#so just pretend all the bookshelves and desks and shit are pushed up against the wall behind the camera

[plagueislost]

“-and then I said ‘well you’re a tad small for a trampoline’ and he got mad at me! can you believe it? anyways so we start walking down the hall-“

[jon’s ref sheet below the cut!]

[softomi]

HQ Characters as NIKI songs and lyrics. 

Friends - Bokuto Kotarou 

You trade my promises for your feelings, we’ve gone too far to turn back

We should try to coexist, should have never even crossed the line

Can’t fall in love with somebody like you, I’m not meant for somebody like you

Akaashi once told you that Bokuto was the type to fall hard; when he tripped he’d tumble harder and faster than you had ever seen anyone do. But what you didn’t know was that Akaashi meant love; Bokuto was the type to stumble into love. His feet would tangle over his own and he would fall, he’d fall hard. Like cold waves crashing into him to wake him up, when the dust settled, when the fog disappeared; all he saw was you.

He pulled the blanket to cover your shoulder, his arm tucked under your head, he was on cloud nine. He grinned throughout the night. The lack of sleep didn’t bother him, seeing you covered in his sheets was worth the sleepless night. He was just heading out the front door when you walked out his bedroom, the blanket wrapped around your body as you were shuffling to grasp your clothes.

He couldn’t help himself, footsteps trudging themselves to you, “Morning beautiful.”

His hands trailed your arms, cupping your cheeks; you pull away, “Kou.” You’re looking at him, “I hope you know that last night wasn’t anything romantic.”

“Oh.” The smile on his face falters for a moment, “Then what was it?”

You’re pulling his sheets to keep them covering yourself, “We were both drunk.” He wasn’t, and you knew too well that you weren’t, “It was just purely physical, let’s just pretend it didn’t happen.”

Your walking back to his room with his heart already in your hands.

Let’s pretend it didn’t happen. It was thrown out the window the moment you decided to go back to his place that night. The jacket you had forgotten from the previous night suddenly dropped back onto its place on his couch. Fingers tugging against his hair, his lips pressing kisses against your skin; as he breathed against your shoulder, you were too aware of the line being crossed.

It was absolutely dreadful, he was the worse at pretending things didn’t happen. His hands were on your waist, when Akaashi noticed the action, you were quick to swat the man’s hand off. Akaashi raised a brow, you tried to brush it off; waving a hand to dismiss the action, trying to play it as Bokuto’s friendly manner.

“Don’t you think you’re making a mistake?” Akaashi sips his coffee, he was quick to question you once Bokuto left to the bathroom.

You’re smiling innocently, “I don’t know what you mean Keiji.”

He takes a deep sigh, “He’s chosen to sit next to you which he rarely does, don’t think I didn’t see how he was touching you by the waist, and don’t get me started on how he’s staring ‘lovingly’ at you every chance he gets.” Akaashi takes another sip from his cup, “Also, he told me about your little adventure that happened last weekend; you can’t trust him to keep a secret.”

You run a hand across your face, “It’s okay. We promised that it wouldn’t amount to anything.” Albeit, promises were made when you were on top of him.

“I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.” You’re suddenly uncomfortable because the way Akaashi looks at you, the way his eyes narrowed with his statement; it was not you he was worried about.

Newsflash - Oikawa Tooru

Go be someone else’s hangover

Newsflash, I can do better you.

Mr. Casanova won’t you, save your intrigue and all your techniques

It was absolutely annoying, he was always accidentally bumping into you; as if he was trying to do a meet-cute. The flirtatious smile on his lips as he hit you with another line, there was even a moment when he had reused a line he had said to you a month earlier. It was incredibly revolting the way other girls practically fell to his feet.

He was no superstar in your mind, he neither the knight in shining armor nor the prince many girls claimed him to be. In fact, you knew too well that his hunting ground mainly consisted of girls from different schools; he was clever enough to keep it all on the downlow. But the moment he laid eyes on you, he was intrigued.

“Well, what a coincidence.” He’s cheeky, throwing you a peace sign as he nears you.

You barely give him a glance, “Not really a coincidence when our classes are right next to each other.” While you weren’t interested in any romantic relationship with him, he was still interesting to talk to.

He’s pulling into the seat in front of you, he always claimed it until it was time to leave for his class, “So, what are you doing this weekend?” His fingers dance upon your notebook, trying to draw your attention to him.

“Not spending it with you.” You don’t look up from your notes, “Perhaps you could find another girl; maybe the one that’s been hanging on your arm this week.” You finally bring your eyes to meet his, “Your girlfriend, right?”

He hums, the tip of his finger touching against your nose, “I was thinking we could go see a movie.” His arms fall over your study material, “at my place? I have the comfiest bed in the world.”

Your elbow leaned onto the desk, your chin resting on your palm, “Do the other girls fall for that?”

“What other girls?” The moment your lips start spouting his previous partners, he’s pressing a finger to your lips, “Please, they’re nothing compared to you.”

“Oh Mr. Casanova.” The sarcastic tone in your voice bites him, “I will never go out with you.”

That never stops him; it only eggs him on. Even with the girl attached to his arm, he still stares at you in the halls. He still brushes his hand against your thigh when he walks by; he still presses himself against you in the library to grab that book you needed, his hand lingering on your hip.

“You’re making it too obvious, love.” He whispers in between bookshelves, “You’re falling for me.”

The book in your hand smacks against his head when you turn, your tongue pokes out at him, “In your dreams, Romeo.” He follows the way your hips move across the library, your hand dragging across the back of your boyfriend; your eyes locked on his as you kiss the man.

Lowkey - Suna Rintarou

Be as quiet as you can, cause if anyone see’s they’ll just blow shit up

You ain’t even gotta lo, lo, lo, lo, lo, lo, lo, love me

Be discreet, gotta dodge all the tabloids

The party was winding down, the last of the alcohol barely keeping people entertained; you knew that when Osamu and the girl volunteered to get more drinks, it meant they weren’t going to come back. Many were already passed out on the couches, your eyes lingering onto the male across from you. For someone so quiet, he was a heavy drinker. After a while, it was just the two of you awake; it was just the two of you making out over the small coffee table.

It was discrete, the back of his hand pushing you more into him; the taste of alcohol still on his tongue. Your hands on the table, holding yourself enough to not disrupt the shot glasses on the hardwood. But the stirring of the male behind you makes you both halt. He was so inviting, his pinkie dragging yours along as you two abandoned the living room; opting for a bedroom.

He’s hushing you, despite his usual slow demeanor; he wasted no time pulling you onto his lap, “Be quiet.” He’s covering your mouth, the knock at the door makes you two turn.

“Suna?” The male on the other side is drawing his words out, “Hey, did you see y/n leave? I swear I saw her just a second ago.”

Yeah, you were pressing kisses onto his neck; your tongue drawing circles over his collarbone, “Yeah, she went home.” The sound of a door shutting makes him relax, “If you don’t want them to blow this out of proportion, you’re going to need to keep quiet.” Even in bed, he wasn’t much of a talker; but you on the other hand, he keeps your sounds low with his mouth over yours.

He snuck you out the morning after, it wasn’t much sneaking as the boys of the apartment were still unconscious. It’s just like him to let you leave on your own, no attachment, in fact; he enjoyed watching you walk out the building in your clothes from the night before.

“So who was it?” All the heads turned to you, your eyes fell on Suna; he wasn’t even a tad interested in the conversation, “I saw you doing the walk of shame.” Osamu looks at every male at the table, “You slept with someone at this table.”

You’re feigning confusion, “I honestly don’t know what you mean Samu. I left during the night, maybe you saw someone who looked like me?”

“Just because you did the walk of shame doesn’t mean you have to drag others in too.” Suna interjects, the men in the group all hum in agreement. Osamu is dumbfounded as he begins a defense for his argument.

Your phone vibrates in the middle of his monologue. Let’s get out of here. It’s unnoticeable, the wink he sends you when you look at him.

“Suna and I need to prepare for our psychology exam.” You’re waving your phone at Osamu, “You can text me your little rant.” The two cell phones vibrate against Suna’s desk, your head buried into his pillow; you feel like your teeth might shatter if you continue to keep quiet.

I Like You - Kita Shinsuke 

You wanted fun, I served you threats.

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m the joke; the punchline they got too old.

It’s so typical for me to fall for your kind.

It wasn’t every day that you got to see him; he only came to the cities every few months or so to deliver rice to Onigiri Miya. It was how you met him; during a particularly lively employee dinner that Osamu insisted he join, the cute rice farmer offered you a ride home. Only, he ended up staying the night; pushing you into the sheets as you gasp for air. He hadn’t left a cell number or any contact information; he only insisted he’d see you next time.

From the time in between, you pestered Osamu to give you little details about his high school friend. The small facts he gave you made your heart flutter, it made you crave him more. When he arrived the next month, he lingered in the restaurant past closing; Osamu bid him farewell, leaving the two of you to close shop for the night. The shop’s light was still on until the middle of the night.

“I like you.” You whispered against his lips, he stopped. His eyes stared into you, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was hearing right. You laugh, your arms wrapping around his neck, “I’m joking.”

Your smile faltered as he lifted you, somehow that night wasn’t like the others. The pleasure mixed with sadness; his lips tasted more like poison than it did sweetness. Your mind jaded, he was noticing your lack of enthusiasm.

“Are you okay?” His concern made your eyes snap to him.

A sigh leaving your lips as you sat up, your hands grasping onto your sheets, “Yeah. I don’t think I’m feeling it tonight.”

“Okay.” He was apathetic, even as he pressed a kiss onto your forehead, it was infuriating.

Two months pass from the day you last confessed. For two months, you cursed yourself out. You promised to never see him again; but the moment he stepped back into the restaurant, the moment the rice farmer laid eyes on you; you knew you couldn’t resist.

It was like time had gone back, the same events happened from the first night. The employee dinner, the offer ride home, the entrance into your bedroom. Your nails dug into his back, the ringing of your cell phone was drowned out by your voice bouncing off the walls.

“Do you know if Kita’s ever dated?” You looked at your boss.

Osamu shrugs, “I guess I’ve never seen or heard about him dating. He’s kind of a private guy.” Osamu turns to you, “Why? Are you interested?”

You flush, “Maybe.”

His words would later echo in your head as Kita presses love bites on your chest.

Pretty sure he’s seeing someone in the cities; why else would he deliver ten bags of rice every month.

You’re pulling him up, sloppy kisses on his lips, you’re grinning; he was just so beautiful.

[gravelyhumerus]

Criminal Minds College AU - Chapter Thirteen

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Title: “I may just take your breath away” Relationship: Jemily

Rating: Explicit  Summary:  Foxes, lattes, churches and resolutions.

Slow-burn Jemily college AU where they live across the hall and despite all odds, the universe pushes them together. AKA they’re silly gay babies who pine after each other for months.

Read it on AO3

Tumblr:  One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, (bonus scene), Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Epilogue

The first thing she noticed was the snow. It was falling down on her, hitting her skin with pinpricks of ice cold. She wandered through the bookshelves, searching for something. She wasn’t sure what for.

It didn’t normally snow inside the library, but that didn’t seem to matter to her. 

The snow crunched beneath her feet as she turned down another row of books, past the history section and stepping over a stack of books on the floor that was left there by some other student. To her left was a row of empty desks. It was just Emily and the books. 

But, Emily didn’t feel peaceful. Something inside of her told her that she couldn’t wait around, she needed to do something, find something. 

Emily trudged through the snow. Was she searching for a spot to sit and study? Was she searching for a book? When she found it, she would know.

She turned down a corridor, looking up and down the tall bookcases, her eyes skimming along the spines. They were old leather bound tomes, in rich oranges, blues and reds. They looked as if they hadn’t been read in decades. She searched for something she recognized, but nothing made sense to her as she couldn’t make out the titles or authors.

Out of frustration, she turned away to stomp back down the row, but something stopped her in her tracks. 

Emily blinked at the image in front of her. It was a fox standing in the middle of the fiction section, looking at her expectantly. It was as if he had climbed out of one of the books and materialized before her eyes. 

“Bonjour,” Emily said, kneeling down before the animal.

“Bonjour,” said the fox. 

Emily looked around, confused at the appearance of the animal. What was a fox doing in a library? When she looked back, he was gone. 

She looked around. 

“Je suis là,” came the voice, from between two books, announcing his presence on the adjacent shelf.

“Qui es-tu?” Emily asked, wondering who he was—or what he was—and what on earth he was doing here in her college’s library. 

“Je suis un renard,” said the fox. He was a fox. No shit.

She blinked at him, trying to figure out what she was remembering. The fox was familiar. She had seen him before… or read about him before. 

It was just like out of Le Petit Prince—the book that JJ had given her for her birthday. The book was a classic children’s novel, one that Emily had read many times. It was as if the character had simply stepped out of the book. 

The book was about a little boy who lived on an asteroid and was in love with a rose. He went on an adventure through space before landing on Earth. There, he befriended a fox. Emily could picture the simple watercolour illustration of the small boy prince speaking to the fox. She could almost feel the pages of the book between her fingers. She smiled as she thought of JJ’s excited face as Emily unwrapped the present a few weeks back. 

This fox, like in the book, was speaking to her. She racked her brain for what she was supposed to say. 

“What am I doing here?” Emily asked, this time in English. 

“Je ne puis pas jouer avec toi,” said the fox, which was not the answer to her question, since he had told her that he couldn’t play with her. “Je ne suis pas apprivoisé."

I am not tamed, he said. He has not yet been tamed. Emily remembered now what she must say.

“What does tamed mean?” she asked, in French. 

The fox jumped down from the bookshelf and walked through the library, his small paws leaving prints in the white snow. He was bright red against the ground and easy to follow through the familiar stacks. Emily noticed that she wasn’t cold, despite the weather, even as her breath came out in puffs that lingered in the air. 

“It’s something that’s been too often neglected. It means ‘to create ties’... but you know this.”

Emily remembered this part, he was right. In the book, the boy doesn’t know what taming means, how to create ties with the wild animal. He does not yet know the meaning of friendship. 

The novel was filled with layers of metaphor. It spoke to childhood, love, loss and the power of the imagination. Emily’s copy sat next to her bed, and she had been looking through it before she fell asleep that night. 

The fox crept through the seemingly endless bookshelves, his tail swishing back and forth as he walked. Emily tried to keep up, but he seemed to weave through the library with a practised ease. 

The fox stopped. He hopped onto a desk and curled his tail in front of him. He cocked his head and looked at her expectantly. 

“Your person has run from you, correct?”

Emily stared at him. This part was not in the book. She nodded after a moment. 

“I ran from my boy at first, too.”

She remembered this part: in the novel, the young boy wanted to befriend the fox. But he was impatient. The fox explained that it would take time, that the boy would have to return over multiple days to build his trust. The boy would begin sitting far from the fox, not even making eye contact. Over time, he could move closer and closer until they finally could play together. Their friendship could only be forged over time. 

“Were you scared?” Emily asked. 

“At first,” he replied. “But he was patient. And persistent.”

The fox swished his tail, then continued: “At times, my heart was not yet ready to greet him.”

“How did the little prince finally tame you?” 

He did not answer the question, as she already knew the answer, instead he said: “Words are the source of misunderstandings.”

“Was it all worth it? Even though he left you in the end?” Emily asked, her voice barely above a whisper. 

He nodded, then looked off into the distance, almost wistfully. 

“Here is my secret,” he said. “It’s a very simple secret: it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

“On ne voit qu'avec le cœur," Emily repeated. She knew this line by heart. It was better in French. 

The fox disappeared into the books and Emily was left alone in the empty library. His words filled her mind.

Words are the source of misunderstandings. It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. 

Emily woke up to the sound of her alarm blaring in her ear. She was curled up on her bed, on her side. Her blankets had fallen onto the floor, and she was close to shivering in the chill air. She slammed her hand onto her phone and fumbled until she turned off her alarm. 

It was a dream. A vivid dream. She didn’t normally get those. 

She stretched, her neck sore after sleeping at a weird angle. She shook her head, trying to get rid of the convoluted dream that was still clear in her mind. Somehow, even after all she had done to distract herself, JJ still was a key figure in her unconscious brain. 

Emily needed to move on from that, focus on school. She couldn’t dwell on what she couldn’t control. She was an expert at pretending everything was okay; she had held herself together through worse.

She stared out the window. Instead of the white snow that had been so crisp and bright in her dream, outside was grey and dreary. She couldn’t see any hint of precipitation, frozen or otherwise, just dead grass and wet asphalt. The trees were bare as the leaves had fallen and been raked up last month, and there was salt on the roads in anticipation of the freezing temperatures.

Emily methodically dressed, donning a pair of jeans and a dark green button up shirt, pulling a sweater on top to combat the chill. She then played some music on her laptop. She focused on the lyrics, allowing her mind to go blank. 

She sat in front of the mirror on her desk, carefully applying her makeup. There was something about a swoop of liquid eyeliner that made everything feel okay. At least, more okay than they used to be. If she looked put together, maybe she would feel like it, too. 

Emily rarely remembered her dreams and she really wasn’t used to having to think too hard about her subconscious. All that was very Freudian, anyways. She wrote the dream off as her sleep-deprived brain mixed with reading before bed. 

She donned her warmest leather jacket, the one with sherpa lining on the collar and tugged a mustard yellow beanie onto her head. Then, she lifted her tote bag onto her shoulders, and put her headphones into her ears, turning the volume up high, hoping that she could drown it all out. 

During her lecture, Emily didn’t retain a single word her professor said. She mindlessly typed her notes, completely zoned out the entire time. She wondered if the words on her screen made any sense, but decided that it must be an issue for a future version of herself. This was probably a bad idea, as it was just about finals season and her exams were fast approaching. 

Her mind was elsewhere: thinking about the blonde who lived across the hall. At times, Emily thought about their kiss, or imagined holding her hand, or holding her body. Then, as her daydreaming gave way to reality, she remembered the anxiety as JJ ignored her texts. She remembered JJ ending it one day, then coming back from a hookup mere days later.

Every day that week, as Emily walked down the hall, a part of her wanted to knock on JJ’s door, like she used to, just to say hi. Beyond everything else, Emily missed JJ. She missed laughing over dinner, studying French, or even lounging in one of their dorm rooms, doing nothing and talking for hours. She missed the way she smelled and her soft touch and her big blue eyes. She missed JJ’s kindness, how she would remember little details about Emily, and how she would knock her shoulder against Emily’s to get her attention. Emily missed her friend.

But the hurt was still there, and it overpowered her longing. The hallway reminded her of JJ’s words, her breaking it off, the tears in her eyes.

Emily hadn’t seen her since, with JJ doing an amazing job at avoiding her.  

As soon as her class was over, she walked off of campus, heading straight to her favourite cafe downtown. It was usually busy this time of day, but she hoped the crowd would keep her from wallowing and make her focus on her work. Campus was inextricably tied to JJ. The field reminded her of JJ’s soccer games, the library of their study dates, the cafeteria of their group dinners and even the quad made her think of the time she almost ran JJ over with her skateboard when she was distracted. 

Emily sat at the long sandy wood table and sipped her latte as she opened her laptop. 

Members of the Prentiss family were extremely talented at pretending things were normal, that everything was fine, and Emily was no exception. She had tucked all the hurt, all the confusion, into a neat little box in the back of her mind. Storing it away until she could deal with it. 

She typed away at one of her essays, only taking pauses to sip her coffee. She was busy finding sources and working on integrating quotes to develop her argument. She enjoyed the sound of her keyboard clacking, adding to the din of the cafe. 

Her phone was tucked neatly away in her pocket. While there was a noticeable silence in their group chat—the one with both Emily and JJ in it—Emily’s phone seemed to be constantly pinging with messages. Derek was checking in on her, Penelope seemed to be trying to distract her, even Hotch had sent her a message to make sure she was ok. If Reid had a cellphone, she knew he’d be doing the same. Sometimes she got messages from Penelope’s number that was signed by the younger boy. Somehow, the whole world seemed to have known exactly what had happened between her and JJ. 

The sun was setting faster and faster these days, and by five, it was creeping below the horizon. At this point, she had most of her essay drafted, so it felt like a good enough time to call it quits. Anyways, her back was starting to get sore from the minimalist chair and all she really wanted to do was curl up in her bed again. 

Emily packed up her bag, depositing her empty mug on the counter, nodding at the barista before leaving. 

She took the long way home, walking along the river and listening to her music, trying to clear her mind. She pulled her hood up against the cool air. 

She walked for five minutes before slowing as she came upon a church that she had passed before. Instead of continuing along her way back to her dorm, something made her pause. 

Lights lit up the facade: a red brick building that stretched up into the sky with a pointed bell tower in the centre. Columns graced the front, standing strong on either side of the large, wooden doorway. 

Emily stared at it. It was simultaneously familiar and foriegn. Emily had spent almost every Sunday in church, be it Sunday school or mass with her mother. No matter where they were in the world, there was always at least one church in the city that they could attend. 

In Rome, their visits had only gotten more frequent, as after school, she and Matthew would wander the Renaissance churches around the city, admiring the architecture and discussing theology and morality and free will. 

Something came over her in that moment, and she found herself wandering up the steps, trying the door to see if it was unlocked. The door swung open easily, and for a moment Emily thought about walking in. She thought about kneeling before the cross and going through the familiar motions of prayer. 

She thought about asking God about JJ, about what was going on, praying for guidance on what to do. She could picture the way the light would dance through the stained glass window, she could feel wooden pew under her knees, she could almost mouth the words of her prayer. 

She thought of St. Georgia, her confirmation saint. She thought of her life of solitude, and how that almost sounded nice. Young Emily had thought the same thing. 

She thought about the mass that she sat in her pew, with tears in her eyes, as the priest talked about how being gay was a sin. She thought about how her mother repeated those words when she came out at sixteen.

She let the door close without entering, before walking away, longing for the feeling of the wind on her face instead of the dusty smell of incense. 

It had been years since she had set foot in church. The last time had been in Rome, the day she walked in with Matthew, before… well there was no before. It just was. Her pregnancy had triggered something in both of them, questions about the church that could not be prayed away. 

Emily clenched her fists, her short nails digging into her palms. She remembered the way Matthew had held her hand at the doctor’s, and held her as she fought back tears, and walked arm in arm into the church in defiance of the priest. 

After, their questions hadn’t subsided. Matthew read and read and read and the more he learned, the more the church transformed the place of safety and solace to something neither teen could stand behind.

Still, she missed her childhood certainty. She missed the feeling of a power greater than herself watching over her. She missed the singing—though she would never admit it—she had really enjoyed being in the choir. She missed how her mother would sit next to her, how it was often the longest time she got to spend with her busy mom. 

Emily shook her head, fighting back the memories, and turned up her music and continued her walk home. She dug around in her backpack for a lighter and her pack of cigarettes. Fumbling for a moment, she lit one and breathed in the dark smoke. 

The wind was biting and her leather jacket did little to keep the cold from creeping into her bones. As the sun was setting, Emily began to shiver. 

After dragging her walk out as long as she could, she finally went back to her dorm. Her hands were iced cold and she was shivering. She dropped her backpack on the floor before collapsing onto her bed. She checked her phone to find a missed call from Derek.

She called him back, knowing that he was likely to pick up from only down the hall.

“Hey,” she said. She felt suddenly tired, and wondered whether he would pick up on that.

“Hey Prentiss,” Derek said. “How’s it going?”

“I’m fine,” Emily lied. 

“No you’re not,” his voice came through the phone, and from the hallway, and he knocked once before opening her door.

Emily sat up, looking over to him in surprise. As if he owned the place, Derek walked over and sat down on her desk chair, letting it spin with the motion of his body. 

 “We’re ordering take out,” Derek said, “You can’t survive on coffee.”

“I can try,” Emily muttered. 

“Pizza?” Derek proposed.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “You’ve been avoiding the cafeteria.”

Emily crossed her arms. Derek was good at making her feel better, pushing her to take care of herself without forcing her to talk about her feelings. He was a private person, and so he never went too far, knowing that there were lines that neither of them crossed. 

“Thai?” he said with a sly look in his eye, he knew she couldn’t refuse. 

“Ok fine,” she gave up, “You know what I like.”

“That I do,” he said, dialling his phone and calling the local family-run Thai restaurant for delivery. 

Forty minutes later the two of them were eating curry and watching The X-Files on Emily’s laptop. They were sprawled out on the floor, both scooping rice into their mouths as they discussed the plot of the episode—aliens—and whether or not they actually believed in them. 

Emily didn’t realize how hungry she had been and struggled to remember the last full meal she had eaten.

After she had finished, she felt slightly more human, slightly less out of it. Still sad, but being sad on a full stomach, sitting next to her best friend and watching her favourite tv show was a bit more bearable. 

“I just don't get it,” Emily blurted, surprising herself as the words fell out of her mouth. 

“Yeah,” Derek replied, “What’s the point of probing? Don’t they have good enough technology that they could just scan someone and know what’s up?”

“I mean, yeah,” Emily said with a laugh, “But I was talking about JJ.”

She paused. 

“Did I push too hard?” Emily mused, “Was it my fault?”

Emily didn’t plan to vent to Derek. She hadn’t really told him the details yet, as she was still embarrassed after Thanksgiving weekend. Telling Derek’s entire family about how she had a girlfriend and then immediately getting dumped was not great for the ego. 

She learned early that it was safer keeping things to herself. 

Emily had done just about anything to fit in when she was younger. She was desperate to be normal. To be someone that wasn’t the weird queer girl that moved around a lot. She learned languages, learned cultures. She learned how to wear the right clothes, say the right thing. She tried so, so hard to be normal, and yet she never seemed to do it right. 

In her senior year, Emily finally gave up. She dyed her hair, did her make up in a way she knew enraged her mother, and dressed the exact opposite of what the other kids did. 

Since then, Emily was trying to focus on being herself. Derek was her first friend to really accept her for her, and over the past year and a half, she felt herself beginning to relax around him. In her second year at college, she was no longer the new kid. 

She had started to feel comfortable with him, and all of their new friends, so she was kicking herself for letting things with JJ blow up in her face. She should have known this was all too good to be true. 

“Em,” Derek said, “You can’t blame yourself. There’s definitely more going on with her that we don’t know.”

“Did Pen say something?” Emily said hopefully.

“I don’t know,” Derek said, rubbing the back of his neck, “She hasn’t said anything outright, ‘cause, y’know it’s all so complicated. We’re friends with both of you. But she made it seem like it wasn’t just you.”

Emily gulped at the guilt she felt when she thought of how all of this with JJ must be hurting her friends. They had all gotten so close this semester, and she hated the thought of ruining it for everyone. 

“It’s not you, it’s me,” Emily said with a sardonic laugh.

“Essentially,” he said. 

“Look Prentiss,” Derek said, “I think this is just a hiccup. You’ll figure it out. You two just need to talk and stop running from each other.”

“How do I get her to stop running from me?” Emily asked, her dream vivid in her mind once again. 

“Wait it out,” he said, “She’ll come back to you eventually. For now, eat some mango.”

He offered her the dessert, some mango and sticky rice that they had gotten to share. Emily took some with a grin.

She could wait. JJ was worth waiting for.

———

Emily was almost ready for bed when she heard a knock at her door. Derek had stayed for most of the evening, watching tv and talking for hours to keep her mind off of things. He had wandered out around nine, as he had an early practise the next morning.

She was just about to get undressed after brushing her teeth and washing her face. She stood in the centre of her room with her fly half undone as she heard the sound. She zipped her pants back up and walked to her door, unlocking it, expecting to see Derek returning for something that he had forgotten. Instead, she was face to face with Jennifer Jareau.

“Hi,” JJ said. “Can we talk?”

In JJ’s hands was a large tin filled with homemade chocolate chip cookies. They were piled high in the tin, perfectly baked with picturesque chocolate chips still warm from the oven. On JJ’s face was a nervous expression as she held out the gift for Emily to take.

Emily stood and stared at JJ, wondering if she was real or if she had finally snapped and was hallucinating.

A moment passed. JJ smiled nervously at her, big blue eyes boring into Emily’s own.

Emily took the cookies.  

[almondmilkygay]

Reddie; Heroes.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower is a major inspo for this, not a rip off however, let me be gay :(

The lights in Derry Highschool's sports hall were dim. The reflection of the disco ball reflected from the metal to the walls, carefully disguised in banners and streamers. Colourful lights lit up the room, and bounced off of Richie Tozier's round glasses. He pushed them carefully, further up the bridge of his nose. As he sat alone on the empty bleachers, everything around him seemed muffled. As if he was in his own bubble, the tacky teenage music boomed obnoxiously. Richie continued to sit there for a few minutes, before someone joined him - too shadowed to see.

"Not a big fan of prom, huh?" They said, voice raised but still gentle. Richie chuckled and nodded, hoping they would see. Luckily, they did.

"Yeah, me neither," The voice agreed. They let out a sigh as the music stopped booming and the normal lights came back alight. Richie turned to the figure to see who he had been talking to . The boy had honey brown locks, which fell lightly over his face - which was slightly flushed, freckles littering across his cheeks and nose. The still flashing rainbow lights shone in his eyes, illuminating the light hazel they were blessed with. He wore a gentle pink blazer, and supported a baby blue tie, which he tugged at carefully, before tucking a thread of hair behind his ear.

"D'ya wanna get out of here?" Richie found himself asking, slightly taken aback by the small boy's good looks. To his surprise, the other boy nodded. With that, Richie stood from his seat on the bleachers and held out his hand, "Accompany me."

The boy giggled and took Richie's hand. They clashed. The boy's were soft and warm, whereas Richie's were rough with blisters and dry skin. Richie felt his cheeks warm, whether with embarrasment or infatuation, he wasn't sure. Together, they walked out of the sports hall and out into the cool Autumn air. Richie sported a denim jacked on his shoulders, which he hunched off as he saw the other boy shivering. He handed it to him, and the boy took it in his hands before putting it on himself.

"My name's Eddie," He said, "Eddie Kaspbrak."

"Oh-ho, I've heard about you. The name's Richie," Richie exclaimed, as they walked down the empty pathways outside the school, "And you're good friends with my girl, Beverly Marsh..?" Eddie nodded, skipping lightly in his step. Noticing this, Richie smiled.

"Bevvie's an angel," Eddie sighed out wistfully.

"You gonna hit that?" Richie asked cheekily, his smile so wide it ached his cheeks and his dimples threatened to cut deeper into his cheeks.

"Oh, gosh no!" Eddie said, slightly taken aback, "Ben is of course,” He said, almost matter-of-factly, “Plus, I'm not really.. into.. you know..?"

Richie laughed aloud at this.

"Eddie, baby," He said, adopting a nickname. Eddie flushed crimson red, "I'm the trademark gay of Derry High."

"Is that so?"

"Damn right, not many dudes swing that way of course. You n' I are one in a billion, Eds," Richie said, nodding to him with a raised eyebrow. Richie's jacket's sleeves hung over Eddie's hands as he clamped them together in an attempt to keep warm.

"Great to know, Rich," Eddie shivered. Richie watched carefully, taking him aside and stopping his skipping for a moment. Richie's hands found comfort on Eddie's thin shoulders.

"Hey, you're cold?" Richie said, tilting his head as Eddie nodded, "My place is close and it's empty, we'll warm you up." Eddie merely nodded, and Richie pulled him into the side of his torso, holding him tight.

"You're strangely nice for a person I've never spoken to before," Eddie muttered, holding onto Richie.

"Hey, a person talks to me - I make a good impression," Richie chuckled, "Don't have many friends so I've gotta make the most of what I've got. Bev's one of my best, and Stanson but he hates me sometimes."

"Stanley Uris?" Eddie asked as they walked up the driveway of Richie's house.

"The one and only," Richie replied, rummaging in his pockets for his house key, but only finding a bobby pin, "Ah shit," He stuck the pin inside of the keyhole and after a few seconds of twisting and turning, the door swung open, "Nice." He laughed, allowing Eddie to enter first.

"Where's your room?" Eddie asked, looking around the homely house. Richie gestured upstairs.

"First door on the right, I'll be up in a tick," He said. Eddie took this time to his advantage and hurried upstairs to explore the boy's room. Inside, hundreds of records and tapes sat on bookshelves, accompanied by a few textbooks. A record player sat in one corner of the room, and a boombox on the other. His bed was strangely neat, the navy blue sheets tucked into the mattress, accompanied by one measly pillow. A notebook sat on the bedside table, Eddie assumed it was a diary, and that keeping a diary was a gay thing, for he had one too.

"Welcome to Casa Le Richie," Richie announced loudly, startling Eddie a little. In his hands, Richie held a woolen blanked and a steaming mug of something, "I'll take the jacket, and you can take this," He gestured awkwardly at the blanket with his mug-full hand, "And this is uh- ginger tea.. so you don't get sick."

Eddie smiled and nodded, slipping off the jacket and hanging it off the end of Richie's bed. He took the mug from Richie's hand and held it in his two, occasionally sipping it.

"So.." Eddie finally said, tearing away the border of silence, "What've you got against senior prom?" Richie breathed out a light chuckle, taking a seat at his desk on the other side of the room and spinning in the chair to face Eddie.

"Bunch of annoying straight teenagers pretending to be drunk on fruit punch while dancing to obnoxious disco tech music?" He laughed, "Don't know about you, Eds, but it isn't exactly my dream.."

"Hm, should've guessed," Eddie replied, nodding and looking around the room, "Don't exactly like moving onto futuristic shit, do you?" Richie flashed him a wide grin, standing from his wheelie chair.

"Nossir," He simply said, riffling through records, "I dwell on the past." Richie gently put the record down on its player, and lowered the pin. As the music began to fill the room, Eddie continued to sip his tea.

"David Bowie?" Eddie asked wonderously, finally realising what Richie was playing.

"Heroes," Richie replied wistfully, lying back in his chair with his feet propped on his desk, "An all time favourite on my part. Helped me through some deep, deep shit."

"It is a beautiful song," Eddie agreed, placing the now empty mug on Richie's bedside table, and taking it upon himself to lie back on the neatly tucked bed, "Among my favourites.." Richie hummed in agreement, tapping out the backing drums on his thigh.

"Let's say we have our very own prom, Eds?" He said finally, standing up and holding out his hand - much like on the bleachers. Eddie smiled widely and took Richie's hand, standing to his own feet. Eddie's hand raised into the air, enclosed in Richie's, and Richie's other hand settled on Eddie's waist, just before his back. The two swayed unproffesionally, needless to say neither were the perfect dancer. But they weren't abismal, not in each other's eyes that's for sure. Little did the two boys know, that their relationship would grow. Little did they know, that they'd dance in this style at their own wedding, to the same song as when they were teenagers.

Little did they know, that they were in love from the moment they had spoken.

[lymricks]

#3!

3. “I’m not jealous.”

Steve Harrington is making out with Melissa Hardy in a dark corner of Michael Dill’s house and Billy is trying really fucking hard to pretend like it doesn’t bother him. It’s just that wherever he fucking looks, it doesn’t seem to matter, his gaze always skitters over the two of them and it sends heat skittering up and down his spine.

“What’s Harrington doing?” Billy asks Tommy, taking a sip from his beer and trying to act like it doesn’t bother him. “I thought he was with Jessica?”

Tommy shrugs. “Carol says Jess let him down gently or something. He was too distracted. I don’t know, man, who cares?”

Not Billy. Billy definitely does not fucking care.

It’s not his fault that Steve and Melissa are so easy to see, that they stand out. He finishes his beer and crushes the can, grabs Tommy’s beer–“What the fuck, Billy,” Tommy says, but that’s the extent of his protest–and finishes that too.

“I need another drink,” Billy says. He goes into the kitchen to find one.

Except five minutes later, Steve and Melissa are there, too, and they keep kissing and touching. Steve’s hand on her hip, his smile against her ear. Billy grits his teeth and jeers. “Look at King Steve, everybody,” he calls out. People stop and do what Billy says, because the kids in fucking Hawkins are useless and Billy runs shit.

Melissa breaks the kiss, laughs and flushes red. She hooks her fingers in the collar of Steve’s shirt and presses herself against him. Steve’s hand holds her there, his fingertips at the small of her back. Billy grits his teeth again and meets Steve’s gaze across the room. Steve flips him off. “Come on,” he says to Melissa. “Let’s find somewhere with less assholes around.”

Everyone looks at Billy to see what he’s gonna do, but Billy just watches Steve grab Melissa’s hand and pull her out of the room. It’s been months since they’d–gotten to know each other–the night of the Snow Ball. Steve and Billy haven’t spoken since. That’s actually not true, Billy’s done tons of talking, of goading, of needling and pushing. He wants a reaction. He doesn’t get one. The middle finger is the most Steve Harrington has said to him since Billy had told him to go away.

Billy bristles as they leave. “Get the fuck out of my way,” he snaps at some sophomore standing between him and the beer. He shoves him when the kid doesn’t move fast enough. Billy grabs a beer and goes into the next room, but he just holds it, because there they are again, hands all over each other, and Billy can’t get Steve to so much as look at him, isn’t really sure why he wants him to, is lying to himself, knows exactly why he wants Steve to look at him, what he wants from Steve.

Melissa’s back is to him, so Billy gets to watch Steve slide his hand from the small of her back over the curve of her ass as they kiss. Billy wants to carve his goddamn eyes out with the nearest blunt object.

“Are there no bedrooms in this house?” Billy says, too loudly. “If you’re going to put on a show at least make it worth it.”

Melissa bursts into laughter, presses her face into Steve’s shoulder. Steve meets Billy’s eyes and doesn’t say anything at all. Billy knocks his beer over as he turns to storm out of the room.

He walks up the stairs, finds himself in what must be an office, bookshelves everywhere, a desk. Billy shuts the door and smashes his fist into the wall. “Fuck,” he says, does it again

The door opens. It’s Steve.

“Jesus, are you trying to make sure I get a good view?” Billy snaps before he realizes that Steve’s alone.

Steve steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. “Why? Don’t like what you see?”

Billy curls his fingers into fists. “I’m not jealous,” he says, which isn’t the question Steve asked, which shows Billy’s hand.

Steve smiles, a tight, wounded thing. “Good,” he says, “Because you don’t get to be jealous. Because you weren’t there the next morning when I woke up and because you told me that it was just a little fun for you, just a little bullshit, right?”

Billy looks somewhere to the left of Steve’s head. He is jealous. He’s been jealous for months. He’s been jealous of every girl that Steve has touched, and there’ve been more than a few, and he’s been jealous of every friend that Steve has smiled at, and he’s been jealous of every human person Steve has spoken to, up to and including the lunch lady. “I’m not jealous,” he says again.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says and then he turns to walk away.

Billy wishes he’d thought things through a little more about ten seconds later when he finds himself with a palm flat on the door, his knuckles red from where he’d hit the wall, keeping Steve from opening it. “What if I am jealous,” Billy says, and Steve’s standing with his back against the door, is staring down at Billy.

“You walked away,” Steve says. “Not me.”

“What if I hadn’t?” Billy asks. There’s only inches of space between them. “What if I had been there that morning? When you woke up? Would you be sticking your tongue down my throat at some stupid Hawkins party?”

Steve’s gaze doesn’t flinch away from Billy’s. “I’m not playing this game,” he says. “I’m not fucking doing this, Billy. You had your fun, right? Move on.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Billy asks him. He leans in and presses his lips against Steve’s neck, bites down, soothes over it with his tongue.

Steve tilts his head to the side, gives Billy more skin to work with. “Billy–”

“Shut up,” Billy says. “I can’t fucking stand it. You with all those girls. I can’t fucking stand it.”

“You said–”

“I lied,” Billy says against Steve’s skin. He lifts his head, kisses him, teeth and tongue and a heady rush of wanting to taste every fucking inch of him. “I lied and it was stupid and it isn’t fucking bullshit and I wish I’d stayed, all right? Is that what you fucking want to hear?”

“Yes,” Steve says, smiling against his mouth, “I knew you were jealous.”

“Shut up,” Billy says. “Shut the fuck up.”

Steve gets a hand in Billy’s hair, kisses him slow and soft and sweet, Billy feels it tingle all the way down to his toes. He’s never had anyone kiss him like Steve does, not fucking ever, with laughter and careful hands, and it scares him, had scared him when he crept out of Steve’s bedroom before the sun was up a few months ago. “So jealous,” Steve says and Billy breaks the kiss to press his face into Steve’s shoulder and say shut up one more time.

[blackjacketmuses]

hc; ienzo 7

And final drabble (re)post for the day! Wrote this for Ienzo and Even (and my Even, @empxrical ) an so here it is, cute and sad father/son shit.

Ienzo couldn’t stand to be in the office any longer.

It was so familiar, comforting almost, but that same familiarity was tight and painful like an iron claw around his heart. His heart. It was still so surreal, so strange. He kept touching his chest, fingers crinkling the cloth of his shirt, as if expecting not to feel a heartbeat when he pressed down, but each time he did – there it was. A heart. Thumping steadily in his chest as if it had always been there, never left.

(And it had, though – it had left, he hadn’t been human, he’d been a wisp of a creature of a nonexistent empty shell, devoid of anything resembling life, no heartbeat no need to eat no need to sleep, he could if he wanted but there was no need, all he needed was a coat to keep himself from dissipating without a heart to glue him together—-)

He shakes the thoughts away, slapping his cheeks sharply. He can’t be in this room. He can’t. The desk, the bookshelves, the writing on the walls because Ansem had never really bothered to get a proper chalkboard, every line on the wall and tile on the floor was home. It was horribly, painfully home, a home he never thought he’d see again – let alone thought he deserved to.

Ansem would never again sit in this office, never again read these books, never again write in his journals here, go into that lab and talk to Tron for hours at a time. Ansem would never again walk among his subjects, make speeches on holidays, smile at flowers from children, laugh and smile. Ansem would never again hold his hand, give him ice cream and beam down at him in that crooked way he had, sit him on his lap and show him how to play simple word puzzles, hold him up so he could reach the keyboard in the lab, walk with him along the hallways and sit with him in the garden on Ancestor’s Day when he was feeling alone.

Ansem would never do any of those things again, and it was their fault. His fault.

Ienzo hurried along ruined halls and past dusty doorways, head tucked low and trying not to think about the fact that his home was broken, shattered, in pieces, and it was because of him. No, because of Xehanort – but he was partially to blame. If he was no longer a child, he carried an adult’s guilt on his shoulders, and an adult’s responsibilities.

He didn’t realize until he was there where he’d rushed off to, and once again, his heart did a little flip, squeezing tighter until he felt like he couldn’t breathe around it. Even’s room.

Even still hadn’t woken, still slept – Aeleus had woken alongside Ienzo himself, the man on his feet and already in the Garden proper, reconnecting with the citizens and trying to figure out where to go and what to do. He was good at that, had always been well-liked anyway, and had a sense of calm and equilibrium Ienzo was having trouble finding. Dilan…Dilan had woken an hour or so ago and had retreated to his sanctuary, the kitchens. He was coping the best way he knew how, Ienzo supposed. Dilan had always felt so fiercely; it had been what made Xaldin a force to contend with, after all.

But Even was still asleep.

Ienzo crept into his room as if hoping that once again, as always, as it had always been – the very act of entering would startle the scientist from his slumber, and he’d be demanding to know what Ienzo wanted. But no such luck. He lay there under the comforter, pale and still, blond hair loose against the pillow.

Terror closed Ienzo’s throat for a split second and he was across the room, fingers fumbling for Even’s wrist, hand pressing against the white of his lab coat. Please please no no no no— there. Pulse, heartbeat, loud and insistent against his hands and in his ears, and he crumples. Face buried in Even’s chest, murmuring soft gratitude into the covers, he just– no.

Not Even, too.

“You have to wake up,” he whispers. “Please.”

He doesn’t know why he feels so shaken. He can’t remember the names of the emotions clogging his throat and twisting in his chest – or he can, really, it’s just that…they feel detached. Like emotions are something he’s only ever read about. And really, isn’t that the case? A child of nine when he lost his heart, and now almost a grown man…and all that time without one. How could he possibly remember what it was like to feel? How could he remember being human?

He barely can. His memories feel like photographs, pages in a book – clear as day and present, nothing forgotten, but…distant. Like he read about them, saw them, but didn’t experience them. So disconnected, so detached…it’s a wonder he can feel anything at all, even with his heart.

But he does. He feels, and it’s overwhelming. It’s like he’s drowning in it, no experience and no memory to guide him. The others, they were men grown already when they lost their hearts, they had things to build on. To go back to. But he was adrift. Alone. Painfully so – the bonds he’d had as a child, tight as iron, they had rusted over time, grown apart. He can no longer feel the same closeness, the same trust. There are gaps and holes now, and with the sudden viciousness only new raw emotions can bring he hates it.

He wants to throw himself out of the room, find Aeleus and cling to him until things are alright again, until the bigger man somehow makes things right. Curl up in his arms and just stay there, knowing he’s safe. He wants to stay right here, bury himself under the covers next to Even, close his eyes and pretend hard as he possibly can that he’s a child again, that nothing has changed, that it was all a bad dream.

“Wake up,” he repeats to himself, to Even’s still form. “Wake up.”

He needs you, Even.

The realization hits him like a sack of bricks and for the third time he can barely breathe. He needs him. He needs Even. A thousand old memories slide into place like puzzle pieces, seen through new eyes, seen through his heart. All the lessons, all the books, all the cold hands over his showing him how to cast spells, how to read, how to write, everything Ansem had never had time to do. The scent of peppermint and coffee and ink, the tang of ice magic (mint and pine). Warm tea at midnight, fixed in silence and drunk with little hands around mismatched cups after nightmares. The weight and warmth of a thin frame, sitting under a desk as he read and listened to the comforting scratch of pencil above him. Chalkboards with math problems, complicated equations, pieces fitting together with the tap of chalk.. A rare, thin smile and soft chuckle. “Come along now.”

He doesn’t notice he’s crying until he sucks in a breath and tastes salt, and even then it takes him a few moments to recognize tears. “Oh,” he manages, reaching up to touch the wetness on his cheeks. “Oh.”

He blinks, glances down at Even, and he’s gone again, burying his face in his hands as his shoulders shake with silent sobs. He needs Even. He needs him. How could he have forgotten, how could he have let things deteriorate so much? Vexen and Zexion had fought like cats, bristling and angry, never a pleasant word. Zexion haranguing Vexen, full of bitterness and resentment, and Vexen spitting paranoia and defensiveness right back. How could that have happened? Even was– Even was–

He was his father. The only one he remembered, the only one that mattered.

And he hadn’t just pushed him away, he’d shoved and kicked and screamed and fought, and damn it. “Even,” he managed again, brokenly. “Please wake up. Please.”

His parents, Ansem…gone, all gone, and now if Even didn’t wake…

A soft moan gets his attention, and he freezes, the room stilling entirely as if frozen. Blue eyes flicker down as Even stirs, brows creasing and face shifting, eyes fluttering open. Green eyes, Ienzo remembers them well, discs of cold green ice. But these aren’t those, these are warm and frightened for a long painful moment, Even’s hands coming up to dig into Ienzo’s shoulders as he sits up like a snapped rubber band, and then they soften.

“Z-Zexion?” He manages, confused and bewildered. “No, I– you’re– we–”

“Even,” is all Ienzo can say, his voice shattering, and he throws himself at the blond, clinging to him tightly.

He feels Even stiff in his arms, heart racing, and then; “Ienzo?” Even’s voice is faint, almost reverent. “Are we–”

“We are,” he manages, his voice muffled. “Aeleus, Dilan, and all of us.”

Even slumps as if his strings were cut, boneless, and then he clings back, clutching Ienzo close. “Oh,” he whispers. “We’re back.”

“We’re home,” Ienzo confirms.

There’s silence, no sound but twin heartbeats and twin breaths, father and son clinging to each other with the desperation of those twice-dead. Finally, Even speaks again, his voice hoarse with tears he’s fighting not to shed. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. Oh, Ienzo.”

“Don’t be,” Ienzo says. “Don’t be sorry. It’s okay. It’s okay.” His voice cracks. “I missed you.”

Even freezes a moment, and then relaxes, laughing weakly. Understanding. “I missed you, too,” he replies. A bandage, glue to fix the broken pieces. Not enough, but a start.

“Come on,” Ienzo says after a long moment. “Let’s go make sure Dilan hasn’t cooked himself unconscious. Get some tea.” He stands, smiling through drying tears – a real smile, one he hasn’t felt himself make in a decade. “We have a lot of work to do, Even.”

Even smiles back, stands. “We do, indeed,” he says, reaching out to absently adjust the ascot Ienzo hadn’t even noticed he was wearing. “Shall we get started, Ienzo?”

Ienzo just smiles wider.

[jemej3m]

in confidence i confide

i do understand this isn’t how therapy works :)

basic summary: neil needs help and andrew gets paid to help. it works out, somehow. 

Neil was uncomfortable with how startingly different it all seemed. There were no sticky leather ottomans across from a black leather couch, or bookshelves covered in intimidating titles, or walls covered in certificates of achievements. The room was rather small, and Neil sat in a very soft velvet chair. A wooden coffee table sat in front of him. The man was on the other side of the room at the small kettle, making two mugs of something or rather: Neil smelled Earl Grey. He wasn’t fussed about that, so he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t going to drink it regardless.

The lighting of the room: That was different too. All offices of psychologists, psychiatrists, therapists and counsellors alike seemed to have a stark, bright white lighting. This room was lit by a lamp in the corner, and the cracks of daylight that seeped through the gaps in the curtain that covered the floor-to-ceiling window.

The psychologist must have seen him glance at the curtains. “I usually keep them shut, but some patients prefer them open. Depends on what they want from me, usually.”

Neil had nothing to say.

Andrew Minyard looked at him, one mug in each hand, huffed out a small sigh, and paced back towards the small, matching velvet couch perpendicular to Neil’s chair. He settled down the tea in front of Neil and sat himself against the armrest of the couch, a cup of hot cocoa in his hand. “Curtains shut, then.” He took a sip. “Feel free to open them whenever you like.”

Neil wanted this session to be over.

“In case you were wondering,” He put down his mug. “I’d prefer if you called me Andrew, rather than doctor, or Dr Minyard. We both already know you’re here for my medical qualifications: We don’t need the reminder every time you say my name.”

“What are your qualifications?”

“It speaks.” Andrew tilted his head to the side. Neil felt like copying, just to mock him—so he did. Andrew rose up a single eyebrow in amusement: Neil saw the twitch of the corner of his lips. “I have an undergraduate degree in criminology, and a post-grad in medicinal science. I continued on to study psychology and I have a PhD in criminal psychology. I’ve been in the field for five years.”

“Five.” Neil echoed. “How old are you?”

“29.” Andrew laced his fingers together. One year older than Neil. “I accelerated through many of the courses and stacked the necessary hours for certain qualifications on top of one another. I completed my PhD last year. Star pupil.”

Neil hummed.

“Do you feel, in light of my accomplishments, that you have to share yours?”

Neil looked up.

“Because I’d like to keep this space completely honest and open from the get-go: I already know who you are, and incidentally already know more than you want me to. Seems a little unfair to me.”

“Through Exy or through my father?” Neil’s plight was open to the entire public: Ten years ago he’d fought and won, and these scars were proof. Now he’d gone to the Olympics once—they’d lost to Germany, but they would be heading back this time next year. “Nevermind. Criminal psychologist.”

“It’d be hard not to know you from Exy,” Andrew corrected him. “But yes. Its your past that interests me more. I’m no policeman, or agent. I’m not here to drill and extract. This is your hour to talk about whatever you want, and to ask whatever questions you need.”

Neil picked up his Earl Grey, took a sip, and settled it back down again. No sugar, just how he liked it. He put his feet up on the edge of the coffee table and nestled into the velvet chair—it was very comfortable, but he couldn’t imagine anyone larger than him would find it so. How on earth did Kevin sit here for an hour every two weeks?

“I’m going to take a nap.”

Andrew said nothing, but Neil saw the tick of his jaw before he closed his eyes.

At first, Andrew didn’t move. Neil eventually heard him shift, and then stand, take his own mug off the table and treading lightly across the room. A creaking noise: Neil cracked open one eye to see the chalkboard on the opposite wall, next to the door, lifting up to reveal a book case. Andrew grabbed something off the bottom shelf—something tattered and worn—before closing the hidden bookshelf and turning around. Neil shut his eyes before Andrew could see him staring.

Andrew sat down again with his book, opened it, flicked through a few pages, before saying “You’re terrible at pretending to sleep.”

“I’m not trying to pretend.”

Andrew hummed.

Neil did not trust therapists—psychologists, psychiatrists, anyone of that or a similar brand. It was pure instinct. He could not sleep with Andrew in the room, but he could piss him off by wasting his time: He was Kevin’s psychologist—and Matt’s. Probably one of the most popular counselling professionals in the world of professional sport. If he shit-bagged Neil to Kevin about how much of a waste the session was, maybe Kevin wouldn’t hassle him again.

Andrew said nothing else. Neil opened his eyes at the beep of his watch, marking the turnover of an hour. He stood up, straightened his shirt and looked down at Andrew who was perusing a book on his couch. The psychologist didn’t spare him another glance, nor another word as he walked out.

The receptionist glared up at him—identical to Andrew. His name tag read A. Minyard, which wasn’t helpful at all. “So, first session with Andrew, huh?”

Neil nodded.

“Would you like to schedule the next one? Weekly or fortnightly is the recommendation, but—“

“Next one?”

He rose up a single eyebrow. “Oh, yes. Andrew insisted. It’d be wise to listen to his instruction.”

When the hell did Andrew instruct—

“Same time, next week.” Not-Andrew stabbed enter with his finger and stood up to give a business card. “The reception phone is always manned if there’s an emergency. We’ll link you through to him if it’s necessary. Bye.”

Neil nodded, stunned, turned himself around and marched out the door before he could kick up a fuss.

~

“What level of nutcase was he for you to text me mid-session?” Aaron lounged in the chair as Andrew rounded the front desk.

“None of your business.”

“Oh, now patient confidentiality is a concern of yours?” His twin arched an eyebrow. “You just want to get with him. That has to be illegal.”

“Aaron.”

Aaron rose up his hands in surrender, lips puckered like he tasted something sour and tucked himself under the desk, sitting up.

“You have a patient coming in five minutes. Go set up.”

Andrew sat down when Aaron slipped by him and put his feet up on the desk, staring at the screen.

Neil Josten was attractive. That was, however, not a concern of his. Regardless, he’d already known that. It was hard to sift through sports’ news without finding a Moreau, Josten, Reynolds, Knox, Boyd or even the legendary Day plastered somewhere, shirtless and glistening.

He and his twin had made a name for themselves as the one-stop-shop for professional sportsmen and women: Andrew fixed their heads, Aaron fixed their bodies, and Renee fixed their relationships. It was as good a team as any.

Neil Josten. Andrew scoffed.

~

Kevin shoved Neil out the door a week later. “Go.”

“Kevin—“

Kevin slammed the passenger door shut for Neil and sped off. Neil cursed after him until he turned the corner.

It was easy for Neil to get home, or to their court. He wasn’t incapable of catching public transport, despite it being something he’d more or less avoided since starting college and shaking his father off his back ten years ago.

He didn’t have to walk in there, either. But sleeping through the session hadn’t had the desired affect: Andrew had talked to Kevin, and Kevin had yelled at him for it, sure. But he wasn’t letting Neil go: He was pushing him until Neil used the time ‘wisely’.

Neil made another sour face in the direction that Kevin had driven off, and stalked inside. They were both there, and Neil remembered Not-Andrew who’d manned the desk after his appointment. They were joined by a young woman, too, with silver hair that was black at the roots and cut to her chin. The three of them looked up at him: The woman smiled, Andrew rose up his signature eyebrow and Not-Andrew glanced at Andrew.

“Follow me.”

Neil pulled the door shut behind him.

“Going to pull the same shit, today?” Andrew went to draw the curtains shut.

“Most likely.”

“Your money, your time.” Andrew hummed. “I’ll have to move you to a different spot if you’re going to remain stubborn, because people who need this time slot more urgently than you do are waiting for it.”

“So why get me in again.” Neil said flatly, dropping into the chair.

Andrew looked at him. “Me, get you in again? You’re the one who rescheduled, Neil.”

Neil tasted something sour, sunk into the chair and closed his eyes.

~

This lasted four sessions—six weeks, when Neil started going fortnightly instead.

And then it changed

Renee buzzed Andrew in. He was at home: She was manning the reception phone tonight. He picked up immediately. “Renee?”

“I’ve got Kevin Day on the phone. He sounds very stressed: Can you take it now?”

“Put him through.”

“—swear to God, Renee?”

“Kevin, it’s me.”

He sighed with relief. “Thank god. Andrew. Help.”

Andrew almost rolled his eyes. “I’m aware you require it. What’s happening?”

“Neil’s having a panic attack. We’re in public: I’ve barricaded the bathroom and we’re alone. He won’t talk to me.”

“What makes you think he’ll talk to me?”

“I don’t think he will, but you’re trained to do this. I’m not. I’m putting you on speaker and standing outside the door. Neil, if you need anything, call out to me. Ok?”

Andrew didn’t hear Neil reply, but there was definitely someone breathing raggedly. The phone was placed on the tile floor, and he heard the door shut.

“Neil.”

Nothing.

“I want you to breathe for me. I’m going to count with you. Ok?”

Nothing.

Andrew counted. He wasn’t breathing evenly nor steadily, but the longer Andrew murmured numbers, the more it evened out.

“Look at your hands, Neil. Are they holding something? Are they in fists? Can you stretch them out for me?”

Neil murmured something.

“Can you repeat that for me, Neil.”

“What are you—“ He took in a shuddering breath. “—doing.”

“I’m going to wait this one out with you and make sure you’re ok. I am able to answer any questions revolving why this would have happened and to help you work through how it started, what contributed to it, and how you can resolve it, understood?”

Neil hummed.

“Back to breathing, alright?” No response, not even a hum. “Ok. Breathe with me, ready…”

~

Kevin texted him later.

Thank you. That was a really bad one. I couldn’t let the press see him like that, he was desperate to escape but so lost in his head that he couldn’t find one. What did he say when he calmed down?

He didn’t say anything. Andrew texted back. He said ‘enough’ and hung up.

You’ll earn his trust. Kevin replied. Just be patient.

Andrew already knew that. Dont tell me how to do my damn job.

Right. Sorry.

~

Neil missed their next session.

He rescheduled, though, much to Andrew’s relief. It rolled around slowly, like watching the clock and seeing the second hand slow down just to taunt you. But it czme, eventually, and he appeared in the doorway, ragged and sleepless and angry.

He doesn’t shut the door behind him this time.

“You could have saved your brothers’ scholarship if you’d explained the history of your abuse during his trial. But you didn’t.”

He did his research.

“Does slandering me make you feel better about being exposed as you were?”

Neil’s jaw tightened.

“For your information, Aaron wasn’t going to let me attempt that. We had enough evidence to keep him out of jail. None of that is your business.”

“Did you kill your mother?”

Andrew tapped on the armrest of his couch. “Car accidents are awful things. Did you kill yours?”

Neil stared at him. “No. My father did.”

“And your uncle killed your father, and the boss of a mafia gang in New York killed him. Are you next?”

Neil shook his head. “How do you know about Ichirou?”

“I am good friends with Kevin.”

“He never talked about you until he admitted to going to your sessions a few months ago.”

“He doesn’t talk about much but Exy, does he.”

Neil paused. “I suppose that’s true.”

Andrew stopped tapping on the armrest when he saw Neil was watching his movement. Neil’s gaze flitted up to his because of it. “Are you going to talk to me, now?”

“I’m not good at talking.”

“You don’t have to be. I’m very good an comprehending nonsense and piecing together puzzles. Where do you want to start?”

Neil paused, and then let out a singular, startlingly genuine laugh, stretching out on his chair. “Oh, doctor, it all started when I was young and impressionable…”

“Don’t you dare.” Andrew felt the tick of a muscle in his cheek. He was not going to smile. He was not going to smile. “What if we worked through the night where Kevin called me, hm?”

Neil sighed. Cast his gaze to the ceiling, then back to Andrew. Swallowed. Looked down at his hands.

“Fine.”

And they did.

~

The next time Neil called Andrew after-hours, it was weeks later and he was the one manning the reception phone: It was in the pocket of his slacks and he was on the couch at home. The three of them took turns keeping the reception phone on them: Each of them were qualified in first-aid, of which they’d required twice before. Aaron was the only one of the three who wasn’t apt at dealing with psychological emergencies, but was the best with physical ones. It was a good system.

Andrew rose the phone as soon as it started ringing. “Yes.”

“Oh, Andrew. It’s you.”

Neil had his session today. Why was he calling?

“Indeed.” Usually people couldn’t distinguish between him and Aaron over the phone. How had Neil been able to with just a yes.

“Oh. Hi.”

“What is it?”

“It’s not—“ Neil made a noise. “I realise now this is the after-hours phone. And this isn’t urgent. It’s stupid, too.”

“Nothing can be stupid if I haven’t been given the chance to judge whether it is or not, Neil. What is?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to talk to you. More. Are you always working?”

“Not always.”

“Is it weird if I get your actual phone number? Is that some kind of breach of policy?”

This was not happening. “You can have it.”

“Oh. Ok. Let me—“

“I’ll text you.”

“Oh. Right.”

Andrew hung up and leapt for his actual phone, where it was laying face-down on the coffee table.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The only thing that was stupid about Neil Josten was how much Andrew had let himself like him.

~

“Why are you so groggy.” Aaron remarked when Andrew walked into the reception. Renee had a coffee waiting for him.

At approximately the same time, Kevin hit Neil over the back of his head. They’d been up and at it since six—Neil was already dead on his feet, but he kept checking his phone. “What the fuck is wrong with you today?”

“I didn’t get much sleep.” Neil slid his phone back into his bag.

Andrew didn’t reply to Aaron’s very similar question.

“You never get much sleep.” Kevin grumbled to himself. Neil ignored him.

“Bad night.” Renee deduced. Andrew sipped his coffee.

No, Andrew thought, remembering who he’d been up talking to until four in the morning.

Not for the reason you’d think, Neil thought, following Kevin back to the treadmills.

~

Andrew had thought—had suspected, hoped, projected, was almost certain—that Josten was going to ask him out.

He hadn’t.

Andrew wasn’t sure what was going on. Maybe years ago, he would’ve given up and moved on without the bat of an eye, but this Andrew was invested in puzzles with missing pieces and things so shattered that the normal man wouldn’t dare try to work out how to glue it back together. Andrew was psychoanalysing Neil out of habit, and assessing every little movement and comment and facial expression out of habit.

It was driving him up the wall.

He met Neil for coffee after Neil’s early morning runs, and they grabbed Thai and Italian and Chinese together when Andrew got out of the clinic.

Neil was very good at guidelines, and understood what Andrew meant when he asked Neil to keep it separate from his therapy: Andrew had a job to do. It was still never a single hour that was all about Neil and his issues: From the beginning, Andrew had worked out that a truth was traded for a truth, and that they would get nowhere in Neil’s twisted, thorn-embedded landmine of a mental space if he didn’t let Neil into his own.

But outside his office, he could no longer detach himself like he often did.

It was what lead him to grabbing Neil by his fingers—the first bad decision—and rerouting to the roof-top access stairwell—the second bad decision—showing Neil he was apt at lock jimmying by getting it open without disturbing the alarm system—the third bad decision—and pulling Neil to the edge—the fourth bad decision.

“What do you feel, standing here?” He was curious. His heart was racing, every breath catching in his throat. A combination of the sheer drop beneath them and the fingers still hooked with the redhead next to him’s. Neil looked tired, but a well-worn kind of tired: No nightmare-induced shadows under his eyes or nervous clench to his jaw. They’d been up talking all night again.

“The wind.”

“A truth.” Andrew looked out. “I’m scared of heights.” The fifth bad decision—telling Neil that.

His blue eyes opened a little wider. “Why did you bring me out here, then?”

“It used to be the only way I could feel something.”

Neil was still looking at him in that peculiar way of his, feeling as though he was opening Andrew’s chest, one layer of skin at a time. But he’d made it well-past his skin, and had pulled back filaments of muscle, and yanked at his sternum and ribcage, worming around his lungs and dislodging his trachea. There was only one thing left in there.

“What do you feel now?”

“If I asked to kiss you—” Andrew started.

“Yes.” Neil’s fingers tightened around his.

“You didn’t hear me out.” Andrew frowned, looking at him.

He was so close. “I already knew what you were going to say.”

Andrew turned into it. That was the sixth bad decision—and probably the worst. But Andrew still refused to believe in regret and abided by his own policies (aptly ignoring the don’t-fuck-around-with-patients policy), and this was happening. This was happening.

“I hate you.” He muttered, right against Neil’s lips. Neil wasn’t moving backwards. It was as good of an excuse an any to do it again—The seventh bad decision.

It was that point that Andrew lost count of the number of bad decisions he’d made—because he let himself be lead inside and lost count of the kiss count as soon as they made it past Neil’s front door.

~

Neil’s reasoning for stopping the sessions was because he was ok: Andrew wasn’t having any of it. He wouldn’t see Renee since becoming friends with her, but he was unwilling to branch out.

“It’s the regularity and routine.” Andrew grabbed Neil by his chin and rose up an eyebrow. “Neil. We can still keep the sessions going.”

“I have access to your services as a psychologist whenever I like. You won’t let me pay anymore: There are people who need the time slot more than me.” Neil put his fingers around Andrew’s wrist. “And as much as I appreciate the offer, the risk of me ending up naked on your desk is far too high. Not that I’d complain, but—it’s a little unprofessional, don’t you think?”

Andrew shoved him back with a scoff. “I do have some element of self-control, Josten.”

Neil grinned.

[alocalband]

Nursey is so wrapped up in saying goodbye to the graduating seniors that he doesn’t notice Dex and Bitty disappear until Chowder pokes him in his ribs with a grin. “You’re gonna pretend to be surprised, right?”

Nursey is already surprised, and confused, but doesn’t say so.

When they get back to the Haus half an hour later, taking the long route at Chowder’s insistence, everything looks the same as it always does. That is until Nursey makes his way up to Lardo’s old room, determined to figure out what he’s apparently supposed to already suspect.

“Shit,” Dex curses when he spots him. “Uh, hey? Fuck. I mean. What’s up, Nurse?”

Nursey blinks several times in quick succession, but the image of Dex in the middle of hanging custom bookshelves on the back wall of their soon-to-be-shared-bedroom while surrounded by at least five of Nursey’s favorite baked goods doesn’t go away. “...I literally don’t even know where to start, bro.”

Dex’s head drops down with a beleaguered groan. There’s a number two pencil stuck behind one ear and a hammer hanging from one of his belt loops. It’s a good look on him.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Nursey adds.

“You weren’t supposed to know I installed this,” Dex mutters, eyes trained on the floor.

“And the pies?”

“That was mostly Bitty. I only made one of them." Dex shrugs a shoulder stiffly. "Well. One and a half.”

“And did you make me shelves too?”

Dex sucks in a deep breath, and then pushes it out through his nose like a bull reluctantly trying to hold back. “Look, you’re gonna need some place to keep all your books, and I didn’t want that place to be all over the freaking floor. We’re gonna be crammed in here tight enough as it is.”

Nursey quirks an eyebrow and tries to narrow down the billion and one questions on the tip of his tongue. “Dex. Bro. Just.” He gestures at the mess of pies and shelving. “What? And also, um, why?”

Dex huffs in defeat, shoulders slumping. “Because I want this to work.”

Nursey frowns.

“I know I’ve been freaking out about the roommates thing, but it’s not because I’m trying to be a dick about it. And Bitty might have mentioned that you probably can’t be looking forward to living with someone who you think hates your guts, so... I don’t hate you, first of all. And secondly, I... I want this to work.”

“So this is like, what, an olive branch? Except you said I wasn’t supposed to know it was you. How exactly does a truce work when only one party knows about it?”

“It's not a truce. It's not a contract. Just because I don’t actually hate you doesn’t mean you should feel obligated to stop hating me.”

Well shit. “Poindexter, I--"

“It’s fine, okay? I get it. You weren’t supposed to know that this was my doing, because this whole thing wasn’t to try to-- to earn your favor or whatever.” Dex scowls down at the floor again, and grabs the pencil from behind his ear so that he can toss it onto the nearby desk with obvious frustration. Nursey knows him well enough at this point, though, to understand that that frustration is entirely directed inward. “I don’t want the credit for making you happy about our new living situation, I just... want you to be happy.”

Nursey suddenly has no idea what to do with his hands. He swallows, his mouth gone dry, his throat clicking. “Bro.”

“Don’t-- don’t make it a bigger deal than it is, alright? Grab a pie and take it downstairs. I’ll finish with the shelves, and then we never have to speak of this ever again.”

Oh they are definitely speaking of this again. They are going to be constantly speaking of this if Nursey has a say. “I don’t hate you, Poindexter,” he tells Dex seriously, stepping forward so that he’s all the way inside the room now.

Dex shakes his head and takes a small step back. “You don’t have to--”

“I’m happy that we’re gonna be roommates, man. I mean it. Do you really think I would give you so much grief if I didn’t like you? Come on. Ever heard of pigtail pulling, Will?”

Dex is quiet for several very long seconds that have Nursey’s heart rate skyrocketing. Then: “If this is a joke, it’s a really mean one.”

Nursey takes another step forward and cocks his head to the side with a smirk. “Poindexter, you are literally my favorite person in the entire world to chirp. And my second favorite person to hang out with. Have you really not noticed?”

“I...” Brow furrowed in thought, Dex’s eyes jump around the room, from pie to pie to unfinished shelves and back again, like he’s trying to make it all add up to the answer Nursey’s giving him. Finally he looks back up, and his usual tight-lipped frown is still there, but his amber eyes are a little softer than Nursey’s ever seen them. “Well you have a fucking weird way of showing it, Nurse. Half the time I kinda wanna strangle you with my bare hands.”

Nursey takes that last step forward that puts them within a few inches of each other. That puts them directly over that crack in the floorboards where a now infamous coin still rests. “And the other half of the time?”

Dex huffs a surprised laugh, and it’s definitely not as reluctant as it usually is. He rolls his eyes, a slight smile tugging at his lips that he unsuccessfully fights back. “Why don’t we figure out how to be roommates first, and then maybe I’ll tell you about the other half.”

Nursey grins. “Sounds like a plan.”

Dex holds Nursey’s gaze with his own for a single, charged moment, and then shoves Nursey away with another roll of his eyes. “Alright, get out of here. I wanna finish putting these shelves up sometime today.”

“Can I help?”

“Can you avoid a visit to the emergency room if you do?”

“Probably not.” Nursey settles back, leaning against the windowsill and watching Dex work in silence. It’s a nice silence, though. One he could happily get used to.

“So, which one of these pies did you make?” he asks eventually. “Because as soon as you’re done in here we are splitting it out in the reading room with a couple of beers to commemorate the occasion.”

Dex ducks his head, his ears going a little red, but keeps on working without pause. “The chocolate mousse.”

“Oh thank fuck, I was about to faceplant into that one it looked so good. Now hurry up, dude, I’m starving.”

Dex tosses a screwdriver over his shoulder in Nursey’s direction in response.

Nursey catches it easily, grinning again despite himself.

[voidchill]

In 9:18 Dragon, a 6 year old human is found in the Kocari Wilds. Her demonstration of magic grants her a one-way ticket to Kinloch Hold.

These events would hardly stand out if not for two facts: 1) She knows she's trapped in a video game. 2) She was 26 years old, the last she checked.

The upside: 12 years should be more than enough time to come up with a plan to survive the impending Blight. (She hopes)

[Note: This story is also on AO3]

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

Warnings for body shaming.

[9:18 Dragon] [Helena: 6 years old – Thedas | 26 years old – Earth]

 Mom stands in front of the stove in a pair of short shorts and a hoodie, her platinum hair swept up into a bun on the very top of her head with a red scrunchie.  She dishes up her signature Hamburger Helper with a side of mashed potatoes and peas.  

Helena counts only four plates.  Sometimes she wonders if Mom actually eats.

“She got more mashed potatoes than me,” Abby whines once Mom divvies up the plates.

“No, I didn’t,” Rebecca sneers back.  “You already ate half of yours cuz you’re fat.”

Alex chortles at the end of the table, shaking with mirth from his slim arms up to his light brown bowl cut.  

Helena watches from across the table as Abby’s eyes well with tears.

“Shut up,” Abby demands, glaring from under her own messier bowl cut.

“Fatty, fatty, boom-buh-latti,” Alex singsongs.

With a war cry, Abby brings a meaty fist down on Alex’s bony left shoulder.

Alex stops laughing.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarls, shoving Abby.

Abby’s eyes widen in panic, her hands grasping onto the end of the table to keep her chair upright.

“Knock it off,” Mom scolds as she steps between them, her long, bony fingers curling around each of their arms.

“She started it,” Alex hisses, jerking against her grip.

“I don’t care who started it, I’m finishing it.”

“Can I have more mashed potatoes?” Rebecca asks, her tone almost as bright as her long blonde hair.

Helena notes the smug curl to her lips as Mom releases their younger siblings to take her plate.

“But I asked first,” Abby points out.

“I know, hold on,” Mom says, scooping another dollop onto Rebecca’s plate.

Abby pouts.

Helena looks down at her own plate.  Mom gave her one of the chipped ones, but at least she left out those soggy noodles. Plain hamburger gravy poured on a scoop of mashed potatoes—just the way she likes it.  Well, almost.  She grimaces at the small pile of peas encroaching on her mashed potatoes and nudges them away with her fork.

“You better be eating those peas.”

Helena glances up to find Mom frowning down at her from the other side of the table.

“I love peas,” Rebecca announces from Mom’s left, tilting her chin up as she sucks a scoop off of her spoon.

“Me too,” Abby adds from her right.

Alex fumes, glaring down at his plate as he rubs the arm Mom grabbed.

“I don’t,” Helena mutters down at her plate.

“They’re good for you,” Mom says.

“They’re gross,” Helena insists, poking one.  She grimaces at the green ooze on the end of her fork.

Mom’s frown deepens, her wrinkles sinking further, almost as if someone carved them there.

“I don’t care if you like them or not.  They’re good for you,” she repeats in that tone that makes Helena’s shoulders hunch, “and you’re not leaving this table until you eat them.”

Helena glares down at her plate.  She can’t eat them, she’ll throw up.  Why does she have to choke these stupid peas down?  Why didn’t Mom make more of an effort?  Why didn’t she find vegetables that Helena could eat?  If Mom had exposed Helena to different vegetables then, she could—

Helena blinks, dropping her fork.

“I don’t have to eat this,” she realizes, staring at her hands, her fingers slim but long.

Too long for this script.

Another fork clangs onto one of the plates across from her.

“Excuse me?” Mom hisses. “You will eat every single pea on that plate or—”

Helena raises her head. The seats around the table are empty.

“No, I really fucking won’t.”

Mom gasps.

“What did you just say?”

“Fuck, fuckety, fuck fuck,” Helena replies in a jaunty tune, pushing back her chair.

“You—sit back down and finish your dinner,” Mom demands.  “Now.”

“Screw you—you’re not my real mom.”  Helena laughs, looking down at her, even if only by an inch or so.  “Besides, even if you were, I still wouldn’t have to eat shit.”

The Thing pretending to be her mom jerks closer, its body thinning as it stretches taller, and Helena wants to laugh.  Their height difference had always been near negligible—just that inch or so.  The Thing could double its size, but it couldn’t shove Helena back down onto small hands and clumsy legs.  Not now.

The Thing stops growing after half a foot and strides through the table between them, the illusion warping around its form as its face cracks.

The Thing hisses, “You little—”

“This isn’t real,” Helena points out, triumphant even as her heart thunders in her chest.

A bright flash of light fills the room and Helena shields her eyes, staggering back.  When she drops her arm, she finds both the light and her old kitchen gone, along with whatever had worn the guise of her mother. A path bracketed by rocks extends before her, the world a wash of green and a vacuous darkness.

“’And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you,’” Helena murmurs, turning in place with wide eyes.

“Where did you find that?” a voice asks from behind her.

Helena jumps and whips around, catching a glimpse of gold and purple before the world tilts and she smacks into stone.

“Ow,” she hisses, blinking bleary eyes around her.

A faint, flickering light illuminates the stone walls of the infirmary.  She leans against the cot behind her and reaches to untangle the blanket around her legs, pausing when she sees her childlike hands.

Not like, she corrects, shoulders falling.

 …

 Helena steps into Irving's office, hands clenched in the fabric of her robes to keep from tripping. Her gaze sweeps across the bookshelves, but she resists the urge to investigate further.  Based on her playthroughs of Inquisition, she knows the likelihood of finding any texts written with the English alphabet is low.

And isn't that a Harrowing thought—a bibliophile unable to read.

"Do you have an interest in books?" Irving's voice snaps Helena's gaze to the opposite side of the room, watching the man stride forward and sift through some papers on his desk.

Once again, she strains under the desire for honesty.  Who knows what age children learn to read in this world?  Her answer might betray her in some way.

Irving turns around and Helena shrugs, her lips twisting.

“You will have plenty of time to familiarize yourself in the coming months,” Irving comments as he meanders passed her.  He raises a hand to the bookcase and plucks out a slim book.  “You might even discover an appreciation for them.”

Helena pictures her bookcases at home, the shelves warping under the weight of her collection.

Irving opens the book to a page with a few drawings and offers it to Helena.  Her shoulders slump, but she keeps her hands gentle as she studies the strange symbols scribed across the yellowed paper.

“What does it say?” she asks, gaze caught on a sketch of a young woman surrounded by some kind of force field.

“I’ve found this book to be quite helpful as an introductory text.  This page,” Irving taps on the sketch of the young woman, “describes just one of the many ways your gifts can be harnessed to protect you.”

A slew of responses rise to the forefront of her thoughts, but fracture before reaching her mouth.

“Oh,” Helena murmurs instead of contributing, gaze shifting to the swirling dark figures pressing against the woman’s barrier.

“The common term for this spell is ‘Mind Blast,’” Irving says, with a note of amused exasperation, “though it’s far more complex than such a name would suggest.  The bash of a warrior’s shield cannot compare to this spell’s concussive force or ‘blast.’”

Helena glances up at Irving, noting the rehearsed quality of his words that spoke of past arguments.  

“It’s a wave of pure will drawn from deep within the caster,” Irving explains.  “To use it to stagger an opponent is to overpower their own force of will, even if only for a moment.”

“Will you teach me?” Helena wonders, voice small.

Irving smiles.

“You will learn that and more, child.  Here at the Circle, we are dedicated to educating our apprentices in the arcane arts, so that they may hone their craft and prepare themselves for the difficulties ahead.”

Helena closes the book.

“You mean demons?”

Something in Irving’s smile or his eyes shifts, and Helena recalls that cutscene she watched on YouTube once upon a time, wherein he urged both Amell and Surana to trick Jowan.

“Yes, demons are but one difficulty you will face.”

Helena restrains herself from scoffing at that.

No kidding.

“Tell me, child, can you remember your first use of magic?  What led you into the Wilds?”

Helena remembers blinking in something deeper than darkness, something absent and void, ears so clogged with that void that even her thoughts grew muffled under the panic, throat scraped raw from—screaming?  Was she screaming?

She remembers her life on Earth.  Her family, her friends.  She can visualize her bedroom with all its clutter and knickknacks.

She tries to recall what led to that moment of silent cacophony and finds only absence.

The last thing she did, the last person she spoke to—all swallowed in that void.

And then the templars.

“No,” Helena admits. She shifts in place, tapping her thumb against the book.  “Do you know how the templars found me?”

Irving sighs, though not unkindly.

“Do not trouble yourself. I am certain you will recover those memories in time.”  Irving extends a hand and Helena returns the book, trying not to frown.  “In the meantime, let us focus on getting you settled.”

Helena wants to insist Irving give her a real answer, but in the end she just nods, trailing after him.  He leads her into the hallway and she works to keep her steps measured, grimacing at the thought of meeting anyone else.

[demonsonthemoon]

We Shall Rule - Chapter 3

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel Comics Pairing: Platonic Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton, Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson Word Count: 4822 Summary: Bucky Barnes is slowly recovering from trauma and trying to start a having a normal life once more. Then he meets Clint, a new variable that intrigues him in a way he can’t quite name. This is a story of people learning to know each others and themselves, navigating identity and relationships, overcoming trauma and trust issues. It’s a story about life.

Also available on AO3.

Bucky had an appointment with his physical therapist the next day, and came back from it utterly exhausted, falling into bed without even bothering to check whether Steve was home or not. He stared at his prosthetic fingers for a while, watching them move back and forth as he willed them to, feeling his muscles strain under the effort. The process seemed so natural, yet so alien at the same time. It made Bucky uncomfortable. He took off the heavy prosthesis before sliding into bed for a nap, cringing as he unlocked the mechanism that let it attach to his body. Even now, he had trouble adjusting his equilibrium everytime he took the arm off. His body always instinctively compensated the heavy weight of the battery and motor inside it. He put the prosthesis down on the side of his desk he kept clear for this purpose. His whole shoulder was aching after his session of exercises and his massage, and he ran his hand over the scars on his lump as he breathed through the first wave of pain.

He pulled the blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes, focusing on his heartbeat to try and not think of anything else.

He eventually fell asleep, waking up a few hours later to an ignorable throb.

He eyed the alarm clock next to his bed. It was four o'clock already and he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

He stood up with a sigh, dejectedly looking down at his sleep-crumpled clothes and sighing. He eyed his prosthetis for a second before deciding it was too much to bother with. He wandered to the kitchen, sleep in his eyes. He could feel his body leaning sideways still. He looked into the fridge to see whether they were any leftovers lying around, even though he was the one who did most of the cooking in the house and knew perfectly well there was nothing ready-made there. Bucky was tired.

In the end, he made himself a plain sandwich with ham and cheese, wincing at the dryness of the taste as he ate. He needed to get himself together, he thought. Instead, he went back to his room, not even bothering to open the curtains or turn on the lights. He picked up his phone from his bedside table, as well as a pair of earbuds, pushed up his pillow and settled himself against it. He put the earbuds in and brought his knees close to his chest, pressing play on the music menu of his phone. Music started blaring mid-song, too loud and too harsh, and Bucky felt his body tense up before relaxing again. He let everything wash over him, falling deep in himself and the music, ignoring everything else. A song became another then another, until he slowly regained some sense of time and place. The ache in his stump was mostly gone now, but he still didn't want to wear his prosthetis if he didn't have to.

He put his earbuds aside and opened the curtains and windows, letting in both sun and fresh air. He was only wearing a t-shirt, but the apartment was well-heated. It was a habit he had taken as soon as he had moved back in with Steve. Now that they could afford a nice apartment and proper heating, this little luxury was comforting.

Bucky walked to Steve's office space, a tiny room that barely fit a desk and some bookshelves. He knocked, then opened the door when there was no answer. Silence didn't always mean that Steve wasn't there. He would often be either too focused to reply or listening to music and not hearing anything of what was going on around him. The young man was actually gone this time, though. He was employed part-time as a graphic designer by a non-profit organisation, and did freelance illustration on the side, which made for flexible and erratic schedules that Bucky had long since given up on trying to keep track of.

He considered going out. Doing some groceries, maybe, even though they still had enough for at least two meals in the fridge. Or just taking a walk. But all of that would involve putting the prosthetis back on, and the effort of actually getting out of the apartment.

He sat down in front of the TV instead.

His mind was blank as he settled on a cartoon channel and watched characters he didn't know about go through actions he didn't understand the point of. He hadn't had a crash so bad after physical therapy in quite a long time. It used to happen after every other appointment, the pain and the exhaustion making him shut down emotionally for a day or two. He knew he had to go through it all though, knew how much good the physical therapy was doing him. It was just hard to focus on the physical benefits when his body felt like a foreign object even as he was inhabiting it.

He remembered a time when that hadn't been the case at all. He remembered wearing his skin confidently, glowing with it as Steve liked to jealously remind him. He remembered training in the military, remembered the pleasure he felt in feeling his muscles work, the addiction to the smell of his own sweat on his skin. He remembered his own smile on photographs, never self-conscious, always promising something.

He remembered the cold of night, remembered the explosion of sound, so loud it immediately dissolved into silence. He remembered a fall, a searing pain through his arm, like burning your tongue, a numbness spreading through his brain until he didn't feel anything.

And then the silence. The silence. Waiting for something, trying not to hope, just losing himself to the silence and the burning and the cold.

He turned his head to greet Steve as he heard him come inside.

“Hey.” Bucky willed his voice to carry, not to tremble.

“Oh, hi,” Steve walked into the room from the kitchen, leaning agains the wall. “I hadn't noticed you there. What are you watching?”

Bucky turned back to the screen, but he honestly had no clue. “Don't know.” He shrugged, and felt Steve's gaze stop on his stump for a second.

“Bad therapy day?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, then let his head fall back against the back of the couch, hair falling across his cheeks as he did.

Steve toed off his shoes and pushed him slightly, forcing him to free some space on the couch. He sat down next to Bucky, well into his personal space, and even rested his head against his shoulder.

Steve was on his left side, so he couldn't put an arm around him, but he didn't really need to as the smaller man cuddled against him until there was barely any space between their bodies. It was funny how touch averse they both could be when it came to other people, and how much bodily contact went on between them two. Of course, they had a history that had built up this closeness, but even then. The fact that it had survived despite what they both had gone through felt like a miracle at times.

“Hey, Steve.” Bucky stopped, not adding anything. There was a thought in his mind, but he wasn't sure where it was coming from, and he wasn't sure whether he should voice it or not. It would certainly be awkward.

Steve moved slightly against him, still looking for the most comfortable position. His small size was an advantage, since by curling in on himself and resting his head on Bucky's chest, he could fit under the stump of his arm without disturbing it. “Mmh?”

“Do you like Sam?”

Steve froze. Then he slowly uncoiled himself and sat down more properly, restoring a few centimeters of space between him and Bucky. “Why do you ask?”

His voice was calculated and careful, which made Bucky frown. “Uh? Because I'm curious? I think you would make a good couple.”

Steve looked away at that and started biting his bottom lip. Bucky was feeling more confused than he felt he ought to be at this early stage of the conversation.

“Uh? Is there a problem? If you don't want to talk about it it's...”

“No, no, no!” Steve started, shaking his head.

Bucky realised he had been moving his body away from his friend's and stopped. He knew that Steve got overly worried whenever he appeared even slightly uncomfortable, which was honestly annoying whenever he was the one worrying about Steve.

“Look, I-” Bucky stopped, ran a hand through his hair, then tried again. “I didn't mean anything by it. It was just a stupid comment. Ignore it.”

Silence fell as Steve failed to immediately reply, and Bucky pretended to focus on the television screen again.

“I might like him a little.”

Bucky could hear the embarrassment in Steve's voice. He didn't turn away from the screen, thinking that his friend would be more at ease without having to make eye contact.

“And I'm pretty sure he likes me well enough?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, turning back just slightly to see Steve's face. “Are you asking me?”

Steve shrugged. “Nah. I guess not. I'm pretty sure he would say yes if I asked him on a date I just don't... I'm just not sure if  I should.”

Bucky kept on pretending he was following anything of what was going on on the TV. “Why shouldn't you? I mean, Sam is sweet. He's a little shit, but he's sweet.”

Steve started laughing. “He said almost the exact same thing about you not three days ago. I honestly think the two of you would be great friends if you interacted more when I'm not there to force you to.”

“I'll think about it. Not sure the guy is worth the effort, but if it makes you happy...” Bucky bumped his shoulder into Steve's. “You're changing the subject, though. Why shouldn't you date Sam?”

Steve sighed, then kept silent again. Bucky turned back fully towards him then, frowning once more. “Seriously, Steve. Is something wrong? This shouldn't be worrying you so much.”

Steve let out a bitter laugh, something akin to a bark that felt unnatural in his mouth.

“Easy for you to say.”

“What do you mean?”

Steve looked away. “Sorry. I didn't mean that. It's just... You're... you. You're used to flirting and dating and stuff-”

“I haven't actually dated anyone since you, you know.”

Steve leaned back against him one more, quieting down. “Yeah. I know.”

Bucky slowly brushed his right hand along Steve's arm. “Is this about me?”

Steve didn't reply, only pressing closer into Bucky's skin.

“Hey, Steve. I'm gonna need an answer on this one. Is this about me?”

“I don't know-” Steve's voice was half-muffled. “Maybe a little.”

Bucky sighed. “You idiot. I'm fine. I.. I'll be okay. You don't have to worry about me.”

“We never actually broke up.”

“Steve-”

“No, hear me out.” Steve put a hand out, as if to stop Bucky from even moving. “We never actually broke up. And I'm okay with that, because there wasn't time, there wasn't... we didn't know. But that's okay. But you haven't actually dated anyone since you were dating me.”

Bucky was regretting starting this conversation. He hadn't thought it was going to end up going in this direction at all.

“Are you asking me if I got enough closure?”

Steve didn't reply, but he stared intently at Bucky, blue eyes unwavering. It was reply enough.

“I... Of course I did. I mean... I left. I mean, sure, we kept in touch, but none of us actually believed the long-distance thing was working, right? And then you... you. And then I got hurt. There wasn't clear closure, but we're not...”

“Are we not?” Steve asked, still lying on Bucky, looking up through his eyelashes in a way that brought back so many memories Bucky had to wonder if he wasn't actually in need of closure.

He shaked his head, though.

“We're not. And I've got my closure. You don't need to worry about me.”

“Why aren't you dating anyone, then?”

Bucky let out a puff of laughter. “Dude. I barely leave the flat on my own.”

“Do you want to date anyone?”

“When did this become about me?”

“Buck, please.”

“I don't... know. I don't know. No? I'm not... I don't feel like I need to be dating anyone right now. I'm not... interested.”

“You're sure?”

Bucky wanted to laugh. Hell no, he wasn't sure. It was true he hadn't really felt the need to date anyone in the 18 months since his injury, but was that just because he hadn't been very social in any form anyway? Then there was Clint, with whom he might be flirting but also was not flirting. He had no idea what he felt for Clint. It had been different, before. When he liked someone, he would feel it immediately. There was an easy tension that came from being attracted to someone. If there was tension between him and Clint, though, it wasn't the same kind.

Buck nodded in Steve's direction. “I'm sure.”

Steve nodded too, then,  more solemnly. There was something half-sad to his expression, and Bucky could guess where it was coming from. Maybe some part of Steve had wanted for Bucky to still be attracted to him. Maybe some part of him had needed that, as validation. Bucky wished Steve would have sat down on his other side, or that he was wearing his prosthetic, so that he could hug his friend close to him.

“I'm fine, Steve. I don't want to be dating anyone right now, and I guess that includes you. But you're my best friend. You're still my best friend. You'll always be my best friend.”

“I know. I don't need you to comfort me. I'm not a teenage girl anymore.” He let out the smallest smile.

Bucky laughed at that. “No, you're definitely not.”

Steve still didn't seem to want to move from his position on Bucky's chest.

Bucky wondered how the conversation could have deviated so much, but he was thankful, in a way. He seemed to have broken out of his daze of blankness and self-pity.

“So... you and Sam?”

Steve groaned, raised himself up again and pushed Bucky away.

“Shut up. You're an idiot.”

Bucky shrugged. “I'm serious, Stevie. There's something there. You know it. I know it. I'm pretty sure Sam knows it, though I'm also pretty sure he's just too polite to point it out.”

“You are not getting involved in my love life, Buck.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Steve. You've got to admit it to yourself. There is no way I will not get involve in your love life. You're doomed.”

Steve got up off the couch at that, putting both hands over his ears. “I am not listening to you anymore. You are an asshole and I will ignore you all evening and be the better for it.”

“I LOVE YOU TOO STEVIE!” Bucky shouted as his friend walked out of the room and into his bedroom.

So Bucky was left with the television once more. It wasn't the same cartoon playing anymore, though he was as unfamiliar with that story as with the previous one.

He turned the TV off with a sigh. It wasn't a sad sigh. It was more a marking of the transition between a moment of easy comfort and the rest of one's life. Bucky got up and stretched his right arm above his head.

His stump was still hurting slightly and he didn't want to have to put the prosthetis back on for just a few hours.

“Steve! Stop whining and come help me make dinner.”

Steve popped his head through the door. “You always tell me I can't cook to save my life.”

“Well, what can I say? I'm an optimist and believe there's still hope that you'll learn.”

Steve shrugged. “As long as you don't complain if I mess things up...”

Two days later, Sam invited Bucky to the cinema. He did so by text, and Bucky's first reaction was to show his phone to Steve.

“What have you been telling your crush about me?” Bucky asked accusingly.

Steve, of course, the jerk that he was, batted his eyelashes innocently. “Me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“You're full of crap, Rogers.”

Steve didn't looke even the slighest bit ashamed. “I told you you would get along more if you actually hung out without me. And I didn't force Sam to invite you. He actually liked the idea.”

“You are a terrible person. I don't know why I'm friends with you.”

Bucky started typing on his phone.

“Are you gonna go?”

Steve's voice was concerned. Bucky tried to play it cool, play it natural, and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I'm gonna go. But if your boyfriend picks a terrible movie, I'm blaming you as well as him. And you will regret this.”

Steve didn't even deign to reply, simply grinning like a puppy. Bucky made a face and walked away, making some coffee for two.

As he stared at the coffee machine, his thoughts drifted back to Clint. He hadn't contacted the young man after that one time in the coffee shop. Not because he hadn't wanted to. He just hadn't done it.

And wasn't that a perfect illustration of all of his relationships right now? It had been a year since he had come back from the hospital, and though he had never actively pushed anyone away, he also hadn't made any effort to reconnect with anybody. Which left him with two close friends, Steve and Natasha, then Jess and Sam, and maybe Clint. If he could get his shit together enough to actually text the guy.

Bucky joined Steve on their couch and put two mugs of coffee on the coffee table, one black with two cubes of sugar and one topped with a thick layer of milk.

“Why aren't you coming to the movie with us, though?” he asked Steve.

The blond looked up from the book he was reading, a pair of thin glasses balanced on his nose. “Uh?”

“With Sam and I. The movie. I don't mind going alone with Sam, but why aren't you coming? Are you gonna stay here by yourself while I go out with your future boyfriend? Because that would be weird.”

“Don't call him my future boyfriend.”

Bucky shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee with milk and handing Steve his mug. “So. Why aren't you coming?”

“I'm actually busy tonight. A friend of mine invited me to a gallery opening. It's way too fancy for me to be invited, but she was, and she could bring a plus one.”

“Do I know her?”

“I think you met her once, before you left. She's called Peggy?”

Bucky had to think about it. That would have been three or four years ago. “The name rings a bell, but I couldn't tell you what she looked like anymore.”

“Yeah, well. We lost touched for a while when I started my transition, but we started talking again a few months back, and she knew I was interested in that new gallery I guess. So I said why not.”

“Yeah, no,” Bucky replied, nodding and settling himself more comfortably on the couch. “It's good. That's nice.”

He would have asked if it had been awkward for them to reconnect post-transition, but knew he wasn't entitled to that kind of morbid curiosity.

“I hope you guys will have fun.”

“She told me she finds those events absolutely terrible, but I guess at least we'll have each other's company?”

Steve closed his book and put it on the table in order to pick up his coffee. He hummed pleasantly as the warmth spread through his fingers.

“Did Sam tell you what movie you're gonna see?”

“I have absolutely no idea. He told me he would pick and that I had no choice. I'm honestly kind of scared.”

He kept his coffee cup in his left hand and pulled his phone out of his pocket with the other one, starting to scroll through his facebook feed. Most of it was filled with news article, since he liked the official page of pretty much every media outlet that deserved an ounce of respect. He felt like he couldn't afford not knowing if something big was happening in the world.

They sipped at their coffee in silence as Steve went back to reading and Bucky kept fiddling with his phone. He tagged Natasha in a cat video and read a few articles on international tensions. He tried to avoid anything that dealt directly with military actions.

He remembered Steve telling him how stupid he was to sign up for the army. He remembered Steve admitting, after getting so mad at each other they had been thrown out in the rain by the friends they had been staying with, that he wished he could join in with Bucky. Steve had always been the patriotic one, at that time he had even believed in the army. Bucky was only interested in the money at first. But Steve couldn't possibly have joined up, and Bucky actually thrived as a soldier. Until his injury.

He locked his phone again. Whenever he let his thoughts wonder like that, he fell back to the same memories. He knew that he shouldn't blame his brain for still trying to process things, but he could admit to himself that he would prefer being able to ignore it all for the rest of his life.

“I'm gonna go grab a book.”

He actually had a nice time with Sam. They went for burgers before the movie, which was some kind of ridiculous space opera that made absolutely no sense but was visually stunning and somehow extremely enjoyable to watch. He came out of the cinema utterly confused but with a smile on his face, and didn't even think of refusing when Sam asked if he wanted to get a drink before they went back their own way.

Bucky texted Steve to let him now he would come back later than expected. He didn't expect his friend to text back immediately, and so put his phone back into his pocket, letting Sam lead the way to a bar he knew which should be somewhat less crowded than usual bars on a Saturday evening.

Steve had been right, of course, and he and Sam did get along really well. They both had a sarcastic sense of humor, and Sam had a particular way of caring for people without infantilising them which Bucky particularly appreciated. He let himself be carried away in the conversation, starting from their respective opinion on the movie – a mess, but in a nice way – to their favorite sci-fi movies, to their favorite movie quote and so on. The both of them had finished their drinks and were about to head in different directions to walk back home when Bucky realised he hadn't felt his phone vibrate for the whole evening. He checked the screen, which was blank.

He furrowed his brows, feeling anxiety rising in his stomach.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, hands in his pants pockets to shield them from the cold.

Bucky shaked his head slightly. “Yeah, I... It's just...” He looked up, and saw that Sam was looking genuinely concerned. “It's nothing, really. Just... Steve hasn't texted me back.”

“He might be asleep.”

Bucky shaked his head in earnest this time. “No. He was at this gallery opening. It ended half an hour ago, so he should be on his way. But... He's really careful about me checking in. He should have texted back.”

“His phone might be dead. Or he might just not have heard it, if there's a lot of noise where he is. And the party might have run just a slightly bit late and that's why he's not back yet. I'm sure he's fine.”

“Yeah. Yeah, probably. It's probably nothing.” He laughed bitterly. “What a pair we make, right? Perfect illustration of codependency.”

“With what you've both been through, it should be expected. It might not be healthy, but it's not surprising.” “That's not exactly a comfort, Sam.”

The man shrugged. “Do you want me to come home with you, just in case?”

“I'm not a kid,” Bucky immediately replied, taking on an offended tone. “I can-” Bucky stopped himself. Sam was looking at him with a face that was carefully blank. No pity on his face, no obvious concern. It was the kind of expression so neutral it could only be a façade.

Bucky looked down at his feet. Sam might not be concerned for him, but he would certainly be for Steve.

“Fine. You can come with.”

Sam smiled, looking relieved, and Bucky shaked his head and walked away without even looking at him. The bus stop wasn't far, and they got there a few minutes before the last bus was due. As they waited, Bucky kept checking his phone, finally giving in and sending Steve a text asking him to show he was alive.

He hadn't been joking when he had told Sam that the both of them might be a little codependant. It was something that had taken him months to realise, and his therapist had had to ease him into it. He felt uncomfortable with the knowledge now, couldn't help analysing every single aspect of their relationship or even their conversations. But being aware of the problem wasn't enough to make it go away, and he had no idea how he would deal if he truly had to stop being so close to Steve.

Bucky's therapist has been asking him to have a conversation with Steve about all of that, even offering to make an appointment with him if Bucky felt he couldn't approach the subject on his own. After the conversation they'd had about Bucky's dating situation, he thought it might be worth a try. But well. There was one more step to take between knowing it was a good idea and actually doing it.

“Still no reply?” Sam asked, keeping a neutral tone.

Bucky shaked his head. The night had gotten a bit chilly, and he popped up his collar against the wind, admitting it would probably have been a good idea to wear a scarf under his leather jacket. Although Sam was only wearing a plaid collared shirt instead of a jacket and seemed completely fine. The fucker.

Bucky was about to call him out on that when the bus arrived. They stepped inside, and Sam bought a ticket while Bucky used his pass.

The only other passengers where three girls either back or getting ready for a night out and an older man. The girls were chatting at the back, but it still felt mostly silent, and Sam and Bucky took two seats at the front.

Sam checked his phone too. Still no word from Steve.

“Do you know the girl he's with?” Sam asked.

Bucky turned back towards him after having been staring at his own reflection in the bus window. “No, not really. Steve told me I've met her once apparently, but I honestly don't remember anything about her. I think they met in college, or late high school. They lost touch, reconnected a while back. She has contacts in the art scene – god knows how – and since she knew he was interested, she invited him.”

Sam nodded, two fingers rythmically tapping against his leg.

“I don't think she's trouble,” Bucky continued, for both their sakes. “I mean, I can't be sure, I don't know her, but Steve didn't seem worried at all. And he didn't seem surprised that she would invite him.”

“He should be fine, then.”

Bucky nodded, repeating Sam's words under his breath. They kept silent after that. The easy-going banter was gone between them, getting replaced by more and more tension as minutes passed by without any more news.

The bus finally stopped a block away from Bucky and Steve's appartment, and they walked up to it without exchanging one more word. As Bucky opened the door, he was hoping he would hear sound from the living room, or see light under Steve's bedroom door, but there was nothing. He let Sam in, closed the door again, and checked every room to be sure. No sign of Steve.