#so his feelings/magic are poured into these paper cranes

[inkskinned]

hello. you left a neon pink post-it with pgs 194-359 due 9/12 in the book, by the way. it is now May 23rd and the library's printer is running out of ink. it jammed and tore my passport application. one of the librarians dutifully blacked out all my information (front and back!) before proceeding to use every unmarred inch as scrap paper.

i think maybe our (plural, inclusive) lives are connected. all of them. i have been thinking a lot about borrowing. about how people move through the world in waves, filling in the same spaces. i have probably stood on the same subway platform as you. we held the same book. all of us stand in the same line at the grocery, at the gas station. how many feet have stood washing dishes in my kitchen?

i hope you are doing well. the pen you used was a nice red, maybe a glitter pen? you have loopy, curling handwriting. i sometimes wonder if it is true that you can tell a personality by the shape of our letters. i'm borrowing my brother's car. he's got scrangly engineer handwriting (you know the one). it's a yellow-orange ford mustang boss. when i got out of the building, some kids were posing with it for a selfie. i felt a little bird grow in me and had to pause and pretend to be busy with my phone to give them more time for their laughing.

i have a habit of asking people what's the last good book you read? the librarian's handwriting on the back of my smeared-and-chewed passport application says the glass house in small undercase. i usually go for fantasy/sci fi, but she was glowing when she suggested it. i found your post-it on page 26, so i really hope you didn't have to read up to 359 in that particular book. i hope you're like me and just have a weird "random piece of trash" "bookmark" that somehow makes it through like, 58 books.

i wish the concept of soul mates was bigger. i wish it was about how my soul and your soul are reading the same work. how i actually put down that book at the same time you did - page 26 was like, all exposition. i wish we were soul mates with every person on the same train. how magical to exist and borrow the same space together. i like the idea that somewhere, someone is using the shirts i donated. i like the idea that every time i see a nice view and say oh gosh look at the view, you (plural, inclusive) said that too.

the kids hollered when i beeped the car. oh dude you set off the alarm, oh shit is she - dude that's her car!! one was extremely polite. "i like your car, Miss. i'm sorry we touched it." i said i wasn't busy, finish up the pictures. i folded your post-it into a paper crane while i waited. i thought about how my brother's a kind person but his handwriting looks angry. i thought about how for an entire year i drove someone to work every day - and i didn't even think to ask for gas money. my handwriting is straight capital letters.

i thought about how i can make a paper crane because i was taught by someone who was taught by someone else.

the kids asked me to rev the engine and you know i did. the way they reacted? you would have thought i brought the sun from the sky and poured it into a waterglass. i went home smiling about it. i later gave your post it-turned-bird to a tiny child on the bus. she put it in her mouth immediately.

how easy, standing in your shadow, casting my own. how our hands pass over each other in the same minor folds. i wonder how many of the same books you and i have read. i wonder how many people have the same favorite six songs or have been in the same restaurant or have attended the same movie premier. the other day i mentioned the Book Mill from a small town in western massachusetts - a lot of people knew of it. i wonder if i've ever passed you - and didn't even notice it.

i hope whatever i leave behind makes you happy. i hope my hands only leave gentle prints. i hope you and i get the same feeling when the sun comes out. soulmates across all of it.

[galeorderbride]

Intimacy Prompt: #43!

43: falling asleep with their head in your lap

Thank you sm for the prompt request!!

I like the idea of post game Professor!Gale when he first starts teaching. Maybe full of self doubt over whether he’s a good teacher, feeling frustrated that his pupils aren’t understanding concepts right away (mostly blaming himself). And Tav just comforting him at their home. 

A shortie ft. Gale x tav (uses she/her pronouns but no physical descriptions). Fluffy cuteness, comfort and nothing more 😊 

Rating: T

Count: 1337 

…

Gale was always a man to pour over documents with immense detail, but tonight, he seemed to be studying the same page on repeat. Pen scratching against the paper to the point of tearing, the sound of him mumbling to himself. Gale usually took so much pleasure in hours of research, absorbed in the material, but not this time. He mumbled, perturbed by his own work as he’d scold himself under his breath. 

For the first few hours, Tav left him to his work, knowing he wouldn’t feel better until he completed the task. Until he missed dinner, even when she called for him. No matter how much work he had to do, he’d made a habit of joining Tav at the table. She watched the clock tick, waiting for his steps down the stairs as the plate of chicken and vegetable stew grew colder. She should’ve checked on him already, but ever the people pleaser, she didn’t wish to bother him while in focus. 

Finally, she got up from the table and took his bowl in hand, travelling up the narrow stairwell. If he didn’t come out to eat, she would go to him. 

The wooden door was closed tight, but unlocked. Tav knocked a few times before entering, saying, “Gale, my love, are you alright? Your soup is getting cold. I know my cooking isn’t quite as good as yours, but it can’t be that scary.” 

He replied through the door, voice muffled but obviously exhausted, “Sorry, Tav, would you mind putting it away for me and I can reheat it later? Forgive me, dear, I have more to do than I anticipated.” 

Unsatisfied with his response, Tav sighed and entered his study. His back faced her, seated at his desk by a large window, fresh snow tapping against the glass as the evening turned to night. Candlelight illuminated piles of parchment around him, dotted with ink smudges and overlapping line edits. A mug of green tea sat on the end, untouched and cold. At the centre of it all was Gale, her loving fiance, slumped over the cherrywood surface with his head in his hands. 

Tav approached him, standing behind his chair as she placed the bowl on the desk and brought her hands to his shoulders. Velveteen fabric softened against her touch, lowering herself down to kiss the crane of his neck. The tension in his muscles was palpable, yielding even to the lightest rub. His tired eyes met hers, nothing but tenderness in those dark, chestnut eyes in desperate need of nutrients. 

“Gale, what’s wrong? You look as though you’ve just discovered the darkest secret of Nessus,” Tav asked. 

“Perhaps I’d feel a little better if I did,” he said, voice husky from tiredness. “At least then I’d provide a bit of value somewhere.” 

Tav looked over at his work, deciphering the multiple revisions to see he wasn’t doing research, he was strategizing classroom discussion. Private tutoring sessions, patterns of abbreviations for illusory spells, even planned workshops focusing on specific incantations. All the ideas were scratched out, or little comments written on them like ‘stupid’, ‘no’ and ‘absolutely not’.

“Are you doing lesson plans?” She asked, unable to conceal the confusion in her voice. 

“Failing lesson plans,” he said. “My students aren’t responding well to my current teaching style. They aren’t understanding concepts, their spell performance is mediocre at best, and I can see their eyes glazing over when I give my lectures on the ethics of phantasmal casting.” 

Riveting stuff, truly. His fixations on magical concepts that could get him going for hours if one wasn’t careful. Part of why Tav fell so deeply in love with him, rare to find such passion for subjects. She remembered nights at camp, taking peace in listening to his current fascination at the time. The only solace to such a deadly adventure. But perhaps a bunch of young apprentices weren’t as rose-coloured. 

“Well, you’ve only just begun teaching, love. Maybe you just need to get to know your students a little more, see what they want to get out of the class before you write the next manual on workshopping,” Tav said. 

“Perhaps I’m just not as good a teacher as I thought,” he said, voice lowering into a sombre tone as he sighed, throwing the quill pen across the desk. 

Tav ran her hands from his shoulders up to the nape of his neck, beginning to play with his hair. She gave a cheeky grin,“Last time we talked about students, I recall you thinking it was all their fault for not understanding.” 

He chuckled, “I blame you. Showing me love and humility. Now all I can do is think I’m the problem.” 

“I’ll venture to feed your ego more,” she joked, “Come, let’s take a rest for a moment.” 

Hand-in-hand, Gale followed her to their shared bedroom. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, the scent of balsam and mint enlivening the room from a scented candle on the mantle. Snow fell harder now, forming into a windy current that would surely become a blizzard by bedtime. A perfect environment for calming comfort, as Tav helped Gale remove his shirt, leaving him in nothing but lounge pants. After Tav put her own nightgown on, they crawled into bed. 

Gale rested his head on Tav’s lap, tracing his fingertips across the bare skin of her legs. Meanwhile, her hands ran through his hair again, brushing through the fine strands of beautiful, brown hair speckled with streaks of grey. Tav nestled in the pleasant bliss of hearing his even breath, calming with every stroke across the side of his head. The beat of his heart against her skin, so gloriously alive. There was once a time when he was willing to let that human beat expire, and how far he’d come, now absorbed in her embrace, filled with endless love and compassion. Even if that meant there wasn’t much power. There was no need for it in a caring household like this. 

Little kisses tickled the top of her thighs, mixed with the graze of his beard sending her into a sleepy comfort. She could play with his hair all night if he asked, such a simple, delicate pastime that reminded her of just how much she adored him. 

“Hmm, if you keep doing that, I may just fall asleep, my love,” he said, voice already trailing. His words slowed every time he was fighting sleep, mind always on overdrive but his body couldn’t always keep up. 

“Rest on me, Gale. I don’t mind,” she said, in a gentle whisper. 

He adjusted his position, wrapping his arms around the leg he rested on as if her thigh was a teddy bear. Her other leg crossed over his bare back, their bodies tangled within each other. Tav hummed a light lullaby, her voice like medicine to Gale’s ears as all his stress washed away. All that remained was the sensation of smooth skin, her nurturing voice, and the peace of being enveloped in the embrace of his greatest, most cherished love. 

As she sang, his eyes grew heavy, muscles loosening to the magic of her compassionate hands. That irresistible weightlessness began to overtake him, every thought of self doubt beginning to fade to a tiny smile. The lure of her song was so strong, she might’ve been one of the harpies they encountered back at the Emerald Grove. Their life had changed so much since then. His personal songstress caressing him in their queen sized bed, downy sheets and feather pillows as their shelter rather than tents and rocky ground.  

“Tav…I love you,” he said, lulling slowly into a peaceful sleep. The tapping of snow against the window, the snap of flame, her voice, all sending him into a comforting slumber. 

“I love you Gale Dekarios,” she said, moving a final piece of hair behind his ears before he fell into a deep sleep, making her laugh as he let out a small, adorable snore.

[spaceorphan18]

The Lady Whistledown Papers : 1x08 After the Rain (Part 1)

Welcome back, Gentle Readers, to The Lady Whistledown Papers, where I’m taking an in-depth look at Penelope Featherington and Colin Bridgerton’s character arcs and romance within the show Bridgerton!

For previous issues, follow tag : The Lady Whistledown Papers

Last episode of Season 1 - let's do this!

Family Time

These big family scenes are some of my favorite - mostly because there's usually so much going on during them, and everyone gets a beat. Anthony's sulking (and throwing groundwork for Season 2); Gregory and Hyacinth are bantering, Benedict and Eloise are hyping up the Lady Whistledown plot, and Colin's in the background pouring over his maps, because after all the drama he is peacing outta there.

Violet enters exclaiming that Francesca will be returning (because it's the finale and we should try to have all 8 in the same room again). Colin snarks that she can update them on how great not being in London is. Glad to see Colin's continuing to add humor back in his life, but oh man is he ready to be anywhere but there.

Also, Violet recounts all the drama of the season from Daphne and Simon to Anthony and Siena, though she fascinatingly does not mention Marina.

Penelope and Marina

Meanwhile, back at the Featherington Estate, Penelope goes to check in on Marina. She is fine after her bout with the tea -- but now thinks she's magically cured herself of pregnancy. Ah, the medical information of the 19th century. Poor girl.

Penelope isn't so sure, but she really knows nothing about medicine anyway, so she kind of just lets it go.

Penelope then remarks that Marina caused 'quite a flutter'. And it's interesting - despite some of the friction that was caused between the two of them, I still believe that Penelope still likes Marina, in general, and while it's clear Marina is anxious to return home, I do think Penelope will miss her being around - she did add a little spice to their day.

I have to wonder, too, if Penelope does feels slight guilt for causing such a tizzy herself? But then, I don't think she does. I think she believes she did the right thing -- but still feels awkward about it with Marina.

Marina then apologies for the whole ordeal. And I do think she's sincere here. She did what she thought was best and in her own self interests to protect herself and an unborn child. And now that she thinks it's all over, she can go back to being her again.

Marina goes on to say that Penelope was right - that Colin is a good man with a good heart, and I mean -- the pride in Pen's eyes. She's almost bashful about it, but she's like - I know how good he is. I've seen it for years. Thank you for acknowledging that. It's a fascinating little look that isn't about her at all - but about someone else seeing what she does in him.

Marina then goes on to somewhat try to mend a cruelty. She doesn't have to say the next part, she could have left it at -- Colin is a good dude. But she makes it a point to acknowledge that not only is Penelope good to him, but that some day Colin will notice her. And, like, this is incredibly kind. Marina went out of her way to destroy all of Pen's hope for her own personal gain. And, maybe as an apology, or maybe as something she genuinely senses, she's restoring some of Pen's hope.

And, of course, this works as narrative foreshadowing. The show is taking a moment to say -- hey, the real love story is between these two idiots who are bumbling along on their road to each other. We're not there yet - but we're getting there. And I love that.

The scene ends with the arrival of Sir Phillip Crane, and this is where the narrative shifts. The story of Colin and Marina is done, and Marina is going to continue on with her own story into a new (and final) part. One in which Penelope really doesn't have anything to do - now that the Polin portion of the storyline is done (in relation to Marina).

Sir Phillip Crane

I really like how Penelope is kind of taking a caring and protective stance here. She and Marina are on the same side again, and while Penelope really doesn't have anything to do in this scene - she's poised as Marina's ally. She's holding Marina's hand, and has her back, and wants to make sure she's okay -- while also shooting Crane some very watchful looks.

Also, somewhat of an aside, since it isn't directly related to Penelope, we learn that George died on the battlefield, and Marina leaves -- and we get a genuinely emotional moment for Marina. And I think it helps frame her entire story, if you go back and watch it again. Marina encased her own feelings, her own heartache, her own heart. She did do everything she did out of self preservation, because she felt she was truly and utterly alone. And upon learning that George hadn't forsaken her -- she just breaks down and is able to grieve and it's a really powerful moment. I don't agree with Marina's choices, and I think it would have been a terrible thing if she and Colin had gotten married -- but I also understand her and her choices and I think she's a rather complicated character, too.

I do appreciate that this show does have more depth to it than just pretty people having sex on the stairs. There's a lot of emotional complexity in the Marina story line.

[This scene takes place six-ish minutes later, but I thought I'd lump it all together.]

Penelope is in the background here, so it gives me a minute to ponder about something... Phillip Crane is the male protagonist of book 5. Which is Eloise's book. And, I just wonder if this is really the show paying the long game here with Eloise's story? Or if they decided to just do something different? I have no idea! Marina dies from depression and attempts on her own life in the book -- and I would hate to see this character, whom we've grown to like meet that fate. Not to mention, show Eloise is sooo different than her book counterpart, it's hard to imagine her falling in love with this guy. It's all so weird. I really don't know what they're going to do with it.

Penelope has a couple of interesting reactions in this scene, however. The first being when Marina says that she cannot marry Crane because she does not love him. And Penelope is kind of nodding along in agreement here. Because she isn't there for her mother's assertion that you should just marry for the status and security of it. She does believe in love, and believes one should marry for that reason.

The other look, it's dark, and I can't quite get a read on it. But it's when Marina is telling Portia off -- stating that she's done with lies and deception and thinking that now that she's without a child she can be true to herself again. And I wonder if Penelope is somewhat envious of her gumption. How much would she like to stand up to her own mother but can't? But also - how much she feels she can't be her true self and has to use Lady Whistledown to express it? Idk what the intention of the look is supposed to be, but I do think it lends credence to the fact that Penelope is a deeply complex character, too, one whose motivations are not black or white, either.

And... that's where I'm stopping for now. :)

[moonlight404-translates]

A3! My Worst Wedding | Izumida Azami | Mini Chats Translation

—————

Disclaimer: Neither English nor Japanese is my native language, but I did my best with the translation. By the way, I took some liberties while translating. If you find any mistakes, feel free to tell me.

Practice Conversation 1 

It’s been a while since I was the lead in an autumn troupe’s play. This lead role feels completely different from the one back then. 

That shitty Sakyo said I should be careful not to let the main lead get overshadowed by the second lead acting. As if I would let that happen. 

Instead, I will show a strong presence with my acting to overshadow his second lead role. 

But yeah… I can’t get how it feels to be in love with my fiance, so I have to think a lot about it in my role study. 

…Maybe I should ask Muku-san if he can lend me light shoujo manga to read for now.

Practice Conversation 2

Ethan fell head over heels for Olivia since she looked like his favorite anime character. 

So I thought of getting references for my role study from Itaru-san since he likes anime…

When I mentioned him the setting, he said he could totally relate to it and started speaking about it so passionately. 

Like how happy he would be if she looked like his fave character, the excitement he would get to see his fiance, or how he would like to brag about her to those around him… 

However, seeing Itaru-san speaking so passionately made me think… that Ethan might have fallen in love this hard too.

Itaru-san was enthusiastic, and his eyes were shining brightly during our talk…

Practice Conversation 3

About my role study for Ethan? Well, I’ve gotten advice from everyone and tried different things.

Muku-san showed me some manga with scenes where the characters fall in love at first sight… but I’m far away from getting that feeling. 

Then, Muku-san and Kazunari-san said… 

Since Olivia is older than Ethan, I could try to imagine Director as my fiance as part of my role study. 

You, as my… future spouse… 

I-It’s nothing. I just tried to do what they said for a bit! 

Shoot. I know this is for role study, but I kinda got conscious, and now it feels weird.

A-Anyways, I’ll think more about my role study. 

Ahm… I might need help from Director again in the future, so thanks beforehand. 

Azami and Hisoka Mini Chat

Azami: So weddings…

Hisoka: Weddings have different production and performances. 

Azami: Ah, that’s right. If I’m not wrong, you had a part-time job in a wedding venue before, Hisoka-san. 

Hisoka: Mhm. For a short time, though. 

Azami: I’ve acted in the Wedding Fest and the Wedding Venue, but I don’t know much about weddings aside from those celebrated in the Ginsekai. 

Azami: Could you tell me about it to use it as a reference for my next play?

Hisoka: …I worked in the banquet reception. So I served the food and poured the drinks. 

Hisoka: At the wedding, there was a speech about how the groom and the bride met each other… 

Hisoka: The two of them said what they liked about each other and hugged. 

Azami: T-Their meeting, the things they like, and a hug…

Hisoka: From what I saw at the wedding, there can be singing performances and magic shows. I helped arrange the stage for them. 

Azami: Heh, I see. So it was true that Hisoka-san works properly in his part-time job. 

Hisoka: Of course.

Hisoka: Now, I’ll tell you the most important part about that.

Azami: What?

Hisoka: They had a delicious marshmallow cake in the wedding venue.

Azami: …You can do a good job and still remain the same as always, no matter where you are.

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

Notes: The events Azami mentioned appears in Bride Concerto (ch. 10) and Groom Battle Royale AGAIN (ch. 9). Azami’s SR Wish Upon A Paper Crane has one of the Ginsekai customs for weddings. Hisoka’s part-time job in a wedding venue comes from his SSR Tempting Wedding Cake backstage.

[joonkorre]

To my love,

@drarrymicrofic prompt: forbidden

read Paper Hearts by @dorthyanndrarry and have been completely obsessed w draco doing little mundane things as a hobby or bc it's therapeutic etc etc. i had to fold these paper cranes for an art project once. it's fucking addictive lmao. ao3

tw: very brief mention of blood

It’s just a thing Draco does when he’s bored. A past-time, or a hobby, even. If it’s past midnight and less tiring to be honest, he’d admit that it’s a coping method. But he never really feels like that as of late, as expected from a permanent resident in what is now the Dark Lord’s lair.

Light, clean air, silence, and Merlin knows what else, are lacking in abundance in the Malfoy Manor these days. However, with owl posts too easily intercepted and words too eagerly etched on skin rather than blank pages, paper is readily available. Draco has a lot of free time, being ‘Lucius’s worthless son’ and all. Thus, he writes.

Are you out there? How do you fare?

I haven’t eaten breakfast today. Perhaps I should’ve, but Nagini never leaves.

Will Harry Potter ever get caught?

I tried to go out today. Do you know how it feels to have blood drained from your feet?

Comments of nonsensical nature like so. They help, though. Draco doesn’t quite know the psychology behind it, but he can’t help writing them. A passing interest, then once every two weeks, then every other day, then any piece of paper he can find. Any piece large enough.

To my love,

That Luna girl cries again.

He doesn’t understand why—he’s never understood much, now that he thinks about it—but he’s taken to writing those three words before every message. It feels nice, he supposes, to pretend there’s someone who looks forward to reading his letters, regardless of how boring or awful they are. No matter, a tiny phrase never hurts anyone. He hopes. How many things (small, insignificant things) did he say that—?

To my love,

The last of Mother’s roses have faded to a dull grey. They used to be the color of lilac.

He’s used his wand as a light tonight, a whispered Lumos scarcely bright enough to write down a sentence and cut a strip of paper away, making a square. Familiar folds and creases give way easily beneath his calloused fingers in the dark. Feeling the precise pleats, he bends the wings, then pulls out the tail and the neck. He runs a finger down the neck’s tip. Its head is formed.

To my love,

Should I have killed him?

Cracking open the dirty window right beside his bed, the cool scent of fog and sleepy meadows wafts against his face. A gentle tap of his wand, and the paper crane floats away into the night with minute flaps of wings. Where is it going? He never knows. To his love?

To my love,

There’s a suitcase hidden inside my mattress, ready to go.

Draco closes the window and slides under the cover. Staring up at the swirling darkness of his canopy, he hopes the crane gets to, say, the nearby valley before descending.

To my love,

Let’s run away together.

The scenery is nice there, at least.

----

There’s an analogy to be made about shackles and penance and father’s sins. Draco wouldn’t know. He’s not in the right state of mind to ponder it.

A shame. It’d be nice if his last thought before the Kiss is something poetic.

“He was but a child,” he hears his mother scream. A deafening crash echoes throughout the vast space as her chains weigh more with each word spoken out of turn, forcing her to the dirty floor. “A child!”

Titters and jeers swell in the overheated courtroom. Draco shifts his neck against his collar, silent. Much herculean effort has to be made to ensure his legs are still, lest he rushes to his mother’s side and. Well. He doesn’t know if moving without permission also results in the same punishment. It’ll be improper to collapse in defeat before he’s supposed to: after the Dementor’s had its way with him.

He stands there, unable to do all but look at the particularly orange tile four paces from his position.

“Before Draco Malfoy is given the Dementor’s Kiss as punishment for his crimes, relatives and loved ones are now allowed to say their last words to him,” the Wizengamot judge whose name Draco has let slipped out of his mind in a daze says with a bored drawl.

“If Mrs. Malfoy had just waited for this announcement, she wouldn’t be in her… predicament,” he says, his ‘but what can I do?’ attitude spurring the courtroom to snickers. Draco asks himself, for a brief, horrid moment, if Fiendfyre can be called forth without a wand.

After the laughter has died down, the judge says, “Is there a relative or loved one here who has something to tell Draco Malfoy before we proceed?”

The only one in the vicinity is his mother, whose sobs are choked off by heavy chains. His father has fled. Probably died, too, bless him.

The judge doesn’t even let Draco finish taking a breath and continues, “Alright. Draco Malfoy, you—”

“Wait.”

All noises cease, leaving behind the squeaking of trainers against tiles. Draco doesn’t look up even as the sounds get closer to where he stands.

“Mr, Mr. Potter,” the judge stammers, “you are not Mr. Malfoy’s relative nor loved one.”

“We have history. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Ratty trainers come into Draco’s field of vision. It’s already too late.

“I—yes, that should be enough, Mr. Potter.”

“Thought so.”

Potter’s presence covers up the especially orange tile, and now Draco can look nowhere else but at the many pockets of the man's olive green jacket. Lifting his head remains a horrible idea.

Nothing seems to move, then, even dust particles seem to pause mid-air. From what Draco can deduce, Potter is content to just stare at him for a bit.

“Thanks for helping me out that time,” Potter finally says. Draco doesn’t know what he wants him to say. That night was fucking hell on earth, he could barely remember it with how hard he blocks it out of his head. So what if he didn’t turn Potter in? What does it matter?

Draco stays silent, even as Potter rustles in his innumerable pockets and grumbles when he can’t seem to find what he’s searching for. Before Draco knows it, Potter hums in pleasant surprise.

“I want to give you something,” he says, holding the mystery object out in a closed fist. Draco frowns, tempted to let his face shift into something long-past and glare at the man in front of him. “Come, now, don’t be stubborn.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco reaches for the object, wrists aching from the iron bands, pulsating with heat. To his confusion, Potter covers Draco's hand with both of his. The man is a furnace, his palms possibly even warmer than the iron bands, the sensation sending volatile, feverish streaks of lightning up Draco’s arms. Potter then tucks an item into Draco’s hand, keeping his hands close by as Draco peers at what he is gifted. His eyes widen.

A paper crane.

Potter's left forearm shifts a bit, jostling the jacket sleeve and capturing Draco’s eyes. This can’t be right. Draco glances at Potter’s right arm and the visibly holstered wand that he always carries with him. Back to his left arm, where the head of another wand is but a hint in the shadow. Draco would’ve thought so as well, would’ve thought Potter is being cautious, if not for the instant familiarity striking him like an elbow to the throat.

His head whips up so quickly his neck strains within the collar. Knowing emerald eyes meet his gaze. “Potter, no.”

An eyebrow cocks up. “Did you not say you want to run away?” Potter whispers back. His fingers trail to the edge of Draco’s armbands like they’re trying to sneak under and touch bare skin.

Draco gasps. Nothing makes sense anymore, absolutely nothing at all.

But from the way the court is growing evidently agitated, from the way Potter doesn’t let them bother him one bit, from the way he waits, endlessly patient.

Potter might be the only one able to make sense of anything at all.

Draco leans a hair closer, so his voice is clear to no one but the two of them.

“My mother,” he says, watching Potter’s irises get swallowed up by pure black. “Remember what she did for you, Potter, please. She can’t stay here…”

Potter nods, promising a later date, that they will both get her. And Merlin help him, Draco trusts every word.

A chair tumbles onto the ground. Shouts explode into existence, footsteps thumping. Draco grips Potter’s left forearm as Potter’s wand effortlessly slides out of its holster into a waiting hand. The fizzling heat of hastily casted hexes slices through the air. With his mother’s shout of relief in his ears, Draco succumbs to the squeezing suffocation of Apparition.

[arcadejohn127-9]

ok so,,, *slides u mc idea* (YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THIS IF YOU DON'T WANT TO!!! I JUST WANTED TO SHARE THIS!!!)

MC that doesn't have any energy during the day, just moping around all tired. But from like, 12 AM to 6 AM, really energized and would go out and do the most Chaotic Shit TM. You know when you just come up with some crack idea at 2 AM? MC every goddamn night. Probably tried making a bathtub fly.

(if you do want to do this, please do the brothers and the undateables ^^)

XD WHY IS THIS ME???!!!!! I'm always so tired and never leave my bed but it could be 1 am and suddenly I rise from the dead and just do random things around the house

Though these aren't chaotic, mostly just the boys trying to stop you as they're tired and want to sleep but you're messing around too much. I tried to base it off my own activities and things that would seem funny - sorry if you wanted something more chaotic but I couldn't think of anything

Lucifer:

When he learned about your strange late morning/early morning shenanigans

He saw it was a way for you to finally get your school work done

Every room - and I mean EVERY - had a textbook from your different class with notes, he goes to bed late so he put them their before he tucked in for the night

He could hear your distress at the continuous reminder of work you needed to do

You knew this was his work so you went to his room

Climbing on his bed and just walked over his body

"Stop it, I'm trying to learn how to replicate the set ups from home alone."

"You can do that after doing your coursework, I'm being merciful with you, don't push it."

You just threw yourself down beside him

Pretending to suddenly fall asleep and began to loudly fake snore

You remained like that whilst Lucifer tried to ignore you

He took this as a sign of war

He was going to monitor you all day if he has to, he refuses to let your bad grades affect their image

But you got bored of snoring and left

He felt relief; his desire to sleep over weighing his desire to force you to study

When you came back with a toy gun you altered to shoot golf balls he knew thing's weren't going well

"The-more-you-pressure-me-the-more-I-won't-study."

You shot at his lower body between each words

This was definitely war

Mammon:

He was sleeping just fine until he heard his car rev up

He bolted awake and saw that his car was on, a string of curses coming from inside

He knew of your weird habit of becoming energised at ridiculous times but he wasn't expecting you to do this

He could tell it was you by your voice

He stormed up the stairs towards his car

"Oi! What are you doing in my car? Go to bed!"

You finally were able to turn off the car, just leaning on the wheel casually as if you didn't just accidentally turn it on

"I'm just cruising~ nothing to see here!"

He wasn't amused

He got you out of his car and strung you over his shoulder, scolding you for being so irresponsible and slightly bragging about how much trouble you'd be in if it weren't for him

You tried to explain you were just pretending to drive but you saw the keys still inside and got curious

He just threw you on his bed and held you, hiding his blush in his pillow

You let him fall asleep but when you tried to escape it ended up with your shoulders in a head lock and your ass stuck in the air

It seems your productive night has came to an end

Levithan:

It was a fifty - fifty chance that levithan was awake or not

But Lucifer gave him an earful about staying up late as it's effecting grades

So you betted he was asleep and your desire to game and wonder aroulnd his room set itself in motion

What made it awkward, was when you came in you heard a suspicious girly moan come from his headphones

You both just stared at each other, unmoving

"Uh- this isn't- this is just a dream, this is definitely not happening."

You checked out the game he was playing; recognizing it to be a dating sim he's been following the development of

You just nodded, shuffling over to his set up

"Scoot over dream levi, I wanna see the hot babes."

He got even more embarassed; face completely red as you sat on your player 2 chair

You put your hand on his, forcing his finger to click the mouse and watched what was happening on screen, listening to the loud music from his headphones

Luckily, the voice acting was just suspicious - like most animes - and it was a fairly cute game

You did end up swirling around in your chair aroulnd his room

Both of you coming up with strategies to get the best girl to like you

Though, too much moving and spinning made you and the chair fall over

You bonked Into his bathtub, your ribs squishing against the rim after the trip

Levi let you make all the gaming decisions to make up for it

Satan:

He planned to have some late night reading, hoping it'll make him tired enough to actually sleep

He found you sitting on the floor in the library

Torn books and littered paper was surrounding you

Then he noticed the paper stars and cranes pouring out from your lap as you froze mid fold

"That's....a thousand stars and cranes - where did you get all this paper from?"

"......the books belonged to me before you assume anything!"

He slowly nodded

He wasn't a fan of the destruction of books but they were yours so he couldn't say anything

He felt odd just leaving you in the barely lit library

Just folding paper who knows how long

He asked if you were hungry, guessing you've been awake for a long time

You just shoved paper into your mouth and began chewing

He was horrified

You immediately spat it out, cringing

"that was a bad idea.... that was gross."

He's going to get you food

When he came back he felt more energised; walking around will do that for you

So he decided to just stay with you whilst you folded the many pages of your destroyed books

It was around 6 am when you finally yawned; Satan fell asleep already

You looked at the fire place, your tired brain screaming for arson

He woke up as he heard your fits of poorly muffled giggles

You were throwing your stars in the fire as you sat a fair distance from it

When you threw the cranes, accepting some didn't fly far enough and didn't burn, he asked what you were doing

"It's survival of the fittest, only the strongest cranes survive in this paper world."

Asmodeus:

You were already in his room, you've been sleeping in it almost all day

So when you finally got out you looked around, spotting the makeup kit he got in a sponsorship

He lets his brother's or you use it as it's a spare

But if you touch his stuff; you will perish

So you decided to use that one, practising all sorts of looks and tried not to laugh when you made yourself a clown

You decided to stay in the clown makeup and go into his practice room

What was his practice room?

Well, he hates exercising Infront of people as he'll be sweaty and his hair will get ruined

So that's where he goes but the real magic was the pole in the middle of it

You felt a spark of inspiration

Looking up tutorials on your phone on how to pole dance

It did not go great

You were sliding too fast

Falling over and when you tried to spin, you would just get stuck

"I love you but if you keep disturbing my beauty sleep I will throw you out the window."

He was grouchy; his hair was barely smoothed out and arms crossed

You hugged the pole you were slowly sliding down; a long loud screech coming down

You definitely felt like a clown

"Sorry- you look handsome already so is there really any need for beauty sleep?"

He blushed, agreeing he was beautiful before giving you a "I will end you" smile

You got the hint, flattery wasn't going to work

Perhaps your pole dancing adventures can wait

Beezlebub:

He was aware of your strange energy burst at night, you were talking about it with him the other day

He's been wondering if he would ever spot you and tonight he did

He found you in the kitchen

Just chipping away at the frost on the top of the freezer trays with a small knife

He crouched down behind you, picking you up

Beel let you sit on his thigh and began to eat anything he could get his hands on

Meanwhile you were aggressively stabbing the formed ice

"Why are you doing that?"

He grabbed a handful of the ice chunks that fell from your stabbing

"Not sure what I want to do tonight and the build up was bothering me."

He didn't need to know anymore, just nodding and letting you do your own thing whilst he ate

He cleared out the entire fridge in no time

Letting you eat anything you wanted whilst you were hard at work

He noticed one part of the ice wasn't giving it to your stabbings

He just gripped it and easily broke it off

You thanked him and ignored how he was able to eat the big block with breaking it

Whenever something was too stubborn he would just break it off for you

It went on like that until you were satisfied

You closed the empty freezer and turned to your assistant

"Good work, but I'll need your help again, I can't reach the top cupboard and I know it's big enough to let me sit in it."

He got to eat more so he had no issue, helping you get into the cupboard once he was done clearing it out

Belphegor:

You were so energised yet you couldn't think of what to do

You put a spell on you to stop you from feeling pain and began to let yourself roly-poly down the hallways

You penciled rolled abit too fast at one pointand ended up thumping down the stairs

You were thankful the spell worked

It got to the point you just kept rolling around until you couldn't anymore

You padded the broom closet

Immediately doing a double take when you noticed a body In the darkness

You went over and turned on the closets light

"is there a reason you're sleeping in the broom closet?"

Belphie was grumbling, trying to hide his face from the light

He glared up at you for disturbing his sleep

"Is there a reason you're rolling around the house?"

"Touchè."

You ended up dragging belphie around the house

You felt like you committed a crime and it was fun

He was fast asleep and you were bored

You dragged him by the ankle and tried to keep his body from banging into anything along the way

You ended up bumping into Beel, he was looking for his twin, and he noticed you were dragging him

Belphie slightly woke up, waving at his brother before going back to sleep

Beel carried the two of you back to the his bedroom; hugging you both

If it weren't for these warm beefy arms you would be free! Free to terrorise all the shadows in the room

You gave up your night activities when even Belphie wrapped an arm around you

UNDATEABLES↓

Diavolo:

Dia was sneaking around the house, hoping not to run into his butler

He didn't want be to be sent back to bed

He was planning to have a light night snack and see how you were going

He knew you were always doing something during the nights, it surprised him when he found out because you were always in bed whenever he saw you

He checked your bedroom and didn't see you in your bed

Suddenly, he noticed a pile of black by his feet

He saw you, scrunched up on your back with the little D's covering your body, all hugging you

"oh! I almost didn't spot you under there, are you alright?"

"I'm great~ you should join me."

The little D's You were able to scratch were purring in their sleep

He found the sight adorable as he crouched down

"I'm teaching them to love me so they can willingly become armour for when I take over the Devildom - we'll be like the rat king!"

He just quietly laughed; the prince helping you pet and scratch the little D's

He agreed you'd make a good ruler

Though he had to force himself to be silent as you started chanting whispers of 'You will be my armor' and 'rat king'

Decided to leave you and your brain washing, going to the kitchen like he intended

Though when he walked past your room again you and the little Ds weren't there

He found you in his room, pouting and dangling off the chandelier

He helped you down, asking what was wrong

You told him the little D's banished you from the cuddle pile because you kept trying to make them move as one being

He patted your head and told you you'll become the overlord some day

Barbatos:

"Why are you making pudding at 3 am?"

He already knew why, just like he knew you were here hence why he visited you

But that didn't stop him from asking

He knew you liked it when he showed his intrigue in things even if he already knew about them

"my hands demand to CREATE- oops sorry - hopefully that didn't wake anyone."

He was always surprised to see you up and about during the nights

He was always the one looking after you in the morningsa; making sure you ate and had a drink

Whilst you just laid in bed, always barely awake and unmotivated

He stayed with you, watching over you as you made your pudding

Making soft spoken discussion as he guided you through any steps you seemed to become hesitant in

You ended up making 10 batches of pudding

Barbatos eating a few whilst he watched you

When you grew bored of pudding making you ate the cups he didn't eat

Saving a few for lord Diavolo in the fridge

He complimented your pudding, telling you that they were very delicious

You felt proud; having a spark to make more food

He told you what would be best during this time of night and helped you

Though it did end up with the both of you covered in flour and barb slipping on a dropped egg

You both thought it was best to clean up and stop for the night

He was very embarassed he made a fool of himself

Solomon:

He didn't expect to find you in his working space

He knew you would be awake but didn't even think of you doing what you're doing right now

"is there a reason you're drinking my potions like their shots? I must say this is rather interesting - how many did you have?"

You wiped your mouth, your hiccup coming out as exploding bubbles

You looked at the small glass viles, and saw ALOT of them empty

More than you realized

"uh- 3?"

he just chuckled, reading the notes you made

The notes was recording what each potion did to you

He was thankful you remembered this was his safe batch

Unknown to him you in fact did NOT remember and was having a Russian roulette game with them

He sat with you, making a cure for your explosive hiccups

You happily drunk it and felt better

He laughed more when he saw your scribbles; drawing what happened to you

Solomon will be making you his potion tester from now one so beware

Simeon:

He was an early riser; awake by 3 am and usually did some writing or watched TV until he got tired again

He had a mug of tea, shuffling through the dorm

He's hung out with you plenty of times whilst you cure your late night boredom

But he was surprised when he saw you in the living room, mini flashlight in your mouth and scrubbing the floors with a sponge mop

"Oh, you don't need to clean - that's very sweet of you but don't you think it's abit early to do this?"

You looked at him, semi blinding him with the flashlight

Immediately took it out of your mouth and apologized

You agreed it was but you wanted to do it as you've been meaning to for the past week

He just nodded, letting you do your own thing whilst he enjoyed his drink

But you suddenly felt awkward; no longer wanting to clean now that someone was in the room

You made your way over to him, climbing on the coffee table and jumping onto the sofa

He was curious on why you weren't doing your thing anymore

"dunno know, just feels awkward when people watch me do stuff."

He suggested leaving you be, saying he'll stay in his room

But now you felt bad because he wanted to rest in the living room

In the end, he helped you clean and you both fell asleep in the bathtub, cuddling up with towels working as padding and a blanket

Luke:

You liked creeping Luke out

It was fun, so far you've convinced them that you're a type of demon that watches bad children whilst they sleep

But really you just wanted to feel like a cryptic, sitting in the corner of his room on a cupboard

It wasn't long for him to wake up from your staring

"I'm going to tell Simeon if you keep staring at me."

You wanted to laugh; he really was a child

Luke wasn't aware that you were a night owl, he just assumed you were always tired and sleeping

He liked to help you around the house and look after you when he could

It almost made you feel had

Almost

He's been extra stubborn about liking the Devildom to the point he's Been insulting his friends and trying to push them away

"Luke, you've been very bad, pushing your friends away just because they're a demon isn't good - embrace your friendships."

You weren't amazing at changing your voice but it seemed to work on him

He complained that it wasn't right for angels and demons to be friends

But you quickly reminded him what this whole exchange program was about

"you have been chosen to help fix the divide between the three realms, just hang out with the people you care about or I'll eat your toes!"

He immediately got scared, scrunching into himself and only peered slightly out of his blanket

He made you promise to leave him alone if he made up with the demons

You agreed, feeling bad for disturbing his sleep but thankful your plan worked

[reidecorating]

Like Ivy

Request: “Being able to see you smile, being in your vicinity, just that is enough for me.” and “Uh, here, this is for, uh, you.” I’m thinking something Christmas-y with Reid - Anon

A/N: I do apologise for procrastinating on getting this out, but I wanted to make sure it wasn’t terrible. Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it, my present to you is the longest fic I have ever written. I had so much fun writing it so I hope you guys enjoy reading it! Happy holidays <3

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAUFem!Reader

Word Count: 7.7k

Summary: Best friends yearning & best friends pining - but make it festive. Entails Secret Santa, the classic penny behind the ear and waltzing.

Warnings: Fluff, proceed with caution :)

The Cathedral of Santa Maria. Spencer had finally put his finger on it. The small glass dome encasing a building, with doors small enough to allow entrance to ladybugs who may practice religion, adorned unmistakable timely Italian architecture and ornamented pine trees, all dusted with flitters of snow. For the past week, Spencer had caught sight of the trinket each time he wandered past where it sat, as one of the few other decorations surrounding the name plate displaying in gold Times New Roman ‘DAVID ROSSI’, on the often unoccupied desk. So, he gathered that it must be important. Filing away his final stack of paperwork for the night, a silver paperclip glistening in the artificial light, Spencer made a mental note to ask the man about it the next morning. Standing from his usual office chair slouch, he stretched his limbs, feeling a series of clicks in his back as he regained his posture, only to bend back down in reach of his satchel. He made his way home giving tight lipped smiles of encouragement to the few agents sprinkled about the room, working over time. Haphazardly, he pushed the arrow pointing downwards with a cardigan clad elbow. As if on queue, his phone buzzed to the simultaneous ‘ding’ of the lift. 

I understand you’re nocturnal, but I hope you’ve gotten home by now! If not, text me when you do so, safely :) 

He didn’t realise he was grinning from ear to ear until an aggravated looking bureau member from a floor above, evidently itching to get home, cleared his throat to gain Spencer’s attention. “Sorry,” he grimaced. Noticing the button for the ground floor having already been lit up, Spencer stepped inside and stood as far away, as was possible in the small space, from the rankled looking man and his briefcase. A dimple appeared on his cheek as he remembered you, two years, three months and seventeen days ago - not that he was counting - offering him cherry scented hand sanitiser from a small bottle, and, only after he’d nodded, gently grasping the tips of his fingers to steady his shaking hand as you poured the gelid liquid into his palm. The act was so pure he chose against telling you that while alcohol based hand sanitisers reduce the number of microbes on hands in some situations, they don’t eliminate all types of germs - making soap and water the most effective way to go. Since then, you occupied his thoughts in the same way ivy grew along bricks of long forgotten towers. In abundance, in the most beautiful way. He turned his attention back to the tiny mobile he was holding. 

On my way right now. I have a date with microwaved leftovers at midnight, can’t miss it. Will do. 

The next time his phone buzzed was when he’d dozed off on the way home, using the concave pane of a metro window as a shoulder to lean against. He waited until his feet landed on the uneven pavement of his stop to open it. 

Tomorrow you have a date with a properly cooked meal, at mine. What is it that Hotch always says? That’s an order, not a request. 

Spencer’s heartbeat quickened as he read what you had written, his brain immediately carrying variables in an effort to slow it down by convincing himself that friends make each other feel this way. However, when he counted the rose flush on his cheeks and nose whenever you were around, the looks you shared which said more than words ever could and the way you held each other nearer than the distance between the sky and the ocean where they met at the horizon after close calls and mentally grappling cases, it didn’t quite equate to being just friends. Dwindling leaves clinging to their branches shuddered as scissors of winter wind pruned the trees scattered about. Spencer’s pale hands slid into his coat pockets, hiding from frostbite. On the short walk to his apartment, he admired the twinkling lights on either side of the streets, feeling as if he were a plane which had just landed upon a runway in the night. Candy canes, reindeer and eccentric portrayals of Santa Claus glowed amongst bushes and on porches, making Spencer wish you were there to see them too. It wasn’t rare he found himself wanting to share everything he did with you. Pretty things made him think of you. Eventually reaching the familiar building, tiredly, he followed wreaths and holly all the way to his undecorated apartment door. 

You? Cooking? I’ll bring a fire extinguisher. Home safe. Goodnight, sleep well. 

He kept his promise, despite seeing the time was nearing to one in the morning and being doubtful you were still awake. 

Hilarious :/ and I will, knowing you’re alive. Goodnight Spencer :) 

Spencer coveted for nights when he could tell you goodnight from right beside you, perhaps with his hand draped around your waist while yours tugged at his hair. He wanted to fall asleep to the scent of your skin and whatever soap you’d picked up from the store that week, not the quiet hum of his vintage fan. His microwave beeped, acting as an alarm to return down to earth from the clouds, presenting him with far less than gourmet potatoes. Realising he would take your burnt cooking over this any day, he settled for a sandwich.

 ∗∗∗

“Did you know that snowglobes were invented in France. They were first introduced as ‘water globes’ at the Paris Expedition Fair in 1889, and, to no surprise, the first snow globe actually contained a tiny scaled Eiffel Tower covered in snow,” Spencer lectured, almost putting the two agents who had struggled enough to get out of bed, back to sleep. The days were slow. Annual leave for a majority of the bureau was looming nearer and files kept them busy as the jet gathered dust. “Glad to hear the French contributed something, other than their opprobrium of a language, to this world,” Emily complained, from her desk. “Well, baguettes… Croissants, parachutes… Aspirin-“ Spencer was halted by the unimpressed look on Rossi’s face, as he hovered on the edge of Spencer’s table, a bushy eyebrow raised in vexation. “What’s with all this talk of snowglobes, kid?” The older man squinted at Spencer, craning his neck towards this, the way he did to suspects behind the glass of an interrogation room. “Since you brought it up,” he smiled smugly, swivelling in his chair from one side to another. “What’s the story behind the Santa Maria sitting on your desk?”

“Yeah, the eighties have come and gone, Rossi, isn’t it a bit late for repentance?” Emily let out a sly smile, walking over to also lean against Spencer’s desk with a steaming mug in hand. “It was a gift from my grandmother, handmade, I take it out every Christmas to help get in the festive mood,” Rossi explained. “Also, that was very funny Emily but now… I can’t help but recall what Garcia told me about the time you got a little tipsy and licked peanut butter off J-” 

“No one told me it was National Congregate Around Spencer Reid’s Desk Day today.” The three agents turned their heads in unison to find who the voice belonged to, Spencer’s breath hitching at the sight of you. You stood before them, an upturned magician’s hat in hand, semi-curious as to what the ending of Rossi’s sentence would have been if it weren’t for you interrupting. “Y/N!” Emily waved, flashing a smile. “You’ve taken an interest in magic and didn’t even think to tell me,” Spencer feigned a hurt look. “Spencer, I knew magic wasn’t for me after I did the card trick you taught me, wrong . Six times,”

“It was seven. Plus, the student is never as good as the teacher,” he suppressed a smile. “Or maybe the teacher just isn’t good,” you raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s a little hostile, someone didn’t get enough sleep last night,” Spencer defended himself, putting his hands in the air. His eyes held a glimmer of mischief as if to say ‘we know something that you don’t’ when they met yours. Emily’s jaw dropped. “That… Didn’t sound suggestive at all,” Rossi pursed his lips in concern, looking back and forth between the pair of furiously blushing agents. “Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t,” you winked at Rossi. Basking in the radiance of your laughter washing over him like the sun, Spencer chuckled along. “Anyway, what’s with the hat?” Emily questioned. “This,” you shook it by its brim, “contains the remaining names for this year’s Secret Santa, courtesy of Miss Penelope Garcia. I was just ordered to present it to you all. She calls it being her ‘little elf’ - I call it unpaid manual labour - but pick a name, any name,” you encouraged. You watched as Spencer’s tongue comically poked out as he eagerly concentrated on picking a name, elbow bent at a worrying angle. “I just want to say that every time I get a gift that isn’t alcohol, I’m slightly disappointed,” Emily turned to you as it was her turn to fish for a piece of paper. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you grinned at her. You watched Rossi’s expression as his eyes skimmed the name in his hands. “Oh, and Rossi, yes, there’s a budget,” you called over your shoulder, causing them to laugh as you gave them a wave. Slinking away from the comity of the bullpen, back to Mrs Claus’ lair, you retrieved the only remaining name. You paused in the hallway to double check if you’d read the glittery scrawl correctly. Spencer Reid. It was just your luck. You were prepared to engage in hand to hand combat with Garcia, seeing her office looming ahead. “Penelope. I hate you. I love you,” you kissed her cheek, placing the top hat on her curls, “but I hate you.” She recognised the tone, beaming at the implications. “Thank me later, beautiful!” She called after you as you rushed away to get started on completing the mountains of reports you had been avoiding thus far. 

The day had come to a close, a headache making a home for itself in your head. Scanning the, now, mostly empty room, you caught sight of the back of Spencer’s uncombed head. Double checking that not enough people were around to be reprimanded by HR for misconduct, you inconspicuously made your way over to him snaking your arms around his neck and burrowing your nose in its crook. “Hi,” he chuckled, amused at the sudden affection, his unoccupied hand immediately reaching to grasp one of your wrists. Spencer had followed your strict, but coffee induced, orders earlier that morning telling him not to distract you unless, one, he was dying, or two, something was on fire, because you were determined to finish the numerous write-ups you had left until today. “Hi,” you mumbled into him. “Ready to go home?” You asked sweetly, arms still slung around him, pulling your face away to get a glimpse of his soft features. Your heart stopped for a little while, at the beauty of him. He was breathtaking. You refrained from tracing the small bump of his nose with your own, and settled for admiring the five o’clock shadow presaging a hidden jaw. The part of Spencer that craved domesticity was enchanted by your simple question, the word home resounding in his head, acting as an old film reel for projections of images of the two of you together; leaving work together, going home together. Little did he know that, as if through an unnoticed telepathy, just a few inches away, the same images occupied your own head. Coming home to an empty apartment had become tedious. You allowed yourself to give into your daydreams of returning home to Spencer - with Spencer. Spencer, with his warm eyes and words that drip like syrup from his tongue. You wanted nothing more than to revel in him filling your senses once the cologne from the day had been washed away, and hear him harp on about the history of mattresses, attempting to retain questions to ask him later in your memory bank, as you capitulate to sleep. “As a matter of fact, I finished most of what I had to do last night so I am ready to go… home,” he tested out the word, to which you had assigned a brand new connotation, feeling a flutter in his chest. You quickly rescinded your arms as you peripherally detected a flock of agents returning from what you assumed was an afternoon break. Spencer suddenly missed your body on his. Having already packed your things, feeling accomplished noticing that the pile of folders on your desk had shrunk significantly, you packed Spencer’s things to save him time, aimlessly throwing the strap of his satchel over his head for him once he had ungracefully shoved his arms into a blazer. “Hang on,” you gently pulled at his shoulders to meet your height, carefully fixing his tag and creased collar. The blush on his face, at the feel of your cold fingers brushing the nape of his neck, said everything he didn’t - save a meek, “Thank you.” You smiled at him in return. “Wait,” his eyes widened, “I need this,” he mumbled, reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a large black bag, decorated in gold intricacies. He didn’t explain it, but you knew that if Spencer had something to say, he would come out and say it, just all in good time. “Now are you ready?” You eyed the thing curiously, and glanced back at him. “Let’s go,” he motioned his arms in front of him, with a small nod, letting you lead the way. 

Afternoon rays of sun fought their way through clouds, battling with the winter air to warm the people mingling outside as you made your way towards the crowded station. “Penny for your thoughts?” You asked, intuitively slipping an arm through his when the sun began to disappear altogether. Your cheeks grew warm as you realised your compromising position, feeling your heart rate return to its usual pace once he relaxed into your touch. “Hm?” He turned to look at you, letting his river coloured eyes unabashedly scan your face. “You look like your mind is far away,”

“What’s on my mind is definitely not very far away,” he said, quietly. That glimmer had returned. You noticed that the crease between his brows had disappeared, indicative that whatever thoughts were rattling through his brain, were good ones. You hummed a smile, content with his contentedness. “So… Hand it over,” he extended a palm a second later. “Hand what over?” You asked, genuinely confused. “A penny,” he said as if it was obvious. You blinked up at him, unfazed by the joke, as he bit his lip provokingly. All of a sudden he stopped walking, eyes still on you. “Just… Hold on a moment,” he whispered, squinting at you as he reached a hand towards your cheek. You remained still, thinking that Spencer had finally lost his mind. “Here it is!” He exclaimed, breaking out into a smile as he retrieved a one cent coin from behind your ear. “What!? You’re kidding! That was brilliant,” you beamed at him, eyes wide in bewilderment. “For a second there I thought you had gone crazy,” you teased. “Magic does that to people,” he nodded, satisfied with how impressed you seemed. “Ah, but alas, you gave me a very ambiguous answer, so I,” you snatched the penny from his fingers, “am entitled to a refund.” Spencer shook his head with a soft smile. “You might need to use that for the bus if we miss the next train,” he informed, hurriedly examining the watch on his upturned wrist. 

No trains were missed, that day, the two of you arriving at your door in time for the six o’clock news. “Here, let me take your coat,” you offered, putting it on the small rack beside the door, placing yours adjacent to it. Spencer relished in the warmth of the place, setting his things down. “So, I’m thinking we get a proper meal in us, and then you can help me decorate this dreary place,” you instructed. He wanted to let you know that anywhere you are is far from being dreary, but something told him that was far too sappy, so he settled for a simple, “Sounds good.” He took in the familiar apartment, its walls embellished in old paintings snagged from secondhand stores and books scattered about on almost every horizontal surface, in a certain disorderliness that said, yes it’s messy, but everything has its place. “Also, I hope you know that you’re only leaving in the morning so make yourself at home.” It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for the two of you; you falling asleep at his apartment out of feebleness, him at yours, and more often than not, it involved discarded games of Scrabble as the two of you settled for debating the rules instead of actually playing. Lately, he’d been craving it more and more - and so had you. Spencer would never say no to that offer, but he was taken aback. “But I didn’t pack- I don’t have-“

“Eidetic memory is slipping I see,” you giggled at his flustered state. “I told you, I kept finding toothbrushes, sweaters and socks here every time you left, so I made a drawer full of your things, since you practically live here anyway,”

“An entire drawer? I didn’t think I was missing a whole lot,” he responded, nose tinted red. “I have to water my plants quickly, before I put dinner on, but feel free to shower,” you said, still laughing quietly. “Let me help cook, first. You need someone to disassemble the smoke alarm,” he raised an eyebrow at you. One ‘KISS THE COOK’ apron and half an hour of seasoning a chicken, spilling sweet potatoes and bumping elbows later, the two of you stood back from the counter, you boasting to Spencer about how nothing had turned to ashes, and him pointing out that the oven hadn’t been turned on yet. Soon after, you put the oven on high, humming an indistinguishable carol over the shower that could be heard running from the next room. A warm, tingling feeling overcame you.

By the time you had showered, Spencer stood serving - a well timed and flawlessly cooked - chicken, wearing mitts matching the baggy flannel pyjamas keeping him warm on top of the open oven. “Smells good,” you complimented, slightly startling Spencer. He stood at the small wooden dining table, mouth agape at the sight of you. He was sure his heart was a puddle. “I like your sweater,” he praised. You glanced down slightly confused, shortly realising that your sweater, with its much too floppy sleeves, reaching a little way above your knees, was actually his. “Oh, I’ll wash it and give it back to you at some point,” you said shyly. “I was wondering where it went, but don’t worry about it, the colour looks nicer on you than it does on me,”

“Nonsense, you know that’s not true.” Soon enough, you found yourselves digging in - not before you expressed your gratitude towards food that wasn’t charred for the first time in months. You sat across from each other, your reindeer sock clad feet occasionally tapping his beneath the table. Spencer’s heart was full, marvelling at you from where he sat, wishing this could be something he could experience forever, much preferring it over a stale sandwich. You watched him intently through your eyelashes, chin resting on your interlaced hands while he taught you about how the thalidomide scandal emerging from Germany led to safer drugs in the pharmaceutical industry, the lecture prompted by an article he’d read recently. It continued into getting the dishes cleaned up, his rambling only being interrupted by your intermittent questions which incited further tangents, or requests to pass the tea towel. His voice was a ruffled silken sheet, on which you would like to lay for eternity. Admittedly, you found it difficult to focus on retaining any more information than the odd date, due to being too focused on the way his lips moved to form every word he said, hopelessly enamoured by the overly enthusiastic expressions he made to match the tone of what he was saying. Eventually, he wandered towards the living room as you stacked away the final plate, butterflies still spurring in your stomach from when his fingers brushed yours as he handed it to you.

“Spencer Reid effortlessly navigating technology, Christmas miracles really do exist, huh?” 

“Actually, I just remembered watching you choose music, instead of paying attention to the road, that one time you drove me to work,”

“I was most definitely paying attention,” you huffed out a laugh, slightly bashful at the thought of him remembering small things you do. “You hit the kerb four times! That was the day I vowed to never let you transport me anywhere,”

“I see your argument, and I raise you with the counter argument: the kerb hit me.” Sitting with his back against the couch, legs sprawled out over the rug beneath your coffee table, Spencer couldn’t hold back his laughter. After watching you disappear into the kitchen, he busied himself with reading the holiday edition of Reader’s Digest laying on the table. He recounted you telling him that you had accidentally  drunkenly subscribed to it, and never bothered to cancel the subscription, the first time you’d caught him reading an issue. You emerged a short while later, with drinks in both hands. “Bonjour monsieur, on tonight’s menu, we can either open this Merlot or, drink Capri-suns like the sophisticated adults we are. Your pick,” you said, hiding the juice pouches behind your back and noticeably waving the bottle of wine in front of you. “I have a feeling it isn’t my pick,” he let out a laugh, “so just fill a glass with enough Merlot for two,” you were on your way to get a glass before he had the chance to finish. “Your wish is my command!” You called. Spencer put down his magazine once he saw you rushing towards him with a large glass of wine in hand. “Of course you opt for Christmas Jazz over Mariah Carey,” you teased, hearing the music he’d queued floating from the withering speaker in the corner of the living room. It was the kind of music that would play in the diner of an expensive hotel, you noted. “I can change it if you’d like?” He began reaching for your phone, when you halted him by grasping his arm. “No, it’s good, I like your taste.” Spencer grinned sheepishly, taking the glass from your hand as you sat down beside him. 

Hours of conversation and decking the halls with tinsel later, with wine flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes you moved the furniture to cater for your very own dance floor. Carefully, Spencer placed a hand below your ribs, touching you like new glassware, lacing the other with yours. Your unfettered hand, replaced the weight of the world as it rested on his shoulder. You recognised the look on his face as he settled into the close proximity, it was the same look that painted yours when you admired him whilst he failed to notice. The soft glow of a lamp illuminated the man you held, making an indistinct halo of golden light appear above his unkempt hair. “I apologise for any damage caused to your feet,” you giggled, struggling to find a rhythm. “Here, follow my lead,” he looked down at your feet. “The Waltz?” Dazzled, you raised an eyebrow, a few seconds after recognising the box-like steps in unison. Spencer tried to focus on anything but your lips, glistening in the dull light, so close to his. “Mhm, I’m not exactly the most co-ordinated-”

“You don’t say?”

“That’s tough talk for someone I’ve seen fall up a flight of stairs,”

“That sounds made up, but as you were saying,” you laughed into his chest. “It’s simple because its a repeating pattern. Did you know that name of the dance comes from the German word waltzen, which means to turn, or to glide? Some say the dance itself comes from the folk music and dances of west Austria, but others debate that it’s a variation of the Volta, from the 16th century,”

“Interesting, makes sense to debate that though. I’m pretty sure volta means ‘a turning’ in Italian - although that’s mostly in reference to the turn of a new thought or idea in sonnets… I’m thinking of Shakespeare,” you chimed in. “Sonnet one-hundred and thirty being a classic example of that,”

“Of course you would know that,” you shook your head in awe, cheeks hurting from grinning too wide. The incandescence of the smile that hadn’t left his face all day was mesmerising, the honeyed expression tied together with the dimples on his cheeks and creases around his eyes. “What would you like for Christmas?” He mumbled, lifting a moment of peaceful silence. “If you pulled my name out of the hat today you’re going to have to be a lot more subtle than that,”

“Unfortunately not,” he pouted. “Don’t tell anyone I told you, but I have Rossi,” he whispered the words into your ear, neglecting that no one else was around to hear. “What do you get a man who already has everything money can buy?”

“A new wife,” you joked, causing him to scoff. He studied your visage as you pondered his earlier question, still swaying to the soft piano sounds. “Honestly Spencer, being able to see you smile, being in your vicinity, just that is enough for me,” you finally answered, tilting your head up at him. Spencer thought his knees would give way. He thought his knees would give way, and he would hit the ground with enough impact to implode through the earth’s crust. In reality, he only stumbled over his feet momentarily, regaining his composure before you noticed him slowly becoming unhinged. “If that’s the case, I wish I’d picked your name,” he managed to utter, breathlessly.

The music which continued to play was drowned out by the sound of steady breathing, you were too caught up in each other to pay attention to the world. Wordless, you looked into his eyes, his actions parallel to yours. “You look beautiful right now,” he sighed. “Of course, you always look beautiful but, you know.” You shook your head, refraining from averting your eyes from his. He wished you believed it, promising himself to never abstain from letting you know until you saw yourself the way he did. “It’s funny you say that, because I was thinking the same thing. About you of course,” you rushed out the last part, realising the potential for miscommunication. “I love seeing you happy,”

“Well, as long as you stick around, you’ll be seeing a lot of that,” he spoke lowly, on the verge of telling you about all the things he felt for you. You hadn’t realised, but you had unconsciously moved closer together. You could feel his warm breath on your skin, lighting a fire inside your lungs, as he took yours away. Spencer saw all of the signs; the signs that this was not usual for a friendship. Maybe, if it weren’t for his defeated battle with fear, and doubt, he would have told you by now that he had fallen desperately for you. Spencer knew there wasn’t a drop of insincerity behind any of the kind words you spoke into him, he understood that you were his person, but he found it difficult enough to comprehend that someone could feel this strongly for someone. So, the implausible idea that someone could feel this way about him, was one he was not even prepared to entertain. “Y/N? I, um,” he tried, wearily. You gave him a soft smile, both tired arms laced behind his neck now as his rested on your waist. He dropped his sword. Once again losing the fight against his unreasonable insecurities, changing his mind at the last second. “I need to give you something,” his demeanour changed and he vanished from your line of vision. Your heart sank, hopes of hearing him say that the love you had for him was requited, fallen. Before you got too lost in your head, he emerged from the doorway with the same black bag you’d been inquisitive of. “Uh, here, this is for, uh, you,” he tucked his lip beneath his teeth. “Spencer…” you trailed off as he handed it to you. You sat yourself on the carpet, patting the spot next to you for him to join. “I thought I should give it to you now, since I’ll be in Vegas for Christmas,” 

“Spencer, you really didn’t have to-“

“Go on, open it,” he ignored your humility. You gave him a look as you opened it - it being replaced with a look of elation as you realised what it was. In your hands, you held a scarf, long enough to hit the floor, striped in all your favourite tones. “I had to ask my mom for help with the tassels, but-“

“You took the time to make this? For me?” You exclaimed. Without thought, you draped it around his neck to tug him closer to you, throwing your arms around him in a tight hug. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me, thank you so much,” you lauded, refusing to let go of him. “I think it was last winter, we were walking back to our hotel in Minnesota during a case, and you insisted that the both of us use my scarf to keep us warm, because you didn’t have one,”

“Ah, I remember that, except it ended up being one of the top ten worst disasters in U.S. history due to the height difference, and we both ended up falling face-first into the snow,” you giggled, recalling the way you had used up most of the hotel’s hot water afterwards. “Exactly,” he matched your expression, “seeing as you still haven’t bought one for yourself, even though we lose eighty percent of our body heat through our head and neck, I thought I would take matters into my own hands,”

“Well, I love it. You’ll have to tell your mother I said thank you and that I’m sending my love,” you finally dropped your arms from around him, out of fear of crushing his shoulders. 

Once the zeroes had lined up on the twenty-four clock, Spencer sat where he usually resided on your bed, ardently admiring you as you folded away his gift. “Wait! Spencer close your eyes! Please!” You squeaked, immediately shutting the cupboard doors, realising your unwrapped present for him was hidden within. “Y/N? Is everything alright?” He asked, eyes now sealed shut. “I didn’t want you to see what I’d bought for Secret Santa,” you let out, too exhausted to form a coherent excuse. “We only got those names today - well, yesterday, now - so how did you manage to-”

“Shoot,” you cursed to yourself, knowing his unintentional profiling would lead him to the conclusion sooner or later. Spencer’s eyes slowly opened. “Okay, let’s say if, hypothetically, I had intended on giving you something for Christmas anyway, but then drawn your name today, would you, hypothetically, be able to act surprised when you receive it from me at work?”

“Hypothetically speaking, I would?” He squinted at you, stifling laughter. Your hair was slightly messy and your drowsy eyes were visible to Spencer even without his contacts in. He thought you just looked so adorable, wanting nothing more than to hold you and share your warmth. “Anyway, come to bed,” he beckoned, his voice gravelly, giving way for the day. Obliging, you shuffled towards your bed before sliding your cold feet beneath the covers. Spencer turned to face you, resting his cheek on an upturned palm. “Sorry for ruining the surprise,” you whispered, tucking the duvet under your chin, bright eyes looking through him. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he assured, treasuring the sight before him. There had been a shift in the air between the two of you. Spencer held the wine accountable, but he could sense that you felt it too, a level of intimacy that you had not quite reached during previous nights like this. “Come closer, I need to exploit your body heat while I can.” Spencer listened to your instruction, inching nearer to you, his heart rate so high he was sure you could feel it when you nuzzled your head into his chest. “Goodnight,” you felt his chest rumble. “Hang on, the night isn’t over yet,” you mumbled, “talk to me,”

“About?” He asked, amused by your grit to avoid sleep. “Anything you want,” you yawned. “You’re sleepy,” he stated, coaxing you into getting some shut eye. When you tilted your head up and continued to blink at him, he gave in. “Have you ever wondered why a lot of our most vulnerable conversations happen  at night?” You nodded in response. “Well, a study done by the University of Colorado a couple of years ago concluded that natural light from the sun actually regulates your circadian rhythm, or internal biological clock, which standardises your sleep cycle. According to their study, this sleep cycle coincides with sunrise and sunset, meaning that if you regularly expose yourself to sunlight, your body enhances its internal clock to align more closely with the natural light cycle,” 

“Based on that,” you contended, words slightly jumbled, “our circadian rhythm would vary between seasons, right? And yours would be different, since you’re a literal vampire, to say... someone who surfs down in Florida because of disparity in sun exposure?”

“Precisely,” he raised his eyebrows, “I’m impressed you’re still paying attention, you look like you’re already dreaming.” Spencer nudged your forehead gently with his own, causing you to breath out a laugh. “Alright, so how does all of that relate to being more vulnerable at night?”

“It relates in the sense that the rise and fall of the sun reflects in our physiological, as well as emotional behaviour. During the day, we’re a lot more active, and at night, we become more relaxed and receptive. Hence, since your mind is at ease, all the thoughts and emotions that might have felt jumbled up during the day become clear, making them a whole lot easier to express,”

“Mhm,” you managed, eyelids growing heavy. “Do you… have anything to say now,” you whispered drowsily, eyes now closed, “that you can’t say during the day?” Spencer couldn’t handle it anymore. He was already so fond of you but as his hand settled to rest around your waist, feeling your warmness, he believed his ribs could collapse from the way he felt inside. As you dozed off, gradually, winter became less cold in his arms and dreamscapes of his tea leaf eyes. “And, she’s asleep,” he whispered, minutes after silence, into your hair, “but to answer your question, yes,” his lips planted a chaste kiss on your forehead, “I love you.” Of course, unbeknownst to him, you weren’t asleep just yet.

∗∗∗

A couple of days went by, and as more time went on, the less certain you became as to whether Spencer had really even said the words, wondering if the whole thing was just a fatigue driven hallucination your lovesick mind had conjured up. Waking up beside him the next morning however, tangled in a warm cocoon of cotton and limbs, had left you feeling giddy, smiling like a fool with heart shaped eyes as he attempted to feed you the waffles he’d made - which the two of you gulped down far too quickly than sanctioned, to avoid being late for work. When you didn’t succeed, and the clock had beaten you by ten minutes, you both wrestled past evocative looks from the rest of the team for the remainder of the day, JJ even singing something about the two of you ‘sitting in a tree’ . The soft, shared, smiles and light brushes of fingertips when he handed you coffee in the mornings left you wanting to concede; let him know that you would walk on burning coal for him, the more logical side of you reminding you that professing your devotion to him over an open case file consisting of a double homicide, three days before Christmas, was far from ideal. Spencer wanted the kind of love only the poets could express. This had become evident the evening you took him to a midnight screening of ‘Un homme et Une Femme’. You recalled leaning into him to translate, catching sight of his welling eyes glimmer in the dim lit theatre. Believing his love should be celebrated, you decided to withhold the unsurfaced feelings a little while longer.

Later that week, you all gathered around the BAU tree, a small framed picture of Derek decidedly hanging from one of its upper branches after Garcia had to be heavily persuaded, and eventually bribed, to not place it at the top, arguing “But he’s my star.” Spencer snuck behind you, subtly placing a hand on your back to glide through and place Rossi’s gift under the tree. “I want to let you know that I’ve been practicing my ‘surprised’ face in the mirror,” he discreetly whispered against your neck, making you roll your eyes. “Okay super sleuths, I know we’re all itching to fly away for a break, but hold your reindeer, because we are yet to kick off our annual Secret Santa,” Garcia excitedly exclaimed, shuffling in with two large sparkling bags. “I thought there was a budget?” Rossi quirked. “Yes, sir,” she looked smug, “for you.” The team shared smiles at Rossi’s perplexed look. “So, who wants to start us off?” Garcia chirped. With that, the festivities were under way. You held tight an abnormally large heat sensitive mug, which you were sure would also reveal a promiscuous image once warm - a gift from Emily, who gave herself away by insisting it would help your caffeine dependency - watching as the others tackled ribbon wrapping paper. You threw an impressed look Spencer’s way, that glint of knowing something the universe doesn’t returning to your eyes, when Rossi opened a small portrait of what looked to be a Venetian cathedral, the Santa Maria to be exact. Once the banter and excited chatter had died down, everyone turned to the recipient of the final gift, neatly labelled Spencer Reid, enveloped in brown paper and tied with deep purple ribbon. Penelope looked as if she were about to pass out. Spencer’s shifting eyes landed on JJ as she mouthed a small ‘you’re up’, causing a smile to tug at his lips when he eyed you gazing at him with the soft look he adored. Your eyes lingered on his hands as they swimmingly untied the mauve knot and tore open the paper to reveal a large leather-bound journal. He examined the old looking thing,  trailing his fingers along the convoluted golden details of the artistic interpretation of a moon calendar adorning its umber covers, partially covered by thin leather straps. His mouth was slightly agape, shaking a little at how well you knew him, clumsily catching the matching novelty pen before it slipped out of the wrapping and onto the floor. You had picked it up at a forlorn occult shop after it had caught your eye while looking out of place as it lay surrounded by large crystals. Knowing in an almost divine way that it should belong to Spencer, you had bought it. He couldn’t help but look at you briefly, communicating a silent gratitude. “This is amazing,” he ogled, “I love it.” Your heartbeat was in your throat. He was yet to find out you’d filled the first page for him.

Shouts of Merry Christmas, long hugs and season’s greetings were thrown around the room before, one by one, everyone slowly bade their goodbyes. While helping JJ clear away torn reds and greens of gift wrapping, you caught sight of Spencer, ears and cheeks scarlet, with his nose buried in his new, opened, journal.

“We are asleep until we fall in love," you looked up from Leo Tolstoy’s one thousand page book and recited to me, once. Since you walked into my life, I’ve been wide awake. You know that I’m never far away, but this is for the days you need to let out some of what you hold in, without saying it aloud. 

I love you too, Spencer.

Spencer read and re-read the words until he was sure he could recite them like the Lord’s Prayer. It was commonly Spencer who remembered small details and remembered paltry quotations, but this time, it was you. Sitting in the glow of the afternoon sun, one October, he had been reading War and Peace, and couldn’t help but share the line with you as you sat across from him, chewing through a much smaller number of pages and reading a collection of poetry. The woman he had been so captivated by, admiring from afar that day - and all others, felt the same way he did. In disbelief, he began breathing manually. Making sure he was deciphering the cursive lettering correctly, he scanned the page again. While his eyes were definitely not deceiving him, they remained glued to one word. Awake. The havoc caused in his heart by the train of thought hitting him so brutally, rivalled only Gare Montparnasse. You must’ve heard his confession nights ago. It was the only explanation for the ‘I love you, too’. You most definitely were awake. Profiling tendencies overcame him. With his basic background of graphology, he could make out that the last line had been written in fresher ink than all the others, confirming his hypothesis. For the first time in a while, his mind was quiet, the uncertainties which fought to float in, unable to make their way through as if the thee simple words you’d handed him were a barrier for them. He needed to talk to you.

Walking quickly towards the elevator, an overwhelming wave of anxiety crashed over you. You had subconsciously been avoiding Spencer for most of the evening, second-guessing whether or not you’d heard him correctly, whether he’d even meant the words in the way you’d interpreted, wondering what you would do if this friendship were to ever end. However, a more hopeful side of you contended to quiet those thoughts. He had to feel it too. There was no room in which you hadn’t shared a longing look. The feather touches, and dancing. So badly did you want to believe that he thought this too. A slender arm appeared through the closing elevator doors, tugging you back to reality, causing you to jump before quickly pushing the open button. “Spencer! You could’ve lost an arm!” You yelped. “It’s okay, I have two of them,” he huffed. He avoided your eyes for a moment, before inhaling half of the oxygen in the small lift and turning towards you. “I wanted to say thank you, for this,” he held up the book, “it’s gorgeous, and sort of… exactly what I needed - and not just the book itself but what you wrote… inside it,” he nervously looked at you. “Did you- do you mean what you wrote?” His tone of voice syringed into you a drop of hurt. “Spencer, I never want you to think that I don’t mean it,” your let out in a shaky voice, gently grasping his elbow. You visibly saw his body ease, a smitten smile replacing the lip being chewed at. His throat bobbed as he gulped before he spoke again, heartbeat in his ears. “I want you to know that I’m in love with you, Y/N. I don’t want you the way I want a best friend, I want you in a-” he sighed, clenching and unclenching his fist trying to find the words, “I want you in a way that means I want to fall asleep beside you, and wake up to you the next morning, for as long as the sun rises. I want you. I want you - no, need you, the way the tide needs the moon to rise and fall, I want you-” he swallowed, furrowing his brows at his feet, “I want you, like this.” Hazel eyes fluttering shut was the last thing you saw. Large hands lightly caressed your face, one travelling behind your ear, brushing your neck to delicately tangle in your hair. After years of wondering, you finally knew what his lips felt like on yours. His nose bumped yours lightly as you tasted his soft lips, their slight chap reminding you that winter had kissed them first. Your hands wrapped around his wrists, before one settled on his tilted jaw and another hid in his chestnut hair. He felt warm, everywhere you touched setting electricity through him. Even after you pulled apart, his arms remained on either side of your face, holding you like you were fragile. His breath fanned over your face, as you shivered, the fluttering in your stomach unsubdued. The elevator had long reached the ground floor, causing the two of you to bashfully laugh concurrently. You thought to yourself that Spencer’s crimson flush and wide grin was a sight you would lose sleep to gaze at. “All this time, I’ve been missing out on that,” you teased, watching him shyly bite his lip as he waited for you to say something else. “I’m very glad you said all of that because I’m very much in love with you, Spencer Reid, and, if you’ll let me, I want to love you, the way people love in all the books you’ve lent me,” you told him. At that, he was sure his heart was yours, fearlessly. So, making afternoon plans and debating which train to take, neither of you really caring as long as you were in the other’s company, you finally stepped out of the elevator, oblivious to the mistletoe that was hanging within it, but more than mindful of what was to come. 

[theharellan]

Written for Stories of Thedas Volume II. Pairing: Solas & Cole (platonic) Prompt: Library

Masks upon masks. The Winter Palace is strange to Cole, who attends at the Inquisitor's bidding and finds himself at a loss for how to help. Solas comes upon him with ideas for how to cope with the deadly Game.

Read on AO3.

Couples spin on the dance floor, turning and turning, going nowhere and everywhere at once. Their heads fill with daydreams, one gazes into her partner’s eyes through their masks, imagining the hidden corners they could lose themselves in. Another, all he sees is the faint outline of a knife in his companion’s skirts, so all-consuming he almost forgets the steps. A third, their eyes bore holes into the other’s heads, hate springs from love eternal. His eyes dart from one couple to the next, glimpses into minds fraught with thoughts of a Game no one ever really wins.

He breathes in and feels the air catch in his throat. Honeyed words mask the taste of poison, cold compassion, they understand only so they can hurt. It isn’t right, it isn’t fair, it isn’t–

In the blink of an eye he’s in the library, surrounded by pages that whisper the words of yesterday. Not so sharp against his skin. Below, a dead man in the shape of a Warden pretends to stare at a plaque, praying no one will look at him twice, fearing they might see his valourous wings are clipped. It’s still a hurt, a tangle, but he’s trying to help. Cruelty does not become him. He lets out a breath he forgot he was holding, hands coming together to pull at his sleeves.

Oh.

He had forgotten about the uniform. The fabric doesn’t come away at his touch, no matter how hard he tugs.

And he misses his hat.

Cole wonders how long he will wait here, alone with his panic clawing at his throat. In the Spire he spent months isolated, forgotten by all save the one who no longer cares to know him. Suddenly the soft, inviting lights which illuminate the halls of the Winter Palace seem as cold as the dark cells they had kept Rhys in, clapped in irons for crimes Cole committed. Anxiety squeezes every inch of him. He counts the beats of the music that drifts from the distant dance hall, just to assure himself only minutes have passed since he came here.

A door opens behind him, and he nearly jumps into shadow, the Veil waiting to envelop him, drawing him from prying eyes, but a familiar face waits on the other side. “Solas!” he gasps, relieved and ashamed that he had doubted, but grateful most of all.

Solas shuts the door behind him, turning the handle so the latch doesn’t make a sound. “I thought I might find you here.”

That gives Cole pause. He hadn’t known he would find himself here, until it happened. “But I don’t read.” The books here are newer than those kept in the Pit, some hum with the occult, others recount poems about the shape of a woman’s hips, but he still doesn’t read. There isn’t a question in his tone, but Solas hears it, all the same.

“This place can be overwhelming for anyone, even without accounting for your abilities. Books carry meaning, but without eyes upon them those meanings are static. Far easier to take in,” he answers as he walks towards him, gait stiffer than usual. His feet had forgotten what it was like to wear shoes. Solas has been quiet that evening, quieter than usual, the stem of a glass glued between his fingers, bottomless. He lets his hat do his talking for him, the Drasca’s dissent lived on atop his head. He stops beside Cole, leaning upon the marble rail, gloved hands bearing weight. His eyes turn upon him, no brimmed hat to hide behind. “Are you all right?”

He pulls on his sleeves, this time he thinks he feels a thread come loose. “Yes... No? There are two faces for every person.” The Left Hand smiles and laughs, she comes alive, but inside it’s cold and cruel. The rose withers upon the vine. He finds the thread with his finger and pulls, but it doesn’t break. It unravels, further and further, if he keeps going his whole sleeve will be an unspooled mess on the floor. “I don’t know which to look at. I-I don’t know how to help.”

Solas reaches out, subduing his worrying hands with a single, steady touch. A gentle gesture, despite the blood which stains them. Sometimes they do not seem so different from his own, they remember the bodies because forgetting would be worse. Killer’s hands, but there is no deceit in their tenderness. Solas wraps the thread around his finger, string bright white against his brown glove, and he tugs. It snaps, suddenly brittle, and falls to the floor to be swept away by a servant who will never know they were here. A comforting hand is placed deliberately on his shoulder blade, and Cole stills. He inhales, eyes snapping from the abandoned thread to Solas. There is kindness in his eyes, quiet assurance. He has seen this all before and he will make it easier to bear. So many tricks just to make it through a day, an evening, an hour. “You will not find much compassion in these affairs, any help you offer will be perceived as duplicitous, a means to get what it is you desire.”

“Then I… shouldn’t help?”

He hesitates, delaying his answer with a moment’s deliberation. “The choice is ultimately yours, but their comfort should not come at the cost of your peace of mind.” His hand slowly falls from his back as Cole turns his advice around in his head. “While we are waiting for the Inquisitor to call upon us, rather than mend the missing pieces in strangers’ lives, perhaps I may help you.”

“Help me?” He searches Solas’ eyes for answers, compassion seeking solace in pride. They are quiet, revealing only as much as intended. Cole chips at the cracks in the rock and hopes for water to spring forth, but he guards his sorrows like a wolf guards her den.

“Would you care to learn how to dance?”

A dozen thoughts pile into the spirit’s head, most too quick to catch, but he grasps one by the tail. “Do spirits dance?”

Solas claims spirits are people, and each day that belief is realer in Cole’s own mind, reinforced by the Herald and Solas himself. He need not change to be loved, or understood, he need only be himself. But if he is a person, then he is not a person the way Varric is, or Cassandra, or even Solas. There’s a touch of sadness in the corner of his smile, as though he is sorry the question needs to be asked. “I suppose it falls to us to answer together,” he replies patiently with an offered palm.

Uncertain how it will help, but ready to trust that it can, he takes Solas’ hand.

“Listen closely,” he says, but he declines to speak again. Cole’s instruction takes a different turn, a manicured glimpse through a window into Solas’ soul.

“Delicate hand folded like a paper crane between my shoulders, her eyes shine like the gold she deals in when I take to the dance.” Josephine had poured so much into tonight, all her smiles and favours, anything that will see the Inquisition prevail. “She didn’t think you would be asked to dance, but she was afraid if you didn’t learn, someone would.”

“Her time was likely better spent elsewhere,” he agrees, “though nothing would have given me more pleasure tonight than refusing one of Celene’s court. Listen again, parse the thoughts which cloud the memory and see how we move.” Cole nods, and concentrates. He remembers the palm tucked in the valley between Solas’ shoulders, and he moves his there. His feet, too, he moves in line with his hips. It’s strange, focusing upon his own body and the space it takes up in the world. Lighter now that he has chosen compassion, but still very much real, empty only in the seconds the air rushes from the chambers of his lungs.

He feels eyes upon him, questioning, searching for confirmation before the music dares move them. “I’m ready.”

When Solas steps forward, Cole steps back, like they’re two puppets on the same musical string. He clips his strides, travelling farther faster than Solas can hope to without magic to carry him there. Awkward at first, but with each beat he feels him join with the dance that exists in his head. Old melodies, half-remembered, play in distant memories. Like the sky he knew it, once, but made himself forget. Dancing wasn’t always this way, was it?

Solas remembers. Feet too full of motion to keep his thoughts safe in his head, they spill onto the fabric of the world where Cole breathes them like his own. Memories of moving on a dancefloor to a familiar tune, swaying with the stars themselves, spinning until they parted from the earth. He swells with pride, a beast alive beneath his ribcage, it thrives and fights and inspires. When they dance the heavens and the earth move, and an empire holds its breath. It fears what dread the dawn will bring, but his People find freedom in the impromptu steps.

“What are you two doing here?” A voice snaps the string. Halamshiral looks different than it did heartbeats ago, all the magic hidden in dark corners (all the elves, too). When Cole turns to see the servant who disturbed them, he’s surprised to see a bare face behind her plain mask, and a second later cannot recall why.

With silver eyes she stares at him, unblinking. “She can see me.”

“A consequence of our dance, I believe.” Yes, he can feel it. Solas fades with each passing second, growing distant as his hand falls from his waist. “It will fade in a moment.” He speaks as though she is not there, but he’s waiting. It’s another dance, only it’s Cole’s turn to lead.

Cut loose, he turns his attention to the woman. Fear flows through her veins, the dagger beneath her sleeve is ready to open theirs. Beneath the steel, her heart wavers. Stranded between duty and love. “I’m warning you-”

“There’s still time,” he says. “She waits for you beside the fountain where you wished away Your Lady’s collection.” There were wiser things to do with gold, but oh how they’d laughed with every dream plunged into the water.

Cole steps forward and she braces, but not fast enough. “Forget.”

Time is unmade behind her eyes, and she slips the mask from her face to rub the last place she’d been kissed. Gone as quickly as she came, with new purpose in her step.

“It seems you found a way to help someone, after all,” Solas remarks after the library door has shut behind her. “You never fail to impress.”

Something in him shines brighter, bolstered by his pride. “Thank you.” He falters, looking down at his feet, curling his toes inside their boots. “I’d like to try another dance, if you think there’s time.”

A laugh coloured wine red parts Solas’ lips, punctuated by a snort that makes Blackwall down below look around for its source. “I believe there is time for one more,” he says, outstretched palm seeking Cole’s hand. “Since you have devised a way to put off intruders, I daresay we have all the time in the world.”

It isn’t a lie, but neither is it true. Like the golden caprice coins that shine beneath the lovers’ reunion, Solas’ words glow like wishes.

[natrogersfics]

After All - Chapter 2/5

Cover art by @faith2nyc​  ​Read on AO3

Toddlers are an enigma. That much is clear to Natasha. Compared to infants, they’re leaps and bounds more amusing. But they’re terribly difficult to gauge – they long for independence, yet knowing exactly how much to give without under or overwhelming them is anyone's guess. That limbo in particular is one of the more complicated aspects of parenting she’s learning to navigate, both emotionally and logistically. For as much as she’s excited to see what else is to come of Isabel’s burgeoning personality, there are days where she finds herself longing for the little cuddle bug who willingly gave her its complete cooperation without so much as a peep. And right now, as she sits on the play mat in her living room trying to get a sweater over her squirming daughter’s head, she notes that today happens to be one of those days.  

“Mama, ‘nuff!” she hears Isabel protest, her voice muffled by the soft cotton.

“Almost done, fig,” she says as she successfully gets Isabel’s head through the collar. “Tada!” Despite her enthusiasm, Isabel does not look the least bit amused, and as she leans forward to try to smooth the curls on her head that got ruffled in the process, the little girl dodges her hand with artful precision to reach for her blocks. With a shake of her head, she feels for her phone behind her, holding it up to point the camera at Isabel. “Okay, what do you think of this one?”

On screen, Pepper can only sigh. “It looks great. As did the first two sweaters you put on her.”

“But this one is cuter,” she reasons, zooming in on the embroidered flowers at the hem. “Look!”

“Nat,” Pepper says, her lips pressing into a line. “She’s spending the day with her father, not going to meet the Queen.”

“Maybe not intentionally,” she says. “This is London, after all. You never know when you’ll run into Her Majesty.”

“Natasha.” Pepper’s stern tone causes her to bite her lip, and when she musters the courage to look back at the screen, she finds her best friend regarding her carefully. “Are you having second thoughts about letting Steve come out to visit?”

“No,” she says, sighing at the way Pepper narrows her eyes. “I’m not, okay? And even if I was, it’s too late anyway. He’s literally on his way. It’s just- It’s not like there’s protocol for spending Christmas with your…” She puts her hand out, as if doing so would make the end of her sentence magically come to mind. But when you ask someone to have a child with you, and you end up falling in love with them, only for them to break your heart into a million little pieces later on when they don’t reciprocate your feelings, knowing what to accurately call them is complicated, to say the least. She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. It’s just unconventional, is what I’m saying.” Pepper’s lips part to speak, no doubt about her ironic choice of adjective, so she holds up a finger before she can. “Not a word.”

“Okay, okay,” Pepper acquiesces. “Just wanted to make sure that weirdness is the only reason you put my goddaughter through three outfit changes and not… other things.”    

“Trust me, Pep, those other things have been pushed so far back into the closet they’re in Narnia,” she says quietly. All her worries that night Steve had sent her a text turned out to be for nothing. She’d expected something big and life-altering, maybe news that he’d moved on and he wanted Isabel there for his wedding, but as it turned out, it was only a request to spend Christmas with them. “Anyway, it does not matter how weirded out I am by the circumstances. I got hurt... Maybe he did, too.” She lets her eyes linger to the mat where Isabel is still happily entertaining herself before shaking her head. “But that’s all water under the bridge now, and when possible, our daughter deserves to be with both her parents for Christmas. That’s why I agreed to this.”

“Well, I’m proud of you for being so mature about all this,” Pepper says. “I know it’s not easy.”

“It is what it is,” she says dismissively, giving Pepper a one-shouldered shrug. It’s only when the doorbell rings that her brave façade slips, her eyes widening involuntarily.  

“It’ll be fine, Nat,” Pepper says, offering her a reassuring smile. “Talk to you soon.”

With a two-fingered salute, she cuts the video, placing her phone in her back pocket and stealing another glance at Isabel to make sure she’s sufficiently preoccupied. Satisfied, she huffs out a breath and gives her reflection a cursory glance at the mirror, tucking a tendril of hair back as she makes her way to the front door. She reaches for the knob, putting on her best smile as she pulls it open.

“Hey,” Steve greets, smiling brightly as he stands at her front door dressed in dark jeans and a leather jacket.

“You shaved,” she blurts out, inwardly cursing at how quickly the words had fallen out of her mouth.

To her relief, he chuckles. “Oh yeah,” he says, reaching a hand up to his jaw. “I grew it out again for a bit there, but I know Izzie’s not a fan of it, so…”

“She might be a little more amenable now,” she says, though it comes across more like she’s wondering aloud, so she adds, “not that you need a beard or anything.”

“Yeah, no, it would be nice to get to keep it,” he says, gesturing to their surroundings, “especially when it gets cold like this.” His excitement is palpable as he cranes his neck slightly, as if to peek behind her. “Is she awake?”

“Oh, yes! Sorry, please come in.” She steps aside, opening the door wider to let him through. “You got in late last night, right? How was your flight?”

“I did, and it was okay,” he says as he follows her down the foyer. “The customs line at Heathrow, though, a little less so.”

She looks over her shoulder to shoot him a look of sympathy, knowing full well what that headache is like. “She just got up from her morning nap about an hour ago,” she says as they walk into the living room, and she does not have to turn around to know that the faint gasp Steve lets out is in awe of the sight of Isabel pushing her little vacuum cleaner around before them. “Izzie, baby, look who’s here.”

Isabel looks up at the sound of her voice, freezing in place as her eyes go from her and then to Steve, who steps forward and crouches down, opening his arms as he reaches for her. “Hi, fig!”  

A smile grazes her lips when Isabel begins to scamper over at Steve’s greeting, but it quickly fades – as does Steve’s elated expression – when their daughter moves past him to hide behind her legs instead. “Hey, it’s okay,” she says automatically, bending down to collect Isabel, who buries her face into her neck, into her arms. She turns to Steve. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know-”

“No,” he says placatingly, and though he tries to blink away the hurt in his eyes, she catches it all the same. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have assumed-”

“No, you were fine,” she says in her most reassuring voice. “She’s usually really friendly, but her quirks change every day now, it seems.” Steve nods at her, and she turns towards Isabel, dusting a kiss to the crown of her head and rubbing a hand soothingly up and down her back. “It’s okay, fig. It’s just Daddy.” When Isabel looks up at her, she reaches into her pocket, showing her the phone. “We talk all the time, remember? And we read stories before bedtime…”  

Isabel looks at the phone in her hand and then at her, her big blue eyes skeptical. “Dada?”

“Yes, yes,” she says excitedly, eyeing Steve over Isabel’s head as she mouths, “talk to her.”

“Hi, Izzie,” Steve says, prompting Isabel to peek shyly at him. He smiles. “It’s me, Daddy. Remember? On the phone we said in two more sleeps we were gonna go on adventures?”

It’s with bated breath that she waits for Isabel’s reaction. The little girl purses her lips, and it’s almost by instinct that she braces herself for a meltdown, but instead, she finds herself nearly sighing in relief when Isabel leans forward and reaches for Steve. “Dada!”

“Yes, baby girl, Dada!” Steve says as he takes Isabel into his arms, standing and beaming from ear to ear when she wraps her arms around his neck. “Oh, I’ve missed you so much!” He kisses her cheek as he moves to settle her against his hip. “How’s my girl?”

“I play!” Isabel exclaims, her words promptly descending into gibberish as she goes on and on.

She watches as Steve nods along amusedly, barely containing his smile as he listens to Isabel talk. “Yeah, so…” she interjects, prompting Steve to look her way. “You’ll get about two, maybe three actual words from her before you have to use context clues and the Science of Deduction to figure out the rest.”

Steve laughs. “That’s about as much as I get from Tony, so I think I’ll manage.”

“Touché,” she says, chuckling when Isabel demands to be put down and stalks back to her mat. She points a thumb over her shoulder. “Can I get you something to drink before you guys leave? There’s still some coffee in the pot if you want some.”

Steve nods, and as they walk the short distance to her kitchen, she notices how he immediately positions himself by the counter overlooking the living room. “Still not a tea person, huh?”

Her expression sours as she begins to pour him a cup, eliciting a laugh from him. “I don’t think the British government will appreciate me becoming a menace to society.”

He smirks as he accepts the mug from her. “How’s work?”

“It’s… going,” she says, shrugging at the questioning look he sends her. “T’Challa, Nakia, and I finally got the company up and running both on paper and digital, but you know how it is when the truth ruffles some feathers.”

“Hmm,” he says, nodding in acknowledgement. “Same S-H-I-T, different continent, huh?”  

“She can’t hear you,” she says with an amused smile as she goes to rinse the pot in the sink. “But basically, yes. We ran a piece about a member of Parliament and some of his unsavory practices. Nothing but the truth there, but it’s not being received well, which is why Izzie and I couldn't make it back in time for Christmas.”

“I kinda figured the article would have them clutching their pearls.”

She turns to him, surprised. “You read The Pioneer?”

“Yeah,” he says, “I-”

The unmistakable clang of metal as it hits the ground interrupts him, followed immediately by Isabel’s proclamation of oh no, and that’s enough to send them both racing out of the kitchen and back into the living room to see Isabel standing over the now scattered tin of cookies that was sitting on the coffee table.

She turns to Steve, crossing her arms over her chest. “By the way, she likes knocking things over for S-H-I-T-S and giggles now, too.”

He cringes. “Any chance her vacuum cleaner actually works?”

It’s after the crumbs in her living room are sorted out and they both manage to convince their daughter to put and keep her shoes on that she stands outside her front door, watching as Steve swings the baby bag over his shoulder and picks Isabel up.

“Anything else about this one that I should know before we go?” Steve asks, jostling Isabel slightly in emphasis.

“Let’s see…” she says, “well, she hates socks with a ferocity. I did you a solid by getting them on, but if for any reason you have to take them off, know that you’re never going to get them on again. Also, nine times out of ten her answer to anything is no, so use your discretion when seeking her opinion.” Steve’s lips part, but before he can speak, she adds, “Oh, and she’s on a hunger strike. I’m told it’s just a phase, but hey, if you can get her to eat, more power to you.”  

Steve stands there, blinking once and then twice. “Okay...” he says, turning to Isabel. “Well, don’t you sound delightful.”

“No,” Isabel says with a shake of her head.

“You sure you don’t want to take the stroller?” she asks when Steve’s face falls at their daughter’s swift reply, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“Nah, I think we’ll be fine,” he says. “I’ll have her back in a few hours.”

“Sounds good,” she says before waving at Isabel. “Bye, Iz! Have fun.”

“Bye!” Isabel says, waving back.

She waits for Steve and Isabel to walk down the block, and once they disappear from her vantage point, she returns inside, letting out a breath and feeling a lot more at ease than she did when she had woken up this morning. With any luck, maybe this didn’t have to be the debacle she thought it might be.

He should have taken the stroller.

The thought loops continuously in Steve’s mind as he lengthens his strides along the cobblestone paths of Kensington Gardens in an attempt to keep up with his daughter. “Izzie, slow down, babe!” he calls out, half in astonishment at seeing Isabel zoom past him with ease and half in anxiousness over the uneven grounds beneath their feet. The plea only spurns her on though, and he finds himself chuckling under his breath when she attempts to run. “Come here, you little daredevil!”  

Isabel dissolves into a fit of giggles as he collects her in his arms, lifting her to him to pepper her face with kisses. “Dada, no!”

“You keep this up, you’re gonna scrape your knees,” he tries to explain though he knows it’s an exercise in futility. If there’s anything he’s learned in the last couple of hours since they left Natasha’s flat, it’s that trying to reason with his eighteen-month-old is practically like talking to a wall.

“Walk,” Isabel insists, blinking up at him as if he hadn’t said a word. But then she smiles, the type that spans so wide it reaches her eyes and bares all her milky white teeth that his heart is helpless to do anything but melt in his chest.

“Fine,” he says with a sigh, ignoring the teasing he can hear in his head from everyone in his life about how easily he’s charmed. “But you have to hold Daddy’s hand, okay?”

“‘kay,” Isabel says as he puts her back down on her feet, and he can’t help but grin when she offers up her hand for him to take.

By the time they make it to the Italian Gardens, Isabel tires enough that she does not protest when he picks her up to get a better view of the fountains, and as she points to every little thing that catches her attention and narrates her thoughts to him, he’s relieved by how quickly she’s readjusted to his presence. There was a part of him that had anticipated her skepticism of him this morning – for as much as they FaceTimed three times a week, he knows that it’s still not a substitute for her seeing him every day – though he has to admit that the way she had run to Natasha as if he were some stranger still stinged. Heartbreak is something he knows a little too well, but being rejected by his own daughter is one type he hopes he’ll never have to experience ever again.

Luckily for him, that doesn’t seem to be in the cards any longer. Isabel’s been nothing but receptive to him since they left, and for his part, he’s been all but entranced by every new facet of her personality that he’s discovered. She’s still the same precocious and affectionate little girl he remembers from six months ago, only now she’s more gregarious, and he can’t recall having laughed as much as he has since they’ve set out together this morning.  

“Look!” Isabel says, and as he turns his gaze towards the direction her finger is pointed in, he makes out one of the urns of the Tazza fountain.

“Do you know what that is?” he asks, observing Isabel’s reaction. Though it’s been a while since he’s been able to spend this much time with her, he realizes that despite her evolving personality, there’s a familiarity to her mannerisms and proclivities, and that’s because it’s so inherently Natasha – much like the way her nose is scrunched up now as she tries to answer his question. But there are also parts of himself that he’s found in her in the last couple of hours, such as the way her shoulders sag in defeat when she’s being reprimanded, and he finds some comfort in the reminder that regardless of the time they spend apart, they’ll always be intrinsically connected.

Isabel turns back to him, her eyes growing wide with excitement. “Do-phin?”

“Yes, baby girl!” he says, earning a squeal of delight from Isabel when he kisses her cheek. “You’re right, it’s a dolphin. Good job!” He turns away from the fountain, reaching behind him to fish his phone out of his pocket and opening it up to the camera. “Okay, now smile so we can send grandma a picture.”

“No!” Isabel says immediately, turning her face away.

He puts his phone down, chuckling. “You win some, you lose some.”

The next day, he pretends not to notice Natasha’s I-Told-You-So expression when he asks for the stroller before he and Isabel set out on another day of sightseeing. Yesterday had been a real eye opener for him in terms of getting to know his daughter’s quirks, and as he pushes Isabel through St. James Park, he revels in having been better prepared this time around. While he hadn’t succeeded in getting pictures of her facing the camera on their previous outing, he’s certain and feeling a touch triumphant at having taken enough today to satisfy both his family and his friends in their respective group chats. The trick, he learned, lies in phrasing the idea of taking the picture to Isabel in a form of a question instead of a command. It seemed silly, but as he’s learning, such is toddler logic. Plus, in the end, the elaborate charade of it all is worth it if it meant sticking it to Bucky for harping on his photography skills.

It’s when he and Isabel are walking out of a restaurant two days later that he hears his phone ring, and as he looks at the name flashing on the screen, he pushes the stroller to the side, turning it until Isabel is facing him. “It’s momma,” he mouths to Isabel, who looks up at him, before bringing the phone to his ear. “Hey, we’re on our way back.”

“Hey,” Natasha says, and his eyebrows immediately furrow at the exasperated sigh that accompanies her greeting. “That’s actually why I’m calling. I ran into a problem at work and won’t be home for another hour or two and I know it’s almost her bedtime. Do you mind staying with her until I get back?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, just need to sort something out here sooner rather than later,” she says. “But are you sure you don’t mind? Because I can get-”

“Natasha,” he interrupts. “I’ve got her. Do what you have to do.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says, gratitude thick in her voice. “I’ll be home as soon as I can, but make yourself comfortable and help yourself to whatever’s in my kitchen if you want. But also maybe try not to judge what’s in it, yeah?”

“Duly noted,” he says with a chuckle, thankful that such is the rapport they’ve built since he arrived that she’s comfortable enough to joke around with him. “Oh, but before you go.” His eyes fall to Isabel, who’s busying herself with her new Beefeater doll, before he shakes his head. “Do you have a hair dryer I can borrow?”

A sigh slips from Natasha’s lips when she walks into her flat and haphazardly rids herself of her heels, shoving the pair off to the side as she makes her way down the foyer. The living room is empty when she enters, and the first thing she notices is how much neater the space looks – gone are the toys Isabel had scattered around, and for once, the throw pillows on her couch actually align properly. But when her gaze falls to the recliner on the left and then to the black coat draped over the back, all her questions are immediately answered.

“Steve?” she calls out. “You in here?” When she does not get a reply, she steps further into the room, suddenly becoming aware of the whirring sound coming from down the hall. She decides to follow it, and when it leads her to the open doorway of the bathroom, she can only chuckle as she peers inside. “So that’s what you needed the hair dryer for.”

Steve whips around at the sound of her voice, a startled expression on his face as he holds the dryer in one hand and his shirt in the other. “Oh hey,” he says, thumbing the dryer off. “Uh… sorry, I didn’t hear you come in over the noise.”

“Well, if I’m being honest, I’m a little disappointed,” she admits, smirking when his face twists in confusion. “When you asked to borrow my dryer, I was hoping it was because you gave Izzie a bath and decided to give her a fabulous blowout.”

“I did give her a bath,” he says, a tinge of indignance in his voice as he points to the tub. “But I also had to give my shirt a bath on the account of the little rascal throwing her spaghetti at me.” He shoots her a withering look when she throws her head back, cackling. “Ha ha, very funny.”

“Yeah, probably should have warned you about that,” she says, rolling her lips in an attempt to taper her laughter. “She asleep already?”

“Got her down about a half hour ago,” he says.

Though she already knew the answer, his confirmation still evokes disappointment in her. “I’m gonna go kiss her goodnight,” she tells him, turning and making her way towards the end of the hall. Isabel’s room is dimly lit by her night light, and carefully, she tiptoes towards the crib, bending down to press a kiss to her forehead. For a moment, she allows herself to just watch the rise and fall of her daughter’s chest, letting the peaceful image wash away the fatigue from her day. Then with sigh and a final glance at her, she exits the room in search of a much needed nightcap.

The kitchen tiles are cold under her feet as she makes a beeline for the fridge, and as she pulls the door open to inspect its contents, she hears her name being called out. “Kitchen!” she yells back. The sound of footsteps coming her way is the only response, and she looks over her shoulder in time to see Steve appear by the frame, his shirt back on and its sleeves rolled past his elbows. “Want a beer?” she asks, only to silently admonish herself when she sees the way Steve’s brows shoot up in surprise. “I’m sorry, I’ve kept you long enough, haven’t I? You probably have things to do-”

“No,” he interrupts, clearing his throat as he straightens his stance. “A beer would be nice, actually.”

She smiles. “Stella still good with you?” When he nods, she turns back to the fridge, grabbing two bottles before using her foot to shut the door. She twists off the caps before handing the other bottle to him, and when he mutters a thank you, she nods towards her living room.

“So let me get this straight…” she hears him say as she plops down on the couch and he takes a seat on the recliner. “You’re still a coffee addict but no longer a vodka fiend?” He clicks his tongue. “Gotta be honest, I always thought that if one had to go, it would be the coffee.”

“First of all,” she says, propping her feet up on the coffee table. “I would never give up either. But gun to my head, it would be coffee, yes.” She lifts her bottle up as if to inspect it. “Vodka is still my poison of choice. I just haven’t had the time to replenish.”

“Bad day?” he asks as she takes a long swig from her bottle.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she groans, placing her bottle down to dig the heels of her hands into her eyes.  

A beat passes before she hears him ask, “Wanna talk about it?”

Her eyes blink open in surprise, and she turns to look at him. “You really want to hear about work stuff?”

“Only if you want to talk about it,” he says with a shrug.

For a second, she can only sit there, blinking as she contemplates his offer. In the last few days since he arrived, they’ve been cordial enough with one another that asking him to stay with Isabel as she sorted out some pressing issues at work tonight didn’t feel like that big of an imposition. Now here she is, commandeering more of his time by inviting him to have a beer with her that, surely, it would be rude of her to unload on him about her harrowing workday, too. But as she turns back to him, the earnestness of his expression convinces her to throw caution to the wind. She sighs, sinking further into her seat. “It’s just a lot of… bullshit,” she says, leaning her elbow on the arm rest as they both laugh at her word choice. “The member of Parliament I was talking about a few days ago? This morning he threatened to sue us for defamation.” Concern paints his features at her words, but she’s quick to wave it off. “We already talked to legal about it. It’s all a power play. With the amount of evidence we have to back up our claims, he does not have a case.”

“Then what’s the problem?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, looking up at the ceiling. “Once upon a time, I would have found intimidation tactics like this a fun challenge... In fact, I lived for these hurdles. I liked knowing my work was keeping people like him up at night, because it meant I was hitting at the truth. But nowadays?” She shrugs, looking back at him. “I guess the exhaustion just sinks down to the bone a little more… and it’s not that I don’t love my job, I do. Becoming editor-in-chief has always been on my career bucket list and I know I’m very fortunate to be where I am today. It’s just that checking every little thing off of that list isn’t everything to me anymore.” She nods towards the hallway. “She is.”

“No, I totally get it,” he says, and for the first time in a while, she feels relief wash over her at the certainty that fills his eyes. “I didn’t know that being a curator was something I wanted to do until Tony and Pepper approached me about it. Discovering all these new artists has been great-”

“And the gift baskets too, I’m sure,” she adds, smirking at the questioning look that crosses his face. “Darcy catches me up on the office gossip. She said you get a lot of loot from people vying to interview you.”

“I leave whatever I get in the breakroom and let them fight over it,” he explains, smiling as she chuckles. “But yeah, the feeling of professional accomplishment I’ve had these last couple of years? Doesn’t even come close to how it felt when Izzie looked up at me tonight as I was putting her to bed and told me, unprompted, that she loved me.”  

“I lah you,” she says, making them both chuckle as she mimics Isabel’s voice. “Kinda knocks you off your feet a little, huh?” He nods, to which she smiles. “Anyway, enough talking about work and our lives’ purpose for one night. What did you two get into today?”

“See for yourself,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket and handing it to her. “I thought she might like to see horse drawn carriages like in her bedtime stories, so we went to the Royal Mews. I think she really enjoyed it. Well, save for the little meltdown she had when I wouldn’t let her pet the” – he puts out his free hand, making air quotations with his index and middle fingers – “ponies.”

She scoffs, handing him back his phone. “If it was just a little meltdown, consider yourself lucky. She once face-planted on the floor of a Tesco because I wouldn’t let her carry the carton of eggs while we shopped.”

“Toddlers, huh?” he says with a shake of his head.

“They’re cute for a reason,” she concurs. “What about tomorrow?”

“We were going to see Big Ben, but then I learned that it’s boarded up,” he says, his gaze falling to the watch on his wrist. “Oh, wow. Speaking of tomorrow, though, I have to work a little in the morning before I come get her, so I should probably get going.” When she nods in acknowledgement, he stands, reaching for his coat. “But anyway, we might just do the aquarium instead. That place any good?”

She shrugs. “Wouldn’t know. Never been.”

“You’ve never been to the aquarium?” he asks incredulously, his eyes widening when she shakes her head no. “Have you at least gone to other sites? Like the Tower?”

“I’ve seen it. It’s on my bus route to work.”

“Natasha,” he says in equal parts amusement and admonishment.

“I’ve been busy,” she argues. “And taking a not even two-year-old to the Tower of London where they keep all the shiny Crown Jewels that she’s not allowed to touch?” She scoffs. “I’m not a glutton for punishment, Steve.”

“They’re encased in glass boxes,” he reasons, to which she rolls her eyes before turning to straighten the throw pillows on the couch. There’s a pause, and just when she assumes that he’s chosen to let the argument go, he sighs. “You should come with us.”

“What?” she asks, turning to him, pillow still in hand. “Steve, I can’t-”

“You got plans?” he challenges.

“Not for a few days, no, but I do have mounds of laundry to do,” she says, scoffing when he crosses his arms over his chest. “Hey, she might be small, but she goes through a lot of clothes and they’re a pain to fold.”

“You can do laundry when you get back,” he dismisses. “Come on, Nat. You’re the one that made fun of me for not having been to The Met before.”

“That’s not the same. You had been living in Manhattan for years at that point,” she says before gesturing around her flat. “Look, I know you couldn’t help yourself and tidied up this living room, you weirdo. But trust me when I say there’s more to clean!” When his knowing gaze does not let up, she scoffs. And maybe it’s the catharsis from having shared her qualms about work with the only person who truly understands her predicament, or the way they’d seamlessly fallen into conversation as if it hadn’t been ages since they last sat back and had a beer together, but either way, she finds her determination wavering. With a sigh, she puts the pillow back down on the couch. “Fine, okay. Okay. I’ll go.”

“Okay,” he says, suddenly looking triumphant. As he begins to make his way towards the door, she follows him, raising a brow in question when he puts a hand on the knob only to turn back to her. He shrugs. “I know the consequences of your work are exhausting, but for what it’s worth… I think we’re all pretty lucky to have you fighting to get the truth out there.”

Despite how tired she feels, her lips turn up in a smile. “Thank you,” she says with a nod of her head. “Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, Nat.”

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

[scapegrace74-blog]

Halo

A/N Today the Metric Universe has a guest artist: Depeche Mode!  This story takes place soon after Help! I’m Alive, which is going to require some creative liberties on my part.  Depeche Mode did play London Stadium to a sold-out crowd (one of eight bands to ever do so), but in June 2017, not September.  

All other parts of the Metric Universe are available on my AO3 page. 

The song by Depeche Mode that inspired the title is here. Teenage Michelle listed to Violator on repeat, just like Claire and Jamie.  

September 21, 2017, Spitalfields, England

Jamie’s patrol boots felt like concrete weights about his feet as he plodded down the hallway towards his flat.  Most days, he loved his job.  It filled a psychic need to contribute meaningfully to society and provided a loose camaraderie that acted as a substitute family.  Physically and mentally taxing, on a bad day like today, it left him feeling wrung out and far older than his twenty-seven years.  All that kept him moving was force of habit and the promise of a glass of whisky, a long shower and a comfortable bed.

A steady thump of bass throbbed from behind his door.  Frowning, he fit the key in the lock and walked into a wall of sound.  Claire was nowhere to be seen, but her iPhone sat on the coffee table, wirelessly connected to the tele’s surround sound system.  He tapped the screen once and lowered the volume significantly.

The sudden lull drew his roommate from the kitchen, where she’d evidently been cleaning.  She was wearing a tattered pair of jogging pants, a plain white tshirt and rubber gloves.  Corkscrews of sweaty hair stuck to her temples.

“Jamie, hi.  Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Understandable.   Depeche Mode, Sassenach?”

Her lips curled in a shape he knew was supposed to be a grin.  Something was missing, however.  A spark, a hint of magic, the ineffable quality he associated with Claire.

“Are ye alright, Claire?  Ye seem... I dinna ken, but not yerself,” he inquired as he opened the liquor cabinet.  Raising a nearly full bottle of Glenfiddich in silent query, he set about pouring two healthy glasses.  When they met back at the sofa, Claire had removed her cleaning attire and tried to arrange her hair in a slightly neater bun.

“I could ask the same of you,” she countered.  “You look done in.  Rough day?  Cheers,” she added, raising the amber liquid.

“Slainte,” he replied, letting the spicy heat coat his throat and settle like an ember in his belly.

“Do you ever...” Claire began before subsiding into silence.

“Do I ever what?” he urged.

“Some days I just feel as though no matter what I do, the cosmic ledger is not going to balance, you know?  That there isn’t enough good in me to balance out all the bad.”

He forced himself to mutely accept her statement, no matter how much he wanted to dispute it.  She was exposing a chink in her formidable armour.  His job was to listen, not debate.  He couldn’t help wanting to peer past the small opening to the burning core within, though.

“I loved this album as a lad,” he offered instead.  “Dark an’ moody an’ all about sex. My Mam hated Personal Jesus, complained twas blasphemous.”

Claire chuckled softly.  She was looking at a point over his shoulder, visibly straining to reach some buried emotion.

“When things got horrific at Camp Bastion, the surgeons would listen to music, ridiculously loud music.  Artillery fire, evac choppers, the wails of wounded soldiers, it drowned them all out.  Or at least that was the idea.  The camp only had an old portable stereo on its last legs, held together with suture wire.  By the end of my year, Violator was the only tape that fucking thing hadn’t eaten.  This is the soundtrack of the worst moments of my life.”

He could have asked why she would want to relive that personal hell, but he already knew the answer.  It was the same reason he still rushed into a burning building, even as the memory of his accident played havoc with his PTSD.  Survival was an act of redemption.  You fought your demons because if you didn’t, the demons had already won.

They sat beside each other on the sofa listening to the melancholy songs on repeat.  When her glass was empty, Jamie poured another two fingers unprompted.  He didn’t ask what happened during her hospital shift to send her thoughts back to Afghanistan.  He could guess.   She didn’t ask why his uniform smelled of ashes and burnt flesh.  She could guess.   Sometimes the hurt didn’t need to be articulated.  Sometimes silent complicity was the only cure.

***

October 20, 2017, London Stadium, England

She’d almost missed the envelope entirely.   Bleary eyed after an overnight shift, her plan was to sleep through the rest of the day and wake up tomorrow in her thirties.  Checking the surface of her desk for mail out of habit on her way to the shower, Jamie’s bold scrawl, black across ivory paper, caught her eye.

Happy Birthday, Claire.

Her finger shook as she unsealed the feather-light rectangle.  A ticket stub was the only content.  Her hand covered her mouth as she drew in a quivering lungful of air.  She had no idea how he even knew it was her birthday, never mind how he happened upon the perfect gift.

After a rejuvenating nap, shower and thirty minutes trying on every outfit in her wardrobe, she now stood in an endless security lineup in the hulking shadow of London Stadium.  A soft brush against her bare shoulder and a hint of his familiar scent were the cues that sent her heart beating against her ribs.  She looked up into the sunrise of his warmest smile.

“G’d evenin’, Sassenach,” he greeted.  “Fancy meetin’ ye here.”

She shook her head in mock exasperation.

“Really, Jamie.  I can’t believe you.  How ever did you even get tickets?  It’s been sold out for months.”

“Och, twas nothin’.  The sister of one of the lads on my engine works fer their record label,” he demurred, running a hand through his curls.   She could see they were still damp.  He must have showered at the station and come straight from work.  The bright floodlights caught the blond tones of the stubble along his jaw.  She looked away, feeling a lurch in her stomach that had nothing to do with missing dinner.

They chatted easily as they slowly advanced through the metal detectors and into the colossal stadium.

“I’ve never been inside,” she remarked, craning her head upwards.  “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“Aye, tis.  This way, birthday girl.  We’re on the floor.”  Jamie extended a courtly arm and shepherded her into the steadily growing crowd.

At concerts in her youth, she always started near the stage but was gradually pushed backwards by larger, rowdier fans.  It took several songs for her to realize why that wasn’t happening.  Jamie had planted himself directly behind her and was acting like a breakwater, parting the crowd with his tall, broad form before they could push up against her.   She felt something vigilant loosen along her spine.  Before long, she was dancing and singing along, completely lost in the moment.

Looking up over her shoulder at his proud, chiseled features as they were washed in multi-hued lights, she caught his eye and smiled.  He bent close, his warm breath feathering her hair as he whisper-yelled into her ear.

“Happy birthday, Sassenach.”

Impulsively, she stood on tiptoe and placed a careful kiss near the corner of his mouth.  Lying in bed that night with the echo of the music still ringing in her ears, it was the memory of his shyly delighted grin that lit her mind like a thousand stars.

[theshopislocal]

corinth rains

New and improved Heaven may well be the Happiest Place (not) on Earth. But Dean, it turns out, is still Dean.

(also on AO3)

chapter five

Baby rumbles against Dean’s back, purring as she idles at the roadside.

He’s been sat here, hands on the wheel in a stiff 10 and 2, languishing in indecision for a good while now. Though the windows are down and the visor out, he’s still sweating a wet spot onto the back of his henley, hair damp at the base of his skull.

He glances at the passenger seat, empty but for his phone lying face down.

The phone was something of a turn up. It had appeared at his bedside sometime during his first night in Heaven. He’d awoken to the sound of it buzzing against the tabletop, a message from Sam - You good? - flashing on the screen. He’d picked it up and fiddled with it, running his fingers over the burnished metal and smooth glass. If he’d never seen any of the crazy shit Charlie’d cobbled together, he would’ve said the thing looked Space Age - all sleek lines and sharp angles, no buttons to speak of.

As it stood, he’d shrugged and tapped on the message from Sam. He’d typed out a brief response - Peachy - and chucked it back onto the nightstand, pulling the covers over his head. He’d slept until the sun went down.

Dean winces as a bead of sweat drips into his eye and cranes his neck to wipe his face on his shoulder. He looks back at the phone and rolls his eyes.

It’s in his hand a moment later, his thumb hovering over the screen. There are no icons, no home screen, just a blank black surface. Like most things in Heaven, it seems to just... operate as expected - to do whatever it is he wants it to.

Trouble is, Dean doesn’t know what he’s expecting. And he certainly doesn’t know what he wants.

He peers through the windshield, eyes squinting against the light, and observes the sparse spring clouds drifting over the pass. If he looks hard enough, he can probably find Sam and Eileen’s place - a little white dot on the mountainside. Instead, his eyes cut to the lowest point between the peaks, though he can see neither hide nor hair of what lies beyond.

His thumb brushes against the phone’s screen, and he glances down when it illuminates.

On first glance, it looks no different from any other satellite map - a blinking blue dot with his name hovering over it, little broccoli trees and crosshatch roads. But as he looks closer, he sees movement: the trees seem to sway, the shadows shift, and there’s a dancing white speck where a bird flies figure eights.

On a whim, Dean double taps his location, zooming in tight. He sticks his other hand out the window, waving skyward. On the screen, he sees himself, flailing his arm like an idiot, crystal clear and moving precisely in time.

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and he snorts. “We have the technology,” he mutters, pinching the screen to zoom out again. “We can make it better, stronger—”

He stops short at the sight of another little dot, this one in a soft, glowing white. It’s across the bridge on the other side of the forest, in what looks like a sprawling botanical garden.

The Library, reads the text.

Dean frowns and lowers the phone, staring blankly at the steering wheel. He’s got that feeling again, like he’s a damn open book - though he’s not sure why anyone would bother to read.

He shakes his head and huffs a dry laugh, chucking the phone onto the dash. He flicks on the radio, Zeppelin IV blaring from the speakers, and throws Baby into gear.

“Over the river and through the woods,” he murmurs, and he pulls onto the road in a cloud of gravel dust.

~*~

Though stately and finely architectured with pillars and white stone, the building that houses the Library is surprisingly small.

He’s driven past it a few times, but never gotten too close; there’s something mildly forbidding in the way it juts out of the earth, its stamped concrete walkways a jarring foil to the surrounding flora. From his perch on the front steps, it looks like any other city library - modern and well-maintained, if a bit oddly placed.

Dean presses his phone closer to his ear, eyes fixed on the tall, imposing doors at the top landing. “You sure this is a good idea?”

Charlie’s voice comes through, clear and a little echoey. “Well, it was your idea, so… No, not at all.”

Dean’s eyes roll skyward at her chipper tone, and he fiddles with the odd little trinket in his other hand. “I mean, is it gonna work,” he grunts out.

Charlie makes an offended noise, and there’s a low thud that sounds like a book snapping shut. “Of course it’s gonna work,” she says, tone sharp with a nerdy bluster that has Dean cracking a smile. “I poured my flesh and blood and a tiny bit of weapons grade plutonium into that amulet.”

Dean feels his smile slip, and he peers down at the little talisman. It’s a rusted iron triquetra with shining gemstones inlaid, the whole thing no bigger than his palm.

He’d called Charlie just as he pulled up to the garden. After a brief back-and-forth, she’d given a disgruntled “you owe me one,” and - through some sort of Heaven-magic that he doubts anyone besides Charlie could pull off - the amulet had appeared in his glovebox.

She definitely hadn’t mentioned any fucking plutonium. “Did you say—”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Winchester.”

Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and briefly presses the back of his hand into his eye socket. He nods to no one in particular, pulling his lips through his teeth. Sure, plutonium. Why not.

“Jesus,” he grumbles. “Yeah, okay.” He holds up the amulet, extending his arm as far from his body as possible; he’s pretty sure nothing can kill him now, but he’s not particularly interested in testing the theory. “So how do I use this thing?”

Charlie clears her throat. “Push on the gems - red first, blue last. Plop it on the door, and it’ll automagically—” Dean frowns, automagically? “—open. Badabing...”

“Badaboom, right.” Dean nods around a grimace and casts his eyes about the courtyard. It’s quiet and empty, the last rays of the evening sun glinting on the white stepping stones. “And if someone from the Arch sees me?”

“Well,” she begins, lofty and facetious. Dean gives a preemptive sigh. “They can’t kill you, can they. They’re angels, not juggalos with rusty barn nails.”

Forty years. He’s been dead forty years, and he still hasn’t lived down the juggalo thing. “Alright, first off,” he says, gesturing wildly with the nuclear weapon in his hand, “it was rebar. Not a nail. Rebar. And second,” he ticks two fingers up, “they were vampires,” he complains. “Big, scary vampires.”

Charlie snorts indelicately. “Yeah, well, I got gutted in a motel bathtub by a frickin’ Frankenstein. So, I win.”

“You—” Dean pauses for a moment to consider his argument. But toeing up against Charlie is a bit of a nonstarter, and, well... Frankenstein is pretty badass.

He sighs, resigned, and gives a shrugging nod. “Yeah.”

There’s a crack and hiss in the background - a beer can opening, Dean thinks - and he can hear the snarky smile in Charlie’s voice. “Tell Kevin I say hi.”

Dean blanches. “I—”

“Toodles!” Charlie says, and the line clicks dead.

Dean pulls the phone from his ear, glaring at the black screen. “Toodles,” he sneers, and slips it into his back pocket.

Dean peers around the plaza again, though there’s not a soul (he snorts) in sight. He squares his shoulders and straightens his spine, giving himself a little shake.

The steps are short and shallow; he takes them two at a time until he comes to the landing. Up close, the building looks bigger, the door a huge, imperial thing towering several feet over his head. It’s a smooth, dark wood, its wide panels inlaid.

Dean grasps at the amulet, sucking in a deep breath. “Here goes,” he murmurs.

He ghosts his fingertips over the gemstones. Red first, blue last. He pushes his forefinger against the red stone, face screwing up in a wince. It depresses and clicks into place.

After a tense moment, during which his entire body clenches like a vise, he opens his eyes. He peers down at himself, patting a hand around his chest. He’s still— well, not alive, per se, but at least he’s not a smear on the stone floor. He breathes out a relieved sigh and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

He runs his tongue over his chapped lips and clicks in the green stone, then the blue one.

For a moment, nothing happens. He frowns down at the amulet, turning it between his hands. Then there’s a soft pop and a little sizzle, and the metal begins to glow, warming against his palm.

“Uh...” His eyes go wide as it glows brighter, nearly scalding him now. “Shit, shit—” He approaches the door in two long strides and smacks the amulet against the lacquered wood.

He draws back his hand, blowing out another sigh when the damned thing stays put. It’s glowing almost painfully bright now, the light leaving red spots on his retina. He peers around the landing, wondering belatedly if he should take cover.

There’s a soft click and a groaning creak. Dean turns toward the sound just as the amulet winks out and falls, clinking as it lands. He stoops down to pick it up; it’s cool to the touch now, and Dean shakes his head. As he slides it into his pocket, a musty draft hits his face - the scent of old paper and tanned leather tickling his nose.

The door is open.

~*~

Dean gets the sense, as he steps over the threshold, that he’s walking through several doors - all of which, he presumes, are marked ‘staff only’. Confirmation comes when he steps fully into the room - not a foyer or a lobby, but a sprawling study, densely packed with overstuffed bookshelves.

He turns around to shut the door - quite a different door than the one he opened, knotty pine and regular sized. Dean feels the weight of the amulet in his pocket and gives an involuntary shiver; this magic shit always gives him the willies.

He steps further into the study proper. There are two rows of bookshelves to his left, one directly before him, and several more a little ways down on his right. The books are all bound the same, in a deep beige leather with some sort of gold insignia etched into the spines. He doesn’t recognize the symbols, or any of the books themselves. He doubts any of them are Vonnegut.

He peeks around the nearest shelf and finds a central area with several long oak tables. He glances left, then right, then down at his feet.

It occurs to him, of a sudden, that he’s got no damn idea what he’s doing here.

“You’re late.”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and whirls around, hands going for the gun he no longer carries.

The door he came through is gone, and the wall along with it. Instead, there’s a raised platform with short stone steps before it, and what appears to be an exact replica of the Resolute desk at center stage.

Seated behind it, slightly frazzle-haired and scribbling away, is Kevin Tran.

Dean feels his jaw go slack, and his eyes get a little misty. Kevin is in Heaven, and he’s sitting at a giant desk with a frickin’ eagle carved on the front, and he’s running what Dean imagines is the celestial Library of Congress, and Kevin is finally - finally - in Heaven.

Dean gets a sudden, painful urge to hug the kid. He takes a faltering step forward to do just that, and the amulet jostles in his pocket.

Oh, right. This is a B&E.

Dean’s arms flop down to his sides, and he feels his face warm.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and tries for nonchalant. “Heeey, Kevin,” he says, wincing at the slight crack in his voice. “How ya doin’, bud?”

Kevin glances at the little clock on the desk, then turns back to the tome he’s scribbling in. “Your appointment was ten minutes ago.”

Dean frowns and takes a cautious step forward. “I... didn’t make an appointment.”

“I made it for you,” Kevin sniffs. He turns a page, unperturbed.

Dean frowns harder. “How’d you know I was—” He bites down on his tongue, swallowing down the stupid question with a snap of his fingers. “Right,” he nods. “Prophet.”

Kevin gives a hum of confirmation and continues his writing. Dean clenches his jaw against the sudden awkwardness; he feels out of place (which he is, it’s a frickin’ library), like an interloper (which he also is, in an almost too literal sense). He sucks his teeth and saunters over to one of the long tables, running his fingers over the polished surface.

He glances up at Kevin, still scrawling away. He looks different than Dean remembers - broader in the shoulder, stronger around the jaw. There’s a dusting of stubble across his chin and a line etched into his forehead. He’s gone a little grey at the temples.

Dean squints, perplexed. While he himself looks almost exactly as he did when he bit the bullet, nearly everyone else in Heaven looks younger than he remembers them; Charlie looks about the same as when he first met her, and his mom looks almost as she did in his childhood memories. Kevin, on the other hand, looks quite a bit older. Certainly older than he was when—

...when he died.

Dean curls his fingers into a fist, pressing his knuckles into the table until zinging pain shoots up his arm. Dean’s not a complete idiot; he gets Heaven’s schtick. It gives people what they want - what they couldn’t have during their lives. Charlie wanted a 64K TV. Mary wanted a house with a white picket fence. Apparently everybody wanted endless spring days.

And Kevin wanted to grow old.

Dean swallows dryly, and his teeth grind together.

“So,” Kevin says, setting his pen down finally. “You’re here.” He looks up at Dean, and his eyes are dark, lined with crow’s feet. “Did you...” He pauses for a moment, head tilted in mild expectation, “...need something?”

Dean stares for a second, jaw working soundlessly. Then he bites down on the inside of his cheek, giving Kevin a tight, crooked smile. “Oh, just,” he gives a twitchy shrug. “Thought I’d stop by.”

Kevin watches him for a short, taut moment, eyes flicking across Dean’s face. Dean swallows again, shoulders coming up.

Finally, Kevin gives a solemn nod and picks up his pen. He turns back to his notebook and jots something down. Dean thinks he sees a tiny smile around his mouth.

Kevin turns another page. “If you’re looking for Lady Death in Lingerie, it’s been checked out.”

Dean frowns for half a second, then his chin drops to his chest. Right. Cartoon porn.

Dean nods his head, pursing his lips. “Funny,” he murmurs, and Kevin’s eyes flick to his for an instant, squinted and wry.

Kevin goes back to his scribbling, and Dean inches closer, curious, but a low harrumph from Kevin has him taking a step back.

He sits down on the end of the nearest table, twiddling his thumbs. From this distance, he can barely hear the pen scratching over the paper, and the interminable silence grows oppressive.

Dean clears his throat. “So,” he says, and waves a hand in a broad gesture. “What, uh. What all you got in this place?”

Kevin turns another page and doesn’t look up. “Everything ever written, said, or done by everyone in the universe.”

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and his head tips in a bemused nod. “Oh, is that all.”

Kevin sniffs. “And the Ark of the Covenant.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, brow furrowing. “Wh-. Seriously?”

Kevin gives him a flat, baleful look that clarifies precisely zero, then turns back to his giant book.

Dean nods at nothing in particular and chews his lip. “How do you keep it all organized?”

A muscle in Kevin’s jaw twitches. “Automagically.”

Dean blows out a sigh, making a note in his head to inform Charlie that he’ll be cheesing Scorpion for the rest of eternity, thanks. Presuming Kevin doesn’t send him off to Heaven jail.

Dean winces. “So you heard all that, did ya.”

Kevin hums, scribbling away.

Lost for words, Dean casts his eyes about the study. Now that the door through which he entered is gone, there don’t seem to be any doors at all. He sighs and peers around at the walls; maybe there’s a window he can throw himself out of.

His eyes catch on something high up on the far wall - not a window, but a block of text in a language Dean doesn’t recognize. It looks to be handwritten in some sort of deep gold paint. It glows faintly against the eggshell wall.

Once he sees that first scribble, he begins to notice several others. There’s one nearly at the ceiling kitty-corner to Kevin’s desk that looks like it might be in Japanese. Another on the wall opposite him that’s comprised of funny little hieroglyphs in a spiral pattern that he thinks might be Linear A.

Dean points a finger toward the script and glances at Kevin. “These wards?”

Kevin looks up briefly, eyes flicking to the symbols on the wall. He shakes his head, going back to his notebook. “Inspirational quotes.”

Dean gives a rumbling snort of laughter, and Kevin peers up at him, one eyebrow arched. He gestures with his pen towards the far corner of the room. Dean frowns and looks over.

Smooshed up against one wall is a rudimentary drawing of what looks like a fluffy kitten clinging to a tree branch. Underneath, scrawled in plain English: Hang in there!

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and he nearly laughs before wrestling his face into a bland smile. “Oh,” he says, glancing back at Kevin. “Uh. Cool.”

Kevin huffs a dry laugh and leans back in his seat. “It’s not really,” he says, and points a finger toward another quote Dean hadn’t noticed. “That one’s a proto-Germanic joke about a walrus. And that one—” he points towards the circular one done in hieroglyphics, “—is in a pre-Sumerian language. No one has any idea what it says.”

Dean’s lips turn down, and he nods. “Huh.” He cuts his eyes sidelong to Kevin. “Who wrote them?”

Kevin shrugs and hunches forward, eyes settling again on his book. “Senior members of the Arch. Angels mostly.” He breathes out a little sound that might be a laugh. “Pretty sure a couple of them are just graffiti.”

Dean nods and stands up. He spins in a slow circle, looking for any that he’d missed, and finds one directly to his right. It’s one of the only ones written at eye level, but its lettering - Latin, Dean notes - is pale, almost translucent. As he stares at it, it appears to grow darker, bolder against the wall.

Si ego loqui, it reads, lingua angeli, autem ego sine amare, ego modo sum turpi strepitu.

Dean’s face scrunches up in a frown. He wouldn’t have called himself fluent in Latin, even on a good day, but now that he hasn’t read any in forty odd years, he can barely suss out any meaning at all. Lingua angeli, he thinks. Angelic mouth? He smirks a little bit. Kinky.

He stares at it for another few moments. It’s eerily familiar, though he can’t place why. There’s something manifest, nearly recognizable about the handwriting.

“I’ve read this one before,” he surmises, nodding towards the text.

Kevin glances up, following Dean’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says, matter of fact. “Most people have. First Corinthians thirteen.”

Dean frowns for a moment. Corinthians. Corinthians. Corinth—

“The Bible?” he says, incredulous.

Kevin gives him a bland, slit-eyed look. “This is Heaven, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw snaps shut, lips pursing, and... yeah, that tracks. “Right,” Dean murmurs, tipping his head back in a nod.

Kevin’s eyes roll, softened by the tiny smile around his mouth, and he goes back to his writing.

Dismissed, Dean turns back to the latin inscription. He wracks his brain for Corinthians, but comes up empty; generally, everything he remembers from the Bible is out of Revelations, since he’d essentially lived his entire life in a state of on-again-off-again apocalypse.

He eyes the script, following its neat, angled lines. He recognizes a few of the words - ego, loqui - but can’t quite attach them to their meanings. He squints his eyes tight, as if by looking hard enough he might divine a translation.

There’s a deep sigh from behind him, and he turns to see Kevin, weary-eyed and grumpy, peering past him to the inscription.

Kevin taps his pen against his open book. “If I speak,” he recites, “in the tongue of angels, but have not love...” he squints his eyes in a frown, “...I am only a vile noise.”

Dean stares blankly at him for a moment, then turns back to the wall. He remembers the verse now, and the bit that follows: love is patient, love is kind. He recalls seeing it printed on greeting cards, boxes of chocolate, Valentine’s bouquets - the sort of shit normal people busied themselves with.

That first bit, though. If I speak in the tongue of—

Dean sniffs and hunches his shoulders against the swelling pressure in his chest. Kevin said these were written by Arch members - angels. He clenches his jaw, grunting, “Funny sort of thing for an angel to say.”

Kevin hums. “It’s also mistranslated.”

Dean frowns and cranes his neck to glance at Kevin. “Oh?”

Kevin peers up at the verse again. “Amare should be caritate.”

“Caritate,” Dean intones. He rolls the word around in his mouth, and it’s coming back to him now. “Charity?” he guesses.

Kevin tips his head side to side with a little shrug. “Literally, yes. But it’s usually used to connote a—” he frowns, chewing his lip, “—a general kind of love. Caritate would mean love for all humankind.” He tips his head toward the inscription. “Amare is love for one person.”

Kevin holds Dean’s gaze for a split second, face inscrutable, before hunkering back down over his work.

Dean’s face goes hot then cold - the thing growing in his chest reaching some sort of critical mass - and the words resound in his head:

Love for one person.

Love for one person.

Love for—

Dean sucks in a breath like he’s breaking the surface.

Because you cared, I cared.

His hands clench up tight, fingernails digging into his palms. The whispering voice speaks full volume now, coming from somewhere near his heart, echoing through the hollows inside.

I cared about you.

No. Shut up. Just—

I cared about the whole world because of y—

Dean’s fist comes down on the table - harder than he’d intended - with a dull thud and a sharp, throbbing pain.

He looks over at Kevin scribbling away, oblivious. Dean calls his name, but it comes out in a cracked, stammering whisper. He clears his throat and tries again. “Kevin.”

Kevin’s head tilts, but he doesn’t look up. “Hm?”

Dean licks his lips, dry tongue sticking to the skin. “Who wrote this,” he whispers.

It’s a stupid question. He already knows the answer - knew the second he saw the sharp, looping script. The instant he read the word amare.

It’s almost funny, really. Turns out living in the Happiest Place Not on Earth hasn’t changed Dean much; he still divides his time evenly between knowing he’s wrong and hoping he’s wrong.

Trouble is, with the thrum of a headache pulsing at his temples and the ache in his eyes from the overbright sun, he’s not sure he’s even got it in him to hope.

“Couldn’t say,” Kevin says, voice cutting through Dean’s wayward thoughts. “It was there before I got here.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and he nods to himself. Kevin scribbles on for another few seconds, then stops and glances up, face bemused. “Kinda weird though,” he says, squinting, “the mistranslation.” He shrugs mildly and turns back to his book. “Guess even angels make mistakes.”

Dean frowns and curls forward, chin dropping to his chest. The whisper in his head makes a short utterance, and Dean sees himself, greyscale in his memory. Face blank in the aftermath, bones numb from the onslaught, and all he can think, can feel, can say is—

Why does this sound like a goodbye?

“Yeah,” Dean says, and his voice is gruff and too loud. He thinks one of his fingernails might have pierced the skin of his palm. “Yeah, they do.”

Kevin looks up at him - face blank, eyes opaque. He stares at Dean for a long moment, and whatever he sees on Dean’s face has his eyebrows rising.

Dean holds his gaze for barely a second, then looks down at his feet. His boots are scuffed, layered in fine dust. He glances at the floor - pristine white marble shot through with gold rivulets - and wonders if he’s tracked dirt onto it. He figures he must’ve done. It’s sort of his M.O., after all. Messing things up.

“Look, Dean,” Kevin says, sotto voce. “It’s...” he shakes his head, thumping his pen against his palm. “It’s nice to see you and all—”

Dean snorts a bitter laugh, and sucks in his lips. He peers up at Kevin with sharp, squinted eyes.

Kevin sighs, and his face softens, mouth forming a flat line. He gives Dean a look - admonishing, with the barest hint of pity. “It is good to see you, Dean,” he reiterates, and the sincerity in his tone nearly makes Dean believe it. “But...”

Kevin sucks in a breath and gestures to his open book, then to the stack of several more at his elbow.

Dean’s spine stiffens, and he nods. Right. Some people do more in Heaven than just drive around in circles, listening to the same six cassettes on an endless loop.

“Yeah,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “Yeah, no, I- sorry, I just, uh...”

He just... what? Broke into Heaven’s Library? With a frickin’ plutonium bomb? Drove a hundred miles (or maybe a thousand, he didn’t check the odometer) because, what, his SpacePhone™ told him to? What is he doing here?

What is he doing here?

“There’s a- a place,” Dean blurts, then scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Just past the mountain. A little forest in a field. Apparently there’s rain and lightning, and I. I’m just—” paranoid. Terrified. Losing my goddamn m— “It’s pretty close to Sam’s place,” he posits, which is ostensibly true. “And I—”

Dean’s not sure what more to say - what more he could say without making him sound crazier than he rightfully is. Fortunately, Kevin is already pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. He comes around the desk at a trot and descends the stairs.

He arrives at the head of the table, nearly abreast of Dean, and smoothes a finger over the pale wood surface in an intricate pattern.

Instantly, the tabletop is transformed. From the tight woodgrain rise sweeping swathes of squiggly lines, odd little symbols and soft, muted colors. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and he leans closer.

The whole thing is a sprawling map. Not the sort he’d seen on his phone, but the sort at the beginning of a fantasy novel, with little hand-drawn forests and ink-flowing rivers. Dean stares for a moment, dumbfounded, his eyes running over the fine details and cross-hatching.

A soft harrumph draws his eyes to Kevin, staring at Dean with mild amusement and open expectancy.

Dean frowns, face warming. “Sorry, what?”

Kevin gives a crooked half smile and nods toward the map. “Your little forest,” he says. “Where is it?”

Dean sucks in a short breath and nods. He steps forward, thighs nudging the table edge, his shoulder nearly butting against Kevin’s. He does a quick double-take when he realizes that the kid - that Kevin - is nearly as tall as he is.

He shakes himself and peers down at the map. His eyes follow the mountain range, inked in broad jagged lines, to the river - a flowing swirl in a dull, washed blue. North of the mountain is a colorless expanse, marred only by a cluster of tiny dots.

Dean points. “There. I think.”

Kevin notes the location, tapping the spot with his finger. A tiny block of text appears next to the cluster, its symbols strange and unfamiliar.

Kevin gives a little hum, then extends his other arm, hand outstretched. A book - identical to all the others lining the shelves - materializes on Kevin’s palm, as Dean watches with wide eyes.

Kevin lays the book on the table, rifling through the pages. Dean peeks over his shoulder, but the text is inscrutable, Greek to Dean.

Apparently not to Kevin, though. He stops on a page about halfway through, tapping his finger near the top.

“It’s a domicile,” he murmurs, squinting at the little symbols.

“A—” Dean starts, then shakes his head. “Someone lives there?”

Kevin gives a humming nod, inching his finger across the crinkly page. “An Arch member, it looks like.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, molars grinding together. An Arch member.

That could be any number of people. Eileen, Jo, Ellen. His parents, Bobby. Even Charlie has offered a hand here and there.

But it isn’t any of them.

Dean bites the inside of his lip, pressing his palms - clammy and tense - against his thighs. “Who lives there,” Dean asks, and it’s a stupid question again, barely a question at all. Dean’s heart beats in his ears.

Sine amare.

Kevin shakes his head. “No name listed.”

Sine amare.

Dean’s fingernails scratch against his pants, hangnails catching on the denim. “How would I find out?”

It’s another stupid question, and Kevin clocks it quick. He sighs a dry laugh and snaps the book shut.

“Well,” he begins, making a swift volte face toward his desk. “You could do it in some—” another soft chuckle as he climbs the short stairs, “—convoluted Winchester way.” Dean rolls his eyes, head tipping forward, but he doesn’t offer a counter.

Kevin moves around the desk and settles himself in his chair, grabbing his pen. He clicks it once, twice, three times, and presses it to the page, jotting something down in quick, spare movements.

“Personally,” he murmurs, as he inks a full stop, “I’d just knock on their door.”

chapter four | chapter six

table of contents

[thewhumperinwhite]

✈ — an eye-opening memory

This one is short and... well maybe ‘sweet’ isn’t the right word.

TW for: murder...? it’s not very graphic but somebody gets burned alive. Also brief gore.

@faewhump :)

----

When Morden Crane is seventeen, he falls in love, and he never falls out of it.

He’s been sneaking old books under the table at work for months, reading magical theory between customers at the floundering old bookshop, but none of it has prepared him for the feeling of fire pouring from the palms of his hands, shot through with purple, the searing joy of seeing the violet spark and knowing that must be his color, the color of his magical aura, that the fire is his; his heart soars so high that for a long ecstatic moment he forgets that he has directed the fire at a person, which is how Morden kills his first human being, leaves the guard who grabbed him by the shoulder a smoking husk on the cobblestones. Morden blinks at him—at the life he’s ended with his heart and his soul and the palms of his hands—and feels nothing but warm surprising rightness for a full thirty seconds before the guard’s fellows catch up with him and an iron-tipped arrow tears into his shoulder, pushing him half-over backwards.

When he stumbles to his feet and runs from the guards he’s already laughing, and he finds that he can’t stop. He stumbles into walls and around corners, just barely ahead of the guards but no longer afraid of them, because he cannot stop looking at his hands; they are long fingered, delicate, lily-white, with callouses only from writing, and you would not know to look at them that they hold more power than any of the armored men pursuing him will ever wield.

Morden has lived and worked in this city for almost a year, and now he can leave it behind without a second thought, because everything has changed. He always knew he deserved more than he has been given, that much is not a surprise; but before he had thought that he needed the city to give it to him, needed the rich men and the nobles and the king in order to get what he is owed.

But now he knows the truth, which is that he doesn’t need anyone.

The guards are easy enough to outrun; the fierce joy in Morden’s heart is burning so brightly that he can hardly feel the much fainter burn from the arrow in his shoulder, and he runs a random circuitous route through the streets and alleys of the city, until he’s less than a block away from the city gates. Now a little distraction wouldn’t go amiss, something to keep the rest of the city guard busy while he shakes the dust of the Capitol from his feet. Morden grins, and closes his eyes: he remembers the feeling of calling his heart’s fire better than he remembers what his own face looks like in a mirror. He takes in a deep breath, and holds out his hands, and reaches inward for the angry embers always burning in his heart (this is not what I deserve, how dare you look down your nose at me, this is not what I deserve) and pictures blowing them into a proper flame with a slow exhale.

Except this time, nothing happens.

For a long and terrible moment the greatest joy of Morden’s life thus far is chased out by the greatest horror he has ever felt, because to have such power for only a moment and then lose it is something he does not think he can survive— and then he remembers why the city guards use iron-tipped arrows in the first place, and he closes his fist around the shaft of the arrow in his shoulder and yanks it brutally forward; it rips out of his shoulder in a spray of blood and pain that Morden almost doesn’t feel because the second the iron is no longer touching him his hands ignite again; the shaft of the arrow goes up like dry paper and the iron head clinks to the ground, blood-stained but harmless.

Before he sets the buildings around him alight, Morden looks down at his hands, now the centers of twin balls of purple-tinted fire. His heart is full, for the first time in his life, with so much love that his eyes prickle suddenly with tears. He is in love with his own hands and heart and aura and with magic itself, with whatever unseen force has looked at him and seen what so few others have believed: that he is worthy. That he is deserving.

As the city guards round the corner of the alley, Morden begins to laugh again, bright child’s laughter, and the flames in his hands grow, and keep growing.

[nitewrighter]

Satya was at first unsure about letting an outsider in on this Vishkar humanitarian assignment but Sanjay vouched for him and he's been very good with the refugees. She shut down his initial drink offer but that damn charming smile and those biceps of his are making her consider an afternoon tea with him.

Whoops I thought about Pre-Defection Baptiste too long and this turned into a whole ficlet.

---

Technically the assignment was Talon sub-leasing his contract to Vishkar. Mauga teased him about getting “cushy work” but Baptiste was just happy to get a combat medic mission that was more ‘medic’ than ‘combat.’ The mission site was a ruined village in the Seychelles. When he stepped off his transport, he would have guessed a hurricane whipped through the place, but looking at the smoldering remains of some of the buildings, he told himself maybe a gas main blew. 

There were a handful of Vishkar employees there, tapping away at their tablets, surveying the area, but one woman seemed to be singlehandedly constructing shelters for the displaced people. She was a striking sight among all the refugees: Effortlessly creating beautiful little white geodesic dome tents with waves of her arms and dancer-like gestures of her fingers. Her probably-long hair was swept back in a glossy black bun. His own combat medic armor had ventilation, but wondered if she was hot in that long-sleeved uniform.

 Baptiste had seen videos of Vishkar’s hard-light online, but it was a whole other thing seeing it in real life. He gave a glance back to his area of work, a canopy tent distinguished by a hovering medic’s cross over it, before looking back at the woman, still making tents with all the ease and focus that one might have folding paper cranes He remembered a quote he read somewhere--’Technology, when sufficiently advanced, is indistinguishable from magic.” If there was anyone in this area who seemed like a wizard...

“I take it you made my medic tent?” he asked, tilting his head and her shoulders jerked in a flinching motion and she whirled on him, gold eyes veiled by a blue visor of light.

He flinched back a little and brought his hands up in turn. “Sorry--didn’t mean to surprise you,” he said, itching between the plates in his combat medic armor, “Augustin. Reporting for duty.”

She forced a polite smile and resumed materializing tents, facet by facet. “I’m fine,” she said, “You may call me Satya. You are one of the subcontractors, are you not?”

“Yes I am,” said Baptiste, putting his hands on his hips, “I’m one of the medics.” He flashed a grin. “If you ever start to feel faint, just give me a call and I’ll come running.”

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“Not that you’re.. prone to fainting... it’s.. just... hot and... you’re... working...hard,” Baptiste made an awkward finger gun at her, “Stay hydrated.”

“I will. I believe there are locals in more immediate need of your services,” she said, finishing off the tent she was working on with a whirl of her wrist.

“Oh-yes--of course,” said Baptiste, heading into the medic tent. God, he was so glad Mauga was not around to see that. He would not hear the end of it. 

It seemed most of the locals had managed to semi evacuate before the fires set in. There were some second degree burns at worst, they looked worse before you cleaned them, but with some biotics. It was crowded, but with Vishkar overseeing everyone’s treatment, people were having their injuries treated and being sent out to the tents with a near frightening efficiency. A Vishkar agent pointed him to where he could handle some overflow of patients, and he walked off in that direction. He approached a bench where two girls, apparently sisters, sat. The smaller girl, couldn’t be older than 7, shrieked and hid her face in her sister’s dress. Her older sister spoke soothing words to her in Seselwa. The Creole threw him off briefly, like his own, but not quite. But he knew they could probably parse French from him, at least. 

“Allô?” he offered, holding his hands up in a soothing motion while slowly closing the distance between them, “Tu es en sécurité. Je suis là pour aider.”

 The older sister lifted her head and nudged her younger sister a little. “Ça va,” she said quietly, “Son casque est bleu.”

“Mon casque?” Baptiste’s fingers brushed at the the transparent blue of his combat medic head guard. The younger sister lifted her head from her older sister’s dress, her eyes tearstrained and defiant.

“Elle a peur. Les monstres aux casques rouges ont tout brûlé,” said the older sister.

“Monstres?” Baptiste repeated and his stomach dropped. Red helmets. He knew exactly what red helmets they were talking about. He shook his head. He had to see to their injuries now, worry about that later. He cleared his throat. “Les monstres sont partis,” he said, “Montre-moi où ça fait mal.”

The older sister nudged the younger sister again with more soothing words in Seselwa and sniffling, the younger sister extended her arm, ribboned with blisters. Baptiste’s stomach tied up in knots at the sight of it. He tended to their injuries, then a few more locals---the burned, the dehydrated, the delirious, those with chronic conditions that were exacerbated by the fires or the panic.  He let the patients just be a whirl of injuries to be stitched up by his hands, let the work drown out the thoughts, the dread, the knowledge of who had done this to them. He had completely lost track of time when a Vishkar agent put a hand on his shoulder and he jolted back to awareness.

“It’s your break,” said the Vishkar agent.

“Right...” said Baptiste, “Right...”

He headed outside to see the golden-eyed woman from earlier frowning over a roughly table-sized 3-D hard-light projection of what looked like neat beachside residences laid out strategically across the island’s shoreline floating in front of her.

“Staying hydrated?” he called to her, and her head jerked up from the projection.

“Oh,” she said, smiling a bit more genuinely now, “It’s you. Saved the whole island, have you?”

“Well, I’m on break,” he looked over the projection, “You’re still working?”

“Oh, merely musing,” said Satya, tweaking the position of one of the residences on the projection.

“Vishkar’s planning a development here?” asked Baptiste.

“Well, nothing’s set in stone yet,” said Satya with a shrug, “The corporation made an offer before, but the locals refused,” she shrugged, “Stubborn. Unfortunate as it is, this attack has made Vishkar’s offer the best choice for the people here.”

“So it was an attack,” said Baptiste, more to himself than to her.

“A barbaric attack,” said the woman, shaking her head and looking back at the projection, “But things will be much better from now on. Vishkar will protect them against thugs and criminals like Talon. We’ll give them all a better way to live.”

“You know it was Talon who did this?”

“Yes,” said Satya, “Despicable. Cowardly. But it’s because so many refuse to see the superiority of Vishkar’s order that Talon continues to thrive. If people were only willing to see...” she trailed off and folded her arms. “Talon needs chaos to survive. And Vishkar stands as a beacon against that chaos.” 

She has no idea, thought Baptiste, watching her eyes as she talked. She honestly believed all this. She honestly believed she was building a better world, when in fact, Talon and Vishkar went hand in hand. Talon burning through obstacles to Vishkar, and Vishkar swooping in to be the heroes building a better world, all the more filling Talon’s coffers with the money it made in the process. He wanted to throw up a little, but he managed to keep a straight face as she continued talking. 

“...don’t you agree?” she said and he was forced to snap out of his own train of thought.

“Pardon?” said Baptiste.

“I said ‘People must be willing to accept the truth if things are going to get better for any of us,’” said Satya, “Don’t you agree?”

“Yeah...” said Baptiste, looking back at smoldering remains of the village, mere skeletons of buildings standing stark like ghosts behind her perfect geodesic dome tents, “Yeah, I agree.”

[goodlucktai]

go on and wonder

sorcerer’s stone au word count: 5k characters: harry, ron, hermione, neville, remus read on ao3 part of the steady feet series x

When he’s two years old, Harry follows a fluttering paper bird away from Aunt Petunia’s side.

It’s bright green and flaps its wings just like the real thing-- doubling back towards him when he reaches for it and flipping its beak through his hair in a way that tickles. Harry laughs and toddles after it, all the way down the street and around the corner, to a little cafe tucked out of sight.

The windows are all warmly lit, there’s pleasant music pouring from the open door, and a man is sitting at one of the tables outside. His amber eyes are as warm as the windows, and the paper bird is perched on his knee.

“Hello, little one,” the man says. All the scars on his face are softened by his smile. Harry isn’t afraid of him for even a moment. “I’ve found you at last.”

It’s the earliest memory Harry has of kindness.

      Growing up, Harry will assume it’s Mr. Moony’s shabbiness that Aunt Petunia can’t stand. The man’s clothes are worn and threadbare, same as Harry’s, but he’s nowhere near as easily cowed as Harry is by the big, loud, mean Dursleys. He invites himself into Number 4 Privet Drive, Harry on his hip and distracted by the paper bird Mr. Moony gave him, while Petunia is still at the market in town.

“Where’s your room, Harry?” the man asks in his gentle voice. “Where do you sleep and play?”

Harry looks up from his bird and points at the cupboard under the stairs. It’s small and dusty and full of spiders, but it’s all he knows. He’s too young to understand why Mr. Moony goes still and silent, but he understands when the man’s other arm wraps around him that it’s a hug and it’s good and it’s what Auntie Petunia does to Dudley when she says “I love you.” Harry almost crushes his bird in his hurry to hug back.

Quiet Mr. Moony sits him at the table and makes him a tuna sandwich, cut into triangles, and is still peeling an apple for him when the Dursleys come home. He puts a hand in Harry’s hair as he gets up from the table, ruffling his fringe into his eyes. When Harry can see again, laughing, there are three more paper birds next to his slightly crumpled one on the table, flitting around his empty plate as though they’re picking up crumbs from his sandwich.

There’s an argument happening in the next room, explosive and violent, but he’s distracted and there’s a silencing charm between the sitting room and the kitchen, anyway. Harry wouldn’t have understood it even if he could hear-- what the kind stranger meant when he told Petunia “this isn’t what she wanted for him. I’m here now, I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry says goodbye to his cupboard that day, but he never says goodbye to Mr. Moony. He never has to.

“Harry,” Moony says in dismay, “what happened to you?”

Harry looks down at himself. He hadn’t thought Piers pushed him down hard enough to break any skin, but the knees of his secondhand jeans are torn and bloody. The palms of his hands are no better. Harry tucks them behind his back.

“Nothing,” he says. It’s the right thing to say, because nothing ever comes of telling. Moony is nice, and he would fight for Harry more than his teachers ever did, but he doesn’t want Uncle Vernon to shout at Moony just because of Harry’s skinned knees.

Moony closes the book and gets out of his chair. Harry blinks in surprise when the man kneels in front of him, so they’re nearly eye-to-eye. Moony says, “Do you remember the paper birds?”

Of course he does! Harry still has them tucked away in his bedroom. He likes to run his fingers along their folds and imagine them flying again. Sometimes they do, sweeping around his room in little tornadoes of color. Sometimes they feel like something impossible he pulled out of a dream, but they came from Moony and he’s as real as anything else. Petunia always scowls and Vernon always blusters when he comes for a visit, so he’s definitely not someone Harry made up.

Harry says, “I remember! Are you going to make me another one?”

Smiling, Moony says, “Remind me before you go home and I’ll make as many as you can carry. But before that-- “

He takes Harry’s hand in his much larger one, holding it open so the scuffed skin on Harry’s palms face them. In Moony’s other hand is a long, thin piece of wood.

It looks like the switch Aunt Petunia threatened to use on him just the other day, when he ripped up a flower bulb instead of a weed. Harry’s immediate, knee-jerk reaction is to flinch away when Moony lifts it.

Moony’s whole face fills with pain, like rain puddling in the potholes in the road that Uncle Vernon roars about. Harry is six years old and old enough to know pain when he sees it. He’s abruptly, incredibly sorry that he hurt this person who has always been nice to him, and ashamed of himself, but he can’t help the way his eyes dart back to the stick.

“Watch,” Moony says, and then he says, “Episkey.”

The broken skin on Harry’s hands and knees close, and the ache fades, and Harry stares in open-mouthed wonder.

“You’re magic!” he blurts. It only takes him a moment to catch up to his surprise, and when he does, there’s only delight left. “I knew you were!”

Moony touches Harry’s messy hair, as though he loves it as much as Aunt Petunia hates it. His eyes are bright amber and sad but his smile is as kind as it’s ever been.

He tells Harry it is magic, but it must be kept a secret. He gravely accepts Harry’s solemn promise not to tell. He sweeps his wand and fills the room with all manner of paper animals that fly and run and swim through the air and something comes alive in Harry that must have been sleeping before.

By the time he’s eleven years old, Harry has heard all about Hogwarts. He knows about the Houses and the castle and the secret passage to Honeydukes, and all the mischief and trouble his family got into there. He aches for it, and asks Moony for story after story after story.

Remus, in his soft, rasping voice, tells Harry anything he wants to hear. He tells him that his father was a bit of a prat before his mother knocked some sense into him, he tells him that his godfather was as wild and loyal as they come, he tells him about a map they made together and the pranks they came up with to get out of homework and all the points they lost and gained for Gryffindor.

It sounds like a dream. Harry wants to go to school there, he wants to see the Giant Squid and compete in Quidditch matches and meet the talking portraits. Remus promises him he will. He says, “If you’re anything like your parents, you’ll turn Hogwarts on its head.”

Hesitantly, Harry says, “What if I’m not like them? What if I’m not even a Gryffindor?”

It makes Remus pause. It’s near the end of the month and he looks very tired, but he’s never sent Harry away.

“It’s not fair that I got to know them and you didn’t,” he says softly, “but James and Lily were two of my best friends, and I hope you’ll trust me enough to believe me about this.” He crouches, the way he always does so Harry doesn’t have to crane his neck to look up at him. Eye to eye, Remus tells him, “They loved you more than I have words for. They would have loved you no matter what House colors you wore, no matter how good you were in your classes, whether or not you played Quidditch. I promise you, no matter what else you might hear, you are their greatest pride.”

Harry believes him, because of course he does. Because it’s Moony, who does magic for him and takes him for ice cream on his birthdays and is the first thing that comes to mind when Harry thinks of his family.

The morning Harry’s acceptance letter arrives, Dudley snatches it away at the breakfast table. Uncle Vernon tries to rip it up, but Harry silently begs the paper not to tear and it stubbornly stays whole in his uncle’s meaty hands.

Harry shouts, “I’ll tell Remus!” and Aunt Petunia’s face goes ashen. Uncle Vernon’s face is turning purple, he’s near-apoplectic with rage, but he shoves the letter back across the table. Harry takes it back and runs upstairs to ask one of the colorful birds to fly to his wizard friend.

Remus comes right over, alight with joy and pride, and they sit together on his bed and comb through the letter and the supplies list. Harry asks when they can go to Diagon Alley, and Remus’ expression changes.

“I can’t go with you, I’m afraid,” he says lightly. “Your new headmaster will send someone else to do your shopping with you.”

Harry is eleven and stubborn and bright for his age. He scowls thunderously and digs in his heels, because he isn’t afraid of Remus the way he is of his aunt and uncle. And Remus sees too much of Lily in him. It takes all of about three minutes to wear him down, and then he explains:

There was a Dark wizard who hurt a lot of people, and there was a war. Harry’s parents went into hiding and they were betrayed and that’s how they died. Because of tricky and ancient blood magic, the Dursleys were the best of a limited number of options for where Harry could grow up safely.

Remus’ face twists a little when he tells the story, something angry and animal surfacing in his eyes. He’s not supposed to be here, he explains to Harry. He’s not allowed to be. But Harry imagines, for one fleeting moment, what his life would have been like without Moony in it-- and his mind shies away from the terrible idea, like a bird startled into flight. He flings himself against the man hard enough to knock the breath out of them both.

“I promise I won’t tell,” Harry blurts, “so don’t go, okay?”

Arms settle around him, secure and safe, and Remus says, “You know better than that, Harry. They’ll have to drag me away in chains.”

He doesn’t say and they might. Harry doesn’t hear it in his tone. He just leans back and grins, the child of prodigies and Marauders, eyes as bright as his mother’s when she leaned over a frothing cauldron, as his father’s when he soared fifty feet above the ground.

Secrets are his birthright. He knows how to keep them, knows the thrill of them, and someday he’ll know the danger of them, too.

When September 1st comes around, Remus takes him as far as King’s Cross. Harry gets onto the platform with no trouble, and there’s plenty of time to pick an empty compartment and stow his trunk away. He has a stack of books for the long ride and a pocket full of spending money for the trolley and a snowy owl on his knee.

Instead of a gaggle of redheads, Harry meets a tearful boy looking for a toad.

“Gran will be furious if I’ve lost him,” the boy says in a near-whisper.

Harry shuts his book with a snap and says, “Let’s find him, then.”

When Ron comes looking for a place to sit, he finds the two of them pouring over a paperback Muggle novel. Hedwig is keeping an eye on Trevor, in case he tries another escape attempt. Harry looks up, and his eyes are as bright as lightning and his scar is stark and pale against his brown skin and Ron knows exactly who he is. Neville knows, too.

But he introduces himself as, “Just Harry,” and gets up to help Ron wrestle his trunk away, and when the trolley comes around he buys enough sweets to share, and by then there’s more important things to talk about than the Boy Who Lived.

Draco Malfoy extends the hand of friendship, but Harry hates the way he looks at Neville. It’s the same way Dudley and Piers used to look at him. Then he makes fun of Ron’s secondhand robes, and Harry’s had just about enough.

“I know a jinx that will turn your hair purple,” he informs Malfoy bluntly, eyeing his pale blond head and imagining how easily the bright color would stick to it. It worked on Remus well enough and his hair is tawny, closer to brown. “Should I give it a try?”

Malfoy’s hands fly up to his hair defensively, a look of horror crossing his face, and Professor McGonagall appears before any spells have a chance to fly. She pauses to take in the scene, Ron at Harry’s shoulder and Neville cowering just a step behind and Malfoy pink with rage. Harry looks up at her, thinking of the stories Remus told him of his strict and caring Head of House, and offers a smile when her eyes finally settle on him.

Something in her stern expression softens. The twitch of her mouth is not quite a smile, but it’s enough of a tell. Harry knows he’s not in trouble, and nudges Neville to look up so they don’t trip when they follow her into the Great Hall.

Ron’s properly terrified, because his big brother told him some tall tale about wrestling a troll, and Harry stifles a laugh. He knows it’s just a silly hat, but he also knows better than to pass the secret along.

Besides, it’s not a secret for long. The aged hat sings a song about the Houses, and by the end of it Harry is vibrating with excitement. The cunning Slytherins sound like they’d know the most about getting away with pranks, and Remus told him never to cross a Puff because they’re the most loyal people in the world and they’ll hold grudges forever. He isn’t sure he’s bright enough for Ravenclaw, but he likes the look of the students pouring over books and largely ignoring the Sorting going on at the front of the hall. Any of those Houses would probably be amazing.

But his eyes catch on the scarlet and gold of the Gryffindor table, and he yearns for it. He wants to sit at the table his parents sat at. He wants to see the Hogwarts Moony got to see.

He cheers the loudest for Neville’s Sorting, and Ron gives him an encouraging shoulder pat when it’s his turn, and the hat slips low over his eyes and hums in his ear.

It scolds Harry for thinking himself not good enough for Rowena’s House, laughingly agrees with his summation of the Hufflepuffs, and then feels around the corners of his mind; for his open-mindedness, his eagerness to belong, his inherited trickster’s streak, his general disregard for rules, his one-track mind when it comes to bullies and the people who unwillingly attract them.

Difficult, very difficult, says the hat, who said the same thing for Neville and Hermione Granger, who will say the same thing for Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley, but I think I know where you’ll do best.

And it shouts aloud, “Gryffindor!”

Harry writes to Remus about his two new friends, about the view from the First Year’s room in the tower, about Snape and how right Remus was when he predicted the Potions professor’s grudge, about that first flying lesson and Malfoy stealing Neville’s Remembrall and McGonagall’s decision to scout Harry for the Gryffindor House Quidditch team. Given that it’s only been a few days since his last letter, it feels like there’s still a lot to tell him. He scrawls through three feet of parchment before he runs out of words.

He always sends Hedwig on her way with stern instructions to give Remus her particular brand of owly affection, because he thinks Remus might be lonely with Harry gone. She always looks at him gravely before she nips his nose and wings away, so Harry thinks she understands.

Ron struggles through Charms, and Hermione Granger is kind of bossy, but Harry doesn’t laugh with the other boys when Ron makes fun. Lily’s eyes are bright with disapproval, and when he runs after Hermione, Neville is only a step behind him.

It’s a little awkward, sitting in the girls’ loo while a classmate he doesn’t know very well sobs on his shoulder, but Harry puts his arm around her anyway. Neville fishes a Chocolate Frog out of his bag and presses it into her hand. It’s slightly squashed, but Tilly Toke winks at her from the card underneath, and it works a little smile out of Hermione.

The Halloween Feast must have just started upstairs, but Ron shuffles into the loo not even twenty minutes after Harry and Neville arrived. He’s staring at his feet, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and manages to look Hermione in the eye to say he’s sorry.

“I was a prat,” he adds. “All my brothers are better than me at everything, and they always rub it in my face, and it-- I dunno. It felt like that’s what you were doing. But I shouldn’t’ve made fun.”

Hermione’s face is tear-stained and her eyes are all puffy and her hair is a mess, there’s chocolate melting in her hands and the bottoms of her robes are damp from where there’s water puddled on the tile floor, but she’s still the sharpest thing in the room. She looks at Ron like she’s looking right through him.

And then she says, “I was a prat, too.”

There’s a troll in the dungeons, but by the time it lumbers into the girls’ bathroom, the four Gryffindors aren’t there. They were in the basement anyway, and Harry knew where the kitchen was. He wasn’t tall enough to reach the pear, so Ron tickled it for him, and the house-elves were surprised to see them and delighted to feed them and the danger passed them safely by.

Neville is late to lunch, and Harry goes looking for him. Naturally, Hermione and Ron push their plates away and come along. They find him in a corridor just off the entrance hall, cornered by a pack of Slytherins headed by Malfoy, and Ron groans low.

“Mate, don’t start anything,” he says, knowing it’s hopeless. He likes Malfoy about as much as he likes Potions, but his dislike has to go on the shelf because Harry’s is big enough for them both and keeping him from picking fights is a full-time job. Harry takes every instance of bullying so personally, whether it’s Neville or someone they don’t know or even a snooty Ravenclaw they don’t get along with. It’s just extra personal when it’s Neville.

Sure enough, Harry doesn’t hesitate, eyes locked on his frightened friend. “Malfoy already started it.”

They all get detentions, except Hermione and Neville. Until Hermione says, “Excuse me, Professor? I was involved as well,” and Sprout looks like she doesn’t know what to say to that.

“You keep getting in trouble for me,” Neville says glumly, picking with disinterest at his lunch. “Seamus says I should stick up for myself.”

“Then tell Seamus he can do his own Herbology homework from now on,” Harry says promptly. His eyes stray down the table, to where their guilty-looking yearmate is pretending not to listen in, and the green of them seems to glow under the rain clouds enchanted across the ceiling. He doesn’t say anything to him, though, turning back to Neville with a friendly grin. “Drink your juice, Nev. We’re still practicing flying during free period, and you’re not using low blood sugar as excuse to get out of it.”

Where did you come from? Ron wants to ask Harry sometimes. He doesn’t, though, because Harry would probably just look at him blankly and say something irritating like, “I’m from Surrey.”

Hermione catches Ron’s eye from across the table and gives him a commiserating smile. They’ll play chess while their friends practice drills and dives in the air, and Ron loves how challenging a game with Hermione always is. She keeps him on his toes, her mind bright and twisting and tactical.

She may be a know-it-all, but she’s Harry’s know-it-all, and that means she’s Ron’s and Nev’s, too. Besides, she's not as bad as Ron used to think.

Harry wants to go home for Christmas, because it’ll be worth seeing the Dursleys if he gets to see Remus. But Remus writes him that he’s ill and Harry would have a much better time at the Castle for the holidays. Harry frowns, but he folds the letter and puts it with all the others, safe in the bottom of his trunk next to the green paper bird that came to Hogwarts with him.

Ron and his brothers are staying, too, so it won’t be too lonely. Harry owl-ordered presents for all his friends and for Remus, and there’s a pile of presents waiting for him, too.

The only one that takes him by surprise is the Invisibility Cloak, more because of the note attached that says use it well than the cloak itself. Remus said he didn’t know where James’ cloak ended up. Harry wonders how it ended up here at Hogwarts to be bundled up and left under a tree.

But as Ron admires it with wide eyes, Harry runs his fingers against the textured fabric and thinks only of his father, and his mischief and misdeeds, and what fun and amazing and stupid things this cloak must have done with him.

The Mirror of Erised shows Ron standing apart from his brothers, and it shows Neville walking with his head held high, and it shows Hermione a sprawling library and an endless day to explore it, and it shows Harry standing with two people who must be his parents and people behind them who must be his family. Remus is there and so is a dark-haired man with a crooked grin, and so are Neville and Hermione and Ron, exactly as if it’s a normal mirror he’s looking into with his friends. They’re all smiling at him.

It might show the future, like Ron said, and it might show things we want, like Neville said. But Harry doesn’t know for sure, and he doesn’t know how he feels about it. He only goes back one time, with Hermione, who wants to copy the runes written along the edges of the mirror and study them. He sits with his knees drawn up to his chest and watches from the side where he won’t be able to look into his reflection.

Whatever the mirror is supposed to do, it showed him people who are dead, and people who are here. The only thing they have in common is that they care about Harry, and Harry cares about them, so maybe the mirror shows you what’s inside your heart.

Hermione looks annoyed when he tells her his guess. She shuts her book and shuffles her papers together and says, “Why do I bother with research when you always guess it right?”

Harry grins, not fooled by her cross act for a moment. “You love research, ‘mione. You can still tell me what you found, I’ll listen to the whole thing.”

She eyes him for a moment, as though her principle is at war with her reason, and then she primly opens her book again and Harry settles in happily to listen.

I hope you’re staying out of trouble, Remus writes, but maybe I should know better.

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, because Remus really should know better. Between the baby dragon at Hagrid’s, the subsequent trip into the Forbidden Forest and the hooded figure drinking unicorn blood, the creature lurking behind a locked door on third floor corridor, the staggering number of detentions he’s earned so far with Snape, the mystery of Nicolas Flamel, and the frustrating puzzle involving a package and an empty vault and a break-in at Gringotts, Harry barely has time to do his homework.

But there’s Quidditch. There’s the roaring hearth in the common room, and games of Exploding Snap, and taking a dare from the Weasley twins to wade into the lake and tickle the Giant Squid while Ron roared with laughter and Neville hid his eyes and Hermione yelled at him to Get Out Of That Water This Instant. There’s the warmth in McGonagall’s eyes when his transfigurations go exactly right, and Hagrid’s awful rock cakes, and breakfasts in the Great Hall with all of his friends, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired and reaching around each other for their favorite foods.

He’s definitely not staying out of trouble, but he’s having such a good time that maybe Remus wouldn’t mind all that other stuff.

Neville doesn’t try to stop them when they go after Snape, because he goes with them instead. He recognizes the Devil’s Snare before Harry has caught his breath from the fall through the trapdoor, and says, “Hermione, cast a light!”

The four of them kick up on broomsticks to chase a winged key, and Ron murmurs to Hermione, “Why were there four brooms?” It’s a good question, but one they have to save for later, because there’s an enchanted chessboard in the next room.

Hermione is frowning widely now, and so is Ron again, and it does seem a little strange that these challenges were so on the nose. Everyone knows how well Neville does in Herbology, and Harry is the youngest Seeker in a century, and it’s widely known that Ron beats even sixth years in games of chess.

When Ron is thrown down and the game is over, Neville stays beside him with a tremulously determined expression and tells Hermione and Harry to go ahead. Hermione solves the riddle of the poisons, but she’s shaking by the time she points out the vial Harry needs to swallow, and they both know by that point that they’ve been guided here. Someone arranged it all. She hugs him hard before he steps through the fire, and it’s almost like her hands left an imprint on his arms and shoulders that Harry can still feel when he’s alone.

Quirrel is there, and Voldemort is there, and the Mirror of Erised is there. Harry finds the stone, Lily’s love burns Voldemort’s hands away from Harry the way Hermione’s light burned the Devil’s Snare away from her friends, and Harry wakes up in the hospital wing with Neville asleep at the side of his bed, and Hermione reading a book next to Ron’s.

She looks up as though she can feel his eyes on her, and smiles. Her hair is all over the place and her robes are all wrinkled and she’s absolutely the prettiest girl in the world. “It’s okay,” she says. “Go back to sleep.”

Harry believes her, because it wouldn’t make sense not to. He gropes for Neville’s hand and squeezes it before he sinks back through velvet waves of darkness.

At the leaving feast, the four of them are awarded points for their stupid adventuring and they win Gryffindor the House Cup at the very last second. Harry thinks it’s a little unfair of Dumbledore to change the green and silver banners the way he did-- he wasn’t too worried about the point system or the cup, but he knows a lot of the other kids were, and not all the Slytherins are gits like Malfoy. There must have been a fairer way to do it.

Professor Dumbledore is kindly and grandfatherly, with his long beard and his twinkling eyes and his colorful wizard hats, but Harry is pretty convinced that the man set everything up. The trials and the Stone and the mirror. He wants to talk to Remus as soon as he can, and packs eagerly for the train ride back to King’s Cross.

“I have a lot to think about,” Harry confesses to the others, once their compartment door is locked and warded. “Hermione, can I write you?”

“You have to ask? I’m going to owl you every single day, Harry, and if you don’t reply I’ll hex your robes yellow the minute I see you next year!”

Her eyes are suspiciously bright. Ron pats her knee, and says, “I’m gonna ask mum about inviting you lot over for the summer. You won’t have to wait till next year to hex him, ‘mione.”

Neville is quiet, shoulders slumped and toad clutched in his lap, and Harry nudges their shoulders together.

“Okay, Nev?”

A smile darts across Neville’s face, bright for all that it’s brief, and he says, “Don’t worry about me, Harry. I just-- I’ll miss you.”

Hermione and Ron jump in to say it’s okay! And we’ll see you soon! And we’ll still be friends no matter what! But Harry knows Neville knows all that already. He knows you just can’t help being sad sometimes.

So Harry pulls out his wand and gives it a wave, murmuring his favorite charm. His friends stop talking to watch in wonder as their compartment bursts into color in the form of a flock of paper birds, swooping and spiraling and soaring. Hedwig hoots indignantly, and Ron yelps when one of them gets into his hair, but it only takes a few seconds for Neville to start laughing.

And once he starts, he doesn’t stop, and the rest of them laugh right along.

[hailcyeon]

hiraeth | 07

Pairing: Jaehwan x Reader Genre: Sci-Fi, Royal AU Word Count: 3.1k Warnings: Mild cursing

“It’s nothing, thought I spotted an old friend. He’s still smiling in his usual irritating way, lips stretched wide at a joke you’re not in on.”

Sora’s declaration spurs forth a flurry of activity that results in your standing outside an elegant bistro half an hour later, feeling woefully under-dressed in your faded jeans and sweater. Judging by the trendy gaggle of diners on the outdoor patio, this restaurant is well out of your usual price range. You understandably had the space to bring only so much when fleeing Armistice, but next to Sora in her long skirt and designer boots, you feel rather inadequate. Even Jaehwan, still accompanying you on Hakyeon's orders, cleans up nicely in his dark jeans and button down.

Oblivious to your sartorial distress, Jaehwan has been staring at something behind you over your shoulder for the past five minutes. You spare a glance, somehow both bored and agitated, but it’s just another gaggle of highly fashionable pedestrians on the opposite sidewalk. It’s strange being in the throngs of normal society, people laughing and going about their day, as if you’re not acutely aware of every passing stranger and their likelihood of being under the king’s command.

Sora huffs and checks her phone. “Ugh, it is just like Sanghyuk to keep us waiting this long.”

With the thought of meeting the king still looming over everyone's heads, Hakyeon had declared you needed a new wardrobe to properly fit the part of court mascot and roped Sora into being your guide for the day. Then once Sora realized you hadn’t eaten yet, she insisted on treating you to lunch first, calling up her brother as well on the assumption he would like to see you. From what you gather though, Sanghyuk is a late sleeper, leaving the three of you to wait outside the restaurant for his arrival.

Jaehwan scoffs, hands in pockets and lips quirked in a smile. “He's probably still hungover.”

Sora rolls her eyes. “I know he's still hungover. He threw a pillow at me this morning when I tried to wake him up.”

It's strange to think of the young boy you knew at one time having anything to do with alcohol consumption, but sudden movement in the corner of your eye cuts off any further thought. A jolt of panic runs through your body, but before you can react, Jaehwan pivots to shield you and shoulder checks the encroaching figure, sending him sprawling on the sidewalk. The chatter around you pauses briefly, the diners outside startled into silence.

“What the fuck, Hyuk?” Jaehwan pulls a groaning Sanghyuk up by the hand, both annoyed and amused. “You can't just run at people.”

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Sora says, glaring up at her brother.

Holding his head, Sanghyuk stands and grins sheepishly. “I just wanted to surprise the princess. I didn't think you'd go all macho-Sword-man on me.”

“Han Sanghyuk, how many times have I told you that no one likes it when you do that?” Incensed, Sora has her hands on her hips, and you're struck by how much she's channeling her grandmother right now.

Trying to calm your still racing heart, you crane your neck upwards to peer at Sanghyuk. The last time you saw him, he was about shoulder height with you, but apparently, he takes after his giant of a grandfather, considering his current condition.

“Ahh, she doesn't mind,” Sanghyuk says, giving you a proper hug in greeting. “Do you?”

“Just don't do it again,” you respond, awkwardly bent back by his embrace. “What happened to you, Hyogi? I can't ruffle your hair anymore.”

Sanghyuk releases you, grinning, and Jaehwan opens the glass door to the restaurant, ushering your group in.

“Puberty is a magical thing, I'll tell you all about it later,” Jaehwan says, deadpan and holding the door open for you to walk through.

You stick your tongue out at him childishly before you can stop yourself. “We're getting lunch and buying some clothes, why are you here exactly?” You know the answer to that, of course; Hakyeon was very clear that you are not to go anywhere in the city without your “bodyguard”, but you hate feeling babied.

“He can hold the bags for us,” Sora says soothingly. She strides forward to the maître d’ of the restaurant who is busy jotting down reservations in a large tablet.

“I'm sorry, we are booked full through today,” he says as your group approaches without even looking up. “You'll have to call ahead next time.”

Undeterred, Sora smiles. “I'll just need my usual table, Jisoo.”

The man immediately looks up from his task, eyes widening in shocked apology. “Lady Han! I am very sorry, I didn't realize it was you.” He jumps out from behind the desk, bowing a full ninety degrees. “Right this way.”

You haven’t seen this much bowing and scraping since your days at the palace, but you follow Sora and the man anyway to the back of the restaurant where there is a lovely paper screen set up for privacy. Snippets of conversation heard from diners you pass along the way only add to your confusion.

“Ohmygod, don't look now, but the Han Sora just walked in.”

“Holy shit, think we can get a picture? Who's the hottie she's with?”

“Gross, that's her brother.”

“No, the blond one! Next to that frumpy chick.”

Your cheeks heat in embarrassment and you quicken your pace, desperate to be out of view. The maître d’ eventually leads the group to an elegantly set table toward the very back, set against some more screens and bathed in sun from an overhead skylight. He pulls out a chair for Sora, and Jaehwan, to your surprise, pulls one out for you. At your questioning look, Jaehwan simply flashes a cheeky smile and seats himself to your left. On your right, Sanghyuk immediately grabs a menu to peruse.

“Would you like a wine list, my lady?” says the maître d’ to Sora, once again in a deep bow. “We recently received a shipment of excellent vintage wine from Imsal that I'm sure you would find to your taste.”

“I'll just have a bottle of that then,” Sora responds, sending the man scurrying off in haste.

“A little early for alcohol,” you say, paging through the menu. As everything since your exodus has been, the expensive choices are overwhelming.

“Never too early for alcohol,” Sanghyuk states dryly, nose still stuck in the menu.

“Maybe just a glass of milk for this one,” you say, narrowing your eyes.

“I'm lactose intolerant, actually,” he says smugly as the maître d’ returns with a bottle of wine and an ice bucket.

Uncorking the bottle, Jaehwan takes it upon himself to pour out glasses for everyone. He passes over Sanghyuk’s offered glass, eliciting a furious pout from the offended party.

“You can't be serious.”

“Shut up and drink your milk, Hyogi,” quips Jaehwan, smirking as he pours you a glass.

Sanghyuk flips Jaehwan a finger, making you snort in laughter and Sora sigh.

“Boys,” she says in exasperation. “Can we pretend to be nice and civilized for like, half an hour? That's all I ask. And are you not still hungover?” Sora glares pointedly at Sanghyuk, who has decided to take matters into his own hands by pouring himself a glass.

“Nope!” he responds, popping the ‘p’. “Didn’t even go out last night. Was up until four gaming; Changkyun set our raid real late.” A waiter comes by briefly to take orders, bowing several times in the process. Swirling the wine in his glass, Sanghyuk lays his chin on his hand boredly. “I’ll behave. Wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your adoring fans.”

Sipping your own wine slowly, you look at Sora sitting across the table. “What's this about adoring fans?”

Jaehwan lets out a laugh that he tries, and fails, to cover with a cough. “Wow, you really lived under a rock back in Armistice, huh?”

You glare at him, and Sora flushes slightly. “I didn't really have time for much outside of school and work,” you mutter.

“That's quite alright.” Sora smiles and fiddles with her hair self-consciously. “I act a bit now, that's all.”

Both the boys scoff at that. “She's the kingdom's sweetheart,” Jaehwan supplies. “Can't turn on a screen without seeing Sora.”

“Did you have to take the one voice over gig though?” Sanghyuk complains. “My friends keep trying to get me to play that game, and it looks so cool, but I refuse to play anything where I have to listen to my sister the whole time.”

Sora rolls her eyes in response. “My agent thought it'd be a good idea to engage the younger demographic. Deal with it.”

“The point is,” Jaehwan says, “she's the perfect candidate to teach you how to behave in Capital culture.”

You narrow your eyes, trying hard not to be offended. “Are you saying I don't know how to behave?”

The waiter returns with several trays, distracting Jaehwan from an answer for a moment. “You're prickly,” he responds eventually with a mouth full of pasta. “And abrasive.”

“I am not prickly.” You try not to sound defensive, but you have to admit his words have some truth to them.

“I wasn't done,” Jaehwan says holding up a finger and swallowing heavily. “You freeze in tense situations and you're so out of touch with the kingdom that you didn't realize its most famous celebrity is actually your best friend from childhood.”

He smiles widely as you grit your teeth and glare. “Am I wrong?” he asks with the quirk of an eyebrow.

You stare down at your plate, unwilling to answer. He isn't wrong. No one knows better than you that the task Hakyeon has given you is monumental. You were forced to grow into a different person after leaving the kingdom, and now you're supposed to prance back into court high society like none of it ever occurred.

Remember Hakyeon, is all you can think through your clenched jaw, clenched fists. Remember Hakyeon and remember the debt.

“You're not doing it alone,” Sora says softly from across the table. “Okay? We'll be here to prepare you for everything.”

You sigh, feeling defeated before anything has even happened. “That’s all well and nice, but I’m the one going into the lion’s den.”

“The king’s not going to murder you in broad daylight,” Jaehwan says with the slightest roll of his eyes. “He’s left you alone so far anyway. If he'd wanted to make a move, he would have already.”

This does nothing to help your fears and you glare at him again. “Do you think I would have been allowed to enter this city if the king didn't want me here?” You can't shake the feeling that you're walking right into his hands.

“Well,” Sanghyuk pipes up. “If nothing else, don't worry too much about the court and the general public. A little ass kissing here, a couple photo ops with Sora there, and they'll be eating out of the palm of your hand.”

Sora nods. “Exactly. Stick you in a designer dress and you’ll fit right in. Maybe a haircut too,” she adds as an afterthought.

“What's wrong with my hair?” you ask, frowning. You hadn't cut your hair in a while for lack of time and initiative, but you don't think you look terrible.

“Don't worry,” Sora says waving her hand dismissively. “I'll take care of everything, and when I'm done the tabloids won't know what to do with themselves.” Her grin is meant to be encouraging but it feels like an ominous portent for the rest of the day at your friend's mercy.

As it is, your instincts had the right idea to be frightened.

Shortly after lunch, Sora leads you and Jaehwan on a whirlwind of a shopping spree. Sanghyuk ditches early, citing an urgent appointment with his bed and his utter disinterest in taking part in his sister's madness as reasons.

For once you’re glad to have Hakyeon's unlimited credit line, considering the high-end boutiques and department stores you keep being pulled into. You're continuously forced into fitting rooms, arms laden with clothes Sora wants you to try, each time aided by boutique owners who inevitably end up being huge fans of your friend. Between your impromptu fashion show and the salon where your hair and skin are poked, prodded, and plucked, you feel like you’ve walked through a hurricane of perfume and finery.

Sora excuses herself to check on an order she has coming in at yet another boutique, leaving the two of you to awkwardly wait outside. Jaehwan is buried in various shopping bags, and you're leaning against the brick facade in an attempt to catch your breath. It’s a busy shopping district, pedestrians flooding in and out of the many storefronts and restaurants.

You close your eyes for a moment, head bent in a futile attempt to hide yourself under the giant ferns flanking the boutique doors. No matter how much rest you get, you can’t seem to shake this exhaustion that’s settled into your bones ever since you made the decision to leave Armistice. It’s a strange feeling to be so very tired and at the same time wary of every little bit of your surroundings. The anxiety and fatigue combine to make your insides feel inflamed.

A deep breath later you straighten up and peek up at Jaehwan on the off chance he’s also tired enough to let you leave early, but he’s all furrowed brows and tense shoulders, once again distracted by something across the street. You follow his gaze to the cafe immediately in front of you, confused by the seemingly innocuous scene. There’s a man with close-cropped hair seated outside who feels vaguely familiar, but there are millions of men with buzz cuts in the world and you’re all out of long-lost childhood friends.

“What have you been staring at all day?” It comes out snippier than you intended, and Jaehwan snaps his eyes to yours, an easy smile plastered back on.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been staring off into space,” you say, suddenly annoyed. “All day.”

“It’s nothing, thought I spotted an old friend.” He’s still smiling in his usual irritating way, lips stretched wide at a joke you’re not in on.

“Some bodyguard,” you scoff, pushing off the wall. Instead you find a seat at a bench a little down the block, ignoring your shadow as best you can while he settles down next to you. Your position gives you an unhindered view of the riverside promenade, the gap in buildings allowing a small breeze to filter through. You absently play with your hair as the wind picks it up, now cut shoulder length and blow-dried straight.

“It looks good,” Jaehwan says suddenly, face peeking out from under the pile of boxes and bags he's holding.

“What?” His voice wrenches your gaze away from the river, where the setting sun is turning the surface of the waters to molten gold.

“Your hair,” he explains. “It looks good, don't worry.”

You blink and look at him, not quite sure how to react. “Thank you?”

Amused, Jaehwan gives you a lopsided smile and copies your tone. “You're welcome?”

You turn away quickly, trying to hide your embarrassment, and caught off guard by his friendliness. You still don't know what to make of the man who has been your constant companion for the past few days. He seems determined to get under your skin, all smiles and jokes, but then his sudden serious moments give you whiplash.

“What's that?” you ask, pointing toward several structures clustered up against the river. Some of the buildings look half-complete, with their steel skeletons stretching up to the open sky, while others look fully functional but nonetheless abandoned. The largest straddles the river, arched towers on each bank meeting in the middle elegantly.

“What’s what?” Jaehwan cranes his neck to look at where you're pointing. “That ugly thing? It was supposed to be a hotel, I think, a whole resort complex type deal. There's always some new construction project going up, but this one ran out of money and stopped building a while ago.”

You nod in understanding. “The city's expanded a lot since I was last here.”

“All the development companies are owned by the king's new magistrates,” he murmurs.

“All of them?”

“Not in name,” he amends. “But it's all the same people if you trace the contracts far back enough. Hakyeon's been trying to fight it, but it's an uphill battle.”

“How is he doing that?” you ask, genuinely curious. You have no idea what your cousin has been up to beyond court politics.

“He's been funneling money to competitors and foreign investors. A lot of business shit I don't fully understand.” Jaehwan shakes his head and grimaces a little. “He's the one that convinced TirTech to open a branch here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And the king just lets him do it?”

Jaehwan's face grows dark for a moment, mind elsewhere. “The king is pretty busy with other things.”

You're about to ask what he thinks the king is up to when Jaehwan suddenly exclaims and shoves the bags off himself.

“Oh! Wait here a second.” He jumps up and makes to walk away, then turns back around. “Do not move, understand?” he says firmly, wagging a finger for good measure.

“Yes sir,” you mock, rolling your eyes.

You watch as he quickly jogs across the street to a food cart on the corner. You're both confused and amused by his sudden change in demeanor as he animatedly points to what you assume is a menu, glancing back every now and again to make sure you're still sitting on the bench. He jogs back a few minutes later with a paper bag in hand.

“Churros!” Jaehwan grins, pulling one out of the bag for you.

You accept the proffered fried stick of dough and take a bite, careful not to dust yourself in sugar in the process. Warm and sweet, the dessert is an immediate mood lifter.

“Did you have a sudden craving?” you ask, half joking.

Jaehwan shakes his head, mouth full of his own churro. “This is the best churro cart in the city. I remember from the last time Sora dragged Hyuk and me this way.”

“What, like you've tried all of them?” you mumble around a mouthful of churro.

“I get around,” Jaehwan says, wiggling his eyebrows at you suggestively.

It's an effort not to inhale dough as you snort in laughter, caught off guard by his silly expression. He seems rather proud of himself, smiling broadly at your laugh. You bite your lips in an attempt to keep a straight face, but your efforts are in vain. With a roll of your eyes you turn away from him, but the laughter has sunken into your face as a contented smile, the omnipresent dread on your shoulders held at bay for the moment.

[chierafied]

Present

Prompt: Candlelit Setting: Canon Divergence 1,250 Words

The doorbell rang.

Sesshoumaru hastened to light the tall candles, cast one last long look at the table he’d set.

Walking across the apartment, he tugged at the confining necktie that he still, after all these years of western clothing, wasn’t used to.

A nervousness, the like of which he hadn’t felt in several long centuries, rested uneasily in the pit of his stomach.

He opened the door and saw the miko standing on his doorstep, her smile hesitant but bright, her blue eyes soft.

“Merry Christmas!” she wished him.

“Merry Christmas, Kagome,” he replied in even ones, warmth flooding his chest.

“I’m not sure if you like wine but I didn’t want to come empty-handed so… here.” she offered him a gift bag.

“Thank you.” Sesshoumaru inclined his head, then stepped back and made room in the doorway. “Do come in.”

Kagome flashed him another quick smile and entered, removing her shoes while Sesshoumaru pulled the door shut.

He closed his eyes for a moment while he stood by her, drew in a deep breath to savour her scent.

He hadn’t appreciated it – hadn’t appreciated her – enough back in the days of the Warring States.

It was only after that final battle against Naraku, the one Kagome hadn’t returned from, that Sesshoumaru realised how much he respected and admired her.

Sesshoumaru hung up the outer clothes the miko shyly offered him, then followed her into the apartment.

He let her take it in, enjoyed the way she craned her neck as she looked around.

“It’s very spacious,” she commented. “And really nice. Very modern.” The last word carried a touch of surprise.

Sesshoumaru shrugged.

“The modern and western styles are not without their conveniences,” he said. “Thankfully, there is a Japanese style room as well.”

She glanced at him, and Sesshoumaru answered her unspoken question.

“I find a futon preferable to a bed.”

Kagome’s lips twitched.

“My grandfather swears by them, too.”

Sesshoumaru arched his eyebrow. “Are you insinuating that this Sesshoumaru is elderly?”

Kagome’s cheeks flushed, but a merry light danced in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, you don’t look a day older than 200.”

“Good,” Sesshoumaru intoned, amused.

His nervousness dissipated somewhat.

He had feared the miko might not feel comfortable in his company. 

Their first meeting in this day and age had been an awkward affair; both of them surprised at seeing each other again after all the years. 

And even though Sesshoumaru had been disguised as a human, as he was forced to do in this world that had forgotten about magic and monsters, Kagome had somehow recognised him right away.

“I like it,” Kagome declared, eyeing at the apartment. “It suits you.”

“I am glad you approve,” Sesshoumaru said. 

And it was true; in fact, he was absurdly pleased. 

“Come. The dinner is ready.”

There were some traditional dishes, as those were what Sesshoumaru liked best and knew how to prepare. But since it was Christmas, he’d also included fried chicken and cake on the menu.

“Wow!” Kagome exclaimed as she took her seat. “It looks lovely.”

“Thank you,” Sesshoumaru said. He sat across the table from her.

He liked it, having her at his table.

He wished that this time would only be the first of many.

The miko had always had a talent for talking, and she kept up a light chatter as they began to eat.

Sesshoumaru enjoyed the sound of her voice; admired the way the soft glow of the candles turned her skin golden.

He poured them the wine Kagome had brought and took a sip.

He didn’t in truth much care for wine in general, but he wouldn’t waste a gift from Kagome.

“This nabe is delicious,” Kagome said.

“I am glad it is to your taste,” Sesshoumaru replied.

“With this much good food, I’m going to be stuffed,” she said in good cheer.

“Just make sure to leave some room for the cake,” Sesshoumaru said, earning a smile from Kagome.

With such easy camaraderie, they got through the dinner and proceeded onto the dessert.

Kagome found the cake both cute and tasty.

It was a bit too sweet to Sesshoumaru’s liking, but Kagome’s enthusiasm made up for it all.

Having warmed sake to accompany the cake helped as well.

“Whew!” Kagome sighed once her plate was empty. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “I’m full!”

Sesshoumaru felt a swell of pride at the admission, and couldn’t help a small smile.

He downed the rest of his sake before he quietly left the table.

When he returned with his parcel, the miko was still as he’d left her.

Her blue eyes snapped open, however, as soon as he set the gift down in front of her.

She trained those eyes – wide with confusion – at him.

“What’s this?”

“I understood it was customary to exchange presents during this holiday.”

“It is, but I didn’t get you anything,” Kagome insisted, visibly distressed.

“It is of no consequence,” Sesshoumaru reassured her. 

He leaned towards her, tucked a strand of her silky dark hair behind her ear. “Your presence is gift enough.”

Kagome’s spine had stiffened the moment his fingers has lingeringly made contact with her cheek. She stared at him, her mouth open in surprise.

She sat there just like that, utterly frozen, for a few slow minutes. 

Then, her wild-eyed gaze quickly darted around, noting the remains of their dinner, the two tall white candles Sesshoumaru had lit, the smart suit Sesshoumaru was wearing and finally the gift sitting innocently on the table in front of her.

In her lap, her hands clenched so tightly her knuckles were white.

“Sesshoumaru,” Kagome said, her voice hoarse with sudden realisation, “is this… are we on a date?”

Sesshoumaru’s eyebrow arched. “We most certainly are,” he replied.

“I… but… what???”

“This Sesshoumaru assumed you were aware of the romantic connotations of this particular holiday.”

“I am, I just really didn’t think…” Kagome closed her mouth, her cheeks burning.

She peered at him shyly.

Sesshoumaru grinned at her, which only made her blush deepen.

“Go on,” he told her gently. “Open your present.”

Kagome lowered her gaze. Her fingers shook a little as they started to pull at the wrapping paper. She peeled it away carefully, revealing a small leather-bound book.

It was old and a little battered. 

Curious, Kagome opened it and had a look at the first page.

She gasped. “This – This is…!”

“They are not the original ones,” Sesshoumaru said. “Those, unfortunately, have not withstood the test of time. But I had these copies bound into a book in the late Meiji era.”

“You have more copies, right?” Kagome asked, her hand resting on the aged paper.

Sesshoumaru shook his head. “I do not.”

Incredulousness coloured Kagome’s voice. “And you wish to give your only remaining copy of Rin’s letters to me?”

Sesshoumaru shrugged. “I have them well committed into memory by now. And I thought you might enjoy her descriptions of the life in Edo. She mentions your friends often.”

“It’s an amazing gift,” Kagome said, her voice trembling. “I’m not sure how I could ever repay you for it.”

“Gifts are freely given, with no expectation of repayment,” Sesshoumaru told her.

He leaned in, close enough to feel Kagome’s sharp inhale brush against his lips. He held her gaze, his eyes level with hers.

“But if you do insist on repaying, this Sesshoumaru is certain we can find a way.”