so bad, that it pushed through all my lack of knowledge about film in order to slap me in the face and say “this is wrong.” Because of that blunt, centrifugal impact, I maintain that casting Tobey Maguire as Spider-Man is the worst casting choice of all time. But they’re not all negative landmarks. In fact, most of my brain expanding movie moments were dissecting moments of joy. What the original two seasons of Twin Peaks illuminated for me was less about a specific filmmaking craft, or even about a philosophical viewpoint. It is much more subtle, and at the same time much more comprehensive. The easiest place to start is with trees. Landscape painting of all kinds used to bore the hell out of me, because I had never seen a painting of trees or leaves that appealed to me. Bu then I started seeing illustrators online designing trees and plants in a way that I had never thought to see them, Mary Blair, Eyvind Earl, and Kevin Dart showed me the stunning beauty of shape, color and form i’d been missing. In my day to day, I started to notice plants. It saturated me, I became so inspired that I stared painting vegetation for the first time. Through this, I learned to love the varieties of plants, rocks, flowers, trees, mountains, plains, desserts… An element of joy was added to my everyday life, here was this beauty all around me, and I had never even seen it. My love for trees didn’t occupy brain space reserved for another hobby, it just expanded the things I liked, pointed out something I’d been walking past my whole life. If anything, it probably occupied a slot formerly reserved for unproductive worry, or aimless negativity. I thought I’d seen trees, but I had just been looking at them.

The first two seasons of Twin Peaks gave me the gift of atmosphere. Sometimes there is an impending sense of dread over a place. There are laid back Summer days where hormones seem to be pumped through the air and everyone on the same social page. There are also hot, dangerous days where a city’s blood feels alert with unexplainable violence. No two types of communal lust or rage are exactly alike, and there is something powerful, something electric about that. In the same way paintings revealed trees, Twin Peaks revealed the mystery lurking in the everyday. Afterwards I was able to re-watch and understand the texture of Mulholland Drive, a film that has given me a different angle of appreciation for LA than most. Los Angeles is neither La La Land, nor Straight Out of Compton. Both paint a picture of isolated islands, separate in tone. While it’s true that each part of the city has it’s own flavor, it’s own experiences, films like these neglect a certain unifying energy to the city. Los Angeles is a haunted place, bristling with the ghosts of unfulfilled dreams. Even the most successful contribute to the unofficial city taxes of disappointment and wasted energy. But that’s part if the magic of the place. There is a giant generator below the Santa Monica Mountains fueled by the damaged hearts of untold millions. It secretes magnetism, hypnotizing people into town and feeding on their dreams to keep itself alive. Twin Peaks woke me up to the truth of that atmosphere, of atmosphere in general. Mulholland Drive then acted as a psychic medium for my city, making contact with a Phantom Vibe in the room that I already secretly knew was there from the raised hairs on my neck. It is the most accurate representation of LA ever filmed. Everywhere in LA from the rattiest hobo-lurking East-Side dumpster, to grand, storied Culver City Pitching rooms on the Sony lot share a similar thrilling and sinister anxiety: LA is the land of the dead, where people hope for immortality through fame, paid for with their lives and hopes. All pay. The rich and famous are halfway between life and memory, the real person inside giving way more each day to the iconography that will someday replace and live beyond them. LA is a place too bright to live, without seasons, with a fluid sense of time that makes every yesterday both feel like a blink and an eternity. Lynch’s ability to wrap his arms around that is astounding.

But even more powerful, is to Frankenstein together a fictional place with a combination of body parts to which only you, with your life experiences, have unique access. The town of Twin Peaks itself is a phantom, with a sprinkle of dead times and places gone by, and a dash of an alternate universe versions of still present locations, all filtered through Lynch’s unique psyche. I’m not even sure that a stroll inside Lynch’s mind is especially surreal; I think he’s just better able to channel life’s surreality than the rest of us. That special, fictional little town has its own distinct tone, it has it’s own fingerprint. And so does every other setting real and imaginary. Twin Peaks gave me the passion to try and find my own favorite combinations of time, place, and people, to bottle those moods, and to stitch my own quilts from them.

#me #twin peaks #story #los angeles

24 notes · View notes

gifsbysimplysonia · 6 years ago

Link

@stevieang

This is a feel good great chapter, and I’m here for it. I honestly did not know WHAT to expect after being blindsided by the end of 17 lol. And a part of me was VERY worried that lives were going to be thrown back into chaos as villains came out of the woodwork or something. Cuz in my life, as SOON as something good happens, before I can enjoy it, something bad has to come along and take the wind out of my sails :\

But Steph and Steve just get to ENJOY each other and their blessings and I am HERE FOR IT!

The ring? IS GORGEOUS! OMG! I saw the blue stone and was like, holy crap, I didn’t know there’s, like, a perfect Captain America engagement ring but THERE IT IS! Absolutely stunning. Amazing choice, Steve!

Steve? Really made me smile so hard my cheeks hurt and silently cry thoughout, like, this whole thing. I could tell his feelings were kind of hurt when Steph told him she never ACTUALLY thought he would propose. I think he internalized that and took it as, “Oh, so she doesn’t WANT to marry me.”

And it’s not that at all, and I think Steph did a REMARKABLE job at explaining herself. Seeing how far she has come, emotionally, in these 18 chapters is a testament to how thoughtful you’ve been about her development and journey.

“Remember our first date, when you told me to trust you? Well, since then I have worked very hard to do that. For me, that meant letting go of what might be and focusing on what is- the present moment. I knew I loved you and I just tried to stay secure in the knowledge that you felt the same.”

That right there is such an intimate confession because being vulnerable is DIFFICULT. I haven’t figured out how to do it myself. And Steph has so much baggage to deal with, and that she has been dealing with. Then getting involved with Steve inadvertantly added, like, a whole new set of luggage that she wasn’t expecting. But she’s REALLY been faithful to that promise she made to him, trying to BE with him and just enjoy what they have. So I’m glad that she reminded him of where she started and just what it means that they are where they are.

Pretty much EVERYTHING Steve said throughout this WHOLE CHAPTER was a freakin’ dream. His declarations of love don’t come off cheesy or make me roll my eyes; maybe it’s cuz I’ve been on this journey with him or maybe it’s just cuz I love your Steve so much. But every time he opened his mouth to reinforce how much he loves Steph here, I was freakin’ crying.

“Well, this is what is. You, me, the girls, Bucky, my life, your life, all of it - I want everything, I want it all. I want it for as long as we live.”

I MEAN OMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

STEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVE! I adore adore adore him.

The way he was a total brat the morning? Texting her to find out where she was cuz she wasn’t in bed and she said she’d be back in a bit and he yelled at her “NO! NOW!!” It was like, so funny, so sweet, and so sexy at the same time (cuz, hi, tell me what to do when we’re alone lol).

OH BTW, reading this at work, I didn’t know what to expect but I certainly didn’t expect them to go home and have an intense encounter. Her asking him to help keep her quiet so as not to tip the guards off made me laaaaaaaaaaaaugh. But it’s also like, honey. Come on. They know. We’re all grown lol.

“I’d bet folding money they have a pretty good idea. But If it makes you feel better, if you get that loud, I’ll just put something in your mouth. Any ideas?”

So ... the way you worded that is just very Steve? “Folding money” in particular, I just love the way you put that sentence together cuz it feels right for him for some reason, maybe harkening back to some 40s lingo or something, I dunno. It just really worked for me.

But ALSO?!? STEVE ROGERS MAKING DIRTY INNUENDOS! I LIVE!!! And, of course, it’s a joke but yesplz. :P I love your Steeeeeeeeeeeeeve!

And then, andthenandthen....we went back to an issue that we hadn’t visited in a while AND I AM GRATEFUL FOR THAT. I’ve said many times on my blog that Plus Size Reader stories that FOCUS or are ALL ABOUT self loathing just ... are so not my bag. BUT, for the topic to crop up sometimes? Yeah, that’s more real life speed, at least for me. And it came up here and the way Steve handled it? Again, TOTAL DREAM.

“I’ve told you before that you don’t need to hide any part of your body from me. Let me remind you - you just said you would be with me forever, right?” You nodded as he took hold of your left hand and kissed your ring finger. “It’s a two-way street. This is as all-in as we can get. Any hang-ups or insecurities either of us have we can get through together. You have me, forever, but even better, I get to have you for just as long. Now trust me, will ya?”

Like ... A DREAM. He needs her to know how committed he is, and he wants her to be right there with him. And this isn’t Steve fulfilling some sense of DUTY, WITH STEPH IS WHERE HE WANTS TO BE!! Dude keeps PROVING THAT WITH ACTIONS, and it just ... it like makes my heart BURST in an oddly painful but enjoyable way? Cuz like, that part of my brain that’ll never be open with anyone is like THIS ISN’T REAL but the romantic part of my brain is like BUT IT CAN BE AND THAT IS WHY IT IS SO AMAZING lol You just honestly write Steve to be so incredible; he’s loving and affectionate and proud of being with Steph but he has his faults and sometimes he pushes and it doesn’t work. But he shows up and he is SO IN LOVE with Steph and it’s just a joy to read.

He’s also, like, VERY into Steph being his wife? LOL he made mention of it more than once and it’s like, ‘Oh, so Steve has a kink.’ BUT WHAT A KINK! An amazing man who can’t WAIT to call you his wife! *swoon*

I loved Bucky popping up, scaring everyone, being proud and claiming Best Man status. Him and Steve’s friendship feels SO spot on because it isn’t just, like, them? I dunno if that makes sense but in a lot of fic I read, Bucky is THERE and works as a tool of sorts to push Steve towards the protagonist but then ... that’s it. Here, he’s his own person but also a big part of Steve’s life, and Steph WELCOMED him into the family and always makes SURE he is invited and a part of their lives too. I LOVE that you have INCLUDED Bucky and not just used him to further the plot. He feels real and fleshed out. And Steph confiding in him/asking him about the ever present threat that still lurks ... I’m glad you reminded me of what’s out there and what is (no doubt) going to come into play soon. Bucky’s such a reassuring and strong presence and I feel so much better knowing that he is looking out for the kids and Steph and STAYS vigilant.

The surprise engagement party was crazy lol cuz I legit thought that Steph was about to walk into a ponderosa with Maria. Like, yeah, it was supposed to be a general get together, but I was SURE Maria was gonna see the ring and pull Steph aside and an emotional confrontation was going to happen. But it turned out so much happier.

I will always and forever love Tony, and Steph’s assessment of him made me giggle

You always liked Tony - his brilliance and philanthropy, his bravery and loyalty to Steve, and even his sarcasm and petulance. He was truly happy for you, and offered anything you needed to make the wedding happen whenever, wherever, and however you wanted. He was really a sweet guy underneath all that iron.

Happy sigh. I feel like that’s a good sum up of the man. And that everyone chipped in to help put all this together ... Steph had literally JUST thought, “Huh. I don’t need fanfare this time around” only to have Steve put together ALL OF THE FANFARE lmaooooooooooooooooo But I LOVE that because it not only shows how enthused HE is about this, but that he always wants to do THE MOST just to see Steph appreciated and celebrated and happy. *dies*

I come from a Latin family so tradition states a partner SHOULD ask for someone’s hand in marriage, so that Steve did that made me SWOOOOOOOOOOOON. It was a really great detail to work in. And, I mean, him AND TONY making sure her parents were there. Steve & Tony are an underrated duo I think sometimes; like, I know people ship them, but just as friends/teammates ... the things they are capable of when they are on the same page are just amazing. It made my heart hurt a little to think of them in this ‘Verse where they obvs work together and have a relationship :’| I appreciate that you are allowing me these glimpses and to enjoy that bit of business/relationship.

And, shame on me, but I didn’t really think of informing like ... her ex? That’s not something that would’ve ever crossed my mind (cuz I’m like, why the Hell does he need to know?!?), so I thank you for constantly bringing me back to the fact that this is a big family that has a lot of moving parts and Steve, prince among men, is considerate of ALL of them. Imagining the girls screeching and screaming and asking all the questions made me hiccup and cry cuz they wanted this for their mom probably as much as Steve did? LOL so now that they get to be a part of this, it must be SO exciting.

Just a really warm, lovely, feel GREAT chapter. I worry cuz I know conflict has to be coming up and I STG IF HYDRA RUINS THE WEDDING, I WILL RAGE QUIT LIFE lolz

Thank you again for this tale!!!

#feedback #fan fiction #Steve Rogers

0 notes

news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Why does the Duolingo owl scare me more than my high school Spanish teacher ever did?

The Duolingo owl is ruining my life. So why do I feel so pressured to learn from it?

Like many other disappointments to the public education system, I spent seven years studying Spanish and barely retained any of it. The little remnants that still float around my memory are disjointed and just out of reach — I remember the words and their purpose, but can't seem to string them into a coherent conversation.

The pieces are all there. They're just scrambled.

I started Spanish lessons on Duolingo months ago, but my enthusiasm wore off. When I stopped ascending two levels a night, the notifications began.

SEE ALSO: The Duolingo owl is out for vengeance in these threatening memes

Unlike my high school Spanish teacher, whose reach only extended to 50 minutes of class time a day, Duolingo is always with me. It lurks in the shadows of my phone, waiting for me to practice, and striking when it's most personally inconvenient. Whether I'm navigating rush hour traffic or sitting through an excruciating first date, Duolingo's push notifications remind me to spend five minutes on my daily lesson precisely when I don't have five minutes.

It's an internet-wide experience: Duolingo's passive-aggressive notifications became a meme, and the company even leaned into it by bringing the threatening owl to life in this year's April Fools' Day prank.

Granted, Duolingo users can turn these notifications off, and if you ignore them for long enough, the app will send you the ultimate passive aggressive alert: "These reminders don't seem to be working. We'll stop sending them for now." But allowing that to happen is even worse — you're just admitting defeat and accepting your failure to progress.

The moment you've all been d̶r̶e̶a̶d̶i̶n̶g̶ waiting for... Introducing Duolingo Push! We're taking notifications out of your phone and into the real world. Yup: Duo the Owl will literally show up to remind you to practice so you never miss a lesson. 👉 https://t.co/UB8ld0pyiY pic.twitter.com/kHEQv2Winc

— Duolingo (@duolingo) April 1, 2019

Despite my annoyance with the overwhelming notifications, I still feel pressured keep going with Duolingo. I used to dread vocabulary quizzes and writing assignments, but somehow my high school Spanish teacher never instilled the same anxiety and guilt that skipping a Duolingo practice session does.

oh god oh fuck pic.twitter.com/JmrilYLl3n

— John (@monadoboii) March 31, 2019

To get to the bottom of this, I reached out to Rosanny Genao, who was my Spanish teacher for two years of high school, to figure out why an anthropomorphic green owl scares me more than she ever did.

"You're not really encouraging people by sending messages that are going to generate more anxiety," Genao explained in a phone call. "I feel like if you're getting notifications all the time, it's almost like you're getting harassed."

The actual notifications aren't even that threatening — it's the personal disappointment that follows.

There are no stakes when it comes to learning with an app. There's no risk of failing a midterm, or lowering your GPA, or losing credits and repeating a required class. You won't miss out on walking at graduation if you skip a few nights of Duolingo practice.

At the same time, you're the only person holding yourself back if you don't keep going. Nobody will hold you accountable for not memorizing past tense conjugations except yourself; if you decide to stop educating yourself, that's on you.

"Duolingo consistently makes me feel like a failure," my friend Rebecca texted when I joked about the owl's menacing reminders. "I feel like you could track my depression by looking at my Duolingo history."

It's a commonly held sentiment.

"Every time Duolingo sends the 'we'll stop sending you these reminders because they don't seem to be working' notification my heart breaks," @bicesrceis tweeted. "Stop reminding me how much of a failure I am."

"Not only am I a disappointment to my parents but now I’m also a disappointment to the Duolingo owl," @jaz_ham said a good month before the murderous owl went viral.

The duolingo owl when you leave it alone for like 5 minutes pic.twitter.com/q5hQKVgZ7r

— Violet⚧☭⚢⛤🛡 (@OnePrplGrl) March 29, 2019

According to Genao, we're too used to finding immediate answers. In the age of Amazon Prime and Google Translate, who wants to spend time on absorbing and understanding a new language when you can learn it all in an instant?

"It's the technology era," Genao said, referring to the neurotic people like me who finish ten levels a week before crashing and burning, doomed to never achieve bilingual glory. "We want everything, all the information as quickly and effective[ly] as possible. And we want to be done."

The immense pressure to learn comes from the immediate validation of completing a level. Practice more, and you're awarded more lingots. Acquire enough lingots and you can buy power-ups that'll freeze your streak for a day, outfits for the owl to wear, and bonus lessons that'll teach you idioms and flirtatious phrases.

Aside from the bonus lessons, none of these purchases have real-world value, and unless you're planning a Love Actually-type romance with a Portuguese woman in rural France, learning to flirt may not hold much weight either. The knowledge that you achieved something is still there, though.

If it's any solace, following Duolingo's orders won't actually make you bilingual.

You can't truly acquire a second language by pairing matching phrases. There are two branches of bilingualism: simultaneous bilingualism, which means the speaker was spoken to in both languages from birth, and sequential or successive bilingualism, which means the speaker learned a second language later in childhood or adulthood.

the new duolingo ad is weird pic.twitter.com/VDij0YVUaF

— miranda (@shazamstark) March 27, 2019

A paper from MIT and the University of Ottawa notes that when it comes to multilingualism, "most of this language learning occurs in untutored, naturalistic settings and throughout the lifespan of an individual."

Even though language learning apps may have flashcards, visuals, and speaking components, they don't compare to immersing yourself in another culture. You don't just hardwire your brain to start thinking in another language.

"It takes about five years if you really want to be bilingual," Genao explained. "It depends on the person but unless you are immersed in the language by going to that country where it's spoken, it takes at least three years to become somewhat proficient in it."

Which only adds to the fact that there are literally no stakes in ignoring Duolingo's pushy practice alerts. Still, knowing that your own lack of motivation keeping you from moving forward is enough of a guilt trip. A human teacher, Genao says, will keep you accountable for learning. If you're unmotivated, you have someone to push you to continue.

"Whatever is that benchmark for the expectations you have, you set those goals on your own on an app," she said. "Where a teacher might demand a lot more from you."

Not learning is a failure to yourself, and depending on the type of person you are, is worse than any teacher's disappointing lecture. You may have lofty goals, but confronting your own ambition is terrifying in itself. For me, realizing that I'd never be conversational just from an app was absolutely freeing.

the fact that the duolingo HQ owns a duo fursuit somewhere in their office is what scares me the most pic.twitter.com/6SVQgFoK4U

— reya | i'm babie (@catradoreya) April 1, 2019

That's not to say that you should give up on learning altogether. Learning Dutch phrases got me through a semester abroad, and getting into Korean has made grocery shopping for traditional family recipes significantly easier. But at the end of the day, Genao says nothing will accelerate language learning like daily conversations with a native speaker.

I'm less self-deprecating when it comes to ignoring Duolingo's push notifications now, but it doesn't mean I'm deleting the app altogether. Duolingo, thankfully, will not come to my house in the dead of night to torture me into memorizing vocabulary, but I keep the app around as a self-flagellating reminder to try it again one day.

There will always be a slight pang of guilt for not paying more attention in Señora Genao's class every time I clear my notifications.

WATCH: These warming 'space pants' use technology to help people with chronic pain — Future Blink

#_author:Morgan Sung #_category:yct:001000002 #_lmsid:a0Vd000000DTrEpEAL #_uuid:cbc89493-e446-3d5f-9d1b-ad94ac997c35 #_revsp:news.mashable

0 notes

fauxastral-blog · 8 years ago

Text

i won’t freeze you out, my heart is melting - snowest

alternatively, read it on ao3 and leave a comment

STAR Labs is a lot more comforting at night, Iris thinks. There’s a pleasant hum of machinery and a little bit of moonlight shines through the high windows, casting multiple, dim rectangular glows on the floor. There’s no hustle or frantic haste or tears or a perpetual fear of death after everyone has gone home. Instead of feeling tense, jaw tight, just waiting for an alert that is followed by Barry rushing away to save the world, yet again, she's relaxed and strangely at peace. At this hour she can see how he, Cisco and Caitlin manage to feel so at home here.

Caitlin.

Iris’ eyes travel to the entrance of the cortex, knowing that the doctor was still in her office just down the hall. Stein had run off with whatever it was that would help get rid of the Dominators and Lily had headed home not long after, leaving Caitlin to retreat to her research. Iris had been lurking about the lab all day, flitting in and out on breaks, mainly to see if there was any new news on how their friends were handling the alien race trying to invade their planet.

At the thought of aliens, the lab immediately felt less safe than it had moments ago and Iris pulls her olive colored sweater tighter around herself, as if the stitches themselves could chase away the terrible mental image of the extraterrestrial beings with massive mouths of teeth and a red dot on their foreheads.

As if she could do anything to help.

She'd been severely struggling to find where she fit on Team Flash the past few months. She didn't have the powers or the brains of Barry, Cisco and Caitlin, all she had was her reporting skills and impeccable fashion knowledge, which was going to be of no use when fighting a meta human or… god, aliens.

Barry kept telling her over and over that there would be no Flash without Iris West, but she knew for a fact that there would be, that he was wrong. He had proved just as much for nearly a year as she lived in blissful ignorance to the fact that he was anything more than her adorable, geeky, almost-adopted brother. But of course, she had no one to say anything about her insecurities to, Barry had his speed, her dad his access to information in the precinct, H.R with all of his future tech from his earth, Cisco with his vibing abilities, Wally with his own speed and Caitlin. . .

Caitlin.

Iris doesn't really know what compels her feet to begin dragging themselves out of the cortex and down the hall and she sure as hell doesn't know what she plans on saying when she walks into Caitlin’s spacious office. All she knows is that she doesn't want to be alone anymore and Caitlin is the only person she knows who might understand what she's going through.

The doctor doesn't notice her entrance, bent over her computer and only occasionally looking up to scribble something down in the notebook that sits open beside her. Iris approaches cautiously, her arms folded protectively across her chest.

“Um… hey.”

Caitlin jumps in her seat, curls bouncing, chair spinning in the direction of the voice as an icicle subconsciously flies from her fingertips. Her trajectory is nearly a foot off, fortunately she's always had terrible aim, but it still tears through the sweater of whoever spoke, slashing open the skin of their upper arm. Then follows is a high-pitched yell of pain that Caitlin immediately identifies as Iris’s.

Her identification is verified when Caitlin’s eyes quickly blink across the rest of her body. The same lengthy legs, cascading hair and flawless brown skin as always. Her eyes are squeezed shut, making how long her eyelashes are even more noticeable, and she's grasping at her bicep.

Caitlin jumps out of her chair, guilt coursing through her veins. The feeling is so common nowadays that it might as well just be in her blood, but there's a certain stab of it somewhere more delicate when she realizes she's the cause of that pain on Iris’ face.

“Iris, oh my god! I am so, so sorry. It's just become a reflex. The cuffs are charging right now, ah! Here, here, here,” Caitlin rushes towards the other woman, gently prying her hand away from her bicep and placing her own palm over the bloody wound, beginning to apply pressure. “Hey, can you walk to the med bay for me? I know it hurts and it's cold, but the faster you can get there the faster I can see how deep it is.”

Iris, teeth already chattering slightly, tries to take steady steps back in the direction she'd just come, the shattered icicle crunching under her feet. Caitlin is latched to her arm the entire time she's walking, squeezing Iris’ bicep and whispering a mixture of encouragements and profuse apologies. It feels like forever before she's sitting on the end of a cot, her entire left arm rigid from the cold. She cannot imagine a time where she had been in more pain, or more frozen, than she was right now, which was saying something. She’d been through a hell of a lot in the last year.

Caitlin is running around in a flurry and Iris sees none of the calm and collected precision the doctor has when she works on Barry’s injuries, which doesn't comfort her much. But when she thinks about the similarities between Caitlin zipping around the med bay trying to find bandages and stitches (something she'd vaguely head her mention after sitting down) and Barry zipping around the city trying to save people it does make her laugh a bit, the movement of her lips parting for the sound to escape her throat making her shiver.

Her pain begins to fade, but when Iris looks down at her wound, Caitlin is only halfway through stitching it up and she knows this should be at least a bit more painful than it is; even with the anesthetic Caitlin surely applied. She doesn't remember ever being numbed.

“Mhm, Caitlin, how bad is it?” Iris can hear her own words slur, but concern about it is almost immediately discarded.

She's so tired.

Caitlin looks up from her completed stitch up job at the sound of Iris’s mumbled voice and abruptly shallow breathing. Iris almost giggles at the way her eyes widen and her red painted lips pucker, but when she goes to cover her mouth with her free hand she fumbles, nearly falling backwards onto the cot without a hand to brace herself.

Caitlin catches her before she falls back all the way onto the pillow and Iris thinks she says “My knight in shining armor”. But it's drown out by the doctor’s voice, suddenly laced with fear, speaking:

“Iris? I need you to stay awake for me, okay? Keep your eyes open and try to clear your mind. You're suffering from severe hypothermia.”

“How is that possible?” she protests, attempting to do as the other woman says and sit up further, despite exhaustion eating away at her. “Hypothermia takes a half hour to develop in the coldest of conditions. That icicle hit me like five minutes ago.”

“Ten minutes and forty-three seconds ago, actually. And the sped up side effects must be because of my powers, something about them having a more enhanced cold signature.” Iris only registers bits and pieces of what Caitlin is saying, though she doesn't know whether it has something to do with her hypothermia diagnosis or the fact that the doctor keeps running back and forth between the cot and her supplies neatly organized on a table across the med bay.

Iris nearly drifts out of consciousness after an extended period of silence, which is when Caitlin lets out a yell and removes the heat pack from her arm. Iris misses the warmth almost immediately, but Caitlin’s tug at the hem of her sweater, fingers gently brushing her stomach, fulfills that need almost immediately.

“Take off your shirt,” she demands.

Even with a fogged brain, Iris thinks that shouldn't be the next step in this warming process. “What're you doing, Dr. Snow? Trying to strip me? That's unprofessional, you know. Since I’m dying and all.”

“No, Iris. One, you are not going to die; not while I'm here. And two, I'm not stripping you. I'm asking you to remove your shirt because that way we can attach the heat pack to your wound with medical gauze and tape instead of holding it manually. And also so we can get you into warmer clothes, plus blankets to raise your body temperature to a normal rate.” Caitlin babbles off a logical explanation, one that is surely valid, but Iris sees the way her cheeks flush at the suggestion and feels a sense of joy and accomplishment.

So, wanting nothing more in that moment to be a complying patient, and maybe see Caitlin blush and fumble over her words like a school-girl again, Iris tentatively raises her arms above her head and allows the doctor to pull the sweater up and over, her long hair tangling in the fabric. Then, replacing the embarrassment of being in only a relatively plain black bra (with just a touch of lace on the outer edge) and skin tight jeans in front of Caitlin, with her bouncy brown curls and dark, alluring eyes and gentle, adorable crease between her eyebrows, is the humor at seeing the doctor attempt to keep her eyes off the amount of naked skin Iris is showing.

Caitlin is applying the heat pack to Iris’s bicep with medical gauze, just as promised, when the words “You can raise the body temperature of my lower half too, Dr. Snow” leave Iris’s lips without warning. She can’t help wishing that having hypothermia came with a thought-to-speech filter to prevent her from saying totally outing things like that. No girl that was straight said things like “you can warm my lower half” to other girls, even if they were very pretty and their very touch sent a feeling of pleasure through them.

Iris’s next step is to apologize for her behavior, whether dying (is she dying? how severe was this hypothermia? she didn’t know) or not. But before she can push the actually coherent words out through the haze she’s in, Caitlin speaks in the, what Iris had thought to be, awkward silence.

“Maybe can save that pleasantry for after you’re fully healed, Miss West.”

Oh my god, Iris thinks, her brain momentarily clear with shock, is Caitlin actually hitting on me? Caitlin Snow? And doing a damn smooth job of it? She barely has time to process what that means for them after this is all over before the doctor is continuing as if she hadn’t just blatantly flirted with another woman in the middle of her own med bay:

“What we can do right now, is reclothe you, wrap you in some blankets and get you fed. That will help raise your energy and hopefully your body temperature will be back to normal in an hour or so. Can you cough for me?”

Iris blinks twice, still overcoming her astonishment, stares at the deep red blush dusting Caitlin’s face for a moment, then laughs breathily and chokes a cough out. Caitlin’s pearly smile is worth the harsh pain that sears her throat as she does.

“Do you think you can drink something? It’ll feel good and help, trust me.” Caitlin doesn’t allow her to answer before she’s gone, presumably to where they keep all the food Barry and Wally have to consume in order to keep from passing out every time they run. Iris has never personally seen it, but she can’t imagine the quantity they must have to stash to fill two twenty-something male speedsters.

A mere minute or so after Caitlin disappearance, Iris is longing for her company again. Not just because the lab is dark and she knows someone would be take her out easily in this state if they were to try, but because having the doctor around somehow eases her nerves but accelerates her heartbeat all at once; and it’s a feeling Iris enjoys over and over again. She’s not used to being without it either, even if she and Caitlin don’t speak much on normal occasions, they’re always in the same vicinity, just skirting around each other as two separate entities. Like parallel lines, going in the same direction, so close, but never crossing paths.

Only now, Iris feels as if their lines have intersected. Like maybe all of her quiet dreams and lingering glances might land her somewhere beautiful instead of sending her down the road of loneliness she’d always envisioned for herself after all of the time she’d spent pining after Caitlin Snow.

Her mind begins to wander even farther, thinking of what it would be like to kiss her. Would their first lip lock be sweet and gentle, slow desire burning in Iris’s chest the entire time they’re intertwined and leaving just enough to be desired afterwards? Or would it be more rough, leaving the deep shade of red lipstick Caitlin has taken such a liking to smeared slightly on Iris’s lips--

Caitlin’s head peeks around the corner of the cortex entrance and her abrupt return interrupts Iris’s thought process and she can feel a warm blush creep across her cheeks unwillingly. How had she allowed her mind to wander so far from reality?

“Do you prefer regular hot chocolate or white chocolate hot chocolate? We have both.” Caitlin holds up one dark brown mixture packet in one hand and one white one in the other. “Have you ever tried the white chocolate? Oh my god, it’s delicious, but I’m the only one who likes it. Cisco says it’s ungodly and ruins the purity of all real hot chocolate with it’s existence. He’s so dramatic, but anyway-- uhm, do you even care? Or I can make both, if you want, I mean. . .”

Iris giggles at her babbling, it’s so adorable her chest feels as though it could combust. “White chocolate, for you.”

Caitlin smiles and ducks away again, reappearing a moment later with a STAR Labs sweatshirt and a few blankets draped over her arm. It’s only then that Iris remembers the cold air that’s hitting her bare midriff and shoulders, or feels the weight of the heat pack on her wound. But she only shivers once before Caitlin is raising Iris’s arms over her head and tugging the sweatshirt down over the exposed skin.

She’s so close Iris can smell her flowery perfume and see the dusting of makeup brushed across her nose, covering the dainty freckles that speckle her pale cheeks. She wonders why Caitlin would ever cover up freckles, Iris would die for some of her own, but she’s too busy snuggling into the warmth of the sweatshirt to ask why. Another time, she tells herself as her eyes flutter closed.

“Hey hey hey,” Caitlin says, taking Iris’s face in her hands after quickly draping a blanket over the woman’s shoulders. Her thumbs gently brush Iris’s cheekbones for a moment and the reporter wonders if the motion was supposed to wake her up and not lull her further into sleep.

“Mm,” Iris sighs. It’s not real a response, probably not the one Caitlin was wanting, but she’s playing footsie with the line between conscious and unconsciousness and only hearing bits and pieces of everything. It also doesn’t help that Caitlin’s hands, just as soft as she’d imagined, are still cupping her cheeks, the warmth they’re providing alone enough to raise her body temperature back to normal.

“Can you stay awake for me please?” Though Caitlin surely meant it as a question, her voice is twinged with desperation. Iris realizes that maybe her condition was worse than she thought, that the darkness she had been so longing for was actually death.

“If I fall asleep will it hurt me any?” Iris lays down on the cot, surprised at the spaciousness of it. Her eyes are still closed, but she speaks, the words nothing more than a mumbled breath. Caitlin is close enough that she hears it anyway and with a sigh removes her hands from Iris’s face.

“I suppose not. . . resting is probably good for you anyway, now that your vitals are no longer plummeting and your body temp on a steady rise. I’ll keep the cocoa warm and get more blankets if you want.”

She’s doing that walking-away-before-Iris-has-a-chance-to-answer thing again, the click of her heels already fading. Her dejection was clear, even if friendly kindness was trying to conceal it. And even though she’s very glad her sleeping will not result in her never waking up, Iris thinks that Caitlin must be very lonely, all by herself in this lab when everyone else has gone home to family and friends each night. Iris never, ever wants her to feel that way again. Not while she was around, loving her so dearly, but letting Caitlin suffer while she works up the courage to act upon her feelings.

So when she calls out weakly, it’s out of longing for the comfort and warmth only Caitlin provide. A desperate need to make sure the doctor never feels alone again.

“Cait?”

The clicking of heels stops.

“Can you stay with me? Up here?” Iris shivers and uses that as an excuse for her next line: “Maybe the warmth of another body will help boost my recovery.”

Iris opens her eyes just a bit to see Caitlin’s small smile in the dim moonlight, as she slips off her heels and walks back towards the cot. For a moment she looks ready to climb up immediately, but then pauses at the side in hesitation, fingers idly rubbing the fleece blanket Iris had burrowed herself under.

“Are you sure you’re. . . you know. . .”

Officially too tired to respond, Iris laughs once at her stubbornness then extends her hand from underneath the blanket and pulls Caitlin onto the cot with her. It’s awkward at first, she’ll admit, but after twisting back and forth a few times, trying to make sure they’re both comfortable and the blanket is evenly distributed, Iris ends up the little spoon with Caitlin’s frontside warming her back and making her feel safe in a way she hadn’t in a long time. A few of Caitlin’s curls spill over Iris’s shoulder and she can’t think of a better way to fall asleep than with the smell of tea tree tickling her nose.

Iris snuggles deep, pulling the blanket tighter around her. She can feel Caitlin shift to where her lips are closer to Iris’s ear, sending a shiver up her spine when she speaks.

“You know you’re a bit of a blanket hog, West.”

Iris elbows her in the stomach and after Caitlin’s giggle the world is quiet again, the hum of machinery still going at a steady pace in the background. It’s now lulling Iris to sleep, and as soon as Caitlin’s breath goes even and she begins to snore softly, she allows herself to drift off as well.

STAR Labs is a lot more comforting at night, indeed.

#snowest #iris/caitlin #iris x caitlin #iris west #caitlin snow #The Flash #mine #ao3 #oneshots

21 notes · View notes

entreprenergy · 6 years ago

Text

Brain Rules – by John Medina

RULE #1 : Exercise boosts brain power.

The human brain evolved under conditions of almost constant motion. From this, one might predict that the optimal environment for processing information would include motion. That is exactly what one finds. Indeed, the best business meeting would have everyone walking at about 1.8 miles per hour.

Researchers studied two elderly populations that had led different lifestyles, one sedentary and one active. Cognitive scores were profoundly influenced. Exercise positively affected executive function, spatial tasks, reaction times and quantitative skills.

So researchers asked: If the sedentary populations become active, will their cognitive scores go up? Yes, it turns out, if the exercise is aerobic. In four months, executive functions vastly improve; longer, and memory scores improve as well.

Exercise improves cognition for two reasons: – Exercise increases oxygen flow into the brain, which reduces brain-bound free radicals. One of the most interesting findings of the past few decades is that an increase in oxygen is always accompanied by an uptick in mental sharpness. – Exercise acts directly on the molecular machinery of the brain itself. It increases neurons’ creation, survival, and resistance to damage and stress.

RULE #2 : The human brain evolved, too.

The brain is a survival organ. It is designed to solve problems related to surviving in an unstable outdoor environment and to do so in nearly constant motion (to keep you alive long enough to pass your genes on). We were not the strongest on the planet but we developed the strongest brains, the key to our survival.

The strongest brains survive, not the strongest bodies. Our ability to solve problems, learn from mistakes, and create alliances with other people helps us survive. We took over the world by learning to cooperate and forming teams with our neighbors.

Our ability to understand each other is our chief survival tool. Relationships helped us survive in the jungle and are critical to surviving at work and school today.

If someone does not feel safe with a teacher or boss, he or she may not perform as well. If a student feels misunderstood because the teacher cannot connect with the way the student learns, the student may become isolated.

There is no greater anti-brain environment than the classroom and cubicle.

RULE #3 : Every brain is wired differently.

What YOU do and learn in life physically changes what your brain looks like – it literally rewires it. We used to think there were just 7 categories of intelligence. But categories of intelligence may number more than 7 billion — roughly the population of the world.

No two people have the same brain, not even twins. Every student’s brain, every employee’s brain, every customer’s brain is wired differently.

You can either accede to it or ignore it. The current system of education ignores it by having grade structures based on age. Businesses such as Amazon are catching on to mass customization (the Amazon homepage and the products you see are tailored to your recent purchases).

Regions of the brain develop at different rates in different people. The brains of school children are just as unevenly developed as their bodies. Our school system ignores the fact that every brain is wired differently. We wrongly assume every brain is the same.

Most of us have a “Jennifer Aniston” neuron (a neuron lurking in your head that is stimulated only when Jennifer Aniston is in the room).

Theory of Mind : The ability to understand the interior motivations of someone else, and the ability to construct a predictable “theory of how their mind works” based on that knowledge. We try to see our entire world in terms of motivations, ascribing motivations to our pets and even to inanimate objects. The skill is useful for selecting a mate, navigating the day-to-day issues surrounding living together, for parenting. We have it like no other creature. It is as close to mind reading as we are likely to get.

People with advanced Theory of Mind skills possess the single most important ingredient for becoming effective communicators of information.

If someone does not feel safe with a teacher or boss, they may not be able to perform as well.

If a student feels misunderstood because the teacher cannot connect with the way the student learns, the student may become isolated.

RULE #4 : We don’t pay attention to boring things.

What we pay attention to is profoundly influenced by memory. Our previous experience predicts where we should pay attention. Culture matters too. Whether in school or in business, these differences can greatly effect how an audience perceives a given presentation.

We pay attention to things like emotions, threats and sex. Regardless of who you are, the brain pays a great deal of attention to these questions: Can I eat it? Will it eat me? Can I mate with it? Will it mate with me? Have I seen it before?

The brain is not capable of multi-tasking. We can talk and breathe, but when it comes to higher level tasks, we just can’t do it.

Driving while talking on a cell phone is like driving drunk. The brain is a sequential processor and large fractions of a second are consumed every time the brain switches tasks. This is why cell-phone talkers are a half-second slower to hit the brakes and get in more wrecks.

Workplaces and schools actually encourage this type of multi-tasking. Walk into any office and you’ll see people sending e-mail, answering their phones, Instant Messaging, and on MySpace — all at the same time. Research shows your error rate goes up 50% and it takes you twice as long to do things.

When you’re always online you’re always distracted. So the always online organization is the always unproductive organization.

If a teacher can’t hold a student’s interest, knowledge will not be richly encoded in the brain’s database.

Brains in wild animals are 15%-30% larger than tame, domestic counterparts. The cold, hard world forced the wild animals into constant learning mode. It is the same with humans. The more activity you do, the larger and more complex it can become.

The brain cannot multi-task. It is a myth. The brain focuses attention on concepts sequentially, one at a time. Switching takes time.

RULE #5 : Repeat to remember.

The human brain can only hold about seven pieces of information for less than 30 seconds! Which means, your brain can only handle a 7-digit phone number. If you want to extend the 30 seconds to a few minutes or even an hour or two, you will need to consistently re-expose yourself to the information. Memories are so volatile that you have to repeat to remember.

Improve your memory by elaborately encoding it during its initial moments. Many of us have trouble remembering names. If at a party you need help remembering Mary, it helps to repeat internally more information about her. “Mary is wearing a blue dress and my favorite color is blue.” It may seem counter-intuitive at first but study after study shows it improves your memory.

Brain Rules in the classroom. In partnership with the University of Washington and Seattle Pacific University, Medina tested this Brain Rule in real classrooms of 3rd graders. They were asked to repeat their multiplication tables in the afternoons. The classrooms in the study did significantly better than the classrooms that did not have the repetition. If brain scientists get together with teachers and do research, we may be able to eliminate need for homework since learning would take place at school, instead of the home.

The first few seconds of encoding new information is crucial in determining whether something that is initially perceived will be remembered.

The more elaborately we encode information at the moment of learning, the stronger the memory. When encoding is elaborate and deep, the memory that forms is much more robust than when encoding is partial and cursory.

The neural pathways initially used to process new information end up becoming the permanent pathways the brain reuses to store the information. (Like the college professor that made no sidewalks in the new campus. He waited to see where students would walk anyway, then later paved the paths.)

The more a learning focuses on the meaning of the processed information, the more elaborately the encoding is processed.

When you are trying to drive a piece of information into your brain’s memory, make sure you understand exactly what that information means. If you are trying to drive information into someone else’s brain, make sure they understand what it means.

Don’t try to memorize by rote and pray the meaning will reveal itself!

The more repetition cycles a memory experienced, the more likely it is to persist in your mind. The space between repetitions is the critical component for transforming temporary memories into more persistent forms.

Spaced learning is greatly superior to massed learning.

Deliberately re-expose yourself to information *more elaborately*, in fixed spaced intervals, to make retrieval the most vivid it can be.

Learning occurs best when new information is incorporated gradually into the memory store rather than jammed in all at once.

Physically, “student” neurons need to get the same information from the “teacher” neuron within 90 minutes, or its excitement will vanish. The cell will literally reset itself to zero and act as if nothing happened.

Information must be repeated after a period of time has elapsed. If the information is repeatedly pulsed in discretely timed intervals, the relationship between teacher and student neuron begins to change, so increasingly smaller and smaller inputs from the teacher are required to elicit increasingly stronger and stronger outputs from the student.

Forgetting allows us to prioritize events. Events irrelevant to our survival will take up wasteful cognitive space if we assign them the same priority as events critical to our survival. So we don’t.

In school, every 3rd or 4th day would be reserved for reviewing the facts delivered in the previous 3-4 days. Previous information would be presented in compressed fashion. Inspect notes, comparing with what the teacher was saying in the review. That would result in a greater elaboration of the information. A formalized exercise in error-checking.

RULE #6 : Remember to repeat.

It takes years to consolidate a memory. Not minutes, hours, or days but years. What you learn in first grade is not completely formed until your sophomore year in high school.

Medina’s dream school is one that repeats what was learned, not at home, but during the school day, 90-120 minutes after the initial learning occurred. Our schools are currently designed so that most real learning has to occur at home.

How do you remember better? Repeated exposure to information / in specifically timed intervals / provides the most powerful way to fix memory into the brain.

Forgetting allows us to prioritize events. But if you want to remember, remember to repeat.

RULE #7 : Sleep well, think well.

When we’re asleep, the brain is not resting at all. It is almost unbelievably active! It’s possible that the reason we need to sleep is so that we can learn.

Sleep must be important because we spend 1/3 of our lives doing it! Loss of sleep hurts attention, executive function, working memory, mood, quantitative skills, logical reasoning, and even motor dexterity.

We still don’t know how much we need! It changes with age, gender, pregnancy, puberty, and so much more.

Napping is normal. Ever feel tired in the afternoon? That’s because your brain really wants to take a nap. There’s a battle raging in your head between two armies. Each army is made of legions of brain cells and biochemicals –- one desperately trying to keep you awake, the other desperately trying to force you to sleep. Around 3 p.m., 12 hours after the midpoint of your sleep, all your brain wants to do is nap.

Taking a nap might make you more productive. In one study, a 26-minute nap improved NASA pilots’ performance by 34 percent.

Don’t schedule important meetings at 3 p.m. It just doesn’t make sense.

Students given a series of math problems that all had a shortcut that was not revealed to them. Only 20% found the shortcut if answers had to be given same-day. But if asked after sleep, 60% found the shortcut. No matter how many times the experiment is run, the sleep group consistently outperforms the non-sleep group about to 3 to 1.

RULE #8 : Stressed brains don’t learn the same way.

You brain is built to deal with stress that lasts about 30 seconds. The brain is not designed for long term stress when you feel like you have no control. The saber-toothed tiger ate you or you ran away but it was all over in less than a minute. If you have a bad boss, the saber-toothed tiger can be at your door for years, and you begin to deregulate. If you are in a bad marriage, the saber-toothed tiger can be in your bed for years, and the same thing occurs. You can actually watch the brain shrink.

Stress damages virtually every kind of cognition that exists. It damages memory and executive function. It can hurt your motor skills. When you are stressed out over a long period of time it disrupts your immune response. You get sicker more often. It disrupts your ability to sleep. You get depressed.

The emotional stability of the home is the single greatest predictor of academic success. If you want your kid to get into Harvard, go home and love your spouse.

You have one brain. The same brain you have at home is the same brain you have at work or school. The stress you are experiencing at home will affect your performance at work, and vice versa.

RULE #9 : Stimulate more of the senses.

Our senses work together so it is important to stimulate them! Your head crackles with the perceptions of the whole world, sight, sound, taste, smell, touch, energetic as a frat party.

Smell is unusually effective at evoking memory. If you’re tested on the details of a movie while the smell of popcorn is wafted into the air, you’ll remember 10-50% more.

Smell is really important to business. When you walk into Starbucks, the first thing you smell is coffee. They have done a number of things over the years to make sure that’s the case.

The learning link. Those in multi-sensory environments always do better than those in uni-sensory environments. They have more recall with better resolution that lasts longer, evident even 20 years later.

– students learn better from words and pictures than words alone – students learn better when corresponding words and pictures are presented simultaneously – students learn better when corresponding words and pictures are presented near to each other rather than far from each on the page or screen – students learn better when extraneous material is excluded rather than included – students learn better from animation and narration than from animation and on-screen text

RULE #10 : Vision trumps all other senses.

We are incredible at remembering pictures. Hear a piece of information, and three days later you’ll remember 10% of it. Add a picture and you’ll remember 65%.

Pictures beat text as well, in part because reading is so inefficient for us. Our brain sees words as lots of tiny pictures, and we have to identify certain features in the letters to be able to read them. That takes time.

Why is vision such a big deal to us? Perhaps because it’s how we’ve always apprehended major threats, food supplies and reproductive opportunity.

Toss your PowerPoint presentations. It’s text-based (nearly 40 words per slide), with six hierarchical levels of chapters and subheads—all words. Professionals everywhere need to know about the incredible inefficiency of text-based information and the incredible effects of images. Burn your current PowerPoint presentations and make new ones.

RULE #11 : Male and female brains are different.

What’s different? Mental health professionals have known for years about sex-based differences in the type and severity of psychiatric disorders. Males are more severely afflicted by schizophrenia than females. By more than 2 to 1, women are more likely to get depressed than men, a figure that shows up just after puberty and remains stable for the next 50 years. Males exhibit more antisocial behavior. Females have more anxiety. Most alcoholics and drug addicts are male. Most anorexics are female.

Men and women handle acute stress differently. When researcher Larry Cahill showed them slasher films, men fired up the amygdale in their brain’s right hemisphere, which is responsible for the gist of an event. Their left was comparatively silent. Women lit up their left amygdale, the one responsible for details. Having a team that simultaneously understood the gist and details of a given stressful situation helped us conquer the world.

Men and women process certain emotions differently. Emotions are useful. They make the brain pay attention. These differences are a product of complex interactions between nature and nurture.

RULE #12 : We are powerful and natural explorers.

The desire to explore never leaves us despite the classrooms and cubicles we are stuffed into. Babies are the model of how we learn—not by passive reaction to the environment but by active testing through observation, hypothesis, experiment, and conclusion. Babies methodically do experiments on objects, for example, to see what they will do.

Google takes to heart the power of exploration. For 20 percent of their time, employees may go where their mind asks them to go. The proof is in the bottom line: fully 50 percent of new products, including Gmail and Google News, came from “20 percent time.”

The post Brain Rules – by John Medina appeared first on Entreprenergy.

from Brain Rules – by John Medina

#Brain Rules – by John Medina #Entreprenergy #Podcast #Andre Abi Awad #Entrepreneurs #Arab

0 notes