#so loudly and raucously we could hear them through the wall

[albrich]

@fluminas​​ : she is in pieces, less-than-there and easily consumable because even empty this home / this house / this place is a prison and barbara did not survive this long by being herself. “ sure. take it, ” she says of the book in her brother’s hand. “ take whatever you want. ” didn’t her father, after all? the faster she finds what she’s looking for — the deed, the deed, the deed — the faster they can leave, / the faster she can be rid of the restless ghosts lingering at every door (there, where she was eight and asked why she couldn't see her sister and learned what the consequences were for such things. at the study, her governess' grip on her shoulder too-tight. her childhood bedroom, still locked from the outside). but the sun is already hanging low in the sky and will they be able to make it six hours home? " i'll be finished here soon. "

        KAEYA HAS WATCHED HER ALWAYS ——— watched her / watched over her : his little baby sister. from the moment that his gaze had first set upon her and she had smiled so widely at him / no, that’s a lie / there had been something WONDROUS about her then, certainly, but he had been recalcitrant and distant and listless / furious / mired in despair. then she had been barbara and they had been NOT—KAEYA—YES—KAEYA ( a name which they have not been called in years / centuries / eons / lifetimes, lost but not forgotten, screamed in the shadows of his dreams ) and this tireless affection and instinct to protect had not yet been fully formed. hardly so. barely so.

        he had only been HALF—TAKEN BY HER, then, toddler nearly child as she was. it’s far more correct to say that they have watched over her ever since he had caught / words on the wind words carrying words devout and firmly spoken in a softhearted voice / HER DEFENSE OF HIM, his eyepatch, telling others to leave him alone. they are the same ——— isn’t is to very difficult to exist here, dear sister? DO YOU UNDERSTAND THIS BURNING PAIN? no, not quite, but it’s ( ... ) similar enough.

        small hands that reached for him. wide eyes that met theirs, luminous and full of light. little feet that chased after him as they darted their way through the vineyards, laughing loudly / raucously / his heart overwhelmed with love. frightened tears that stained his shirts, those small hands that reached for him clutching him so tightly. soft flaxen hair slipping between his fingers / time slipping away between their fingers. her laughter whenever he would make it snow ( again, again !! i can’t believe you don’t have a vision / [ an aside, internalized ] darling sister i don’t need a vision you don’t need a vision no blessings from the gods will save you now ) atop her head. the echoes of her sobs whenever it seemed as though ghosts / monsters / HER FATHER were plaguing her.

        they watch her closely / he has found himself her PROTECTOR AND DEFENDER / something like a knight to her princess and how humorous that is, indeed. he’s watched her closely especially now, especially on this trip, even as he carries idle often one—sided conversations, speaking about nothing and everything and the vastness in between : NONE OF IT REACHES HER / SHE’S TOO FAR AWAY / BABETTE LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME COME BACK THERE ARE GHOSTS HAUNTING YOU AND THAT’S NO WAY TO LIVE / TRUST ME TRUST ME DON’T TRUST ME AT ALL. this is a haunted place, a hallowed place, a demonic place. these halls are half—familiar and kaeya feels no remorse taking from the collection of novels that the pegg family had amassed over the generations and piling them / asking idly if he can have them and here, look : a ghost walks beside him / a ghost of his sister—dear.

        it’s as though she’s leagues away, buried far beneath the earth, set into the casket that seamus’s fucking body should be in / will be in. so often it appears she’s made of light and here she is made of shadows and specters, physical body hardly put together held together together at all / if he were to reach out and touch her she would simply DISINTEGRATE, fade to nothingness, without even bidding them goodbye.

        ( he despises seamus pegg, hopes dearly that he’s rotting wherever he may be and if he has the misfortune of being ALIVE that he never returns ——— kaeya hates him enough for BOTH OF THEM. hates him enough for dozens hundreds thousands of people. )

        her back is turned and thus he looks at her truly / no smile upon his face no amusement alighting their features / A SEVERITY AN INTENSENESS THAT SO OFTEN HERALDS TROUBLE. but not for her. never for her. ( how strange it is, to know beyond the shadow of a doubt that duty drives you and you were born for your duty and know that you shall complete it no matter what comes to pass ——— save us save us save your people save our society and bring us anew ——— yet there lie two immovable HEARTSTRINGS, unbreakable / and you know that you could never cut them free. the terror of love. the agony of love. ) ❝ you’re right, barbara ——— it’s hardly as though he can miss these things... i don’t think they’ve been open in decades, ❞ there is a lightness to his tone that stands in conflict to the drawn tenseness of his expression, the set of their mouth, the slight furrow to their brow. ❝ though his organizational skills leave something to be desired. ❞

        THERE ARE GHOSTS HERE / DO YOU THINK ONE OF THEM IS OUR SECRETS / DO YOU THINK ONE OF THEM IS YOUR DAMNED FATHER WHO I CAN BURY AGAIN / DO YOU THINK ONE OF THEM IS YOU AND CAN I GUIDE YOU FREE?

       ❝ you know, ❞ they set the book that they had taken upon a pile of others and cross the room towards her ( remembers lightning cracking and thunder rolling and her quiet tears and her small hand in his as they walked to the kitchens together, hands swinging, a secret to take to the grave ), leaning over her from a conscientious distance, watching her rifle through papers, looking seeking desperately searching for the deed, for the key that will release her from this iron wrought cage that has been growing smaller and smaller and smaller still, forming itself to her body and threatening to send it out to sea. well ——— it’s NAIVE to think that this will free her truly. only barbara can free herself.

        soon. soon.

        the words hang in the air as they watch her / her bowed head / and then he raises his eye to the desk proper, brows furrowing more at the sight of that ugly statue kaeya had always hated and seamus had always loved ( poor taste, through and through ) and he keeps his gaze on it as he pulls at a locked drawer. ❝ i’ve always hated this statue, ❞ they tap their finger against the lock and freeze it and / shove the statue over in one fluid movement, not even bothering to watch as it crashes to the ground and breaks into pieces ( is this how you broke barbara, seamus? is this what you did to her? no ——— no, you did it in increments. slowly. steadily. ) instead : they pull at the drawer again with a sharp pull, hears the locking mechanism break as it pulls open, wood splintering ever so slightly.

        BARBARA STILLS at the sound of the statue breaking / kaeya rifles through the papers in this drawer, perfectly aware that he could’ve simply asked barbara for the key and ——— ah, ❝ putting the deed to the manor beside clergy papers? amazing, how he had no idea what he was doing a great deal of the time, ❞ they take the paper from the drawer and set it on the desk and / look down at barbara who is not looking at him / instead she’s looking at her knees her hands the floor the carpet and THERE ARE GHOSTS HERE. lingering at the doors in the halls upon the walls convalescing around her. making her small.

        barbara isn’t meant to be small.

       ❝ ready to go? ❞ he holds his hand out to her, palm up, remembers with VIVID CLARITY every time that she had taken their hand, her palm growing and growing but always dwarfed by his. remembers how she held him / how she carried them to shore / supporting their burned charred decimated body / weeping. crying for him.

        i will not cry for you, sister, but here : i will carry you home.

       ❝ i think we can make it back to mondstadt and have you back with peony before midnight, ❞ could they? unlikely, truly ——— but before DAWN, surely / kaeya knows how to rush journeys. they’re rather skilled at it, after all / he can hardly have travel take up the majority of the time he’s away from mondstadt, after all. ❝ even with the extra weight, ❞ of course they’re taking a great deal of the library with them. DEAD MEN CAN’T READ, AFTER ALL / though truly, even if seamus were alive, kaeya would take these off his hands, anyways. remorseless.

       ❝ unless, of course, you would like to destroy a few more things in the manor, ❞ it’s a casual suggestion, tone going almost light again as her hand slips into his / they’re almost surprised that they can touch her / that she isn’t half—faded as she looks. ❝ is that terrible tapestry still hanging in the hall? we could improve it by tearing it to shreds. or that vase, you know the one, it looks as though it’s in agony ——— impressive, that pottery could look like it’s in AGONY, ❞ they continue listing random ugly little trinkets and decorative pieces he knows perfectly well that are in this corpselike place / these petty juvenile acts of destruction / childlike for a child.

        ( kaeya, personally, would much rather burn the family portrait. you’ll never touch her again, seamus. never. )

[vannahfanfics]

Hello! Can I request some Hawks/Fuyumi (huwumi) from bnha with the prompt 11. Moonlight (Grace Vanderwaal) or any other prompt you think that might fit them? I really love these two together 'cause they have so much potential as a couple considering their plot in the manga. I hope you can write something about them. Thank you :)

Thank you for your patience. At long last, here’s your story! I hope you enjoy it and always feel free to request again!

Two-Toned

“Oh, dear,” Fuyumi sighed. “Is it really that latealready?” She was frowning deeply as she gazed nervously out of the spaciouswindow beside her desk in her currently empty classroom. Above the silhouettedskyline, the night sky was enveloping the world in its gentle, dark embrace.The moon was a slim crescent, diminishing the amount of light it was able tocast upon the world, and the stars were blotted out by a combination of bothwispy gray clouds and the light pollution of the populated city- meaning thatthe only things that would illuminate Fuyumi’s way home were the puddles oflight splashing down on the sidewalk from the flickering lampposts. She hadn’tmeant to stay in the school building so late grading papers, but once she goton a roll, it was very difficult to pry her attention away from her task. “Oh,dear,” she tutted once more to herself, but there was nothing for it; she hadto get home at some point, after all, and it wouldn’t do to stay out any laterthan this. She quickly gathered her things into her spacious satchel beforescurrying out of the door, being sure to lock her classroom behind her.

Fuyumi reflexively clutched her bag close to her hipas she scurried quickly and purposefully down the sidewalk. It wasn’t like shehad anything valuable to the average person. The act of grounding herself tothe bag seemed to alleviate her anxieties somewhat, but only just. Even withheroes patrolling the city day and night, the streets at night were still adangerous place for a young woman such as herself. Besides, despite everything,many crimes went unpunished and even unwitnessed to heroes, because they simplycouldn’t be everywhere at once, and if criminals had proved anything, they wereadaptable and cunning. If I could just make it to the train station, I’ll bejust fine, she told herself with a small gulp. Statistically speaking,crime rates were still relatively low, so the chances of anyone hassling Fuyumiwere favorable.

As it turned out, statistics were not in herfavor that evening.

A shiver crawled up her spine as a sharp wolf-whistlepierced the cool night air. The fine hairs on the back of her neck began toraise as thudding, heavy footsteps overshadowed her own light, feverish ones.She knew that someone was walking behind her, perhaps even multiple someones. Staycalm, she told herself as she dug her trembling fingers further into thebrown fabric of her satchel. If she stopped and acknowledged them, then she waspretty much allowing herself to become a victim. She cast a fervid glance intothe glass window of the next building she passed; her face paled frightfully asshe caught glimpses of two male figures tromping behind her own reflection.They were very obviously staggering drunk. Stay calm, she remindedherself. Even her inner voice was squeaking in fright.

“Hey, baby. It’s a little late to be out by yourself,”slurred one of the strangers. Invisible hackles raised over her shoulders atthe proximity of his sluggish voice. Involuntarily, her pace quickened untilshe was jogging feverishly down the street. The train station was close, right?Her fear-fogged mind was mixing up the directions that had become secondnature. Suddenly, the buildings didn’t look familiar; had she somehow made awrong turn? Surely not, she thought she recognized that little cake shop on thecorner, but then again, maybe it just looked a lot like the one she bought amuffin and coffee from every morning. Was it even a cake shop at all?

Her breath came in ragged gasps as fear and exertionbegan to overtake her system. Dammit, she should have invested in that pepperspray like Natsuo told her to! She could hear the men laughing raucously behindher and their slamming footsteps.

“Why are you running, doll?”

“Yeah, we just want to chat! The night is young! Let’sgo drinkin’!”” the other yowled not unlike a feral beast on the chase. Scaredtears began to sting Fuyumi’s eyes as she desperately repeated “train station,train station” under her breath like a prayer. The soles of her flats scrapedloudly against the sidewalk as she whirled around a corner, hoping the suddenand athletic movement would be too much for the drunkards to replicate. It was;they cursed angrily as they slammed halfway against the brick corner andtumbled over some silver trash bins. Had Fuyumi executed her plan perfectly,she would have created enough distance between them to escape. However, it wasclear that luck had abandoned her. She whimpered pitifully as she staredwide-eyed and tearfully at the eight-foot-tall dirty brick wall that wasobstructing her path.

“Aw, doll, you just wanted to find somewhere private?How nice of ya,” one of the drunks crooned before giving a disgusting, loudbelch. Stay calm, stay calm, you just have to catch them by surprise andpush by, Fuyumi told herself frantically as she whirled on her heel andfaced her stalkers. She gulped loudly as she held her satchel up to her chest,almost like a shield. Their hulking forms eclipsed the little amount of lightpouring in from the lit street; their shadows stretched yards, ending rightbefore Fuyumi’s quivering form. “Don’t be scared, doll,” echoed the sing-songvoice laced with ill intent. “We just want to have a nice talk over a couple o’drinks.”

“You look like such a pretty, nice lady. You’llindulge us, right?” the other cooed in a false soothing façade.

“I am not interested,” she stated clearly. Her voicewas much stronger and firmer than her frantic soul; even in this state, shecould somehow summon her teacher’s scolding voice. “Please excuse me.” It was afool’s thought to think that politeness would get her anywhere with thesethugs. All she earned in response were a pair of bitter resounding laughs.Fuyumi reflexively backed up against the wall as they continued to lumbertowards her, swaying like nightmarish beasts.

“Why the hurry?”

“Yeah, all you uptight girls just need to let looseand have a little fuuuuuuun,” he stretched out the word into a slurred drawlthat made every inch of Fuyumi’s skin crawl. As one of them neared close enoughfor arm’s reach, she snatched up the closest discarded item- a splintered slabof plywood- and lashed out at him.

“Get away from me!” she screeched. Her attacksurprised him and his reflexed weren’t exactly stellar given his immenseinebriation, so the hunk of wood actually connected with his skull.Unfortunately, the wood was half-rotted and thin to begin with, so rather thanknocking him out, it snapped in half on contact and only served to infuriatehim. Fuyumi yelped as he roughly grabbed the remaining piece of wood and yankedit right out of her hands to toss it down the alleyway. The clouds parted justenough to allow the sliver of the moon to shine down on the harrowing sceneunfolding in the alleyway; the thin trail of blood leaking from the gash in hisforehead glowed like a fiery ruby, matching the flame of anger burning deep inthe dark pits of his eyes.

“Lady,” he snarled, “That hurt.” Fuyumi inhaledsharply and pressed back so hard against the wall that the indentations of thebrickwork were sure to be imprinted into her skin. Her knees buckled againstone another and refused to unlock, leaving her just a quivering, vulnerablemess. Was this really it? Was she really just going to stand there and be avictim? She always prided herself in being strong and capable, willful androbust, but it was like every ounce of her courage had been siphoned away withthat one dreadful, murderous look. She begged her body to do something,anything, but it refused to comply. She could almost see the cloud of mistpouring from her mouth as her entire body froze into a block of ice. She turnedher attention to desperate, silent prayers, calling out on instinct to herfamily.

Natsuo. Shoto. In her addled state, she would eventake her shitbag of a father.

“Someone, please save me,” she breathed as fourgroping hands reached for her, unseen in the dark of the moonlit night.

“Now, that is no way to treat a young lady.”

“Oh!” Fuyumi exclaimed as her red-and-white hair andthe loose fabric of her dress ruffled wildly with the onslaught of a sudden,swirling wind. The air rang with the fluttering of countless feathers as thewind descended before her, and the hulking frames of the two drunks wasreplaced by a strong back adorned with two large, red wings. Lazily, a handdrifted up to weave through tousled blonde locks.

“Nope, nope,” clucked the hero before her in scolding,“ladies should be treated with respect and dignity- not herded into a dirtyalleyway like livestock for the slaughter.” Though his tone started offlighthearted and almost unbothered at first, by the end of the sentence it haddeveloped such a hard and savage edge that even Fuyumi winced, though it was inno way directed at her.

“Oh, shit, it’s Hawks! What the hell is he doing allthe way over here?” one of them cried fearfully.

“Who gives a fuck? Run!” The other barked.Fuyumi could not see them behind the sprawling mass of those ruby-red wings,but she imagined they were clumsily turning on their heels to flee like thecowards they were.

“Nope, nope. Class ain’t dismissed,” Hawks sighed.Based on the flex of his toned shoulder muscles, she guessed his arms snappedout to grasp them by the backs of their necks. She was so impressed with hisspeed and agility that she completely missed the very obvious reference to herprofession that implied familiarity on his part. A very loud thunking combinedwith piercing yelps indicated he had banged their heads together to daze them.“Really? You dopes make all that fuss, and that’s all it takes to knock youout? I’m disappointed,” Hawks pouted with a tiny flutter of his wings. Fuyumiwatched owlishly as he deposited them a few feet away; she grimaced at the veryobvious goose eggs growing on each of their foreheads. They would be feelingthat in the morning, for sure. “Now, to get you punks to the slammer before youwake up and have any more bright ideas,” the winged hero muttered under hisbreath as he quickly typed a text into his smartphone. He gave no notice toFuyumi. Blinking, she timidly peeled herself off the wall to shyly take a fewsteps toward him.

“Um… Mr. Hawks… sir?”

“Oh, right, are you hurt, miss?” he laughed, shovinghis phone deep into his pocket and rubbing the back of his neck with a brightsmile. “Sorry, sorry, I was alerting the authorities; I didn’t mean to ignoreyou.” For a pro hero, he sure is… flighty… The adjective was almost tooappropriate. He smiled wider when she shook her head. “Good, good. Endeavorwould sure drive a stick up my ass if you got hurt on my watch- uh, pardon thelanguage,” he corrected quickly as a faint blush appeared on her cheeks.

“Oh! No, it’s not that, um. I just wasn’t aware thatyou were familiar with my father.” Fuyumi had been under the impression thathis assistance in her father’s televised fight was mere circumstance.

“Nope, nope! We’re buddies!” Hawks grinned widely.Fuyumi had to giggle; most definitely, it was a one-sided friendship, knowingher father’s grumpiness. Though Fuyumi had been through such a harrowingexperience, his easy-going nature and smile was doing wonders to drive her downfrom that adrenaline high. She hugged the satchel of papers to her chest as shesmiled shyly.

“Oh, well… I appreciate your help.”

“No problem~” he chirped with a dismissive wave.“You’re a little late in your schedule, though, yeah?” Fuyumi’s eyes widened asshe stared at him blankly. How could he know that? It was his turn to blush.“Ah, no,” he stammered quickly while holding out his hands in an appeasinggesture. “It’s not like I stalk you or anything; I just, uh, always fly overhere because there’s this place that has suuuuuper awesome bubble tea, yeah,and I always see you walking home at the same time, you know? I mean, you’rejust, uh, really noticeable. In a good way! You don’t look weird or anything!Um. Maybe I should stop talking?” His wings drooped low as he lookeduncomfortably at her. Fuyumi ought to be a little creeped out, she supposed,but he was just so cute and flustered that she just found it all endearing. Hiseyebrows sloped downward worriedly as she began to laugh lightly.

“It’s all right. I feel grateful that the number-twohero takes notice of a quaint little teacher such as myself.” The bubble teashop was right next to the school she taught at, so it wasn’t much wonder heknew she taught, either. Honestly, Fuyumi was quite flattered. A famous hero,taking notice of her? It was dreamlike. A bashful smile graced his pretty faceas he fluttered his wings hopefully. Fuyumi suddenly gulped as she beheld themarvelous appendages. She was no stranger to famous heroes, and after watchingthe televised fight, she had taken notice of Hawks and begun following hisexploits. After all, she wasn’t blind; he was handsome and, dare she say,dreamy. As such, she had harbored a wee little fantasy. “M-may… May I touchyour wings?” she whispered. His eyes widened and he compulsively looked at oneof them.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he shrugged and extended one out forher. She sucked in a sharp breath as she admired the way the scarce moonlightplayed over the surface of the feathers, tainting the red hue with a silver-redcolor. Hesitantly, as if she were about to commit some blasphemous act eventhough he had expressly given her permission, she stretched out a hand. Thevery tips of her fingers just barely shook as they journeyed across the smallspace before connecting with the blades of his wings. She could not help butopenly sigh as her fingers came into contact with the impeccably soft feathers.Her expression melted as she softly stroked the downy mass. Somehow, it wasrelaxing. Her fingertips skipped up to run across the hard bone of the frame ofhis wings, feeling the occasional tiny notch of a scar. She wonderedmomentarily how many battles he had been in, but it flew from her mind as hejumped slightly. “Sorry, it tickles a little,” he smiled nonchalantly at her asshe looked at him. Hey eyebrows crept up her forehead slightly, as the dustingof pink across his cheeks did not go unnoticed by her. She looked back down atthe wings. Though she ached to just dive her hands into the soft feathers andplay with them, that was stepping a little over the line, she reasoned.

“Erm… Thank you,” she said and retracted her handbefore she grew too bold. He rolled his shoulders as he pulled the wing backin, before lifting his visor to smile at her with glittering eyes. Sirens werebeginning to wail in the distance, growing closer by the second. Fuyumi felt alittle saddened by their implications. “I… suppose it is time for you to leave,isn’t it?”

“Now, what kind of hero would I be if I didn’t escorta young lady home?” Bird-like as he was, his voice still rumbled like a cat’spurr. It vibrated in Fuyumi’s chest, stirring her heart up into a frenzy. Shestraightened up reflexively as he took a few steps toward her, now standingless than a third of a foot in front of her; if he puffed out his chest enough,theirs would meet. “That is, if the young lady would grace me with her presencea little longer.”

“Oh, dear,” she breathed out. She couldn’t help it. Helooked impossibly sexy; the moonlight was framing him just right, catching allthe highlights in his hair and accenting all the ridges of his face and makinghis wings shine like that of a true angel’s. She found herself nodding beforeshe could even command her brain to think about his question.

“May I?” he asked chivalrously and held out his armswith a slight stoop of his body, obviously intending to scoop her up into hisarms. Again, her head bobbled in an entranced nod. As his thick arms slippedaround her, one bumping into the backs of her knees and the other securing heraround her shoulders as she stumbled into him, she automatically grabbed ontohis sturdy shoulders. Immediately, her fingers itched with the inane need totrace the lines of his muscles so obviously encased by his hero uniform. Herface immediately flared pink at her indecent thoughts. This was a pro hero!Holding her close… His breath mixing with hers in close proximity… Really, shecould kiss him without much effort… She wondered if it would be a welcomereward for her rescue? Oh, dear, Fuyumi! Hush! She begged herself.Almost as if he was reading her mind, he smirked knowingly down at her. “Youbetter hold on,” he remarked just as the police cars pulled up and the officersexited. “Thank you, gentlemen, but I gotta fly! I’ll come and give report atthe station later Oh, dear, that’snice… she thought absently, not even really aware of the way her two-tonedhair was flapping in her face.

“You’re missing the view,” Hawks laughed at her. Shewrenched herself back into the present and hastily swept her hair from her faceto look around.

What a view it was.

“Oh, dear…” Though only a few seconds had passed, theywere now sailing high above the city line. The lights of cars and buildingstwinkled in little orbs below, mirroring the expanse of the black sky above herhead. Everything seemed so small, so inconsequential, that it took Fuyumi’sbreath away. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is.” She looked at him and blushed when she foundhim staring directly at her. Momentarily, she wondered if she had been watchingtoo many cheesy chick flicks and was dreaming. She pinched herself, sure thatshe would awaken in her bed with no memory of how she got there, but though thesharp pinch made her nerves complain loudly, she didn’t jolt up in her bed. Thisis… real… she thought as she stared deeply into his golden-brown eyes. “Youknow, we’re acquainted so well, and yet I don’t even know your name,” hechuckled bashfully all of a sudden.

“Fuyumi,” she answered with no hesitation. “FuyumiTodoroki.” The smile he gave her was one laced with obvious affection.

“Huh. Imagine that. A beautiful name to match a beautifulface.” It was such an obvious flirt that Fuyumi became overwhelmingly shy andburied her face into his shoulder, feeling it jump as his laugh rang out in thenight air.

“Do you flirt so shamelessly with every young womanyou rescue?”

“Nope, nope, just pretty teachers.” Oh, he’s arascal, she thought with a twist of her stomach, but she couldn’t deny thatshe was very excited by it all. After all, she would be a fool of a woman notto be! Hawks seemed like he was genuine enough, too.

“Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“Do I get to know your real name?” she asked, liftingher head to peer up at him. He gazed thoughtfully at her for a moment beforegiving her a lop-sided smirk.

“Depends. Do I get to have the young lady’s phonenumber?”

Instead of an answer, she gave him another embarrassedsqueal and buried her face back into his broad shoulder. He had been soflustered earlier, but now he was spitting game like it was second nature tohim! He was laughing again, and the way her head was jostling up and down withevery loud chuckle didn’t help the nervous twisting of her belly. “Keigo,” hesaid suddenly, making her look up at him in mild shock. “Call me Keigo.”

“Keigo,” she repeated softly. “It has a nice ring toit.”

He snorted with a smile and turned his head as his wingsshifted to bank sharply, catching the light of the moonlight in such a way thatthey glowed mostly white, but two-toned with occasional dark streaks of redwith the way the shadows fell. Fuyumi smiled and reached up to play with theends of her wind-swept two-toned hair, thinking that in the moonlight, theymatched.

What were the implications of that, shewondered?

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to perusemy Tableof Contents!

[gerec]

Have you written DOFP fic where charles was the one to go back? How would him and erik interact, do you think it would end differently? Or what if erik was the one to go back lol i could imagine him convincing charles to help and its kind of funny, what if charles didnt want to help xD

This ended up being angsty rather than funny Anon sorry lol! But I hope you like it!

—————————————————————————————–

Getting out of the Pentagon is easy as child’s play, this time around, considering he’s had fifty more years to hone his powers than the current version of Magneto he’s come to inhabit. Even back then, it had taken him only a few more years of trial and error and meditation, before he was able to break himself out of that concrete prison, and return to lead his people to war.

With his current mission the priority – necessitating both urgency and discretion – he keeps his exit relatively destruction free, with far less death and devastation than his first escape. It doesn’t take him long to travel from D.C. to Westchester, though he does make time to stop and secure a fresh set of clothes. He doesn’t think Charles would appreciate seeing him like this, still wearing his prison garments, covered in a layer of sweat and dust…

In fact, this Charles won’t appreciate seeing him at all.

Seeing the School in such disarray is a shock, even though he’s been warned of it in advance, and seen glimpses of it from Charles’ memories of that time. Regret twists in his gut even as he shakes his head in disbelief; Erik can scarcely remember that this version of Charles ever existed, so full of anger and doubt and self-loathing, having spent the last few years side by side with his own wise and self-possessed Professor X.  

He doesn’t bother knocking, and lets himself in with no more than a simple twist of the lock. The air inside smells musty and stale, and Erik wrinkles his nose in disgust; to think that Charles and Hank lived like this for so many years and by choice, when their time could have been better spent doing literally anything else—

“What the hell are you doing here?”

It’s Hank of course, bounding down the stairs towards him, expression fierce and clearly ready for a fight, for all that he’s wearing his bumbling scientist persona even inside his own home. Erik doesn’t feel sorrow, not truly – he and Hank were never friends, even in the days before Cuba, and he’d died soon after Erik and Charles reconciled for the last time – but to see him alive, with so few of their brothers and sisters left, moves him in a way he hadn’t expected.

And then Hank grabs him and shoves him against the wall, and Erik is sorely tempted to return the favor.

“I’m here to see Charles, Hank. I suggest you get out of my way.”

Hank snarls, and the transformation from boy to Beast that happens before his eyes is wholly fascinating, though Erik has neither the time nor the patience to be interrogated when every second wasted could spell disaster for them all.  It’s entirely for Charles’ sake that he reins in his temper now, allowing the Beast to manhandle him without bringing the rafters down on his head.

“Charles doesn’t want to see you. You’re not welcome here. Get out.”“I’m not here to fight, Hank. I need to speak to Charles. About Raven.”

“Raven? What about Raven? What did you—”

“I’m not going to ask you again—"

“Hank?” The familiar voice, slightly slurred, drifts down the winding staircase, causing them both to stop mid-sentence and for Hank to finally let go and take a step back. “Who’s that with you? And what’s with all the bloody yelling?”

He watches, pity mingled with growing unease, at the slow, unsteady steps of a Charles so young he’s barely recognizable, time and distance both clouding Erik’s recollection. The urge to grab the boy and embrace him is almost overwhelming, even though he knows it would be most unwelcome at this point in their history. Erik will have to rely on his words alone to get through to this Charles, and hope that the love buried under all that resentment will buy him enough time to explain things and win him over.

The next thing he knows Erik is on the ground, his jaw aching from a punch that he frankly should have seen coming. Charles winces, shaking his fist, as Hank rushes over to check on him, like a mother hen with her helpless chick. It infuriates Erik like nothing else has since he stepped inside this forsaken house, jolting him from the shock of it – finding Charles as planned only to get punched in the face - and picking himself up off the hardwood floor.

Charles shakes Hank off brusquely and rounds on him with a snarl. “Get. Out.”

Raising his arms in surrender he gives young Charles his most charming smile. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”

Charles scoffs. “I have nothing to say to you, Erik. Now get the fuck out of my house.”

“No,” he says mildly, ignoring the hard glint in Charles’ eye and the way Hank huffs in irritation. “And I know you can’t make me leave because you don’t have your powers right now, in 1973. I know Hank made you a serum that lets you walk again, but that you take too much of it because you can’t shut out the voices in your head.”

“How…how did you—”

“I know because you told me, Charles, fifty years from now, in the future. When you and I are together again, fighting a war that has torn the world apart. Our kind is losing, dying out, hunted by machines designed with Raven’s DNA to wipe us out. Our extinction is assured if we don’t stop her from setting things in motion. Help me, please Charles…the world, the future of mutant kind depends on it.”

He waits, letting his words sink in, expecting Charles to pepper him with questions about the war, about Raven’s role, and even of their own relationship in the future, given its current, rather sorry state. Instead, all Charles does is stare at him and then laugh, loudly and raucously, before falling back in a graceless heap onto the stair case.

“I told you? In the future? So what? You’re from the future then?”

Erik shakes his head. “Only my consciousness, yes. In my body from this current time.”

“Oh how very convenient,” Charles snorts, sharing a knowing look with a clearly skeptical Hank. “And I suppose we’re best friends again, in this future, Erik? Or perhaps I’ve lost my damn mind! That’s it, isn’t it? Why else would you think that I’d lift a finger to help you, hmm? Or believe these lies you’re feeding us about some apocalyptic future?”

“Because you love me, now, and in the future,” he answers, and Charles’ entire body stills, his eyes gleaming with emotion, piercing into Erik’s very soul. “And because I love you too.”

His declaration echos in the ensuing silence, dragging on and on as Hank shifts uncomfortably at his side. And when Charles finally gets to his feet he simply turns away, ignoring them both to slowly make his way back up the stairs.

“Get out of my house, Erik,” Charles calls when he gets to the top of the landing. “Get out, and don’t come back.”

[zhemyna]

Priorities//Drabble

A thing I wrote for @removethewallinourhearts for Christmas. We’ve been calling it ‘The Behemoth’, it’s sixteen pages of our dumbass precious ship.

The light streaming through the windows that day was almost silver. Silver and blue. Winter storms were always silver and blue, she mused, with low fluffy clouds of light grey. The kind that reflected light back after dark and turned them a strange sort of orange. It had been snowing off and on all week, small spits and blustery flurries, leaving a layer of snow almost eight inches thick on the ground with the threat of more still to come floating above.

Zhemyna looked up from her paperwork, a small stack sent to her by her parliamentary council in Paleugmeddi to review and send back with comments, and looked out the window to assess the weather for a moment. Though the inside of the house was warmed by a modern commercial heating system, she could still feel the chill wafting off the big curved bay window that took up this corner of house. A glance was given toward a spot in the wall next to the window, a discoloration of semi-new plaster that had once been the hole for a fireplace. She was glad for the loss of most of the fireplaces in the house with the advent of modernized heating systems, though she would have to close the curtains soon; so much glass counteracted the heat just enough that it did little to heat the room itself.

She looked down to the report with an almost withered defeat, then checked the clock on her wall that was ticking the time merrily along and decided she needed a break. Setting her pen in the closing folder to hold her place, she stood, turned, and closed the heavy brocade curtains over the window. By the time she returned, the darkened office would be as warm as snuggling into bed. The overhead lights were flicked off, a single small desk lamp left on for her to see by, and the door shut as she left and clicked her way off toward the day kitchen.

Someone had brewed a fresh pot of coffee some time earlier, of which the Nation was grateful of. A clean mug was pulled from the hooks just above the machine, inspected out of habit from days long since passed, before the dark steaming drink was poured, black and earthy. Hot drinks were good on cold days, and with the mug in hand, she turned toward the event kitchen and subsequently the dining hall at the back of the house.

More like an atrium, the expansive dining hall was encased on its back wall and arched roof in glass, thick and reinforced panes that acted with air pockets between to keep the weather outside from infiltrating into the temperature inside. It kept the room warm in winter and chill at the height of summer despite being mostly constructed of glass.

It had started snowing again, big lazy flakes starting down from the low clouds above. She settled back against the grand raw-wood table to watch it as it floated to land peacefully on the old snowfall, not hearing so much as simply knowing when her own peace was disturbed.

"I see the snow has returned."

It was always easy to tell when the Head of House was in the room, if not by her authoritative presence changing the atmosphere itself then by the way she always announced herself verbally on entry. A stout woman, short and broad about the shoulders and hips, Almyra carried herself as though she commanded an army. In terms of the sizable house staff, she might as well have.

The Nation simply nodded to the statement, partially in greeting and partially in affirmation. "Yes, it has. I probably would not have noticed had the winter chill not penetrated the window in my den."

"I will let maintenance know the window insulation needs checking." Almyra assured her and receiving a nod and noise of confirmation from the taller woman before falling quiet.

The shorter Prussian woman moved around to stand beside Zhemyna. They watched the snow fall in silence for a time, the only sounds the ambient rumble of the heating system and the occasional sip of coffee. The snowfall increased in volume, blotting out the barn and stables on the other end of the backyard, beyond the courtyard, from view.

"Did you let him out?"

The sudden break of the quiet caused Zhemyna to start, though she would never have admitted to it. She pulled the mug down from her lips and looked toward Almyra, who was pointing discretely to the courtyard. It took a moment to see through the visual noise that was the heavy snowfall, picking out the outline of another person.

She recognized the build, the height, and the albinism that was Gilbert walking with quick light steps over the footpaths through the rose garden, channels carved by shoveling earlier now clad with snowed divots. Even if she couldn't quite pick him out, a bright yellow splotch nestled in the light-colored fur lining of his puffy white winter jacket gave him away.

She let out a small sigh of relative relief before taking the delayed drink of her coffee, uttering a slightly-muffled and amused reply of, "No. I did not. Probably snuck out through the greenhouse."

Almyra made a contemplative noise in her throat, looking skyward before resuming her vigilance of the courtyard. "It's snowing hard now. Do you think he knows of the alarm system?" she asked. There was a small hint of concern tugging at her voice. "It would be truly awful to lose the young Master, don't you think."

Zhemyna shook her head casually, a visual response to match the verbal. "I highly doubt he needs one. There is not much trouble he can get into in the backyard."

Almyra sighed and shook her head slowly to one side. "If you say so, Mistress. But I doubt it's wise to let an albino out into a budding flurry, as such we get, without an alarm on them." She squinted, leaning forward just slightly to see through the gloom and curtain of snowfall. "Especially when they decide to go toppling over the side of the basalt shelf like he just did."

Zhemyna paused with the mug to her lips, looking in the general direction Gilbert had been moving toward. While the path he took was indeed toward the natural basalt-created terraces, he might have diverged slightly. It was admittedly very difficult to see with so much snow in the air. "I am sure he is alright. No proper military general of his caliber goes about without some idea of the terrain."

"Well, he would have decent scope of the terrain if he could see it, I'm sure." Almyra replied haughtily.

Zhemyna offered a small snort of laughter into her cup as she took another drink. "To be perfectly honest, he just does not like you, so calling him blind because he bumps into the walls periodically to get around you is hardly fair."

"I was referring to his use of glasses, Mistress. Surely those giant things haven't escaped your gaze." came the smug response.

Zhemyna wobbled her head in a sort of half-acceptance. If anyone in the house could get away with such scoldings, it was certainly the Head of House. "I will give you that. But that does not detract from the idea that he has traversed and patrolled the grounds numerously over the last several years."

"Has he ever traversed it in the snow, though."

It was not so much a question as a flat observation. The tall Nation realized that although Almyra wasn't openly showing much affection or emotion toward Gilbert, she sounded a little worried in the undertone. Well, the snow was starting to get thicker and heavier...

"Oh for the love of above and below..." she muttered, looking toward the Head of House. "Would it make you feel better if I went to check on him?"

There was a second of silence, a sort of smugness emanating from the shorter Prussian giving all the answer that was required. Zhemyna sighed, looking at the coffee mug in her hand. "Alright. You win, I will go and check on him. Please bring me my winter-wear, if you would, Almyra."

She ceased being surprised that her Head of House seemed to teleport wherever she went. In the time it took for the Nation to finish her cup's contents and set it on the table, the shorter woman had been to the coat closet at the front of the house and returned with the requested wear. Rather than using her presence to announce herself, the old brown cloak she carried with her did plenty of that. Sewn along the peppered white fox fur hem was a string of large silvery jingle bells, documenting the head-maid's trek through the house with a garish cacophony echoing through the corridors, the glass-covered chamber of the atrium reverberating the higher tones back and changing the sound just enough to notice. The bells clanged raucously as Almyra draped the wool cloak and the heavy silver longcoat on the back of one of the dining chairs, handing the taller Nation a pair of winter boots first. She slid into them and laced up with a practiced ease, closing and zipping the outer lace guards to keep snow out of them.

"I do apologize for the cloak, I know it's a bit old-fashioned," Almyra started, handing over the gloves next. "But I couldn't find any of the smaller strings of bells."

"Any bells in this weather is better than no bells." Zhemyna replied, pulling on and fastening the gloves tightly around her wrist, pointing in a wordless demand for the longcoat next. "I prefer the cloak, really. You can hear that thing for miles, I swear my life and soul on it."

Almyra complied with the request, handing the coat to her. "I would rather prefer you didn't swear your life and soul on anything, Mistress. Doing so might break this country into pieces."

"And then you would all be South." The chuckle that escaped at the bad joke was just as dark, gloved fingers closing buttons one after the other on the longcoat once it was settled on her. A few small button or zipper-based adjustments and the coat fit neatly and warmly, a small indicating nod of her head given for the last bit of the ensemble.

"Precisely." That word was almost too bright, receiving a raised brow as the cloak was pulled loudly upward and handed to the taller Nation.

It was silent as she swirled it up and across her shoulders, fastening it at her throat and fluffing it. The fluffing of the collar did little to keep the bells as quiet as before, they chimed brightly until the fur was just puffy enough to her liking she could stop. With a decisive nod of approval, she made her way toward the backdoors leading from the atrium into the courtyard below, Almyra moving with a practiced grace ahead of her to open the door. The cold air through the open door was such a momentary shock when it hit her that it took her breath away, a sharp draw in to prepare her lungs for the change.

"If I do not return in two hours, assume I am lost and send a search party." she stated before taking a step into the cold outdoors.

"Most certainly." Almyra assured, watching the towering Nation sweep passed her and out the door, down the steps to the ground below.

The door was clicked shut, drowning out the ambient thrum of the heating system and leaving Zhemyna in the chill and near silent outdoors. The house, with its rusty red outer walls and the polished swamp-wood as trim, was vibrant against the silver-tinted world around it, a splash of color against the white sparkling snow.

With a visible puff of breath that moved the fur near her mouth, she started the trek through the courtyard. The only sounds to escape the muffled wintery quiet were the light crunch of her footsteps in the snow and the bright jingling of the bells adorning the old cloak. Thankfully, the footpaths were clearly marked, and she had them all memorized otherwise. She followed them passed ghostly rosebushes, cut and covered in plastic for the winter months and piled with snow like wraiths rising from the white down. Down garden steps and around the central fountain, turned off and insulated for the harsh winter temperatures, she finally met up with Gilbert's steadily-disappearing boot prints, offering up a sigh as to how she had been talked into this before turning to follow the trail.

Shapes loomed out of the curtain of snowfall, fuzzy silhouettes until she reached them. Fences were first and a closer look at the others proved to be the barns and stables. He had been by the paddocks, probably due to poor visibility given the prints veered off unsteadily to the left and followed the fence-line. She made her way alongside his trail, making her own set of prints next to his. There were a few spots where he lost footing, she noted the smears and shallow chasms between prints and avoided the places carefully.

It wasn't long before she saw Paleugmeddi and smelled the tingling scent of mint-reminiscent brine from the sea. Or rather, saw the glow of the city, even at midday. Individual streets and structures were still obscured from view, but warm city lights still blazed brilliantly in the haze, offering a beacon to any lost on the craggy moors. She was glad to see it; if something happened and she did become lost, at least she could find her way to the capital and call in to let the house know she was alright and safe.

She arrived at the first basalt shelf, noting with a begrudging sort of amusement that Gilbert had indeed gone over the edge of it to the natural terrace below. Though given his print at the edge, with one hand in the snow and the rest of his lower body upsetting it in a fine mold of his crouch, it was easy to surmise that he hadn't toppled over the edge so much as simply jumped. She looked down, carefully bending over the void to see if she could find him by sight alone. It was a good eight or nine feet to the base, probably less given the cushioning layer of snow. In the afternoon gloom, she could clearly make out the sharp edges of where he landed and the tiny fresh piles around him, upset from the upper edge of the shelf at his jump down.

She cupped a hand to her mouth from under her warm cloak, calling out his name to see if he would answer. Nothing was returned, no verbal acknowledgements, no crunching snow. Not even a flash of his red eyes looking in her general direction. The only thing she heard in response was her shifting weight making the snow under her groan in protest.

Rather than follow his example, she determined jumping was not ideal for her. She stepped away from the edge of the natural wall and began the longer trek around it, knowing there was a gradual slope at the other end she used regularly to climb down this side of her hill. It was more treacherous in this weather, however, and after the third or fourth time her foot slipped on it, she regretted not following the albino's example and simply jumping over the edge. A small muttering of contempt was given to the bells, chiming sharply as though admonishing her for going the long way around.

She came to the landing against the wall, noting with some appreciation how the basalt created a space where the snow blown by a southern wind didn't fall quite as heavily. A pocket where the volume was halved, though still falling in enough quantity to cause long-distance sighting issues. She could see a little more clearly, the splash in the powder where Gilbert had landed, the faint prints in the snow around it. In fact, she hadn't noticed it from above, but there was a veritable confusion of his prints all over on the terrace, punctuated by sweeping streaks and canyons carved in the frozen crystalline landscape, trampling the snowpack down considerably. There was no rhyme or reason to it, it was simply everywhere.

Had there been any large predatory animals in North Prussia, she may have worried somewhat; they did have friendly foxes and deer and other such commonplace fauna, but nothing substantially large. It was this revelation that she doubted he had been assaulted by anything and figured he was trying to distract from something. She ran to the next edge of the terrace, looking over the wall carefully. There were no noticeable indentations below, the snow looking fresh and untouched from where she stood. Satisfied with the thought that he hadn't gone further than that level, she turned back toward the center of the jumble to try to sort it out.

She didn't have to wait for long.

Before she had a chance to think on what to do next, his trademark snickering hiss echoed across the terrace, an ominous harbinger of whatever mischief he'd concocted. She stood up straight, quick enough the bells gave out a merry tinkling.

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!"

The German's voice roared into the space, slicing through the snowy quiet like cannon fire. Rather than trying to pinpoint where it was coming from, she reflexively pulled the cloak up and over her head in time to see the first two indents, hear the thud and splash of powdery projectiles as they collided with the heavy wool. She chanced a peek around the fur hem after a few seconds of silence and caught sight of him finally. Had it not been for the frosted darker background of the basalt wall behind him, she likely would have missed him; he was clad mostly in white, save for the grey-flecked synthetic fur of his puffy winter coat.

As soon as she laid eyes on him, he made a noise that sounded something like a strangled 'oop!' and ducked down behind a crudely packed wall of snow about waist-height. She was astounded, rising to stand and assess where it was exactly this hidden snowfort of his lay. She should have seen him from above, but that brief glance was enough to tell her that he had nestled himself just out of sight from where he jumped down. Had she looked further along the edge, she might have caught sight of his machinations, but she hadn't. Simply moved away from it. She'd set herself up for this by not being more observant, this was her fault.

She stood up again, quickly, and ran back the way she had come as soon as the bells started jingling. Behind her was a constant noise of 'paf!paf!paf!' as one snowball after another was aimed and thrown with a surprising amount of accuracy, accompanied by a symphony of jovial snickering. She might have been impressed if she wasn't concentrating on staying ahead of the onslaught long enough to get out of range.

"Honestly. Who wears bells to a stealth fight! It's impractical!" he yelled out to her when he realized none of his missiles were even remotely close to hitting their target any longer.

"They are an age-old survival technique. I was not informed this would be a stealth fight, only that you were going to get yourself lost." she yelled back, turning to face him again from across the terrace. "As such, I am perfectly dressed for the task I set out to do. It is not my fault your communication skills need work."

"My communication skills are just fine! It's your kooky traditions that need work."

She shook her head and took a few slow steps forward. The movement kept the bells from moving too much and the packed snow made hardly any crunch beneath her. "At least my 'kooky traditions' have saved lives in the time they have been in use."

He appeared to not hear her, or at least not acknowledge her reply, for there was no retort. She took a couple more steps toward his fort, attempting to get close enough she could quietly make a snowball and hit him with it, to end it before it began and return to the warm confines of the house. It seemed the cloak had another idea in mind, however, catching on the roughened snow at her feet and inciting the bells to riot.

She started as he stood up suddenly, those startling red eyes finding her almost immediately. Not that she would admit it startled her at all, even if asked. They stared at each other for a moment, as though he were surprised she was as close as she was before his face split in a devious crooked smirk. He raised a hand to sight down, the other pulled behind his head with a snowball of his own at the ready.

As soon as she saw it, her reflexes kicked in and caused her to backtrack as quickly as possible with a wild cacophony of melodic jingling bells. They proved to be her downfall, one of them slipping effortlessly between her calves and tangling itself around a leg, pulling the woolen cloak taut and her shoulders and neck with it. It wasn't long before she found herself on her back on the ground, dazed and staring up at the sky.

Gilbert had stepped over his barricade as soon as she went down, coming into view standing over her. He bent a little forward so he could see her better, blocking out some of the snow like a living umbrella. There was a twinge of concern on his face, seen in the furrowed brows and twisted mouth.

"If that's how they help people, I'm amazed there's not more dead." he stated. "You alright?"

It took a moment for her to catch up with herself again, but she still managed to answer him with a clear, "Jia..."

His expression changed in an instant from one of slight worry to the devious grin as he straightened back upright, his armed arm pulling back with the other still sighting for her face. "Gut. Because I still have a snowball with your name on it."

Despite the world settling from spinning, she put her hands up defensively in an attempt to disrupt his aim. "Gilbert Beilschmidt, if you hit me with that, I swear to gods above and below that you will be sleeping on the couch!"

He paused to think, his arm barely having started the swing before the threat. He let it fall back to his side, the grin fading to a look of dramatic thinking. It took him all of a couple seconds before he'd made up his mind, raising his firing arm again.

"At least the couch is comfy."

The swing was completed, a comically characteristic splat as the half-melted snowball managed to barely clip a guarding finger and broke apart over her head. As soon as the sting of the cold seeped into her face, her expression curled and distorted, horror giving way to something hateful. Her lips pulled back to bare teeth with a roar of vehement vengeance rather than anything remotely intelligible, the expulsion of which caused her German companion to take a few steps back out of arm's reach. The bemused smirk on his face told her this was exactly what he was after, however. For some reason she couldn't quite explain, it only made her angrier at him.

It took her a moment to properly formulate anything remotely like words. When she did, it came first in a torrent of profanity, Prussian slang of such subjects no man or woman would have dared to utter in any age, modern or otherwise. Her hands flew to the ties of the cloak, fingers fumbling with the bows and knots and buttons. As soon as she had it open, she rolled up on her feet and advanced on her assailant, shoulders squared and head held low in a show of threat.

Gilbert was laughing as he expelled an, "Oh shit!" and beat a hasty retreat back toward his snowfort. Zhemyna had veered off for a pile of untouched snow at the base of the rock wall, bending down to scoop a handful and pack it into a ball, sighting his running form not far from her. His cackle was still ringing off the walls, giving the space its own mirth to match his. Changing the terrain to be his own.

She skid to a stop and threw the snowball at him in time to watch as he leaped up and over the forward wall of his fort, diving behind it and using the barrier to shield himself from her counterattack. The ball flew true, thrown with such force that it embedded itself a fair way into the packed snow of the wall with a dull crackling thud, a faint network of fractures spreading across the surface from the impact. The action itself was therapeutic, slightly lessening her need for revenge at being attacked.

She heard him scuff snow with a start on contact, his white-haired head popping up enough to bend over the edge and look down at the projectile meant for him. "Holy shit..." he muttered before looking back up toward her. "What the Hell was in that one! Rocks?"

She took a few steps forward, focusing on the ball she threw and ignoring when the albino ducked back down out of sight. A glint of hazy light revealed smooth shards scattered among the crumbling white powder. "Oh. Oops. A little ice seems to have gotten mixed in that one. Sorry."

"'Oops'?" he reiterated, slightly muffled from behind his veil of snow. "I throw snow at you and you try to take my head off with ice and all you can say is fucking 'oops'!?" His accusations were counterpointed with a string of agitated chirping. "Yeah! Yeah, you tell her how uncool that was!"

She bent down, scooping a handful of powder and after inspecting it properly, began patting it into shape while Gilbird continued on its tweeting tirade with Gilbert adding in the occasional affirmative. "Well. I did say I was sorry." she finally interjected, inspecting the packed ball of snow in her hand before taking a few steps closer to the fort and choosing her next words carefully. "I highly doubt you have any idea what your bird is actually saying. Sounds like a bunch of unintelligible tweeting to me."

If indignation had a name, it was Gilbert. He popped up like a jack-in-the-box the instant he realized he'd been insulted even slightly, a dust of accumulated snow fluttering from the fur of his coat with the huffing inhale of breath. A small smirk of smug amusement quirked its way across her face at the mental image of him puffing in much the same way the little yellow bird on his shoulder was.

"Oh like Hell I don-"

His retort was stopped short by the snowball she had carefully crafted finding its mark and splattering across his face, causing the bird on his shoulder to flutter its tiny wings with a sharp angry twittering. It took everything to stifle a giggle bubbling in her chest while he wiped the remains of the missile off his face, the strain in her voice evident. "That one was powder. I made sure of it."

She caught sight of his red eyes long enough to turn and run, glaring but with a softer touch of playfulness. She heard him bound back over his barricade and give chase, letting loose a joyful pent laugh that left music in the air in her wake. The scuff of boots in the snow behind her as she ran back toward the slope she had followed onto the terrace, the splash of powdery ammunition on her heels mingling with his own cackling laughter.

Her target was an old gnarled pine that had rooted on the hillside near the exit, dark and polished with ice, a sharp contrast against its silvery surroundings and glittering snow. She ran toward it, glad she had left the cumbersome bell-cloak behind. Her plans to turn the little scuffle into the stealth fight he wanted would have been severely hindered by it. Even if she could feel the wind biting more than before against her face and partially exposed neck and perhaps slightly regretted leaving it behind for that.

She ducked behind the tree's trunk in time to hear the splash of snow against it, right where her head had been no more than a second before. She pulled herself close to the wood and chanced a peek around it to see where her adversary was. He wasn't very far from her and as soon as their eyes locked, he made a dramatic display of a pitcher's wind-up before throwing a small ball in her direction and starting after it at a brisk walk.

She hid quickly again to let the snowball go whizzing passed and splatter against the slope nearby before making a bolt up the incline herself once she was sure he knew she was hiding there. This would provide an excellent distraction while she made her way to the top of the hill again. To do what was still a mystery.

Knowing Gilbert, there was a key to this. Something that once stopped would end the whole fight. Or once captured. She managed her way around the top of the slope, slid once on the curve that followed the edge of the basalt wall before regaining traction as the realization hit her.

His fort...

She caught sight of him on the lower terrace darting around the trunk with a new snowball at the ready and stopping, the swirl of his white hair as he looked around the tree almost like the snow itself. Left, right, around the curve of the wall where the slope began to rise, and then up. Even though her footsteps were muffled, she was still visible against the sky and the house, her dark trailing mane like a signal pointing in her direction. She knew when he saw her, could hear the muffled call of, "Oh no you don't!" before she caught a brief glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. No doubt, it was him running after her.

Dealing with Prussian winters helped aide her now in the race for the snowfort. Especially since the terrace below had been nearly trampled flat or shoveled and formed into the fort and its substantial arsenal stores, leaving Gilbert with mostly-flat terrain compared to her substantial snowpack. It wasn't long before she heard him crunch along practically at her side, a driving incentive to keep her moving.

The fort came into view within a few seconds, pale blue shadows giving away the crude curve of the walls and the stockpile of snowballs neatly stacked against the wall on one side. She could feel the burn in her legs and in her lungs as she tried to breathe in cold sea-tinged air, forcing a last burst of power into her stride despite creeping fatigue, veering for the ledge. She caught sight of her opponent bending forward for a final shot of speed when she put her foot down only to hear the ground snap and felt it give way under her. Only one thought crossed her mind as she inhaled sharply at the surprise and watched helplessly as the top of the basalt shelf went flying passed her; This might hurt...

It was not as painful as she was expecting. Besides the stinging wet cold of snow against her skin, her landing was cushioned by the once-neat pile of snowballs against the back wall of the fort, sending an impressive cloud of powder into the air. The ice sheet she had cracked and dislodged from above had brought down a small avalanche around it, partially burying her as she thudded upside down against the back wall of the terrace and narrowly missed cracking her head on the ground. She stayed in place to rest and catch her breath, too tired to move for the time being, her breath exiting in what could have been tangible puffs mixed with the snow she had displaced.

Through the glittering cloud and her own stream of heavy worked breath, she saw him slow to a walk and step back inside the half-buried remains of his fort, coming to a crouch next to her with his chin rested in the palm of one hand. His eyes mirrored the bemused grin wending its way across his face as he observed the devastation she had wrought before landing on her. She was sprawled upside down amid a partially flattened pile of what used to be perfectly formed and stacked snowballs, so close to the back wall of the terrace that she could feel the extra waft of cold air from the stone. It was a moment more before he spoke up, likely catching his own breath.

"You know, that might have been more impressive if you'd landed on your feet." The joviality in his face fueled the equally-amused tone of voice, a small huff of air given toward the faintest of laughs. "Now, I would have landed on my feet. But I guess we can't all be as awesome as I am, ja?"

The short rest had done her good enough to move again, which was good since she could feel the snow melting and starting to soak into the clothing under the coat, where it had infiltrated on her disastrous landing. She moved, untangling herself as best she could from the remains of the avalanche and snowballs to roll over and hold her upper torso above the mess. "Well. I did take out your ammunitions, so I would call that a victory. A small one, but small victories are better than none at all."

He loosed a small uneven humming at her revelation, reaching forward to absently dust away a small bit of caking wet snow across her shoulders. "Mmmmmmmmnein. This is why I handle the military and you don't." He shifted his crouch for better stability, leaning a little more forward to take hold of her upper arms and, with her help, pull her out of the powdery mess she had been stuck in. "But! You are my wife, so I can overlook a few discrepancies. Six out of ten for planning and motive, four off for pisspoor execution."

"I feel honored." she snarked, sarcasm lacing her tone as she used his help to shift to a proper sitting position. "Though, I am certain it is still a better score than your brother would have gotten."

The snort Gilbert expelled veiled his face momentarily behind breath-vapor. She could have sworn it echoed off the basalt. "Germany is a soldier. Such sloppy work would be admonished, yes. You are a farmer. It's different."

She let him continue dusting her clean, putting her hands on her hips defiantly. "I do not see how that makes it any different. I fight just as well as any soldier."

Bait, which he ate up like a hungry fish at a line. "Nein! You have no formal training, it is very different." He grabbed one of her wrists, extended the arm attached without resistance to brush the clinging patches of white from it, resting it across one of his shoulders when done and beginning on the other one in similar fashion. "You have ferocity, but it's unrefined."

Her other arm, now cleaned of any snow, was plopped on his other shoulder, disrupting Gilbird to flutter up to the top of the albino's head and puff in annoyance. She offered the bird an apologetic glance before locking her wrists together behind the German's head, her green eyes resuming contact with his red. "Should I take that as a compliment?"

He shrugged, a brief raise of his shoulders in response before he rested his hands on her hips and pulled her a little closer to him, her embrace tightening lightly around him and guiding his upper torso and head nearer to her. "Take it as you will, it's not an insult." he told her.

The lopsided grin he shared as he settled his forehead against hers drew a smile of her own, accompanied by a little musical laugh that soon played duet to his own trademark snicker. The tip of her nose poked his and he responded by rubbing it on hers, laughter shared between them.

His attention returned to the pile of snow that had once been his prized arsenal. "I suppose we should find something else to do then, since your heavy ass wrought unwarranted devastation on my snowfort."

"'Unwarranted'!?" she huffed, putting her hands on her hips. A pout was awarded him at the poke of her weight, her left arm brought up to flex for inspection. "I may be heavy, but I have well earned such heaviness, thank you kindly."

Though it was difficult to see the corded outline of muscle through the heavy shirts and longcoat sleeve, he still loosed an approving hum to match the off-balance smirk making its way across one half of his face. "Ja, ja, I get it. Put the guns away before you shoot someone's eye out. Like mine, since they're in the line of fire."

It was a little poke, an appreciative teasing. One she took in stride as they rubbed noses a second time, putting both hands on his shoulders. "I would much rather kiss you, you know..."

"I know. It's so hard to keep yourself from me, but even I admit it's a bit too cold to let you kiss this flawlessness. Might freeze our lips together. Try explaining that to your hag."

"She is not a hag, she is Head of House and does not mind what happens between married couples. Besides, there are more interesting ways to be frozen together."

His cold-reddened cheeks appeared to grow brighter, not much of a feat against his pale skin. She didn't need to be told where it was his mind had wandered, his mouth opening to retort but stopping as he looked skyward. It wasn't an unfounded silence, as the both of them noticed that the ambient breeze from the south had stopped. It was like the snowflakes in the air were suspended above the ground, strings of glitter in the silvery-blue quiet, eerie in the way the world seemed to stop moving entirely save for their consistent puffs of breath.

It took a short moment for Zhemyna to remember what it meant, a shiver of intuitive memory up her spine as she slipped her way to her feet and grasped at Gilbert's jacket on the way, a silent signal to get him to follow her as she started a quick jog across the terrace. Gilbird flitted down into the space between the albino's coat and himself at the back of the jacket, disappearing completely from view. Gilbert was not far behind her, catching up and keeping pace as they reached the place she had left the bell-ridden cloak of before.

"Grab the cloak and pass it here, please." It was more a demand than a request, her accent shifting from the upward perpetual-questioning to the downward revelationary inflection.

"Why me, not you?"

"Because you are closer to the ground than I am."

A snort escaped him at that, a muttered, "Not my fault you're a damned sentient tree..."

"Gilbert!"

"Alright, alright, I'll get the abomination of noise. Don't have a conniption."

He bent down to grab hold of the darker garment, a quick shake of it as he hauled it up causing the bells to ring more clearly in the still cold air. The motion carried through to toss it toward her, and she caught it without much trouble as they made it across the ledge to the path leading to the top of the hill.

The sirens sheered the silence like a knife, slicing through the cold and ringing against the basalt shelves of the estate's hill as though trying to warn the ground itself. Gilbert slowed down a little to look toward the blob of light that was Paleugmeddi. He'd barely gotten a, "What the hell...?" out when the sirens were drowned out by a dull roar.

Zhemyna didn't have to tell him to run toward the house, watching as he started bolting to the best of his ability through snowpack up to his knees as soon as the wall of snow started blotting out the lights on the far end of the city below. The external lights on the main stables guided them toward it, following the fence-line back toward the house. She managed to tie the cloak closed again with tight knots, unaware of how cold she had been until the warm woolen confines covered her again.

The stables were reached, the manor's external lights glinted through the gloom as the next point of reference, the roaring of the wind and snow growing behind them to a deafening echo amplified by the closeness of the estate's buildings. Glowing white splotches beneath the snow in the rose garden betrayed the path lights had been flicked on, little pools gleaming and glittering. She almost tripped on one of the outlying lamps, a spray of illuminated snow into the carved channels for the path through the garden courtyard as she stumbled into the open. It hurt to breathe, her lungs painfully devouring icy air, her legs like frozen weights. Another burst of glittering light flew passed her, Gilbert having finished bounding through the thick snowpack and stumbling a few steps to catch his bearings before running ahead of her.

The wind began to quicken and swirl the snow in the air into a flurried ballet, the harbinger noise of the wind encompassing. She caught her step to run without stumbling, stomping excess snow from her legs and fueled passed the point of exhaustion by the stormy onslaught behind her, nipping the edges of the cloak's fox-fur hem like a hungry dragon woken from a long sleep and drowning out the bright chime of the bells. She looked briefly over her shoulder to see the first wisping tendrils of the snow wall bearing down on them, riding the forward wind of the flash blizzard to crest the obstacle that was her estate's hill.

She looked back ahead, locating her fellow Nation as he navigated the winding paths through the back garden toward the atrium. One back door was open, a glowing invitation of warmth and safety. He took whatever shortcut he could, including scrambling over the fountain to the tier above. It appeared an effortless move at first, though he was slow in regaining his feet at the top. It was a split second, but there was fatigue in his movements and she was gaining ground on him due to it. She would overtake him soon and if she didn't do something, he would be left to the elements in her wake.

The wind sucked back around her ankles, pulling fresh snowfall with it like water before a tsunami. She yelled his name, surprised she could hear herself and even more surprised when he proved he could as well. He turned around sharply at the sound, taking a few stumbling steps backward and accompanied by what she took as some expletive spit into being at the sight of the storm.

Before he had a chance to turn back around, she scaled the steps at the side of the fountain and closed the distance to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and sweeping him off the ground without resistance. She couldn't hear what exactly he was yelling in her ear above the roar of the wind and snow as she ran for the open back door. A few good long strides closed the distance enough she was able to fling the albino through the threshold into the arms of a few waiting maids, without a doubt rallied by Almyra. She tripped up the steps and into the golden warmth of the atrium, hitting the wooden floor with a thud of her body and the bright jingling of the heavy bells.

A pair of stout maids manning the open doors pushed them closed and latched them in place with the frame bolts, setting a sturdy support bar across them in time for the ferocious wall of wind and snow to strike. It hit the house with a loud groaning shriek and covering the atrium glass in a solid sheet of white, the doors rattling violently in their frames.

Instinctively, she put her arms above her head to shield it from the conditions, though relaxed as soon as she felt a hand at her back. Heavy, yet comforting and warm. She looked up, memories of being buried beneath flash blizzards dissipating with the sight of Gilbert crouched next to her with that lopsided grin and glittering red eyes, his face flushed in a mixture of the biting cold and exertion. He didn't say anything about the concern he was feeling, but it was there in the way his features creased just slightly. The knit of his brow, the faint twist in the corner of his grin. A familiarity she had come to read well.

"Guess you trust me pretty well, eh?"

She recognized the joke as his sign of checking on her, and answered it accordingly once her breathing had evened out. "I suppose I did throw you rather far." His face softened, his body relaxing at the verbal assurances that she was alright, offering an arm for her to pull herself to sit. "That was quite a scramble. Are you alright?"

He loosed a low confident laugh, his fingers making short work of the ties holding the cloak tight around her neck as she took his proffered arm and sat up. "Of course, I'm alright! It'll take much more than a bit of weather to keep down this much concentrated awe-HEY!"

"Goodness me, you are both soaked through." Almyra interrupted, having dropped a towel on the boastful albino's head and was working it to dry him off, despite his loudly German protests. "Maatil."

One of the maids nearby turned to face the older woman in response.

"Have the kitchens brew a pot of coffee to be taken to the upper reading lounge. Make sure the fireplace is running." The Head of House ceased ruffling Gilbert's head with the towel as the maid addressed left to do the tasks set. "There you are, young Master. Damp, not wet."

"'Young Master', my ass. I wasn't even damp!" came the disgruntled muffle from under the towel as he reached up to pull it down, looking more raggled than usual and drawing a small bit of laughter from the taller Nation.

Almyra nodded sternly at the glare he gave her, but ignored him otherwise. She bent and picked up the cloak, draping it over an arm with a bright clamour. "Feel free to leave your effects here in the atrium, Mistress. Maatil should have the fireplace upstairs going."

"We will. Thank you, Almyra." Zhemyna told her, listening as the shorter Prussian woman left the room, the jingling cloak drowning out Gilbert's chirp of, "Hag!" after her.

"Head of House." Zhemyna corrected, working at removing her boots before standing and making short work of the gloves and overcoat. A tsk was awarded as she noticed her skirt and the collar of her blouse were indeed wet. It seeped halfway up the fabric and muted the colors in the fine embroidery along the hems, mixing them into the darkened white cloth behind. "It seems I was a bit soaked through from this endeavour..."

Gilbert offered a snort as he left his own gloves neatly on the table, removing his puffy winter jacket and draping it with meticulous propriety across the back of one chair, working at his boots. Gilbird sprang back into existence from its hiding place to perch back on his head, fluffing up in an attempt to get comfortable before sighing down into his hair. "And yet, the old biddy ruffles my beautiful head and forgoes you and your sopping wetness. It's completely unfair, where's the justice!"

"Well, calling her a hag probably does not get you on her 'People To Look Forward To' list." she told him, wringing the water out of the bottom of her skirts so she wouldn't drip across the rest of the house.

He shrugged, artfully dodging the small puddles she made around herself. "I call it as I see it. She has been nothing but a hag to me, therefore she remains a hag." The wind rose in volume outside the whitened atrium, leaving no visual of the outside world but plenty of audio to imagine the whiteout it must have been. He looked toward the veiled glass dome, then over his shoulder to the corridor into the house. "...I heard something about the reading lounge?"

She took a long step to cross her small puddles, receiving his scoff of, "Show-off..." as she made her way after him. She decided to ignore it, focusing on the inquiry of events to come as she joined him. "Yes. Fresh coffee and the fireplace."

He waited until she was next to him to begin the trek through the manor's halls toward the stairs to the second floor. "Gut. I look forward to finally warming up."

"Hopefully with company." she suggested, receiving a chortle of what she took as confirmation in return.

The first steps padded along the wood floor of the hall beyond, muted to barely pats as they transitioned from bare wood to thin hardy carpet of green and gold, echoed still in the ebony framing along the walls. They were practically in unison, Zhemyna with her elegant sweeping stride alongside Gilbert with his strutting march. Who was leading, none could tell, only that their steps matched near perfectly, their arms close enough to brush and touch on each pass.

Lightly, she poked at his lower arm on a pass, her fingertips brushing the pale skin along the curve of the muscle, a silent request for his hand. He offered her a brief glance, remaining silent while he raised his hand to wrap around hers.

Her hands were cold, but the shock of his frigid fingers clasping around hers reminded her not everyone was suited to the chill of winters on the Baltic seaboard. A twinge of a thought flitted through her mind as she wondered how it was he had survived it to begin with if he grew so frozen even when bundled. A question for another time. Slowly, she extended her fingers in his grasp, twined them between his and squeezed. It felt good to feel him squeeze back, a sign of comfort, of stability.

Stability that was soon coming to an end.

He tilted his head up to look her in the eye, a grin beginning to split his face again and paired with the devious glimmer behind his red eyes. The mischievous snicker that was loosed made her momentarily regret asking to hold his hand, the jolt as he bounced a half-step and took off running through the hall almost knocking her over with a choked noise of surprise. It took a couple steps for her to catch pace with him without tripping over herself or the rug, any semblance of apprehension melted away to join in his revelry at being inside the warmer confines of the manor, next to each other.

Down the hall, around the seating area outside her office, into the south lounge. The walls sang in the wake of their trek, the polished ebony capturing their joint laughter and ringing it back so it felt like the house was taking part in their joviality. A shared space made just for them, speaking comforts only they would understand even through the howling wind and snow outside.

The front doors in the entry hall were rattling in their frame as they made their way to the stairs. She glanced at them and slowed, pulling her hand from his to check the frame-bolts out of habit. On seeing that both the frame-bolts and the deadbolt locks were in place, she turned up the stairs with small hopes Gilbert hadn't run the whole flight as he usually did, leaving her a gap to close. Her hand made for the banister, instinctively routine, but stopped before it made contact. Her progress was halted before she put a foot down on the first step, but not by the fact that the albino Nation had planted himself firmly on the step above, effectively blocking the way up.

It was his hands, a little warmer than before but still chilly to the touch, gently touching her head at her jawline and making her gasp at the intrusion of such cold against her warm skin. His lips, level with hers through use of the stairs, pressed to hers. The surprise of it made her stop, the yearn of her heart for such contact that made her push back and return it. The pull away from him was slow, leaving her pulse pounding and her cheeks hot, though the renewed flush across his proved it was not one-sided.

She offered him a smirk of her own, recognizing and not drawing attention to the fact that he had to use the stairs to achieve being level to her. "Really."

A noncommittal shrug was given her in response, his own grin breaking through once more. "You wanted one, but it was too cold. Now that it's not, I figured it was a good time to deliver."

It was admittedly hard to keep the smile from spreading across her face at that, the low laugh that escaped. "I am blessed to have such a diligent devoted husband."

He loosed his hissing snicker, obviously pleased with the small amount of praise she paid him. "Only the best."

Such an open response, though she figured that it was likely in arrogance. She liked to think it was for her, a hidden message of affection. One she returned as openly as she had received, planting a small peck of a returned kiss to his bottom lip adoringly. "The fireplace should be lit by now, and I am sure there are blankets and coffee cups with our names on them."

He moved back, turning around to climb the stairs, his hand rested on the polished raw-wood of the banister as she placed hers on it and followed him up. "Hm. Isn't hot chocolate more traditional for post-snowplay?"

"Only when both parties can relax. I still have work to finish, but you can make a special request to the attending maid, if you want. I am sure Maatil would not mind getting you hot chocolate."

He tsked, turning his head at the sound of her admittance to eventually making her way back to the daily grind he'd schemed to pull her away from. "And here I thought I could keep you all day."

She loosed a derisive little laugh. "It needs to be done, as I know you understand, but I will still stay and warm up with you for a bit. And your punishment is officially redacted. We can spend the night together instead. All night."

"Yeah, okay." He sounded hurt by the news of her having to leave before his demeanour shifted drastically. He had barely put a foot down on the landing when he declared, "First one to the reading lounge gets all the blankets!"

There was a flurry of movement as all facades dropped, a mixture of their laughter as they ran the rest of the way up the stairs to the third floor. The manor documented their journey through its plastered halls, the ebony holding fast to their energy and echoing it back, making even the smallest nooks and crannies a little brighter in their wake despite the storm outside scratching at the windows and doors as though pleading for entry.

The wind died finally, a swirling rattle of the southeasterly blusters fighting among the seaward blizzards that lasted hours. Zhemyna was reminded of old stories about storm-birds who fought for dominance, the shrieking of the winds colliding and the loud scratching of icy talons on hardy plastering and thick glass windows tempered for the weather. She could only imagine what it looked like outside the big bay window behind the still-closed heavy brocade curtains in her office.

Eventually, the southern wind won out, leaving her alone outside the occasional maid checking in to see that her coffee cup was refilled. Such treatment had ended more than two hours ago, meaning only one thing. The staff had left the main manor for their quarters on the grounds now that they could brave the weather again. Even after the snow and blizzard'ing earlier in the day, Prussians were too stubborn to let even foot traffic be hampered for long. She suspected the groundskeepers had carved new paths in the drifts and packs to assure access to all parts of the estate. Which left the main manor in a state of heavy silence outside her cracked office door.

Even Gilbert seemed to be relatively silent, which on its own could be worrying. He hadn't made a noise since wishing her fond work ethics after the usual dinner battle campaigns had ended and they split ways, but no one came to her with any updates on the albino's shenanigans. Nor had she heard any noise that would make her worry for the well-being of her house. Or her husband.

The dim golden glow of the desk lamp was just enough light for her, finding the overhead light caused headaches to form when she worked under it too long. The folder of expansion commentary was laid out neatly as before, the scratch of her pen's tip across the final papers only slightly muted by the ticking of the clock on the wall or the sip of steaming coffee from her mug. A scrawl of her signature along the bottom line of the last page was given and, with a heaving sigh, she closed the folder and returned the pen to its base under the lamp.

A glance at the clock on the wall told her she had been at it long enough, ticking dangerously close to one. A brief peek between the curtains to glimpse the outside assured it was indeed one in the morning, the clouds hanging low and glowing eerie orange, streetlights in Paleugmeddi reflected against the heavy overcast.

With a low grumble, she stood up and grabbed the mug and folder from her desk, flicking the desk light off and moving toward the sliver of light through the cracked door to the hallway. She drank down the rest of the cold coffee, unsurprised when it did nothing except taste awful, letting the creeping fatigue gathering throughout the night weigh her down while gathering a film on the back of her throat. Bed was calling, and Gilbert was probably already asleep.

"So much for that promise." she huffed under her breath as she made her way to the kitchen first to put the mug in the sink, then across the hall to the entry to drop the folder into its appropriate mailing sheath above the decorative table under the stairs. It would be noticed and delivered to parliament by the mail-drivers who arrived in the morning.

The sound of the heavy paper shuffing across the metal container and clanging loud enough to echo through the empty foyer drew another noise from the front lounge closest to her office. A shuffle of fabric on upholstery, rubbing against it with weight behind it. It made her pause, stopping and looking over her shoulder toward the lounge before moving to check on it. Best case scenario, it was the Puuki of the first floor making small mischief as the house-spirits were wont to do. Worst case, it was an intruder, though she had no idea why any mortal in their right mind would intrude on a known Nation's property.

She barely made it to the archway when a voice issued from the room beyond, grating coarseness on a tired half-slurred German accent. A relief, at any stretch. "Issat you?”

She entered the room to spot the Puuki she had originally considered peering curiously from the hall beyond the other entrance, though it scuttled out of sight again to whichever end it wanted. It was best not to question the motives or intent of hobgoblins. Her attention shifted as she rounded the furniture to the center of the room to find Gilbert stretched along the length of the sofa and looking like he had just woken up.

A sleepy crooked grin began spreading its way across his face at the sight of her. "Ah yes. Is you." He added as he stretched himself out in full, barely half-awake, "Done or just a break?”

"I am ... finished." The confusion was more than evident on her voice, feeling her face twist to match it. "Why are you not in bed? I told you such punishment was a joke and should not be taken seriously.”

"Nein. I disobeyed a direct order from command, and appropriate reprimand should be taken. No matter how stupid it seemed at the time." he told her, almost bemused at her confusion. He made a show of snuggling down into the cushions beneath him, one arm behind his head and closing his eyes. "Redacting punishments only says that the offending behaviour is alright to keep doing, it is not a good means to curb it. So go to bed, North. I will be a couch-dweller tonight.”

She looked toward the entrance she had come from, toward the entryway and subsequent stairway to the floors above. She could easily walk up the stairs and go through the nighttime routines without him, snuggle into the big warm bed, and sleep the rest of the night. But sleep was tugging too hard at her for her to properly navigate the stairs, she felt. And although the bed was warm, the lack of company after sharing it for so long made it seem so cold and uninviting...

"Well. Since you are being so impossibly regimental at the moment, I suppose I will have to change such disciplinary measures to suit me.”

"Wha-oof!"He cracked an eye open in time to feel her carefully land across him, nuzzling a leg and an arm between him and the sofa back and burrowing herself against him. "Mein Gott, woman, what are you eating!”

"Do not bring my weight into this, this is your own fault." she admonished him, a twinge of playfulness tugging at her weary tone. "I know I will not get your stubborn ass to sleep next to me, so you will have to put up with me sleeping on you. Besides." Her voice lessened into a pout. "That bed is far too big and far too lonely to sleep in by oneself.”

The snort he unleashed echoed through his chest into the ear she had resting against him. "That almost gave me constipation, it was so damned cheesy.”

"I do apologize for your metaphoric innards." she poked, letting herself relax and hearing him pretend to wheeze beneath her. "Now, either you are coming to bed, or I will stay right here with you. There is no in-between.”

He made a noise that was somewhere between thinking and disgruntlement before flopping back in apparent defeat. "Fine. Fine, you can stay there. But if any part of me is still asleep when I wake up, I'm blaming you.”

She laughed, hearing the same reverberated in the ear still against him, then yawned. "I can take that, I suppose...”

He settled back against the sofa, resting his free hand against one of her shoulders, rolling a low rattling chuckle at her admittance. "Small victories. Good night, North.”

The weariness she had been staving off through the exchange finally caught up to her, stopping any processes that might have formulated even the most basic of words. The numbness of sleep took hold, tugged at her to the rhythm of his breathing and his pulse beneath her ear. On the border of sleep, she was only vaguely aware of his hand moving, his fingers lightly brushing rogue locks of her hair back from her face. She felt more than heard his final words in the last waking seconds, vibrating with the lethargic croak of someone else on the verge of sleep through him and into her. Letting his voice add the necessary feeling of security.

"Mein liebling...”

[snappedsky]

Fanatics 63.2

Squee traverses the labyrinth in order to get to Zim's. Meanwhile, Zim and the others get ready to bust out of their alien prison. Previous!  Next!

Abductions Part Two

           The underground labyrinth is a series of tunnels underneath the city, believed to be shifting and ever-changing. Many brave- or idiotic- explorers have disappeared trying to investigate the mysterious labyrinth, never to be seen again.

           Squee and his friends actually fell into the labyrinth by accident. Somehow they were one of the few who were able to escape, though to this day they have no idea how they did it.

           And now, in order to get across the city to Zim’s, Squee must traverse the labyrinth. It’s risky and dangerous but it’s also the fastest way.

           He walks briskly, squeezing the strap of his bag with one hand and pointing his cellphone’s flashlight ahead with the other. Nugget’s head pokes of his bag, her eyes darting around. Shmee rides on his head, keeping an eye out for danger.

           Noises are echoing off the walls, coming from seemingly out of nowhere. It’s impossible to tell what these noises are and it’s probably better not to think about it.

          Squee tries to ignore the noises with minimal success. They seem to tear into his every nerve, unsettling him even more than he already is, if that’s possible.

           Finally, unable to take it anymore, he stops. He drags his hands down his face, exhaling heavily.

           “Squee?” Shmee questions.

           He doesn’t say anything as he kneels down. He gently lifts Nugget out of his bag and digs around it until he finds what he’s looking for: a pair of big headphones.

           After sticking Nugget back in his bag, he plugs the headphones into his phone and puts them on. He scrolls through his phone for a second before turning on some music.

           The noises are immediately cancelled out. All he hears is the music playing through his headphones. He smiles with relief and continues walking.

           It’s impossible to tell time in the labyrinth, even when you have a clock. The passing minutes or hours seem to make no sense and it’s just stressful to watch. So Squee is careful to not pay too much attention and just focuses on moving.

           Shmee however seems to be getting edgy. After an endless series of twists and turns, he taps Squee’s head to get his attention. He lowers his headphones and looks at him inquisitively.

           “We’ve been down here a while. Do you know where you’re going?” Shmee asks.

           “Not really,” Squee replies.

           “Then how do you know we’re not gonna trapped down here like so many others?”            “I don’t know. But Dib and I discussed theories on the underground labyrinth once and we both agree that it’s panic, stress, and hopelessness that leads people to getting lost down here. They think too much and quickly get swallowed up by the darkness.”

           “So the trick is to stay calm?” Shmee questions, “cause that’s not really your forte.”

           “I know. And that’s not the trick at all,” Squee explains, “actually, Dib believes I’m one of the few people who can safely traverse the labyrinth. I’m panicked, stressed, and hopeless 24/7. The only way the darkness can swallow me is through fear and you’re here for that.”

           Shmee cocks his head. “You’re oddly confident.”            “Not in myself.”

           Squee keeps moving, taking turns without thinking about them and ignoring the endless echoes with his music. Nobody can say how long he’s been down there but after what seems like a long time he spots something interesting: small cracks of light streaming in from the ceiling. It could’ve been easily missed but he spotted it.

           “That’s it,” he says as he lowers his headphones.

           “How are you gonna get up there?” Shmee asks.

           “Um…” Squee mutters as he stares at the ceiling that’s three feet over his head. He stretches his arms up to reach it but his fingers barely brush against the surface.

           “If you jump up there, could you pull me up?” he asks.

           “Probably,” Shmee replies.

           “Okay, then go ahead,” Squee commands.

           Shmee leaps into this plane of existence while leaping into the air. He grabs onto the ceiling and hangs upside down. He kicks the manhole cover, flipping it open, then he flips through it.

           “Come on,” he orders as he hangs through the manhole, stretching his little arm to Squee. “Jump.”            Squee hops up and grabs Shmee’s arm. Against all laws of physics, Shmee holds him the air and pulls him up. Squee grabs the edge of the manhole with his other hand and scrambles onto the surface.

         He lies down on the road and wearily punches the air. “Alright, we did it. You okay, Nugget?”            The cat mews as she crawls out of his bag and stretches.

           Squee sits up and looks around. The spaceship is still hovering menacingly in the sky. Thankfully he doesn’t see any drones flying around so he has a moment to relax.

           “So where are we?” Shmee asks as he hops back onto Squee’s head.

           “Where we need to be,” Squee replies.

           Down the street he sees the cul-de-sac that holds Zim’s bright pink house.

           “Wow,” Shmee breathes in awe.

           “Come on, Nugget,” Squee orders.

          He jogs down the road, Nugget at his heels. They don’t stop until they’re at Zim’s front door, and Squee bursts through.

           “Hello?” he calls out as he walks through the living room.

           There’s no answer, his voice echoing throughout the eerily empty house.

           And then, all of sudden he senses danger and instinctively ducks down.

           “Squeegee!” Gir squeals as he sails over his head and smashes into a wall.

           “Oh, Gir!” Squee exclaims and races over to him. “Sorry, sorry.”

           He peels him off the wall and holds him out. Gir smiles brightly, like he didn’t just face plant into a wall, and sticks his arms out.

           “Hug!” he sings.

           Squee smiles and holds him to his chest. Gir squeals happily and hugs him tight.

           Squee looks back as Minimoose hovers up to him, squeaking.

           “Gir and Minimoose,” he smiles, “you two didn’t get abducted. You probably don’t appear on their sensors.”

           “This is great!” he cheers and squeezes Gir. “With your help, we can definitely get up to that ship.”            Gir wiggles out of Squee’s arms and hops onto the couch, standing on the arm. “Masta and Squishy got sucked into the sky like zoom!”

           “Gir, listen to me,” Squee orders and cups his face. “Zim and Skoodge were abducted, along with everyone else in the city. They’re in danger. We have to rescue them.”            “Oooooooh,” Gir coos.

           “You don’t understand do you?” Squee questions wearily.

           “Yes!” he replies, “wait…no.”

           Squee sighs and hangs his head. He steps back and rubs his neck.

           “What now?” Shmee asks.

           “Same plan,” Squee replies as he tucks Nugget back into his bag. “We just gotta go with a different tact.”

           “Gir,” he says loudly, “there’s a big ship in a sky. A great big ship. Doesn’t that sound fun?”            “Yeah,” Gir cheers.

           “Don’t you wanna check it out?”            “Yeah!”

           “Then let’s fly up there!”

           “Yeah!”

           Gir’s rockets activate and he flies up behind Squee.

           “Wa-wait, wait right now? Just like that?” Squee says frantically as Gir wraps his arms under Squee’s shoulders. “Ah-okay, just-just be gentle! Don’t forget Minimoose!”

           Squee grabs Minimoose at the last second as Gir’s rockets blast off. They shoot out of the front door and straight up to the sky. Gir laughs raucously while Shmee grips Squee’s hair and Squee clutches his bag and Minimoose to his chest and tries not to scream. They fly up into the sky like zoom!

           Meanwhile up in the ship, Zim, Dib, and Gaz stare at their alien captors in bewilderment. They remember these two: the Plitletians, Smugmar and Gle’lep.

           “You remember us, Earthanoids?” Gle’lep asks, his alien language sounding English through his translator.

           “Zim, you know these two?” Kat asks.

           “Your comrades here destroyed our ship!” Smugmar snaps.

           “You two tried to destroy our world!” Dib retorts, “I think it’s a fair trade.”

           “What?” Pepito exclaims, “wait, are these the aliens you told me about that you guys tussled with last summer?”

           “Yes,” Gaz replies.

           “You destroyed out ship,” Gle’lep says darkly, “we warned you we’d be back for revenge. And here we are.”

           “So this is your fault,” Kat bark at Zim.

           “We saved the Earth!” he snaps, “you should be thanking us.”

           “If they destroyed your ship, why get us involved?” Johnny asks the aliens.

           “Vengeance!” Gle’lep snaps, clenching his tentacle. “We have abducted your whole living area and we are gonna turn all the residents- you included- into slaves on our planet. And we will still destroy the Earth.”

           “I won’t let you,” Zim hisses and releases his spider legs.

           “Smugmar,” Gle’lep orders.

           Smugmar grabs a remote from his belt and presses a button. Four large ray guns extend from each corner in the room, pointing menacingly at all the prisoners. They all start shouting with worry and fear.

           “One wrong move,” Gle’lep warns, “and we will destroy all of you with the push of a button.”            Zim snarls at him and begrudgingly retracts his spider legs.

           “Now, you will all stay put like good prisoners while we destroy your planet,” Gle’lep grins brightly while Smugmar laughs. Zim and the others glare at them angrily.

           Suddenly, an alarm starts going off and an alien word gets repeated through an intercom.

           “Intruder?” Gle’lep questions then glares at Zim curiously.

           “Don’t look at me,” he shrugs.

          Gle’lep eyes him a second longer before turning away and motioning for Smugmar to follow. “Let’s go.”            Smugmar turns off the translator and turns to follow just as the door slides close.

           Zim smirks. “Squee’s made it.”

           “We have to help him,” Pepito says.

           “But how? If we make any sort of wrong move, those guns will go off,” Dib points out.

           “Leave them to us,” Reverend Meat declares, smirking.

           “Four guns, four of us,” Sickness says, “if we each destroy one at the same time, there’ll be no danger.”            “Okay, everyone get to a corner,” Eff orders.

           The Night Terrors split up. Sickness and Reverend Meat each go to the nearest corners while the Doughboys leap over and flip around the crowd to the farthest corners. They all hop up to the guns, holding onto the arm sticking out of the wall and out of sight of the barrel.

           The Doughboys each pull out a weapon from their hats- Eff, a short broadsword and D-boy a bat- and nod at Reverend Meat. He counts down on his fingers, 3…2…1.

           Sickness flips around and kicks with her powerful legs. Reverend Meat swings his powerful fists. D-boy smashes with his bat and Eff slices with his sword.

           They all destroy the guns quickly and effectively. Once finished, they leap off the wall and hurry back to the others.

           “Nice work,” Tenna chimes.

           “Here,” D-boy grunts as he hands Gaz the bat.

           “Sweet,” she grins.

           “Alright, all immediate threats are terminated,” Zim says as he turns back to the door, smirking. “Let’s start a prison break.”

[illidria]

For the prompt fic thing, maybe: You love me as if I deserve you. With Olivier and either Buccanneer or Miles? Preferably with Olivier saying it but your choice.

Dearest Anon,

You let me choose between Buccaneerand Miles and honestly: I couldn’t!

So why not both? Have a fic with theestablished OT3 Olivier/Miles/Buccaneer, in a warm and fluffy story.

And honey, should this not floatyour boat, feel free to send in a new prompt! I force you all to endure mywhims way too often, so I need to be whistled back at times^^

There were peaceful nights at thenorthernmost military posting Amestris offered, though they were few and far inbetween.

Times when the noise died down to theoccasional sound of someone slipping on ice, or laughter coming from one of thebarracks. Sometimes the harsh rumble of weapons meeting could be heard faintly,when one stood in the right place at the right time, or the heathy smack of a bodyhitting the mat in the gym. The only things one heard often, and only whenstanding very close, was someone sighing over paper work.

This day General Armstrong herself,slaving over stacks of paper for hours by now, no end in sight.

Night had fallen long ago, thestacks had neither halved, nor lost even a quarter of their height. Her eyeshad grown small, her usually impeccable handwriting, loopy and elegant, deterioratedto a scrawl. Yet she worked on, not because she desperately wanted to, butbecause there was an opening now. Drachma had not attacked, no patrol had foundanything suspicious and while that meant that there would soon be a newconflict, it also meant that there would be a bit of time until that happened.

Time, she could use to catch up onthe paperwork Central insisted on, bullets flying only 100 metres further northor not.

Miles knew better than most that shehad to push the paper to the side these last few weeks, still had wounds shewas recovering from. He and Buccaneer had fallen asleep without her, had hopedto gift her some warmth, to see the bruises on her body turn brighter, just tomake sure that she was healing, getting none of that, noticing too late thatshe’d fallen asleep on top of her desk for the third time in a row now.

When Buccaneer had found and wokenher up in the morning, her back had popped several times and she’d made a face.Wounds were smarting, the awkward position she’d slept in not helping thematter and as a new day had already started, so did her fight with the paper.

They’dbeen dead-set on keeping her from falling asleep in her bureau again tonightand entered said room separately, after night fell.

He’dtaken over the guard-rosters and reports throughout the day. Read them through,gave them back if corrections were needed and ordered any soldier that neededsomething from the queen that could wait a few more days, to do just that.

Buccaneertook over the training duties she usually attended to, also inspected barracksand every single department the Wall offered. Got the supply-lists from each,combined them and got them ready for one last read-through by Olivier, so theycould be send to Central Command soon.

Itwas him too, that entered her bureau first, with a fresh batch of strong coffeeand a cup of her favourite tea, so she could wash away the formers hideoustaste. Night had already fallen then, their own duties keeping them away forthe whole day, having learned from several of their soldiers that the General hadnot left her rooms once since morning. That the doc was fuming, because she’dmissed a check-up apparently.

WhenMiles joined them, well over an hour later, the room was still felt with thenoise of strong-willed scribbling, now in stereo. They didn’t even look up,until he set down the covered plates at the small conference table, lifting onelid and letting the smell waft through the room.

Thefood at Briggs wasn’t the best, not even close to, but to the righteous hungryit tasted heavenly. It was Buccaneer first that threw down his pencil, groaningtiredly.

“Pleasetell me we can take a break Olivier!?”

Hisstomach growling loudly, accentuating his words. The woman mentioned looking uponly for a short moment, before forcing her eyes onto the paper again. Hervoice was croaky by now, from being used too little or because of fatigue hecouldn’t say.

“Ineed to finish this shit, you go eat.”

Noteven trying to sound forceful, or stern, not even irritated.

Fullwork mode was something he was fond of, endeared to one might dare to say, butthis was taking things too far. During a full drachman invasion, a run-in witha bear during patrol, even when it was only the fight for the best seats in themess, he was completely fine with it. But she had dark rings under her eyes bynow, her movements had turned sluggish.

Heknew she wanted to finish this stuff, needed to if she did not want to havemore headache in a few days, Central goons then surely calling and trampling onher nerves. Did not want to wait for the stacks to grow bigger, for Drachma toinvade again. Did not want to wait for being compared to Colonel Mustang ofCentral at any cost.

Yet,it made his heart beat a little bit faster that she still found the time tothink about their wellbeing.

Spokewith the force she was lacking at the moment, stepping up to her desk andtaking her hands in his.

“No,you need to eat Olivier!”

Buccaneergasped quietly, though the bigger of the two, always the one who’d rathersmooth-talk her into ideas and taking care of herself. Always surprised whenMiles took charge.

Theblonde looked at him, eyebrows knitted together over her nose, but thensighing.

“Well,if you insist.”

IgnoredBuccaneers shout of “Fuck yes!” and sprint to the table, let go of her handssoftly and watched as she stood up slowly. Could see it in the way she heldherself, the way bones popped, and how she pressed her lips into a thin line,that she’d not stood up in several hours. Probably hadn’t moved from theslouched position over her desk since Buccaneer entered the room.

Howshe tried to hide a wince when straightening her back, failing miserably.

Buccaneerwas on his feet again quickly, by her side in an instant and equally fast herounded the desk and stood at her other.

Couldhear the worry in the big man’s voice, but also the strictness he so seldomshowed.

“Whatdid the doc say during the check-up and bandage change?”

Knowingfull well that she hadn’t been there, had forgone it in favour of paperwork.

“Therewasn’t time to go. And let go of me, I can stand by myself!”

Freedher arms from their grasps, straightening and doing a better job at hiding herpain, walking over to the table their food was on. Miles exchanging a look withBuccaneer at that, her tone lacking the usual anger that came with such astatement. A plan communicated silently, only with eyes and wiggled eyebrows.

Watchedas she sat down slowly, lifting the lid off of her food and digging in, notraucously like usual, but slowly and with care. Looked at them after a minute,gaze half-lidded, mouth crooked.

“Whyare you standing there like a pair of trees? Your food’s growing cold.”

Satdown with her, plans made, the only thing missing now to turn it to reality.Ate quietly, saw the content face she made when she dug into the chocolatepudding he managed to grab, quietly thankful that he didn’t have to break anose for it, though he came close.

Werefinished before her, waiting for the right moment to act. When she stood up,trying to return to her desk with a self-destructive sense for duty, Buccaneerintercepted her, while he opened the door.

Buccaneerhad perfected the carrying-technique used after she wiggled out of vaccinationsthree times in a row, on doctors’ orders.

It did not stop her from calling themnames, though.

Shetried to stay mad at them, but found she couldn’t.

Thoughin all honesty, it was hard to feel anything besides the comfort of the warmwater she was sitting in currently. Was still cross with the two for theirstunt, though she could not say that she wasn’t glad to get away from thestacks of paper. But when she weighed it against the prodding she had to endureby the doc’s hands…

Yet,Buccaneer had talked Patricia into sitting her down in one of the medical-tubs,with unlimited warm water to boot, the latter the rarest treat in all of theFort.

Shefelt human again if she was honest, most of her body stopped hurting and they’dfed her well too. Supplied her with coffee and tea, Miles even having riskedhis live for a cup of chocolate pudding…

Wouldnot stay mad at them for forcing her to visit the doc, she decided. AndPatricia had tried to be gentle and really, it wasn’t their fault that one ofthose damned Drachmans gifted one of her ribs with its very own bullet. And theman who was at fault had paid instantly anyways.

Butshe sighed still, thinking about the stacks of paperwork on her desk.

Usuallyhad a very strict routine concerning this kind of work, but the going-ons ofthe last two weeks had been too much, kept her from abhorring her own rules andput a strain not only on her work, but on her private-time also. She’d not evenmanaged to sleep in the same bed as Miles and Buccaneer the last few nights,all of them caught up in their own work.

Missedit, when they would have time for themselves, walls falling and masksdissolving. They’d talk, joke, spar or jumble up the covers of her cot, oftenjust by sleeping on top of them as something that could best be described as apile.

Missedthe warmth of their arms around her, the small affectionate gestures exchangedbetween Miles and Buccaneer, seeming second nature to them, but always puttinga smile on her face. Wanted to crawl into bed, eat a breakfast that would notwant to make her throw up and find her desk spotless afterwards.

Feltlike she’d already forgotten how it looked underneath all the shit on top ofit.

Wonderedif Roy Mustang sometimes thought such things, scoffing at herself and standingup.

Ifshe started to emphasize with Mustang, she was really suffering fromsleep-depravation.

Rubbedherself dry with a towel carefully, put on underwear and pants and even calledout for the doc that she was ready to be bandaged-up again. Enduring coldfingers on warm skin and the sting of a wound still smarting, putting onthermos-shirt and uniform-jacket then, leaving the infirmary.

Walkedthrough the quiet corridors, almost empty with it being well past midnight bynow. The days without fighting they’d gotten hadn’t gone unused, she thought toherself. Walkways and walls spotless, open doors she came by leading into tidy,clean rooms. Felt pride swell in her chest for the men she commanded.

Lovefor the two men she knew to be responsible for keeping them in line when shecouldn’t.

Andwalking into her bureau, her eyes were drawn to the top of her desk in all itsgrey-metallic beauty.

Andtwo very exhausted men.

“Youlove me as if I deserve you!”

Feltlaughter seep into her disbelieve, the corners of her mouth curling upwards oftheir own accord.

Mileshung more than sat at his own desk, Buccaneer was falling asleep upright. Itwas the former that ground out an answer, looking like he’d keel over anysecond.

“Andyou love us enough to save our life’s countless times, take swords and bulletsfor us. A little paperwork is nothing against that.”

Laughedat that, masking with it the blush that graced her cheeks.

Acted,now that she was the one in an ok physical state, the one that had a moment ofrelaxation from unmanageable stacks of paper upon paper.

“Sobs,both of you! You need to lie down!”

Wentto nudge Buccaneer awake, who let himself be pulled upright and with her bygrabbing his wrist. Looked at the big guy, Miles busy with trying to stand up.

“Howdid you sign the stuff?”

Buccaneergrinning in the way that showed all of his teeth, Miles snickering behind her,finally out of the chair.

“Forgedit of course, though if anybody asks: you signed them!”

Thebig guy winking at that, eliciting a snort from her. Went to grab onto Milestoo, pulling them towards the door to her private quarters, ready to go tosleep, preferably with them by her side.

Sparedone last glance at her desk, all shiny and grey, before closing the door behindher, just in time to watch the two sleepy men fight with their uniforms. Almostloosing.

Gotready to sleep herself, found her thermos-pyjamas and put them on. Was in bedbefore either of them and not a minute after almost suffocated under the two,trying to get comfortable.

Settlingsoon, Buccaneer turning off the forgotten light with a well-thrown sock hittingthe switch, darkness engulfing them. Felt an arm sneak around her waist and akiss pressed to her forehead. Feet tangling with hers and a tentative handfollowing the edge of her bandages, before settling just below them.

“Promiseus to never let the paperwork accumulate like this again?”

Milesvoice coming from behind her, most likely muffled by her own hair. Snorted outher answer.

“Needto talk to Central about that. They’re the ones flooding us with uselessforms.”

Feltthe cot shake with Buccaneers silent laughter, heard the rumble in his chestand the words that were their goodnight for today.

“It’snever too late to hope for Drachman invasion, isn’t it?”

Hewas right, of course.

[northernmisery-blog]

Celebrate the right thing.

Garry Monk, Pep Clotet and James Beattie have done something that I genuinely never expected and that is give us a football team and club to be proud of. We’ve been in the news for all the right reasons. Our main blip coincided with a certain Italian gobshite sticking his unwelcomed face out of Terry Georges rat hole and moaning about the FA being mean to him, enforcing arbitration under the “Rule K” to try and get his well deserved ban overturned, I’m not going into that in detail here, that we should even still be talking about this is infuriating. I will say one thing - He broke the rules. He knows he broke the rules. The FA knows he broke the rules, but, as a man of marked criminal tendencies is prone to do, he doesn’t think the rules should apply to him and he’s going to waste more of the clubs time and money (what is the figure at now? Must be pushing £14million he’s spunked up the wall in pointless, unwinnable court cases and lawyers fees). Anyway, back to the coaching staff. Who would have thought we’d be here now? This is a club who appointed Dave Hockaday as manager, after all. This is a club who courted Karl Robinson as manager in the summer after deciding that Steve Evans wasn’t the right man for the job (something Stevie Wonder could see was painfully obvious). Garry Monk and his staff have done nothing shy of a miracle here at Leeds. They’ve taken what is essentially the Raggy Dolls out of the reject bin and turned them into something resembling a bloody good football team. Even the lamentable oaf Doukara, one of the final remnants of the heinous sicknote shits has managed to vaguely fulfil his contractual obligations as a professional footballer. Robert Green has been a revelation, giving us, in my opinion, the best all round goal keeper since Paul Robinson.  Poppadom wrists Spilvestri, the man who drew on his back with a lipstick to get out of playing, backing away from crosses like Dracula seems a distant memory. Our Swiss Pyscho Berardi stepping in for the injured Taylor. Ayling being a revelation. Pontus and Bartley, giving us centre half pairing that would make even a hardnut centreforward think twice before befouling himself and running away in the opposite direction. Wood smashing the ball into the net like his life depended on it. Every player, from the back to the front, working in perfect unison, no player bigger than the team (as proved by Monk dropping Pontus at the weekend), the sum of its parts, loanees and forgotten men, working together for a greater good. It’s been great. And our fans have loved every minute of it. The crowds have increased again, the feel good factor sweeping through the fanbase like a contagion. The noise and atmosphere at games spurring the players onwards. Here we are, 8 games to go until the end of the season.  Sitting comfortably in the playoff positions, over achieving way beyond my pre-season expectations of a 15th place (+/- 2 positions) finish. We have a very real chance of stealing that second place, nicking automatic promotion and giving the Premier League an injection of pure Vitamin Leeds. So, I really didn’t want to have to write about Massimo Cellino again. Truly, I really didn’t. This season, his forced silence in the media (thanks to the PR savvy Andrea Radrizzani firmly ramming some suave Italian socks into his gullet) and lack of interference in first team affairs have been a welcome respite to the pure unadulterated chaos and utter embarrassment he’s forced on our club during his tenure. Yet, I have to bring up his name again. Not just to re-iterate that he’s still a proven fraudster, convicted of false accounting at a football club and a man of marked criminal tendencies who in my opinion should be no more allowed to run a football club than Karen Matthews should be asked to be the face of the World Hide and Seek championships. No, I have to bring up his name because once again, across the moronic halfwitted ramblings of special groups on Facebook and Twitter, some people continue to spew the rhetoric that Massimo Cellino deserves credit for some of this, ending their babbling tweets with such punchy final words as “FACT!”. You’ve seen them, the sort of Tweets that make Sean Spicer sit up and take notice of how to condense utter bullshit into such a limited number of characters. An appalling lack of grammar, punctuation and basic spelling comprehension normally accompanies such “facts”, interspersed on their timeline with retweets of such sterling accounts as the English Defence League, Tommy Robinson and endorsements of Katie Hopkins and her hate filled propaganda. Their timelines a torrent of (sometimes not so) thinly veiled racism and xenophobia, they try and tell you that Massimo Cellino has saved our club. That this resurgence is somehow to be attributed to him and him alone. Why, it must be Massimo Cellino who has got the tune out the broken instrument. It must be Massimo Cellino who is the Championships top goal scorer. It must be Massimo Cellino who palms those shots around the goalposts in the 90th minute, or punts an opposition winger into the fourth row with a crunching tackle. It must be Massimo Cellino who is singing so loudly in London that they can hear it on the other side of the Thames on a cold Tuesday night. Except it’s not. Imagine suggesting that he deserves credit for NOT sacking Garry Monk six games in like he has done to countless managers in the past. I have said all along that any success would be DESPITE Massimo Cellino, not BECAUSE of him. That is a fact, backed up by evidence. Provable on an etch-a-sketch. It defies logic to support a football club, to support a team of players, to go with your mates and raucously cheer on the players on the pitch only to turn round and celebrate a proven criminal as the cause of such joy. Imagine celebrating a criminal. The people that do so are the sort of people who would write, (in pigeon English) to a serial killer in prison;  “Dear Rose, please send me some of your used scuds so I can smell what Fred smelled. PS – I love Massimo, Fill Hay is the Devil” Cellino will eventually (and hopefully soon) slink off, crawling away on his belly like the loathsome crooked slug that he is, onto the next club where he can divide the fanbase, pillage their assets and continue to fund his lifestyle, sucking the life out of another institution like a vampire. We can celebrate all we want, we can all rejoice when we hopefully reach the Premier League and call ourselves united again, but it’s absolutely ludicrous, preposterous in the extreme to still claim Massimo Cellino deserves anything other than the utmost disdain for everything he’s done to our club. And if you think he is more deserving of credit than Garry Monk, his coaching staff, the players, or the long suffering fans who finally have something to celebrate again, you should follow your idol to his next club, latch yourself onto whatever set of fans follow that club and try to become “the biggest fan account on Twitter”, begging local journalists to retweet your inane causes or defend you when people have rightfully taken the piss out of you for your idiotic behaviour.  You can bitch and cry that you’re not being taken seriously and moan about a mean competition where you get called a playground name. One thing you won’t be is here, latching yourself onto a progressing and awakening giant. Like the crook who deserves no credit, you’ll no longer be the source of division and arguments among our fanbase.  You’ll be a forgotten memory, buried in the past like the murdered sailors on board Massimo’s ship “Lucina” So celebrate Garry Monk. Celebrate Pep Clotet , James Beattie and all the coaching staff. Celebrate the players, even the useless ones that have been stealing a wage for years or refused to play for our club. Celebrate Elland Road roaring again. Celebrate Dirty Leeds being an enjoyment.  Enjoy the debate about what walkout music we should have and where Lewis Cook would be playing were it not for a lying charlatan selling him. Don’t celebrate a crook. Ever. Unless you’re a fucking div and you’re intent on showing your true colours. Again.