#something always eludes me every save though. that’s my problem. i have a save where i just cannot for the life of me find a prismatic shard

[fingertipsmp3]

No one irl will understand this and I don’t like talking in facebook groups or on reddit but I need to tell this to someone who will understand. I just found two dinosaur eggs, in a row, on day 27 of spring year 1 in my new Stardew save

[petri808]

Paid By the Heart

Bakudeku, A!Bakugou/O!quirkless Midoriya.  Growing up Midoriya was picked on and bullied, harassed by the other sexes. In desperation he turns to the only Alpha he knows, begging for help. They reach a deal for the little Omega to use the Alpha's scent to keep the other's at bay... but was that really a good idea? Intermingling their scents for years had a consequence that left them only one option.

The life of a quirkless person in their world was a sad one, but couple that with being a small Omega; double whammy. Ever since that fateful doctors visit informing his mother, he’d never have a quirk, Midoriya Izuku was shunned at school, even bullied for being a small, gangly nerd. He was easy pickings and there was nothing he could do about it.

By the time he’d hit middle school, life was a lonely existence for the young man. His solace was in books or chronicling the exploits of his favorite hero All Might. For outside of that little bubble, pain and frustration was the norm. If only he’d been born an Alpha or at least a Beta, maybe then he’d gain a small measure of respect, quirkless or not. But no, the universe decided, he was to be an Omega, the lowest of the ranks. Could things get any worse?

The answer was yes. When he wasn’t being bullied, he was being harassed. Horny teen Alpha’s really were a bane of his existence. This lot didn’t care who or what he was, only interested in the scent he gave off. At least going into heat was still a few years away, because that could lead to bigger problems.

Sometimes things got so bad in school, Midoriya would hide in teachers classes or the nurses room until finally one called his mother about it and she promptly put him on scent inhibitors. He’d been too embarrassed to tell her what was going on. At least now he gained a small reprieve, but that didn’t stop the bullying. What could he do?

Midoriya racked his brain to come up with a solution, including quitting school altogether. Not ideal, no, considering learning was one of the few things he actually did enjoy. That’s when he realized, if only he had someone to protect him. Like a bodyguard. But who would be willing to help a small omega? He didn’t have any real friends that were Alpha’s or at least bigger Omega’s. Though he did know one Alpha…

Nah, Bakugou would never willingly help him. Despite growing up around each other, once he was deemed quirkless, the boy shunned him completely. They were complete opposites in personality; him being shy and Bakugou a bastion of anger.

No one dared to mess with Bakugou Katsuki, least get an explosion to the face.

But desperate times, called for desperate measures and Midoriya was tired of the split lips, black eyes, or torn clothing. He didn’t want to be shoved and messed with anymore and the one Alpha, despite their rocky relationship, who didn’t pick on him physically, was Bakugou. So, one day after school and a particularly egregious fight, Midoriya waited at the foot of the staircase of their apartment building. He lived on one floor and the blonde Alpha lived on another. As he waited, thoughts of what he should say worked their way through this analytical mind.

The man wasn’t going to do this willingly, that was a given. Bakugou’s main focus in life has always been power. To get to the top someday as a hero like their idol All Might. Maybe that’s a potential answer, play to the man’s desire to protect. Frankly, Midoriya wasn’t sure if it would work, but he had an alternative. He’ll pay the man to be his bodyguard. Not that he could afford much, but if it took getting a part time job or something, it beat getting assaulted.

He stands up from the step the moment he smells the Alpha coming. ‘Breathe, Izuku, stay calm…’

“Outta my way nerd!”

Midoriya swallows hard, fidgeting with his fingers nervously. “K-Kacchan, I need to talk to you— ask you a-about something.”

“The answer’s no.” The man starts to push past the smaller male. But Midoriya grabs his arm to stop him. He whips around, grabbing the hand on his arm and throwing it off. “Do you have a death wish?!”

“Please, Kacchan!” Midoriya grovels with tears streaming down his cheeks. “I can’t take all the bullying anymore.”

Bakugou narrows his eyes. “Nothing I can help you with nerd, now get out of my way before I do hurt you.”

Midoriya drops to his knees with his head hung down. “Kacchan…” He looks up now with sullen eyes, sad and forlorn. “I-I—will you please protect me?!”

“Argh!!!” Bakugou growls. This stupid Omegas scent was filled with such desperation it was rattling his senses! “Deku what the fuck makes you think I’d help you?!”

His shoulders slump further. “I know you have no incentive to help me. I’m just a worthless quirkless Omega. But I’m desperate Kacchan. I have no one else to turn to and I’m willing to pay with whatever I can afford.”

“I don’t want your money idiot.”

“Please! I’ll do anything!”

Fuck!! No matter how much the little freckle-faced mouse irritated him, he could never lash out except with words. Bakugou knew exactly why the man was so desperate, saw him picked on by the other sexes. The fresh cut above the man’s eye and torn shirt was evidence enough, but laying a hand on Midoriya, he just couldn’t do it. Plus, he believed his mother would kill him.

“Ugh!” He groans and snaps. “Fine! But you are gonna pay somehow. You’ll cover my lunches at school for starters and… I don’t fucking know, but I’ll think of something. So, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Oh, thank you Kacchan!” In his elation, Midoriya jumps onto and hugs the larger male, snuggling his face into the man’s neck.

A flush of heat colors Bakugou’s cheeks. “Oi! Oi!” He peels the man off. “Get the fuck off me nerd!” Too close! Too close! Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Midoriya’s earthy scent pleased his inner Alpha and in his happiness that scent exploded.

“S-Sorry, Sorry!” He bows and takes a step back. “Thank you, you saved my life Kacchan.”

“I still don’t know what the fuck you want.” He crosses his arms. “I ain’t just gonna beat people up for you unless I really need to.”

Midoriya’s eyes widen and he waves his hands, “no, I wouldn’t ask you to! I hope that just being around you, or,” his face heats up, “like your presence and scent on me will deter them. And eventually they’ll just stay away out of fear.”

Unlike a lot of the Alphas their age, Bakugou had no desire to engage in primally driven acts. In fact, those types pissed him off too. Just mindless idiots as far as he was concerned. He wasn’t about to let stupid mating instincts distract him from his goals. “So basically, a fake relationship?” His lack of giving a damn about such trivial matters made it easy for him not to care. “As long as I don’t gotta be affectionate and shit.”

“R-Right!” Just the thought of intimacy made Midoriya bloom red. “Yes, nothing like that. Just the illusion of being your property.”

“Ha! I kinda like the sound of that!” Bakugou finally smiles, though more like an evil smirk. “You’ll be my bitch from now on!”

And so that’s how it was for the next few years. Each morning before school, the Omega would swipe a bit of sweat off the Alpha and rubbed it on himself. With the man’s scent on him, all the other Alphas and bullies stayed clear. They never eluded to any relationship, barely even hung out together, but everyone was too afraid to question it. Midoriya quietly went through the school days and for the first time in a very long time, he could finally relax. Even though his life was still lonely.

Once they finished middle school, Bakugou moved on to the prestigious UA Academy for pro heroes in training, while Deku managed to get into their Support program. Turns out his passion for learning and analytics was a skill he could trade on. Since they’d be at the same school, they could keep up the same rouse. Not that Bakugou seemed to care. Though the trade off for his part of the deal had perks with the Omega still footing any request he made.

Things continued unabated for the first two years of high school and Bakugou didn’t pay attention to the subtle changes taking place. Midoriya still dutifully came for his scent every morning before class. The Omega continued to pay for his services. But he failed to notice a change in the Omega’s scent. Where once the smaller male reeked of sadness, now there were hints of elation. The man smiled brighter and even had a bounce to his step. Midoriya was blossoming in the Support program. He had friends to call his own and Bakugou couldn’t be more thrilled the guy wasn’t trying to hang around him anymore.

It wasn’t until the third year was halfway through when the changes became glaringly noticeable. Midoriya continued to pay, but gathering his scent had grown from sporadic to nonexistent. Perhaps he wasn’t in need of Bakugou’s help anymore? No one was bullying him, on the contrary, the Omega was a top student in his program who’d gained the respect of his peers.

Bakugou corners the man outside one day between the dorm buildings. “Oi, Deku, what’s the deal? You don’t need me anymore?” He refused to admit it bothered him to not be needed.

“What do you mean?”

“You keep paying me, but never come for my scent.”

“Oh… well, you see, now that I’ve found my place here, it’s, um, hurting my reputation that I smell like an Alpha. I still pay because I do appreciate everything you did for me Kaachan.”

“What the fuck? You getting all horny now, looking for action but nobody giving you that kind of attention?”

“What?! N-No!” He waves his hands desperate to wipe the statement away. “That’s not it, I’m not looking for that! I’m even on Heat blockers. It’s just, the Alpha’s they treat me differently. They’ll talk to me like they respect me but always at an arms distance and it’s frustrating. Even after a few months without your scent on me, they still keep a distance.”

It was driving Midoriya crazy! So, he started to question, what will happen when he does want to be courted by an Alpha?! What helped in his youth now backfired and the plans were blowing up in his face. The reputation of Bakugou having staked his claim years ago on the Omega would make finding a partner almost impossible unless he could find a way to distance himself. Who in their right mind would dare touch the Lord of Explosions chosen mate?!

“I hope once we graduate and go our separate ways, people will finally realize we’re not together.” Midoriya was sure that once the blonde settled into pro hero life, he’d start dating as well, and that’ll take the heat of his back.

“Tch, well I’m not a charity case, so stop paying me if you ain’t getting a benefit out of it. Guess that’s it.” Bakugou’s turns his back to the man and starts walking away. He tips two fingers, “see ya around nerd!”

Huh? Well that went easier than he’d expected it to. All this time avoiding the conversation only for Bakugou to have no real reaction. Guess this really was just a business transaction for the Alpha. Midoriya shrugs, so be it, and continues on his way.

Unfortunately, things weren’t all that it appeared to be for the Alpha. After walking away from the Omega, a dull pain centered in his chest making it a little hard to breathe. But not wanting to show weakness, Bakugou ignored it and continued to strut back to his dorm room. Perhaps he’d overexerted himself again in the gym.

It’s a pain that started a couple of months ago that came and went, that he equated as simply working too hard. His muscles are still adjusting to the heavy schoolwork on top of the skirmishes the students got pulled into. That had to be the answer, for what else could it be? But after a week of the pain not letting up, Bakugou finally relented and consulted the nurse.

“Well,” the nurse, Recovery Girl sits back on her stool. “Don’t know what to tell ya, cause they ain’t nothin physically wrong with you that I can find. But if you think it’s muscle related, ease up on your workouts and take magnesium supplements.”

“The fuck you sayin old hag?! I can’t stop exercising. My quirk demands a topnotch body!”

She shrugs her shoulders, used to the hotheaded Alpha by now. “Then just learn to live with the pain. It’s not uncommon from pro heroes to suffer from pain, especially those with strong quirks like you have. You’re kinda young, but with how hard you push yourself, it’s inevitable.”

“Argh!” Bakugou storms out of the room. Fucking useless old bat! Two months away from graduation and being told he’s already developing, what, an old person’s problem?! “Fucking hell!” This is bullshit!

He flies it out of the room so quickly, that when he rounds a corner in the hallway, runs smack into a body. “Get the fuck outta my way!!”

“Kacchan?! Oh my god, sorry I didn’t see you coming!”

The world stops cold. “Deku…” suddenly the pain in his chest lessens as the calming scent of the concerned Omega wraps around his body. Bakugou’s eyes flash wide. “Oh, fuck no!” Quick like a bolt of lightning, the Alpha races away leaving the shocked and confused Omega standing there alone calling after him. Bakugou grits his teeth as he beelines it back to his dorm room. ‘It’s just a coincidence!’

“What was that all about?” Midoriya mumbles under his breath. It was the first time he’s seen the Alpha look, scared? No way, the Omega dismisses the notion. Bakugou wasn’t afraid of anything. He must have just been surprised to see him.

He continues on to the lab where he’s close to finishing a new project. The Alpha, Shouto Todoroki, requested a better cooling material for his suit. The pro needed something that insulated the cold from his quirk for a longer lasting effect. That way Hellfire would also be more sustainable.

It was a major nod to the Omega considering the man was up and up against Bakugou in terms of power. Currently, they were the top two pro students and Alpha’s of UA. Plus, Todoroki was not only cute but the complete opposite of Bakugou in personality. He was always kind to the Omega. Not that anything was going on between them! But the minor attention was exactly what triggered him to back away from his old friend.

From that moment in the hallway on, every time Midoriya came into contact with Bakugou, the Alpha turned heel and avoided any interactions. He couldn’t lie that it didn’t hurt just a little. They’d never been the closest friends, but it was as if the blonde was angry with him and that bothered him because he couldn’t understand why? But he also wasn’t gutsy enough to question the man either. Did turning down his scent hurt Bakugou’s pride or ego? Frankly, that would not be surprising.

The day of their graduation was a whirlwind of activity. The stadium packed just like the Sport event; even a similar turn out. Family and friends were there to celebrate, pro’s and companies were there to recruit. First the Support class, then the General studies, and lastly the Heroes courses all went up and received their diplomas. After the ceremony, the students were sent to designated spots to meet with their families and friends first. From there they could venture around to see other people.

“Thanks mom,” Midoriya hugs the crying woman for the umpteenth time that afternoon.

“I’m just so proud of you son!”

A tap on his shoulder cuts into the tender moment. “Forgive me for intruding Mrs. Midoriya. My father would like to meet your son.”

The pair’s eyes widen as the Number One hero stood in front of them. He was such an imposing figure!

“N-Nice to meet you Mr. Endeavor!” Midoriya bows.

“My son tells me you were able to create a better suit for him.”

Midoriya looks to his friend then back to the man. “Yes, sir I did.”

“Good. Perhaps you’ll be very useful in the future.” Endeavor nods his head and simply walks away without another word.

“D-Did he just?!”

“My father would like me to bring you by the agency next week for an interview.”

“Oh, wow really?!”

“Yes,” Todoroki chuckles.

“I’ll leave you two to discuss things,” Mrs. Midoriya cuts in. “It was nice to meet you Todoroki.”

After the goodbyes, the two men continue discussing the interview. Things like what he should bring, how he should dress, and what time to arrive. Midoriya had assumed Endeavor contracted out support work, but it turns out they have in-house staff.

“There is one last thing I would like to discuss.” The Alpha takes hold of the Omegas hand. “You see I’ve grown quite fond of you,” he leans down, sniffing at the scent gland of the smaller males neck. “Your scent…” his voice grows soft like a purr, “I wish to court you properly Midoriya Izuku.”

“W-What?”

“WHAT!?!!”

The feral growl behind him causes Midoriya to flinch. Before he can register just what the hell was going on, he was pushed back and a second Alpha stood between him and Todoroki.

“K-Kacchan?!” He grabs the man’s arm. “Kacchan what are you doing?!”

But the larger male simply grabs hold of him and pushes him back again, all while staring down the other Alpha.

“This mouse is taken,” Bakugou growls low and narrows his eyes, challenging Todoroki.

Todoroki glares back unflinching. “You don’t care about him, only took his money for protection. That doesn’t make him yours Katsuki.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”

“You don’t,” the man grins. “Three years I watched from a distance. How he’d sneak into the dorms in the morning, pay for your lunch in the cafeteria, and for what? We could smell you on him yet not once did you two ever hang out with each other.”

“S-So what! That doesn’t mean I don’t care about him! I took the protector role to fucking protect him!”

Todoroki scoffs, “I bided my time and once the daily visits ended, I started making my move. Not once did you ever stop us because you ran away from him! Stupid fool, how dare you decide to claim him now!”

Bakugou lowers his head just slightly, fists clench, and tiny explosions going off in his palms. “Fucking icyhot bastard. You don’t know what I’m feeling. Think I don’t know I fucked up when I shoulda faced the music sooner.” He stares straight up. “But I do know now, Deku’s mine! Hear me?! Mine!! And I am not fucking giving up my mate to you or any other bastard!”

The blonde pulls Midoriya forward, hands gripped to his arms. “Tell him Deku! Tell him you’re mine!”

“But am I? You’ve never shown any interest in me before Kacchan. Todoroki has helped me so much and now because of him, I’ll be interviewing for Endeavors support staff. Yes, your scent protected me from bullies, but I thought it was always just a business transaction.”

“N-no!” Bakugou staggers back clutching to his chest as the pain swiftly doubles. This can’t be happening! “You can’t pick him over me Deku!” The sting of rejection was worse than a villain breaking every bone in his body. He cries out and drops to the ground in a fetal position as the pain rips through his chest and knocks the wind out of him. “Fuck it hurts!” It was too excruciating, so much so, his body was slipping out of consciousness in response.

“Kacchan?!” Midoriya falls to his knees too and grabs the man, shaking him. “Kacchan, what’s wrong with you?!” He felt helpless as the man’s eyes rolled back in his head.

“Wow Katsuki… you really do love Midoriya.”

The Omega looks up at Todoroki. “How do you know that?!”

Todoroki points at Bakugou. “If an Alpha covets an Omega but is rebuffed, they are stricken with illness. It only happens when we truly love someone.”

“S-So if I turn you down, you’ll get sick too?!” Why is this whole love stuff so cruel?! This was not what he’d expected to happen! Tears gather in his eyes. “That wasn’t part of the plan. I-I just wanted to know what he really thought about me.”

“Fret not,” Todoroki smiles at him. “You’re cute, but I’m not in love with you. But now that you have your answer, my role is done. I’ll see you at the interview next week,” he winks and walks away to find his girlfriend.

“O-Okay, thank you Todoroki!” Midoriya turns back to the comatose man by his side and continues shaking him. “Kacchan! Please wake up! I’m here! I’m not going anywhere! Just wake up!”

A small crowd gathered around them, but he didn’t care, too concerned with Bakugou’s condition. Had he known an Alpha could suffer like this, he never would have attempted this little rouse. Todoroki was the one who suggested it, but neither of them could have known the blonde had fallen so deeply in love.

With the help of Bakugou’s teacher, Shota Aizawa and another staff member who came on the scene, they take the unconscious Alpha to the infirmary. They place him on one of the beds where Recover Girl checks him over. The man was out cold, but his vitals were steady.

Midoriya takes a seat by the bedside, clutching to his friends hand. It’s been an hour since they’d arrived and according to the nurse, it was now a waiting game. “Please,” the Omega squeezes the Alpha’s hand, “come back to me Kacchan…” He closes his eyes to rest them, laying his head against the man’s arm. He was so emotionally exhausted from the ordeal of the day, but he’s not moving until the man wakes up. Six years and never once he allowed himself to hope, until now.

“Mmmm,” Midoriya stirs at the feeling of fingers treading softly through his hair. “That feels so nice,” he purrs to the familiar scent of burnt sugar he’d come to know so well. It wrapped around, calming, calling the Omega out of his dream.  

Wait! Burnt sugar?! He pops up immediately, “Kacchan?!” Scrambling onto the bed and swaddling the Alpha. “I was so worried,” Midoriya buries his face in the man’s neck. “Why didn’t you just tell me?!” He sniffles.

Bakugou wraps his arms around the man, leaning his head against his and relishing in the contented tones exuding from the Omega’s scent. “I’m up now, so stop crying Deku.” He sighs, “and I didn’t tell you cause I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“Yes,” he lifts Midoriya’s face, fixing his eyes in a stare, “I am. All because I didn’t want to admit I was weak for you.”

“So, you really mean it? That you want me to be your mate even though I’m quirkless?”

“Did I fucking stutter? But guess what Deku?”

“What?”

The Alpha kisses him roughly, nipping his lip before pulling away, “I’m claiming my final payment.”

“Oh!” Midoriya giggles, “what’s the payment?”

“You.”

~~~XX~~~

Just because they finally figured things out, didn’t mean either of them wanted to rush into a relationship. It was simply satisfying to know they wanted to be with each other. And for that reason, Midoriya continued to use heat blockers as a birth control, just like he’d done for the last several years.

The Omega respected the fact Bakugou focused on having a good career in the pro hero world. His ambitions to reach the top given a whole new incentive in order to provide for a family one day. But the Alpha was proud of his betrothed’s advances as well. After high school, the up and coming Support technician proved his worth for the Endeavor agency while he himself worked as a side kick to the head man himself.

Bakugou dreamed of one day owning his own agency, but until then, he pushed himself hard under the constant tutelage of the number one hero. They were both paid well at their jobs, and continued to maintain separate homes… for now. The blondes excuse being he would court Midoriya properly this time around.

Except when it came to sex. That part of their relationship was consummated two nights after graduation. In a protected knotting, they marked each other and staked their claims for all to see. Bakugou  had been pleasantly surprised to find the shy, docile man was quite rambunctious in bed. But contrary to popular belief, it was closer to a vanilla encounter.

Both of them had been too excited and also nervous being a first time for either of them. Having been Midoriya’s protector for so long, the Alpha was almost terrified of hurting the smaller Omega and it took gentle coaxing to allay those fears. But in the end they’d been left satisfied and fully affirmed in their decision to spend the rest of their lives together.

Once the workload kicked in, any free time they had were spent together at one or the others apartment. Bakugou would take Midoriya out on dates, to dinners, movies, or anywhere the man fancied though it was rarely a lavish affair. The Omega preferred the quieter moments such as lounging on the couch and cuddling during a movie.

This went on for two years as the Alpha slowly built up a savings. He knew it would be several years before he could buy a bigger house, but soon enough he was ready to afford a 2 bedroom apartment in a nice area of town. So, he made up an excuse to stay with Midoriya while he moved into the new place, furnished, and prepared it to accept a mate.

“Perfect!” The blonde stands with his hands on his hips admiring his handiwork. Everything his Omega will need was purchased and set up in what will be their new nest. He’d spared no expense on a top of the line, plush, memory foam bedding. Extra blankets, pillows, you name it, Bakugou bought it. And last but not least, he scented all the fabrics with his musk. All that remained was surprising Midoriya.

He timed the reveal for the last week of the month, explaining his apartment was ready again and he wanted Midoriya to see the changes.

“Where are we going? This isn’t the direction of your place.”

“It’s the direction to my new place.”

“Kacchan, you moved apartments without telling me?”

He kisses the back of the Omegas hand, “well a surprise isn’t a surprise if I told you about it.”

When the elevator opens, Bakugou leads him to one of the apartments. He opens the door and gestures for the man to enter. “Welcome to your new home Izuku.”

“Huh? My, but I have an apartment…” the Omega gasps when he turns and finds his Alpha on one knee. “K-Kacchan,” his hands fly up in shock and face lights up.

“It’s time to officially cash in my payment chip,” the blonde grins, holding up a ring. “Izuku Midoriya, will you be my life mate?”

Moisture instantly builds in the Omegas eyes, “yes! Yes!” His hands shaky as the Alpha slips the ring onto his finger.

Bakugou gets to his feet and kisses the man slow and steady. He takes Midoriya’s hand. “There’s one thing I really wanna show you, then we’ll go pack up your apartment.”

“Oh my goodness!” The omega squeals at the site of his beautiful new nest and throws himself onto his Alpha, hugging and kissing the man. “Kacchan, you spoil me!”

“You deserve to be spoiled,” he smiles back. “Test it out.”

Midoriya dives onto the bed and bundles the blankets to his nose. It smelled like Bakugou! He closes his eyes with a moan, taking it all in and burying his face into the fabric. The Alpha laughs at how childlike his mate was behaving, but that was Midoriya for you. Just a ray of sunshine who wore his emotions on his sleeve.

While the Omega relishes in his new surroundings, Bakugou just stands back in admiration. To the outside world the pro Alpha hero was a temperamental hothead who took shit from no one. But those in the know, knew Midoriya had him wrapped around his finger.

The Omega never took advantage or made it feel like an obligation. Bakugou just came to realize he could be himself with the man. No keeping secrets or holding back. Their long history delving back almost two decades meant Midoriya knew him well and he Midoriya. This little mouse could calm him down without his Omega pheromones. But boy does those scents drive him wild too!

Just picturing his freckle faced cherub cuddled in his arms with a child between them sent a delectable shiver racing straight to his groin. Bakugou chuckles in his head, probably why the man was smart enough to stay on the birth control, because he knew without it they’d have already started a family before they were ready.

“Join me— Kacchan!” Hands reach out, beckoning him to the bed.

The Alpha grins and plops down close, pulling the Omega to him. He kisses Midoriya’s forehead. “I take it you’re happy?”

“Of course!” The man nestles deeper into his Alphas arms, resting his head against his chest. “But I’d be happy anywhere as long as I have you with me.”

Bakugou relishes in the euphoric scent his mate was giving off. It made his inner Alpha preen with pride. “Never in my life have I wanted a family more than I do in this moment. And I don’t care if they have quirks, are quirkless, as long as they’re healthy, and they’re ours.”

“Mmm, our own family…” child Midoriya’s dreams could never have predicted the life he ended up with. “Sometimes I pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“Did I ever tell you thank you for pulling that stunt at graduation?”

Midoriya sits up, hesitant, his scent immediately registering anxiety. “No.” Why is he bringing that up now?

But Bakugou counters with calming Alpha pheromones as he pulls his mate back into his arms. “I still can’t stand the smug bastard, but I’m glad icyhot helped you help me get outta my own head or I wouldn’t have this life.”

“You had me so panicked Kacchan! I thought I’d killed you or something.”

“Pfft, I’m tougher then that.” He kisses Midoriya’s forehead, sweeping his thumb lovingly over and caressing the Omega’s cheek with a grin, “but I think in the end I really got the better part of the deal.”

[the-sympathetic-villain]

You Belong With Me - Chapter 17

AO3 | First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

Description: Much to his surprise, after being released from prison for a crime he didn’t commit, Logan has been appointed as a the prince’s new advisor.  

Word Count: 5962

Chapter Warnings: Anger, Anxiety, Implied non-sexual nudity (Let me know if there's anything else I need to add!)

-

    Roman kneeled on the floor, absentmindedly stroking Patton's hair. Anxiety brimmed in his chest as he stared off into the dark space of the room around him. Virgil had been gone over an hour at this point and pessimism was eating away at his hope. With Patton still unconscious and his other two friends still unaccounted for, his hope that this night would end well was dwindling rapidly by the minute.

    “You seem nervous, Prince Roman.”

    Roman turned his head to see Emile had entered the room and was stoking the fire behind him.  Various packages of open herbs rested at base of the fireplace as he worked. Roman paused, casting glances between him and Patton.

    “Please, just Roman is fine.”

    “I would prefer to use your proper title, if you will allow me to do so.”  

    Roman closed his eyes and his jaw clenched as emotions threatened to overwhelm him. Though Emile’s voice was cordial, Roman sensed tension in his voice as he insisted on keeping Roman at a distance. He knew he shouldn't take Emile's veiled hatred to heart, but his emotions were running to high already for him to simply brush it off like he normally would. He turned to watch Emile for a moment as he stirred the fire back to life, before taking a breath and turning back to face Patton. “I am in your home. I hardly think I have the authority to tell you what to do.”

    “We both know that isn’t true.”

    Roman continued to run his hand the through Patton's hair. “You must have a rather low opinion of me to think I would intrude on home and start ordering you around when you've been so gracious as to help me.”

    “You have the right to do so.” Emile wasn't bothering to conceal his bitterness any longer, and Roman couldn't help flinching at the man's curt tone of voice.

    “No, I have the power to do so.” Roman turned to look over at him. “That does not give me the right to bully people with my title.”

    “There's hardly a difference in your world." Emile muttered. "I've experienced first-hand how those under your command view their power, and the rights of your citizens are hardly a priority, let alone their comfort.”

    “I'm sorry, if you have suffered at the hands of my people. I am starting to see now the corruption of my guard and I want to rectify what's happened to my people as a result of my negligence. I'm only one person though, Emile. I can't fix these problems overnight, nor can I truly offer solace to those who have already been mistreated.” Roman paused, desperate to turn Emile's hate from him before he could no longer keep his emotions in check. He felt grateful for the numbness in his body, grateful that he did not have to work to hide the effect Emile's words had on him. “What is it that you want from me, Emile?”

    Emile stood up from where he sat stoking the fire and moved to stand above Roman, crossing his arms as he stared down at him. “I want you to forget this place exists.”

    Roman blinked up at him for a moment. “Done.”

    Emile straightened as Roman looked up at him. “What?”

    “If you want me to stay as far away as possible, I will. If you want me to never acknowledge or mention you or your home to anyone ever again after tonight, I won’t.” Roman sighed. “Emile, I offer you my oath as prince I will keep your location a closely guarded secret so long as I live.”

    Emile looked shocked as he looked down at Roman, but his tone remained skeptical. “That oath is hardly binding when no one is around but me to hear it.”

    “I will swear it again in front of Virgil.” Roman reassured him. “He has enough repertoire with my fathers to ensure I would face proper consequences in the case that I break my oath.”

    Emile's mouth hung open, and his voice cracked in surprise as he muttered his question. “Does Virgil really have that kind of influence?”

    Roman couldn’t help smiling at Emile's expression as he nodded. “Sometimes I think they even like him more than me.”

    Emile managed to close his mouth, pursing his lips as he stared down at Roman. “Why would you offer me your oath, Prince Roman?”

     Roman's face sobered as reality settled back over him, and his voice slowed as he looked down at Patton laying unconscious on he couch in front of him. “Patton would have died tonight if you had chosen not to help, and from what Virgil said earlier, this isn't the first time you've saved one of my friends.”

    Emile was silent and his expression was neutral as he listened to Roman.

    “I understand the privilege I have,” Roman’s eyes flicked nervously up as Emile's eyes narrowed on him. “But there are few people I am willing to trust as a result of my title.”

    Emile crossed his arms as he moved over to stand next to Roman, staring thoughtfully down at Patton.

    “Fewer even who I trust enough to be genuine around.” Roman ran a hand through Patton's hair, and his voice started to quiver as he spoke. “My friends mean a great deal to me. You acted to protect them, so I will make every effort protect you. I have no issue swearing an oath, because I intend to act in kind regardless of whether I am obligated to do so or not.”

    Emile looked at him suspiciously. “So why bother making the oath at all?”

  “Purely for your reassurance, Emile. You hardly seem to believe I would do it of my own volition.” Roman sighed, closing his eyes as painful thoughts danced in his head. He looked up at Emile with cautious expression. “A moment ago, you said that I seem nervous.”

    Emile raised a finger to his chin and nodded slowly, listening closely to Roman's words.

    “Three people in my life have been willing to accept me into their lives without expecting to gain anything from me. Unlike other people, they don't fear me or want to manipulate me and my power. The three people who have been willing to accept me as their friend are either unconscious or in some unknown perilous situation of which I have no control." Roman's eyes flashed up to Emile, watery eyes glistening in the light of the fire. “So, yes. I am nervous. I could very well lose everything I truly care about tonight.”

    "Surely, you care about your country and your position." Emile said nonchalantly. "You're hardly losing everything tonight."

    "My power is a privilege, and I have no right to be ungrateful for the gifts I've been given," Roman choked in a breath and his facade started to falter as thoughts of losing his friends crossed his mind. "But I am selfish. Tonight, I've been too weak to put my country first. My personal friendships may not serve the purpose for which I exist, but still I cannot bear the thought of losing them."

    Emile's expression faltered for a moment, but he carefully regained his composure. “You don't trust Virgil to bring your other friend back?”

    “If anyone can find Logan, it's Virgil,” Roman felt a lump in his throat as he tried to swallow back the bitterness in his voice. “But the person who instigated tonight’s events already slipped through our hands once. If he continues to elude us, my friends could suffer at their hands”

    “If you are so worried, why did you let him go alone? Could you not have ordered him to wait or overruled his decision to go alone?” Emile mused, watching Roman carefully. "You have the power to control your subordinate, do you not?"

    “Don't put words in my mouth." Roman muttered, unable to conceal the anger at Emile's implication of their relationship. "Virgil may work for me, but I do not consider him less than myself. He was right. It made more sense for him to go, and one of us needed to be here when Patton wakes. I trust his judgment that this was our best course of action, but that will not stop me from worrying until they’re both home safe.”

    Emile looked down at the ground, arms crossed over his chest. “I can see why Virgil took to you.”

    A soft smile crossed Roman’s face as he looked up at Emile. “I'm not the big, bad dictator you thought I'd be?”

    “I thought he was dead.” Emile's voice was deadpan as he spoke, staring down at Patton.

    Roman's face dropped and his voice went weak with disbelief . “What?”

    Emile looked down at him with a serious expression. “When you first took him, I didn't hear from him for nearly half a year. Even after he took off to live in the castle, he'd always sneak back into town to see me a few times a month, but out of nowhere, he just stopped coming and I assumed the worst.”

    “I'm so sorry.” Roman looked up at Emile with pleading eyes. “Emile, he was always free to go. I never held him against his will. From that first night, I assured him he was welcome to leave and return as he pleased for whatever he needed. He just took a long time me to convince him that my offer was genuine.”

    “He's never wavered that that was true.” Emile's face softened and a subtle smile curled on his lips. “I always assumed he was covering for you, but it's comforting to know that wasn't the case.”

    “It wasn't.” Roman reassured him. “Despite the way he often talks about me, I’ve always done my best to ensure he was free to do whatever he chooses.”

    Emile paused for a moment, tilting his head in confusion. “I don't think I've ever heard him say a bad thing about you."

    "What?" Roman looked up at him.

    Emile shrugged. "Admittedly, his lack of negative things to say always made me suspicious he was hiding something about you.”

    “You—you’re the second person to tell me that recently.” Roman bit his lip at the thought of Logan, but he continued, trying not to fixate on situations outside of his control. “Now, if only I could get him to play nice to my face, then maybe we'd be getting somewhere.”

    “He doesn't?”

    “He shows affection in other ways.” Roman exhaled thoughtfully. “I guess I just wish he were more direct sometimes.”

    “Have you talked to him about this?”

    Roman could feel Emile's gaze on him as he looked down at Patton sleeping peacefully. His gentle snores filling the deafening silence between them.

    “No.”

    “Why not?”

    “I can't.”

    Emile stood for a moment, staring down at Roman. He took a breath, sighing as he sat down next to Roman on the floor next to Patton’s head. “Why don't you think you can talk to Virgil about this?”

    "You do not owe me your concern, Emile. My problems are my own responsibility." Roman tried to sound confident, but he couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice.

    "I know I don't. I'm asking anyway."

    Roman stopped stroking Patton’s hair. His mouth hung open slightly as a heavy feeling settled over him. He closed his eyes, knowing he shouldn't burden Emile, but in the end he was too weak to deny the release of his suppressed emotions. His voice was breathless when he finally forced the words out. “I can't push him away. I wouldn't survive losing him.”

    “Do you really believe his loyalty is so easily turned?”

    “Any pressure I put on him…” Roman looked down at the floor, struggling to find the right words. “Any pressure I put on any of my friends is always carries more weight because of my title. It's not fair for use that against them, not if they feel they cannot deny me.”

    Emile blinked and raised an eyebrow at him. “So, you’re never allowed to ask for anything from them?”

    “I shouldn’t need anything from them.” Roman's breath caught in his throat. “Compared to them, I have everything.”

    “Just because you're a prince doesn't mean you’re not human.”

    Roman stopped moving for a moment before looking up from Patton to Emile. “That's quite a change of tune from only a few minutes ago.”

    “Perhaps, I made the mistake of generalizing.” Emile sighed, smirking over at him.

    A smile twitched at the corner of Roman's mouth before slowly fading. He leaned forward to stroke his fingers gently through Patton’s hair. “I have to be perfect, Emile. They deserve nothing less from me.”

    “I don't know about your other friend, but I know that neither Virgil nor Patton would expect that from you.”

    Roman felt a knot in his throat and he clenched his jaw. “Logan wouldn't either.”

    “So why put that burden on yourself?”

    “Because I can't lose them.”

    Emile watched silently as Roman stared down at Patton. “Every word you've said in this conversation has been carefully calculated. I shouldn't be surprised. You are a prince. Undoubtedly, most of your interactions are careful and cautious. You have the burden of representing our country at every conversation you have, but if you can't be genuine with your closest friends behind closed doors, when do you get to be yourself?”

    Roman furrowed his brow in confusion and looked over at Emile. “It's not like that. I can be myself around them.”

    “You just can't ask for anything from them.” Emile said flatly, crossing his legs in front of him as he leaned down on his knees.

     “I can,” Roman paused uncertainly. “If I need to.”

    “How often do you need to?”

    “I ask plenty of Virgil and Patton." Roman paused, trying to catch his breath. "Logan is still new, but he'll have tasks in his work as he acclimates himself to his new position.”

    Emile sighed, rolling his eyes. “Let me rephrase. How often do you ask something of them outside of the work they do for you? How often do you ask for something for yourself?”

    Roman bit his lip, guiltily. “I asked Virgil to help Patton when he came here—”

    Emile cut him off. “If you have to go back that far, there’s already a problem.”

    “I asked Virgil to help protect Logan only recently.” Roman leaned back from Patton staring vacantly down at the ground. A moment of silence hung between them.

    “And?” Emile prompted, when Roman didn't continue.

    “And what?” Roman's throat started to ache from forcing his emotions back. He couldn't help but wish the conversation would end, so he could focus on getting his emotions under control.

    “Is that all?”

    Roman opened his mouth to speak, but his words failed him. He foundered for and moment, but fortunately, Emile continued, apparently not expecting much of an answer from him.

    “To be clear, you’ve known Virgil since you were children and you've asked Virgil for help twice? Not to mention, you asked him to help other people, not even yourself.” Emile looked over at him with a gentle smile. “Have you even ask Patton for anything in the years you've known him?”

    Roman took a deep breath, and snorted. A subtle smile curled on he edges of his lips. “You were easier to talk to when you hated me.”

    Emile shrugged nonchalantly. “I suspect I’m the only person you've ever met that's known Virgil longer than you. I know he'd hate to know you felt this way, especially after everything you’ve given him.”

    The beginning of a smile that had started to form on Roman’s face faded. “His friendship with me should never be contingent on what I've given him. He owes me nothing.”

    “I didn’t say it was .” Emile smiled as he stood up and turned back to the fire. Tossing a log on the fire, he turned his head back to Roman. “But I think you’re a fool to think that it doesn’t affect how he sees you.”

    Roman frowned. “I don't want that to be a factor in how he sees me.”

    “Why?” Emile turned back to the fire and stoked the embers until flames lit up along the sides of the new logs.

    “I'm not interested in bribing him to be my friend.” Roman’s skin crawled at the idea.

    “I really thought that's what you did to him.” Emile spoke impassively, and Roman cringed at his matter-of-fact tone. “I mean no kid in his position could have resisted what you were giving him, but—"

    Guilt welled in Roman's chest. His emotions from the night came rushing forward and he barely managed interrupt Emile to stutter a response. “I didn't—That was never—"

    Emile turned his head toward him as Roman’s breath caught in the throat. “Hey, kiddo. Relax.”

     Roman let out a soft gasp as he felt Emile’s hand on his shoulder. He started to shiver as Emile sat down next to him. “I didn't make him—"

    “Of course, you didn't.” Emile reassured him, gently rubbing circles on his back. “One look at your face is enough to know you the thought of forcing a relationship on someone horrifies you.”

    Roman clenched his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears running down his face. Taking a breath, he managed a small nod.

    “Sometimes I forget you were just a child when you met Virgil.” Emile smiled gently at Roman. “You were just a lonely kid who saw another kid in trouble and wanted to help.”

    Roman took a deep breath.

    “That's what I meant when I said you're a fool not to think that affects how he sees you.” Emile paused thoughtfully. “You didn't know him. You could have let him get arrested and it wouldn't have affected you in the slightest, but you didn't. You got him out of a bad situation, and you gave him all the resources he needed to get off the streets for good. He looks up to you, Roman. Not many people are capable of that kind of generosity.”

    “He was just a kid.” Roman muttered, his voice cracking.

    “So were you,” Emile paused. “and though I'm not thrilled with the occupation in which he's ended up, I have to admit you've given him a life most kids in his situation couldn't even imagine."

    Roman chuckled. “His career was entirely his choosing. I would have given him whatever resources he needed to do what he wanted.”

    Emile smiled at him appreciatively, pulling his hand off Roman's back. “I know it was his choice, and even if I disapprove, I know he's good at his job.”

    “I couldn’t have found someone better if I tried. I have all of the kingdom’s resources at my fingertips, but he's the best I've ever seen.” Roman nodded, swallowing painfully. "He's invaluable to me. I wouldn't trade my relationship with him for anything."

    A proud smile twitched at the corner of Emile's lips. “I do also appreciate that you kept him out of the field until he came of age. I can't imagine it was easy to justify the cost of that many years of training without even allowing him to get involved until he was older.”

    Roman shrugged. “I bear none of the credit for that. The kingdom doesn't allow child soldiers for good reason, but it's considered an investment to allow them to train at a young age, even if they later choose not to follow that path. I barely had to justify my decision, and I truly believe the time and resources I invested on him was the best decision I've ever made.”

     Emile pushed himself off the ground to return to the base of the fireplace. “Regardless, I slept easier knowing he wasn't in danger.”

    Roman could hear Emile shuffling packages of herbs behind him as he turned his face back to Patton. He gently resumed stroking Patton’s hair, lost in thought for a moment before he spoke again. “Emile?”

    Emile continued sorting his herbs as turned his head back to face Roman. “Yes, Roman?”

    Roman hesitated, not looking up from Patton as he continued. “Virgil mentioned earlier that you aided him in hiding Patton when he first came into our custody.”

    Emile paused, staring over his shoulder at Roman. “I did.”

    “Thank you.” Roman hung his head as he stared at Patton. “I don't know what I would have done, if we'd been caught. You may think my reaction to be extreme, but he was being—”

     “I know what was happening to him, Roman, and I think your reaction was entirely justified.” Emile turned back to his work. “At the time, I wasn't thrilled that you seemed to have passed the task to Virgil to care for him, but I am glad that you were able to get Patton out of that situation.”

    “I would have killed to have been with them. Those were the longest months of my life, not knowing where they were or what happened with them,” Roman bit his lip guiltily. “but it was suspicious enough that Virgil wasn't around much. I would only have brought the search closer to Patton, if I'd tried to visit or help.”

    “I know, and from what Virgil has said you took as much of the burden off of him as you could once Patton was able to return to the castle.” Emile sighed and Roman heard him pouring water for a moment before he stepped back over to sit next to Roman. “It was an impossible to make a perfect choice in that situation, but everyone made came out of it happy and healthy so I would still call what you did worth it.”

    "If there's anything I can give you for your help, I would gladly do so." Roman offered. "You have done so much for my friends, and I had no idea until now."

    "That would be my fault. I've been adamant that Virgil leave my existence out of his dealings with you."

    "No one is to blame. I can't fault you for fearing my power." Roman inhaled sharply, releasing some of the tension in his body. "I only hope that Virgil knows he can share if he chooses."

    Emile stared at him for a moment. "There is one thing I want from you, Roman."

    "Anything." Roman turned to look at him. "Just name it."

    "I want you to talk to Virgil about how you've been feeling." Emile smiled encouragingly at him. "He'd want to know."

    Roman paused for a moment, but nodded. Lost in thought, he absentmindedly stopping his fingers from running through Patton’s hair.

    “Ro?”

    A soft voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked down to see Patton had opened his eyes.

    “Hey, Patton.” Roman pulled his hand back and sat up taller to face his friend.

    “Don’t stop.” Patton murmured. His eyelids drooped as Roman resumed stroking his hair.

     A soft, pitched whistle sounded behind Roman turned to see Emile pulling a teapot off the fire. He watched as Emile poured the hot water into a cup behind him. Patton's eyes peaked open as Emile stepped back over with a steaming cup of tea.

    “Emi." Patton’s words were muffled by the blanket near his face as he smiled warmly up at Emile.

    “Hey, kiddo.” Emile set the tea down on the floor next to Patton and kneeled down beside him. “How are you feeling?”

    “Tired, Emi.” Patton drawled quietly, closing his eyes and leaning into Roman’s hand.

    “Are you cold?”

    Patton grimaced in confusion and shook his head.

    “How about sick?”

    “No,” Patton mumbled into the cushion. “I’m good.”

    “Good.” Emile leaned over and put a hand on Patton’s cheek. “Can you focus with me for a second, kiddo?”

    Patton nodded tiredly, looking up at Emile.

    “You’re going to start waking up now. I brought you some tea. Drink it all and take it easy for a bit. No sudden movements.  Okay?”

    “Okay, Emi.” Patton mumbled, already closing his eyes.

    “Promise?”

    “Promise.”

    Patton closed his eyes and slumped back into the cushion as Emile turned back to Roman. “I'll leave you two alone for a bit. He'll probably start coming to pretty quickly now. I imagine you’ll need to fill him in on what's going on, and I don't think that information is necessarily that's for my ears.”

    A frown twitched at the corner of Roman’s mouth. “Probably not.”

    Emile nodded. “That’s fine. Just make sure he stays calm and drinks the tea.”

    “I can manage that much.” Roman nodded as Emile stood to leave.

    “Virgil left some of his old clothes in the chair over there for him when he's ready.” Emile pointed behind Roman, and Roman followed his gaze to the brown, leather chair in the far corner of the room. “They'll be a bit big, I’d imagine but he canmanage.”

    “Thank you, Emile.”

    “You’re welcome, Roman.” He smiled at Roman and Patton before turning to leave the room.

    Roman smiled fondly after him before turning back to Patton, still running his fingers through his hair.  “Hey, Pat. How you feeling?”

    “Sleepy.”

    “Are you sore? Does anything hurt?”

    “Nah. ‘M fine.”

    “Good, buddy. I’m glad.”

    “Where's Virgil, Ro?” Patton said sleepily. Roman frowned but he kept his voice soft for Patton's sake.

    Roman hesitated, before settling on a half-truth. “He's gone to get Logan.”

    Patton’s face scrunched in confusion before he looked wearily up at Roman. “Where's Logan?”

    “I—I'm not sure, Pat, but Virgil’s going to find him.” Roman tried to keep his voice steady, but he couldn’t keep the slight quiver out of his tone.

    Patton stirred, confused. “Are they okay?”

    “They'll be okay, Pat.”

    “‘Das not what I asked, Ro.” Patton tried to sit up but his head started to spin.

    “Hey, take it slow. You need move slowly.” Roman moved to sit on the edge of the couch, and helped lift Patton upright slowly. The blanket started to drop off his shoulders, but he caught it with his hand. Suddenly, he looked mortified.

    “Ro, where are my clothes?” Patton’s cheeks burned bright red as he glanced nervously up at Roman.

    “You were passed out in cold water, Pat. We had to get you out of your wet clothes so you wouldn’t freeze.” He couldn’t help noticing Patton shivering still. “Virgil helped undress you. No one else saw anything.”

    “Virgil. Just Virgil.” Patton’s breathing slowed and he seemed to calm slightly as he glanced around the room. “Where are we, Ro?”

    “We're with Emile.”

    Patton tilted his head in confusion. “You don’t know Emile.”

    Roman smirked at him teasingly. “Well, I do now.”

    “Why'm I so sleepy?” Patton pressed, getting more insistent as Roman tactfully evaded his questions.

     “You've had a rough couple days, Pat.” He hesitated, trying not to scare Patton. “Do you remember anything?”

    Patton put his hands on his temples, trying to focus through his headache. “Someone grabbed me from behind while I was walking home. I struggled, but I couldn't do anything. A cloth was shoved in my face and then I fell asleep.”

     A sudden silence fell over Patton and Roman couldn’t help feeling unnerved by the distressed look on his face. “You’re safe now, Pat. I'm not going anywhere.”

     “I know, Ro. I trust you.” Patton smiled at him softly before returning to his thoughts. “They kept me in a basement for a while. Not much happened there I think, but I only remember small bit from when I faded in and out of consciousness. They must have had some reasonable potent drugs. At this point, I'm resistant to most anything you'd find locally.”

     Roman took a deep breath, preparing himself for the worst. “Did anyone hurt you, Patton?”

    Patton shook his head vehemently, looking up at Roman. “No, they left me alone. I barely even saw anyone the whole time they held me, but there was a man there, and he was so scary, Ro. Something was wrong with him. One look into his eyes had me trembling in fear. I don't remember much else though.”

    Roman smiled at him encouragingly. “That’s okay. That's probably enough for right now anyway. Just let yourself rest for a bit.”

    “I feel like I'm waking up for the first time in days. I don't want to sleep anymore.” Patton held his head, desperately trying to stop the spinning.

    “You don’t have to sleep, Pat.” Roman reassured him, trying to calm him. “Just don't stress yourself out, okay?”

    “Something’s wrong, Ro. Where are Virgil and Logan?” His words became clearer as the fog in his mind began to fade away.

    Roman pulled Patton into his arms. “They'll be back soon, Pat."

    “But where are they?”

    “Pat, please don't overwhelm yourself.”

    “Tell me where they are, Ro.” Patton's voice cracked as he nearly yelled the words.

    Roman sighed, feeling guilty. “I don’t know, Pat.”

    “You don't know?!” Patton yelled, lunging forward to get off the couch. Suddenly, he stopped mid-motion, clutching his hand to his chest as his face twisted in surprise.

     “Please stop, Pat. I'll tell you everything, but you have to stay down and try to remain calm. You could hurt yourself really badly, if you get worked up too much.” He pleaded desperately as tears welled in his eyes. “Do it for my sake, Pat? Please?”

     Patton looked down at Roman’s worried face and reluctantly nodded. He let Roman gently pull him back on the couch.

    “You were missing, Pat. We were worried about you.” He leaned down and picked up the cup of tea that Emile had left for him and handed it to Patton, waiting for Patton to start sipping before he started to catch him up on the night’s events. He spoke calmly and softly, rubbing Patton’s shoulder as he talked, but still, he could feel Patton growing more uncomfortable. Roman's heart throbbed as Patton's face dropped as he finished. Patton sat quietly for a while, staring at the wall. Eventually, Roman reached over to take Patton's empty cup and set it off to the side. The action seemed to pull Patton from his thoughts and he finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

     “Why'd you let Logan do it, Ro?”

    “You know I don’t control anything that any of you do.” Roman could feel his heart break as Patton’s voice trembled softly. He swallowed painfully, guilt aching in his body, but he kept his voice quiet and gentle as he comforted his friend. “I tried to stop him, Pat. I really did. I even threatened to keep him in the tower, but he wouldn’t allow me to follow through. He threatened to escape and turn himself over, if I tried to force his hand. He wanted to help you, and none of us intended for him to get taken tonight.”

     Patton was quiet as he leaned back into the couch with a distant look in his eyes.

     “Patton, if we hadn't followed Logan's plan, you would have died. We barely made it to you in time as it was.”

    Roman watched as Patton slumped back into the cushions, looking miserable. “I know and I’m grateful to be here with you, but I wish we knew Logan and Virgil are okay. What if—”

     “They’re going to be fine. If anyone is going to bring him home, it’s Virgil. He knows what he's doing, Pat.”

     “I know, Ro, but I'm worried.” Patton bit his lip, nervously. “Do you think Logan's—”

    “He's coming home to us, Pat.” Roman interrupted, shifting the conversation. He bit the inside of his lip guiltily, knowing he couldn't keep a strong face for Patton if he lost himself thinking about what might be happening to Logan right now. “Do you want to put on some dry clothes? There’s some here for you.”

     Patton looked at him for a moment, confused by the sudden change in topic. “What?”

    “I think they’re some of Virgil’s old clothes. You still need to warm up and that will help." Roman smiled encouragingly at him. "Do you think you can change while I switch your blankets out for dryer ones?”

    Patton nodded and sat up, holding the blanket on his chest, but Roman held a hand up to stop him, looking down at him seriously.

    “If you feel unsteady, let me know. I'll help you if needed. I don't want you to hurt yourself, okay?”

    “Okay, Ro.” Patton nodded, but even in the dim light of the fire Roman could see Patton's cheeks turn red at the thought. “I think I'll be fine on my own though.”

     Roman nodded as he stood up and turned his back respectfully. He waited until he heard Patton move off the couch to the far side of the room before he turned back to the couch, carefully focusing on the task at hand while Patton changed. He let himself be absorbs into the task, grateful for something to focus on besides the persistently anxious thoughts bouncing around in his head.

    He stripped the couch, tossing the damp articles aside as he lined the cushions with dry blankets. After he finished, he gathered the damp bedding and started to lay the piece in front of the fire, hoping they would start to dry. A few minutes into his work, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to look up at Patton. His heart dropped as he saw tears in Patton’s eyes, and Roman jumped to his feet, pulling Patton into his arms. Roman’s heart sank even further as Patton didn’t return the hug, hanging limply in Roman’s arms.

     “I'm so sorry, Ro.” Patton mumbled into Roman’s chest.

     “What are you sorry for, Pat?”

     “It’s my fault.”

     Roman’s heart shattered as the despair in Patton's voice. He pulled back from Patton, gripping Patton’s shoulders and forcing him to make eye contact. “None of this is your fault, Pat. Do you hear me?”

    Patton stared numbly up at him for a moment before hanging his head as tears streamed down his face.

    Roman pulled Patton close and squeezed him tighter.  His own voice started to shake as the night’s emotions came rushing forth. “You didn't ask for this. It just happened. I don't know what we would have done if we had lost you. You matter so much to us, Pat.”

     “But—”

    “But, nothing. You do so much for all of us. Logan knew what he was doing. He wanted you home safe, just as much as me and Virge did. You healed and protected him, and put yourself in danger for him when you didn't have to. Of course he wanted to protect you." Roman stifled a sob as he looked down at Patton. "You matter so much to all of us. We wanted you home.”

    Patton inhaled sharply. “He shouldn’t have to go through this for me.”

    “He shouldn’t, but without his incredible act of bravery, you might not be here, Pat.”

    “Remus is going to hurt him, Ro.” Patton choked on a sob as he leaned into Roman's chest.

    Roman's chest ached with worry for his friend, but he fought the thought back. “Logan is going to be okay, Pat. I won't rest until that's true.”

     Patton didn't answer but his sobs eventually subsided, and he finally wrapped his arms around Roman's waist. They stayed there for a long time, taking solace in each other’s arms as they worried for their friends' safety. By the time Roman finally pulled back from Patton, his joints had started to stiffen. He sighed, gently wrapping as arm around Patton as he guided him back to the couch. “Come on, Pat. You need to rest.”

    Patton nodded, reluctantly releasing Roman. "Okay, Ro."

-

Author’s Note: Just a heads up, I don’t know what’s going to happen with next week’s chapter. I’m moving into temporary housing for a bit until my new place opens up. So, chapter may be short or delayed next week depending on what happens :)

You Belong With Me Taglist:

@cas-is-a-hunter @insert-cool-blogname @ironwoman359 @i-know-im-smart @imbadatnames8d @croftersphoenix @optimistic-violinist @chronicallynervouschild @croftersjam15 @unbefuckinglieveable @eeveeeclair246 @dwbh888

[snowdice]

Folds in Paper (Chapter 2: Green Light)[Folds in Time Universe]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Janus/Patton, Remus & Roman, eventual Logan/Virgil (maybe more)

Characters:

Main: Janus, Patton, Remus

Appear: Remy, Emile, Virgil, Logan, Roman

Summary: Janus, a disillusioned senior agent working for the Time Preservation Initiative, struggles to find meaning in a world where time travel could change everything about your life’s history in less than a moment. When time distortions start popping up, threatening the timeline and the fabric of reality as he knows it, it becomes a race against the clock to fix the damage before everything unravels. And the problem with time travel… you never how long you have before the clock strikes 12 and your time is up.

With a partner who has more mysteries in his past than Janus had anticipated and an enigmatic free agent time traveler mucking about time always with a clever pun or a time appropriate pet name on his lips, Janus will need to figure out what went wrong with time, and more importantly, how to fix it.

Notes: Time travel AU, mystery, enemies to lovers, alcohol

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – to-morrow we will run farther, stretch out our arms farther…” (F. Scott Fitzgerald in The Great Gastby)

This is a fic I’ve been writing on study breaks that you have probably all already seen at this point. I’ve slightly edited it for wording and grammar, but not for content from my previous posts. Feel free to send in asks to direct it because I’m not 100% sure where this is going and you can help decide if you feel so inclined! You can see the process I went through to build this at this link.

Part 1

The morning was just as torturous as Janus had expected it would be. He chewed through another pop-tart, this time bothering to actually check and see that it was a cinnamon-sugar one and drank three cups of caffeinated orange juice. Then, he waved his hand through the air and selected the first saved location on his device. He popped up directly behind his desk where he’d been standing the night morning before.

Someone, probably Remus, had shut his integrator down. He swiped a finger across the power button, and it flickered back on, scrolling through its morning start up routine.

The machine scanned through all of the data in the three main system it was connected to and sorted all information into things that concerned him, could concern him, and did not before then sorting the first two categories into order of importance. As it did, he set up his screen reader so he would hopefully not start the day with more of a migraine than he already had. It took about 3 seconds for everything to turn on and settle.

Sitting down in his desk, he dismissed the notification that Remus had finished and submitted the report from their mission the day before, before looking through the next things on his list. A mission had been scheduled for him today, and the details were in his inbox. A piece of time travel technology had been accidently dropped by an archology student in the 1890s during a trip. It was an earlier model of emergency time travel given to time travelers that would dump them back into the Registration Office in the year they originated. It wasn’t extremely dangerous, but could pose some problems, especially if someone who didn’t know what it was activated it.

Surveillance agents had tracked it down and found that it had been picked up by a local and sold. Though no one from that time had known what it was, they had identified that it was made out of a precious metal and it had been crafted into an expensive necklace. Janus and Remus were supposed to retrieve it today. It had been pinpointed that the most opportune time for the extraction was 1923 during a masquerade ball held by those who had bought the necklace. It was a fairly low stakes mission.

He wasn’t set to leave for another couple of hours, so he clicked through the rest of the important notifications and then set off to meet his missions coordinator, Rhi, in her office.

Rhi and Janus got along fairly well. She was a well put together woman who took her job incredibly seriously. It was fair as her job was to organize all information and materials from every other department and make sure the agents she was assigned to got and understood all of it. A mistake from her could lead to an agent’s death or something far worse.

This, of course, made her relationship with Remus… interesting to say the least. Janus could never place whether they were nemesis, frenemies, or mortal enemies, and he doubted he would ever know.

“Okay, but it’s the 1920s America,” Remus was already in her office arguing when Janus arrived. “There were so many gangsters! I could be a gangster. I would make a fantastic gangster! Just give me a gun, a snazzy suit with a white hat, and a buttload of alcohol. I will be running Chicago with Al Capone in five minutes.”

“Al Capone didn’t become a crime boss until 1925 and you are going to 1923,” Rhi said, sounding bored, “you aren’t going to Chicago, and as I have already stated, your cover is already decided.”

“But-”

“It is nonnegotiable, Agent Clockson,” she said firmly. Remus pouted, but seemingly accepted his fate.

“May I come in?” Janus asked.

“Please do,” Rhi said. “You have been to the 1920s before, correct?” she asked Janus.

“Yes ma’am.”

She tapped the screen on her desk in response. “In the last two years?”

“About two months ago,” he responded. She tapped something else.

“Any blacks, reds, or yellows?” she asked.

“All green.”

“Great. Do you need a refresher course on basic cultural or linguistic procedures?”

“No.”

She pushed one more thing and then swiped the check-in document over to him. He glanced at the report stating he’d had no incidents of any level the last time he visited the 1920s and had opted out of the optional refresher course, and then pressed his finger against the screen to sign it with his fingerprint.

The document returned to her side of the desk automatically. “Okay,” she said swiping another document from her left over to be in front of her. She twisted her wrist to copy it and slid copies to Janus and Remus. “Here are exact details on the time, place, and event you are going to, as well as details about your cover.” Janus scrolled through his quickly. It wasn’t as detailed as some he’d had considering this was a brief in-and-out mission, but he still took care to memorize everything on the page.

As he and Remus read through their things, Rhi got to her feet and turned to the storage compartments behind her desk.

She grabbed out two packages and when they’d both signed that they’d read and understood the paperwork, she slid them across the desk to them. “These have everything you need,” she said. “Clothes, money, and an invitation to the party you’re off to attend. You are to get changed now, have a last check in with costuming to make sure everything is in order, and then report to decontamination in 23 minutes. You’re set to leave in 38 minutes. Any questions?”

“How much-?” Remus started.

“None, agent,” Rhi said.

“But-”

“No alcohol,” Rhi said. “It is the prohibition era in the United States anyway.”

“Like there’s not going to be alcohol at the rich people party,” Remus said sullenly.

She pressed her lips together. “It is an in-and-out mission,” she said to both of them, and then turned to glare at Remus. “Do not get arrested.”

“I don’t know,” Remus said joyfully. “I think I still have room for a 1920s mug shot on my wall.”

“Behave,” she said, “or I’ll report you for the cat you smuggled in from the 1800s.”

“You’d never,” Remus said. “You enjoy the cute pictures of Diesel Fuel I send you every day too much, and you know it!”

“Just… don’t get arrested.” She turned to Janus. “Don’t let him get arrested.”

“I’ll do my best,” Janus promised, standing. “Now come on, Remus, we need to get changed.”

“You just want to see me naked,” Remus replied with a wink, but he did stand.

“If I see you naked one more time in my life Remus, my eyeballs will fall out of their sockets,” Janus said, waving to Rhi as he pulled Remus out of the door.

“Kinky.”

Janus’s eyeballs almost did fall out right then and there with how hard he rolled them.

They got changed quickly, Remus complaining and saying if he couldn’t dress like a gangster, he should at least be allowed to wear a flapper dress. Janus had long ago learned to ignore his ramblings. He did seem enthused about the included mask for the masquerade. It was a silver fox shaped mask with green accents that reminded Janus of the Egyptian God Anubis.

Janus’s own mask, on the other hand, was only designed to take up the left half of his face. It was mostly golden with a black swirled design. Attached to the side, there was a plume of golden tipped white feathers. He had to give it to the costuming department, they did have good taste.

Once they were both dressed, they were poked and prodded by one of the costumers to make sure everything was accurate, fit right, and had been put on correctly.

After that, they went to the decontamination area to have themselves and everything they were taking with them sterilized so they didn’t accidently take any pathogens to the 1920s. They also received an oral vaccination to be sure they didn’t pick up anything from the 1920s and bring it back.

Then they were ready to go. The correct time-space coordinates had already been sent to their timepieces. With a push of a button, they were off.

Want to read more? Click below!

AO3 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

[peek-mag]

On Suffering/Salvation

It’s been difficult to discern how to feel about all that is happening in the world at the moment, and that uncertainty has kept me away from responding to the handful of messages asking for advice on doing just that. But in a moment of clarity a course has been cut through the mental clutter, and so I’d like to offer my paltry sentiments here. 

At first, admittedly, there was a novel thrill of life being completely upended. Of so many questions and such abrupt changes; all of a sudden out of work with millions of others, strongly urged to stay inside. It was reason to commune more regularly with the people I always guilt myself for not communing more regularly with–my parents, siblings, best friends from my hometown. In that sense, there was a comfort in being on a sinking ship, dancing with the band. We were all headed somewhere entirely uncertain together. 

I am, most certainly, an introvert by emotional nature. I am quite comfortable holed up at home, with books, cats, tidying, little creative projects. We live near a wonderful park, and the slow emergence of spring has offered chilly, sunny walks by the river where, when it edges near 60° you’d be hard press to think anything was amiss, save for the surgical masks and gloves donned by stroller pushers, joggers, and dog walkers. 

In that sense, much feels unaltered. Without logging onto Twitter, switching on CNN or talking to a particularly anxious family member, there is little outside the window to suggest that something terribly wrong is afoot. The air feels calm, though we know it’s a deadly sort of calm. Because of this knowing there has been much to take stock of and tally gratitude for on a daily basis. I have my health. My friends and family have their health. We have enough food. We are able to make ends meet. Those simple truths, when all else has been snatched out from under you, are truly enough. Which is what musings on this pandemic seem to unearth for those of us who, while interrupted, are not on the edge of disaster. There is so much to be grateful for, and they are unsurprisingly the most simple things: food, shelter, love, and sunshine. 

How anyone can fix his gaze on anything else perplexes me. Sure, there are frustrations, there is the economic depression to be bothered by, the complete failings of our government, the violence that is the capitalist system, the thousands that are dying daily, silently and alone. But from where you stand, when you take stock, how do things fair? I find it troubling that our minds tend to rest and dwell in such negative spaces, when if the scope is pulled back and our lives are placed in context, we are doing alright. As a society, there are holes, we are hurting, but as individuals, often, we are doing alright. 

We cannot help, it seems, but to focus on what hasn’t clicked into place yet, or that which has become slightly unhinged. It is something rather perpetual in our nature. We, as humans, have this odd and pernicious tendency to–while having the capacity to achieve happiness, health, and safety–thwart our own advances to such aims with every generation, through every millenia. Even when no immediate threat is posed to our daily lives, even when we ourselves are safe and met with the essentials, we are unable to unburden ourselves from a narrative of suffering. 

Humans, it seems, and as philosophers have narrated, are obsessed with our own suffering (I’m surely not the first or only to this point. In fact, I’d say required reading on this subject would be this article from The School of Life). We will, without fail, create conflict with our societies and daily lives even when, with a different narrative bend, the same circumstances could well be quite peaceful. 

I have been considering this for some time, having observed with close proximity individuals intent on their own stories of suffering, and being guilty of the same in some small way I’m sure. There seems a real threat to abandoning something that seemingly speaks so directly to one’s identity. Depression, loss, financial struggle, past abuse, loneliness, neglect, rejection–we experience these things almost universally, with varying degrees of seriousness and for varying lengths of time. And often it seems the habit is to wear one’s suffering as a badge of honor; not as though having survived means now being that much stronger, but as though the suffering itself is an indelible mark of achievement. 

As a society, we have romanticized the notion of suffering; we are so drawn to the idea of suffering that we cannot look away when we see it, and we cannot give it up when we experience it. Having suffered becomes something so essential to the fabric of social validity that we lock our stories of suffering to our identity, and carry them with us throughout the remainder of our lives–quite often when we are in truth far from them. And while the burden of the load strains our backs, we fear nothing more than simply putting it down and walking on. 

There is a very real threat present in the world right now, one that presents itself in the form of an infectious disease, one that presents itself in the form of economic instability, or perhaps near ruin for some, and one that presents itself existentially in how we view the society that supports (or doesn’t) our daily lives and our relative place within it. 

For many, this crisis may have illuminated how insignificant to the larger whole you really are. But that is unlikely, as each of us stands at the center of our own orbit. In fact, for most people there may be the urge to make this totally personal, something that is happening to you, with the other billions of people in the world as mere background cast. It is another failing of the mind to be unable to consider with any real gravity the lives of people it has never met and play no immediate consequence on its reality. 

But if ever there is a moment to do so, to consider the lives of people one has never met, I’d say this is it. You feel lonely? Yes, I’d say we all collectively feel lonely at the moment. People sharing beds likely feel lonely curled next to each other at night, and medical workers in packed hospitals likely feel lonely as they near the end of a twelve hour shift, and the journalist attempting to report the truth certainly feels lonely, and the mother now tasked with homeschooling three kids most definitely feels lonely, and lost, and mad; and the thirty five year old with a new baby at home, hooked up to a ventilator but likely to die with no one near him save for anonymous, hurried ghosts in PPE feels perhaps loneliest of all.  

The paradox of loneliness is that we all often feel it all together and all at once. Because to be truly understood is something that perpetually eludes us. There is real consequence to not knowing oneself, and often loneliness strikes an especially unnerving chord when the only companionship one has is with a stranger. For that reason quiet reflection is perhaps one of the most essential, grueling, and under-appreciated endeavors we can undertake. 

I don’t think one needs to be particularly useful or productive at this moment, a dangerous impulse under normal circumstances and increasingly more so now, but I do think if nothing else one can take stock and find gratitude. 

To focus on your suffering is to get this wrong, in my book. This is not a moment to dwell in the space in one’s mind where woes collect in the dusty corners. This is a moment to truly assess all that one has to be grateful for. There is always a story with a happier seeming ending to yours, there is always an achievement just over the horizon to place one’s hopes in, there is always something missing… if one is set on viewing the world that way. But there are boundless small gratitudes for the taking if one can fix one’s gaze on the glow of the sun that rises and sets without fail each and every day, on the subtle changes as the earth pitches on its axis, on the myriad of ways humans are infinitely complex and frivolous creatures. There is so much within one’s self to explore–there are so many worlds accessible to you through books, movies, music, and your own imagination. There is no shortage of magic hidden inside of the folds of everyday life that it would be a savage mistake to sit healthily inside this global catastrophe and think only of the ways your poor silly self is suffering. 

I think perhaps the patience I typically have for the understandable nuances of the human condition has dwindled as a cacophony of complaints echo throughout the collective consciousness. Can we not edge ourselves ever so slightly to a more elevated field of existence? Can we not see our species collectively under duress and think only of the ways we are inextricably tied to each other’s fates? Of then considering what contribution we have, spiritually, to this greater whole? Of shedding any notion that life is meant solely for our own consumption and amusement? That we are deserving of every joy only so that we may under-appreciate it, cast it aside, and insatiably demand the next? 

The antidote to your suffering is gratitude. Gratitude does not diminish the very real problems in your life; gratitude does not demand that you grin and bear pain that exists in your mind or body; gratitude does not alleviate that which you may be ignoring. Gratitude simply shifts the balance of your perspective to one that is rooted in all that you have, and all that you are, rather than all that you are lacking. 

Rest here, rest in this place of gratitude. Let this be your grounding, your starting and ending place each day, your salvation. 

[caffeinetheory]

There’s Gotta Be A Reason

Follow up to Everything Stays requested, well they got me to consider it, @mystery-5-5

this is Jason’s point of view, and he may seem a little ooc for him but i wanted a softer take, hopefully it will make sense, also sorry for the long wait, i kept putting off finishing it ‘cause i want to hopefully make something that’ll stand with the original

(I ended up skipping the last verse because i wanted to focus on Jason not Mari also if this is all over the place sorry, I’ve been working on and off with it and it was longer then I meant to make and took way longer, oops )

///

The bruises still lingered on his arms and the dried blood was still sticking to his skin. They were the only things Jason could feel at the moment, he was numb. Completely numb and barely knew his own name. Only one thing stayed in his mind untouched by the madness of the pit, loving bluebell eyes that seemed to hold the world to him and a soft voice drowned out by whatever had brought him back. 

There's gotta be a reason that I'm here on Earth

As memories slowly came back to him there was one constant, a girl. She was special to him, he knew that much but he couldn't place why for the life of him. Maybe she was the reason he was back, no that couldn’t be it. Talia made sure Jason knew he was theirs because he owed them from bringing him back.

But why was she the only thing he could remember, there has to be something. The distant memory of what must have been her laugh is sometimes the only thing keeping him sane.  Something in the back of his mind tells him he should hold back, but what was it?

Gotta be a reason for the dust and the dirt

Seeing the grave for the first time was jarring. He really did die didn’t he. Pain enveloped his mind as he tried to remember, but it hurt to much so he just let it go. There are more important matters at the moment anyway, like getting out from under their control. That was one thing he could never forget, he didn’t like being told what to do.

The changing of the seasons never changed my hurt

It must have been at least a year since he was brought back and he still under them. The plan was coming together, he’d run with their weapon. It was bad enough they were messing with his life but a CHILD! That wouldn’t stand. Another spring was coming, that was when he’d make his break. All that was left was to get the kid on board.

So what's it worth? What's it worth?

Saving Damian may have been a mistake, the kid was an absolute pain, but it felt like the right thing to do. Weird to think he could do the right thing but something told him that was what he should do.

Damian told him where to drop him off, a manor. It brought the pain in his head but he ran to the shadows before it could get worse. There was something important about the manor but it wasn’t the right time to figure it out.ashes of memories were becoming more frequent while he was in Gotham.

Worth another shot of whiskey and another sip of gin

Being passed out drunk was one of the only things keeping the pit’s madness under control, if you can even call it that. If he was drunk he couldn’t go out and fill the need to kill, be the Hood. Bottles littered the floor, the weapons he could run with strewn about on every surface there wasn’t a bottle. This wasn’t right but what else could he do, remembering hurt but something told him it would be worth the pain. 

Another drop of poison that is slowly sinking in

Was he ready though, that’s the question.

Downing the last of the whiskey in his shit apartment he made himself a drunken promise. This would change. Fight through the pain and go back to the manor, check on the kid, see if he can find out why it causes the pain that only happens when he is trying to remember the before.

If we're going down together, better take another hit

Dick was the one who found a lost Jason looking lost in the manor gardens. 

“Jay…”

“...Dickie”

The brothers broke down in each others arms. This started a practice between the two, every over day they would meet at a coffee shop and Dick would help him with his memories. It was slow and it hurt the older boy to see his little brother hurting so much but they made it work.

We won't be here forever, so let's make the best of it

It was a year and a half later he got to see Roy again. You couldn’t separate the for weeks afterwards. They helped one another, became a duo. What they did wasn’t exactly legal but when was being a vigilante ever legal. 

They were the fuck-ups but they worked. They did what they could to help when others wouldn’t. Roy helped with relapses and the intrusive thoughts, Jay could keep Roy grounded. Together they were the Outlaws, others would join them from time to time but it was something that was theirs.

Walking down to the burial ground

The day he finally saw his grave was a jarring one to say the least. It was the day everything finally fell into place. That laugh that could be heard when he was alone explained, the hard to control urge to mame clowns, and red crowbars making him uneasy. It all made sense, why that clown was still alive would always baffle him but that wasn’t his problem.

With a sad song in his brain

It also brought back the sweet voice in the back of his head. Always there but he could finally hear it again. Soft bliss like bells on a warm spring day. Pure comfort, he knew it went with the eyes, but no one could tell him who they belonged to. At first he thought it was Dick, but that wasn’t right, but who else had known him and been close to him?

General Cloud is an old man now

When he saw Bruce again with no masks in the way he didn’t know how to feel. There were a thousand questions going through his head, the loudest being why...why didn’t you do anything? At this point did it matter though, what’s done was done. It was clear he had gone through enough already, no wasn’t the time to stab an old wound… since when did I think about others like that?

But it feels like yesterday

Despite the open invitation to stay at the manor Jason avoided it as much as he could. The photos and halls bringing back what he assumed were memoires, memories hurt. It was a pain he wasn’t ready to quite fully face, that was until he saw the hidden frame. It's simple black outline was hard to miss in the library. It was with his favorite book, why his favorite book was a worn red leather bound book written entirely in French he wasn't sure but something told him it was more than what was contained on the yellowing pages. 

He was on the front lines, stranded on the beach

Memories from a gala not to long after he was adopted came flooding his head. Feeling lost because he was alone, Dick had classes and Jason was by himself in forein country. Baby pink and calm also flashed in his mind. There still wasn’t a clear face but she was real! He knew it! Walks throughout the city, along the Seine and thorough every back alley. She lead him to all her favorite places, showed him the lights that reminded him of the stars, showed him kindness when he felt alone. Was she the reason the madness wasn’t completely gripping him, but how could that be?

Crawling to his best friend, floating in the sea

Roy had found him thumbing through the yellowed pages seemingly lost in his own head. Roy saw the picture and things started to make sense, but for now he needed to take him back home. The next few weeks Jason wasn’t fully there, the memories were hitting him like a flood, sweeping him away. It was hard but he made himself swim, he pushed them back but not away. He still had a mission to attend to.

But he didn't make it, he still can't believe

Every Time he tried to remember now nothing new comes, he knows there is more. There has to be doesn’t there. This can’t be all, Jason Peter Todd knew there was more, what was the key to a lock he couldn’t find?

How arbitrary fate is, he says

Jason thought he had everything there was in his memories at this point, it had been at least 3 years since he died and more than a year since he was free from the League’s influence but her name always eluded him. The one time he tried to ask Dick they both got called away on something urgent and Dick would evade the question every time. Who was she and what had happened that her saying name was akin to saying the cursed words that would bring the devil himself to the living room?

There's gotta be a reason that I'm here on Earth

Something felt different as Red Hood took out the latest drug cartel with Arsenal, something he couldn’t put his finger on. It was a good different though, like something good was going to come his way soon. 

Gotta be a reason for the dust and the dirt

Visiting his grave still felt weird to Jason, but it was a place he could think clearly. No one bothered him there, it was just him and the old him. Something in the back of Jason’s head told him that the old him, old memories would finally be clear in the coming months. A single marigold laid on his grave as left, a small smile on his face as the gate closed behind him.

The changing of the seasons never changed my hurt

Spring came and went, so did most of the summer. Still nothing new has happened but Jason kept the positive thought in his head. He had made it this far, what was the point of giving up now. That didn’t mean tracing his scars to try and bring back more memories didn’t hurt when nothing came up, but at least Roy could always distract him.

So what's it worth? What's it worth?

Fall was about mid way through when Bruce had gotten a call from someone in the Watchtower, who he didn’t know but he could tell it wasn’t expected. Why would someone move to this godforsaken place, a Leaguer no less? Did they have a deathwish? 

Worth another shot of whiskey and another sip of gin

The anniversary of the Outlaws forming was quite the weekend bender, the whole family insisted he celebrated, kept him out of the area for some reason. Roy took him to Star City to get wasted, sure he was going clean but it was a special case, and maybe it hurt his family wanted him gone for awhile… he really thought that after all this time they didn’t see him as a problem kid anymore, that he had improved, at least he still had Roy by his side.

Another drop of poison that is slowly sinking in

The hangover the next day sucked ass, Roy and Jason could agree on that. But it got his mind off what his family didn’t want him to know about. 

If we're going down together, better take another hit

A few weeks later Jason got called to help with a case in Gotham. With everyone, which was weird with how they seemed to be trying to keep him from the city the last few weeks, but if his family needed him he would better. That’s what family was for after all wasn’t it?

We won't be here forever, so let's make the best of it

With Red Hood’s help the villain team up was taken care of quickly. Something told Jason to hang around for longer though, so he did. Taking up an old patrol route. The feeling came back, and for a reason he couldn’t explain it brought a smile to his lips.

There's gotta be a reason that I'm here on Earth

Jason had finished his patrol earlier than usual, he was one of the only ones out that night. He could hear voices from the living room, something told him he should go in but he couldn’t get himself too. What was this feeling? 

Then the voice that was always telling him how he mattered, how much they cared, the one that helped him, came through the ajar door like it was meant just for him. There was a sadness in it that made his heart break, she didn’t deserve to feel that sad. She was an angel and she deserves all the happiness in the world. 

Gotta be a reason for the dust and the dirt

Curiosity was getting the best of him, why was she here? As she talked about a chain he had an epiphany Marinette!!! Her name was Marinette, and with that everything fell into place. She was his light, his reason to fight even if he didn’t know it.

Something she said made him forget about the joy he felt, “I think that’s why I couldn’t let it be real, let him go… I always wanted to be by his side, with him through thick and thin.”

She still loved him? She didn’t know he was alive? How much pain had she been going through? He couldn’t catch his helmet before it hit the ground making everyone look his way, he was into much shock to care though, she was real and staring right to his soul. 

The changing of the seasons never changed my hurt

At first she was tense and ready to fight but Dick called his name and that was all it took for her to launch herself at him. Any punch he got her deserved...wait she was holding him like he would disappear if she let go. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and Mari just held him closer. Regaining his thoughts after the initial shock Jason returned the hug just as tight, “I’m here, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere,” he needed it just as much as she did. Lighty petting her hair as he helped calm her down, she was really in his arms again. 

How long had it been? Too long and she was there now, that's what mattered. He had a lot of time to make up for, and gosh darn he was going to.

So what's it worth? What's it worth?

They had both changed so much since they were in their teens but he could still see her beauty under all the scars, she maybe slightly worse for wear but she was still his Mari. the look she gave him looking into his eyes, he knew she could still she him in there, and even if she didn’t know it she was the reason. He had found his reason to live again. The calling was right, something good was going to happen eventually, and the wait was more than worth it.

Worth another shot of whiskey and another sip of gin

They spent the rest of the night together, talking and just being together. When Jason awoke with movement on his chest he was worried then seeing Mari he was at ease. She took his hand and lead him like a  puppy to the kitchen where they could eat breakfast. 

Eventually she had to go but they exchanged numbers and he was already planning a date. They had years of lost time to make up for and like hell he wouldn’t start as soon as he could. She was his light and he was going to keep that light close as much as he could.

Another drop of poison that is slowly sinking in

Seeing Mari sitting on the dock swinging her legs like when they would hang out in Paris brought a smile to Jason’s lips. She looked stunning in jeans and a red hoodie, a red that reminded him of his costume, she took off her headphones upon hearing him, a grin burst onto her lips when she saw him. She brought a warmth to his chest he never wanted to leave. Holding out a black helmet to the girl of his dreams she got on his bike holding him together then she needed to, Mari was having time time of her life as they speed down the docks at high speeds. She really was perfect.

If we're going down together, better take another hit

We won't be here forever, so let's make the best of it

When the night ended Jason made a promise to himself, and by the look in her baby blue eyes she did too, they would make this work. 

Life might be short but with you by my side it will all be worth it...

///

Finally finished and I hope the wait was worth it <3

[kewltie]

With a decade of wrangling criminals into cuffs and stopping people from doing stupid things, Uemura Isao thought he had seen it all, but this is the first even for jaded old man like him – a heavily pregnant omega walking into a police precinct with his kids in tow is the start of a very bad and ugly joke.

In the midst of criminals getting booked, officers working at their desk, and the rush and feverish pitch of a police headquarter in action, his presence—a bulging belly, a kid on his hip, and three others surrounding him closely—stands in stark contrast to all the chaos around him.

Despite the rowdy noises filtering through and the chaotic pace of this place, he herd his kids through the station with an air of calm and poise that can bring a grown man to his knees. He's definitely didn't seem afraid of the suppressive air given off from the all alphas around him, criminals and cops alike. Even with Isao’s ordinary beta nose, the alphas’ scent here is nauseating oppressive and stifling already, but for a pregnant omega it must be ten times worst. Their noise is particularly sensitive at times like this.

Isao would know since his wife was pregnant three times and anytime he was about to clock out of his shift, he had to wipe himself completely clean otherwise any scent stuck on him that wasn’t his own was enough to trigger her.  

Though, this man holds his head high, completely unbothered by all the noise and smell around him, as he approaches the front desk of their office with his kids.

What an impressive omega, Isao thinks wistfully as he approaches the family in morbid curiosity. “I’ll take care of this one, Ozaki,” he says to officer in charge of the front office.

Ozaki gives him a look, but holds her tongue and lets him take over. “Yes, sir.”

“Please come this way,” he says, directing the group over to his corner of the open office. It’s not the kind of privacy Isao would like to give to privacy but it will do for now.

Just as they make their way to his side of the office, they pass by a newly cuffed criminal spiting and hurling vitriol at the injustice of the world and the officers taking him in. The omega and his kids barely even flinched at such crudeness, but for a brief second the oldest girl turns her white locks to look at unruly man with an utter disdain, like she’d found the criminal’s manners lacking, and makes an a huff of disapproval before switching it back to carefully examine Isao again with her cold icy grey eyes.

It’s like every one of these kids does not seem to be faze but such uncouth violent behavior all around them. It’s a startling revelation. What the fuck kind of environment were they raised in? But it’s no time for him to speculate, Isao will get to the truth of the matter soon enough.

"My name is Uemura Isao.” He offers a gentle smile at the group. “Now, what can I help you with, sir?" he asks, relaxing his stance and adopting a softer and gentle tone in front of the omega and his kids, all in the effort of trying to come off as non-threatening as possible. Delicate situation like this takes time and effort and Isao has years of it.

Green eyes flashes toward him and Isao is momentarily taken back by how young the omega actually looks. Just a few years older than his own youngest niece, but still a little too young to have so many kids already at his age. It's the kind of thing that set off alarm bells in his head. Isao crushes his crude thought of this omega's mate—the sort of asshole who thinks their partner is just a baby making machine.

It's going to be one of those cases he knows and he doesn't like it already. Domestic abuse is always among the worst cases to land on his desk. Too many emotions involve and the cost is too much for any single person to bear, especially when children are dragged into it.  

The omega doesn’t seem to have any visible bruises on him that Isao can see, but he knows not all violence are laid out in the open. The abuser would sink their teeth under the skin, get into their victim’s head, and poison everything they touch so that the victim can never hope escape them. Not unless they destroy themselves in the process to break free. Sometimes, Isao thinks that’s why they’re call survivors because they’d managed make it through that hell.  

The omega hikes the littlest one higher on his hip as the other three huddle protectively over their dam. Isao even got a heated glare from oldest boy, grey eyes boring a hole in his head, who looks like he's going to fist fight Isao here if he even consider saying the wrong thing to the boy’s dam. It's kinda cute. In a completely inappropriate way.  

“I’m Izuku and I would like to speak to your captain please," Izuku says calmly as he reaches out with his free hand to offer a comforting pat on the oldest boy’s head. The boy doesn’t stop his posturing, but he seems his earlier aggression drops enough that Isao thinks he won’t literally his raise fists at Isao here in the police precinct. Fearless, that one is.

He didn’t include a last name. Isao frowns. That's interesting. And nobody come the police station for good news, but to directly ask for the highest ranking person here is—something. Something big.

The captain is currently preoccupied with a supervillain freely rampaging in his city where not even the ranking pro-heroes had been able to even touch him. It's a multi-agencies problem that has the police department and greater Tokyo in an uproar, but none have been able to deal with it. Troublesome doesn’t begin to describe the dire situation of it.

So Isao’s boss is more than a little busy right now to deal with this domestic case.

“Uh," Isao winces, "he's out at moment, but maybe there's something I can help you with," he offers, scratching his chin thoughtfully. He tries not to be too pushy, because it takes a whole lot of guts and will to even be standing here o

"Useless," he hears one of the kids murmur in brutal bluntness.

Isao's eyes snap to the youngest girl who looks unrepentant at her word choice. She only continues to wear her scowl harder and he can feel her spite through her glare. "Akira," Izuku snaps, and that's all it takes for Akira to straighten up and tucks closer to her dam.

Izuku sighs. "I'm sorry, but it is extremely important that I talk to your captain because I have an important request for him,” he says, staring at Isao with determination set in his green eyes. “I would like for you to please arrest my husband and stop his crime spree."

With dread digging its claw into him, Isao presses, "And who might your husband be?" Something tell him that this isn’t a simple domestic abuse case at all.

Izuku smiles. It's brittle thing, but it cuts like the cold edge of a steel sword. "The man who is raising havoc across this city at this moment and has been eluding all your efforts to capture him – the villain Nine," he answers somberly with an immeasurable strength that shake even as season veteran such like Isao himself. “Please help me stop him, so I can save my children and their future.” 

[raywritesthings]

Things as They Should Be

My Writing Fandom: Arrow, The Flash Characters: Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Barry Allen, Nyssa al Ghul, Eobard Thawne, Malcolm Merlyn, John Diggle, Felicity Smoak, Cisco Ramon, Caitlin Snow, Joe West, Eddie Thawne, Thea Queen, Quentin Lance, Ra’s al Ghul, Ronnie Raymond Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: Laurel, acting in Oliver's stead, arrives in Central City too late to help relocate the prisoners; but Reverse Flash sees an opportunity to correct an error in the timeline. Meanwhile, Oliver has had some second thoughts regarding his affairs of the heart. These two things collide on the rooftop where Sara Lance died. / Liberal rearranging of the timeline *Can be read on my AO3 or FFN, links are in bio*

Laurel wished she could simply cherish the moment. Oliver had finally acknowledged her, not just as a somewhat useful ally, but as someone he trusted to watch over the city in place of himself. An equal. 

She’d been waiting for it for so long, it seemed ridiculous to be feeling only a mix of elation and dread. It wasn’t fear or doubt for herself causing it; it was for him. Oliver wouldn’t be asking this unless he had no choice.

Unless he felt he wasn’t coming back.

She wasn’t stupid. He’d been saying goodbye the only way he knew how; by not saying it to her at all. Not face-to-face, anyway. Something was seriously wrong with Thea, and it was her friend’s condition that stopped her from demanding that Oliver explain the whole story first. Thea’s health was more important than Laurel knowing where and why he was really going. She could survive him leaving; she had done it before.

This city would need to survive, too. With that in mind, Laurel returned to the temporary base of operations they’d been working out of inside Palmer Tech. She’d have to make sure she was staying on top of any news or alerts, especially with Felicity leaving on the plane as well.

There was an unread message sent from STAR Laboratories. Laurel clicked on it, brow furrowing as she realized it was Barry Allen and his team requesting Oliver’s help in… moving prisoners? Was this more of that black-site prison stuff? But it seemed the prisoners were in danger of dying if they remained where they were. Okay, so this was important.

Was it more important than the whole city? She had just been tasked with being its guardian, could she really just leave to go help a different one?

Oliver would, if it was to help a friend. He was always there when it counted, when he could be. And she at least considered Cisco a friend, if only because she hadn’t had much chance to get to know the others in Central. This would be that chance.

Laurel sent the message on to Lyla to see if their ARGUS ally could send any immediate aid before going home to pack and call in a personal day from her job. She took the first train that left for Central, wishing that the highs-speed one that had been approved by City Council and their recently-deceased mayor was already finished.

By the time she found her way to the lab that Team Flash used for their base, it appeared deserted. The place was huge, though, so Laurel went down a few levels just to search and be sure. She should have thought to send a message ahead, but she didn’t actually have any of their numbers.

There was a strange humming noise coming from down a hallway. There was a circle opening into a wide, cavernous space. She supposed it was the infamous particle accelerator. Laurel looked this way and that, noticing a number of empty cubes. She wondered what they were for.

A streak of lighting appeared suddenly in the middle of the room. It rushed towards her like the footage she had seen of Barry in action on the news. Laurel tensed; something about this didn’t seem friendly.

She felt herself grabbed and thrown, too fast for her to see anything but a whirl of color and light before her back slammed painfully into something solid. Laurel hit the floor, groaning, and heard the whirr of something mechanical. She pushed back up onto her feet, quickly realizing she was in one of the cubes and that the door to it was closing. She ran forward, but even as she did she could tell she’d be crushed if she tried to slip under the closing gap.

A man in a suit like the Flash’s, but yellow stood grinning on the other side, watching her.

“Hey!” She pounded against the glass, but it barely seemed to budge. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What should have been done already.” His voice was distorted with an underlying threat that Oliver’s own modulated tones had never held. “You’ll thank me someday.”

Without another word, he vanished. Laurel’s breath came quick as she paced the tiny space, punching and kicking at every wall to no avail. That humming noise was so much louder now, and she couldn’t imagine it would be good to be here for whatever that signaled.

Who even was that guy? How could she have screwed up so badly already? This wasn’t what Oliver would have wanted. It wasn’t what she wanted.

Laurel let out one last yell in anger as she kicked out, and a great boom rocked the tiny cell she’d found herself trapped in, throwing her senseless to the floor.

---

Eobard studied his plans for the time capsule for the umpteenth time while ignoring his ancestor still strapped to the chair behind him. It was all coming together quickly now. As soon as he could convince Barry to agree to the plan — assuming Barry would.

He was fairly confident he would. Eobard has spent years watching this Barry Allen grow up, subtly and then more overtly influencing him and his decisions, his very way of thinking. If given the chance to save his mother, how could he pass that up?

There was the Flash’s heroic streak, of course. Perhaps the anger at Eobard would outweigh his desire to be reunited with Nora. In case of that, Eobard had been doing what he could to ensure enough of the old timeline was being re-established, in case he had to make his way into the future on his own. Some things had been eluding him, of course, but at least he had finally broken his ancestor of the belief that Iris West was ever meant to be a part of their family tree.

As he continued revising his calculations, a beep of the alarms he had set up around the labs caught his attention. Eobard went to his computers to check.

“Uh-oh. A little birdie.”

He could hear the detective straining to see behind him. “What… what are you talking about?”

“Just some unexpected company.” He watched Dinah Laurel Lance slowly making her way through the cortex and then down, closer and closer towards the pipeline. And as he did, an idea began to form.

One of the more elusive elements that had been bothering him about this timeline was Star — or still Starling — City. The Green Arrow was not what he was supposed to be. His traditional allies had been shunted aside for other players, and he was mooning over an upstart from MIT of all people. The Black Canary wasn’t what she was supposed to be either. But, he might have just been handed a way to fix that.

Eobard went to the controls for the accelerator, up the launch time. He had enough speed to achieve this, and Eddie Thawne would be safe down here while he ran his little experiment.

“Just a little more repair work on the timeline. It’s good insurance,” he explained offhand, not that he felt his ancestor could really begin to comprehend the finer details. “Miss Lance has offered me a wonderful opportunity that I simply can’t pass up.”

Cisco was a genius, but even his tech couldn’t really hope to compete with the power of the real Canary Cry.

“What are you going to do to her?”

“It won’t kill her. In fact, it really will only make her stronger.” Assuming he got his calculations right. It’d be easier if his ancestor remained quiet.

Not even the pipeline cells could remain fully impervious to the activated accelerator; it was why Barry was amusingly taking the time to evacuate criminals they had been holding for several months now. The partial protection would suit his purposes nicely; enough to keep Black Canary alive, but enough also to allow her DNA to be changed and quickly at that. They had over a year’s worth of development to make up for, after all.

He donned his suit and raced up the ladder, spotting her just poking a curious head into the pipeline. Her eyes widened for a split second before he grabbed her, throwing her none-too-gently into an open cell and slamming the button to bring the hatch down. He gave her credit; she shook herself and rose quickly to her feet, but wasn’t fast enough to rush back out before the hatch slid shut.

“Hey!” Her fist pummeled the glass uselessly as she glared out at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What should have been done already.” He couldn’t resist putting the reverb into his voice, enjoying the way she eyed him warily. “You’ll thank me someday.”

Rather than return to the basement, Eobard ran up and out of the labs, knowing that, if Barry found him on the premises after he had seemingly hurt one of his little friends, he would be less inclined to be reasoned with regarding his idea to reset things.

He would need to lay low now for another little while. Until the accelerator had had time to cool down before reuse. It would delay his plans to return to his time, but he could wait a little longer. He had already waited fifteen years.

---

Barry couldn’t believe he had screwed up so badly. Joe had tried to warn him, but he just didn’t listen. Now Cold had let all the metas get away, except Deathbolt anyway, and whatever crimes they went on to commit would be Barry’s fault.

He had tried to do things the smart guy way like Oliver, and he had failed.

Joe’s words of comfort helped him feel a little better, but he wished his friend were here to give him advice, even if it was to tell Barry just where and how he had gone wrong.

They were interrupted by Cisco rapping his knuckles on the doorway. “Sorry guys. Just… we got a problem.”

They regrouped in the cortex. “The accelerator is in cool down mode,” Cisco told them.

“So, what, Wells was just bluffing?” Joe asked.

“We don’t think so. We think it may have activated while we were gone,” said Caitlin. “And there’s something else.” Biting her lip, she turned one of the monitor screens to face them.

It was a view of one of the pipeline cells. A woman was laying on her side, blonde hair spilling over her face.

Barry’s heart dropped into his stomach. “No. No, we got everybody out. I triple-checked!” She didn’t even look like any of the metas, and it couldn’t be Bates either since he’d been accidentally killed while impersonating Reverse Flash.

He rushed down to the pipeline, opening the outer door and waiting impatiently as it rose before racing to the occupied cell. He opened that as well, waiting until he could just clear it before ducking inside. With greater care, he knelt by the body and slowly brushed her hair aside. His eyes widened and his heart gave another constriction.

It was Laurel.

What was the lawyer he had briefly met in Starling City doing here? And yet, he recalled Felicity’s mention of her becoming a vigilante… had she come here to help them after all? He didn’t know how he could forgive himself, much less look Oliver in the face again, if she was—

Running footsteps signaled the arrival of the others. “It’s Laurel,” he called out to them. “One of Oliver’s friends.”

Cisco’s voice sounded particularly distressed. “Black Canary?”

“Careful not to move her,” Caitlin advised at his elbow. The doctor leaned down, touching Laurel’s neck with two fingers and then listening at her mouth. “There’s a pulse and she’s breathing,” she announced to the whole group.

Cisco made a choked sort of sound, and Barry sat back as relief washed over him. He saw Laurel’s fingers twitch and her eyelids flutter. She drew in a deeper, raspier breath before coughing a few times.

Caitlin pressed a hand between the other woman’s shoulder blades and another rested on her shoulder. “Easy. Try not to make any sudden movements. We’re not sure what’s happened here.”

“Neither am I,” Laurel said with a grumble in her voice rather like Oliver’s, Barry couldn’t help noting. “Where’d that yellow guy go?”

His amusement evaporated. “Reverse Flash? He was here?”

“If he’s a guy in yellow leather with a creepy voice, yeah, he was. He threw me in here and said something about how I’d thank him for this, then ran away.” Her eyes finally seemed to focus as she added, “I think I’ll thank him with a fist to the face.”

Laurel began coughing again.

“She need water?” Joe asked. Barry shrugged helplessly.

“Laurel, do you think you can get up on your own? I’d like to examine you for any injuries or ill effects with my equipment. I’m kind of the team medic around here. Caitlin Snow.”

“Nice to meet you,” Laurel said. “I think I can get up but… who’s that shouting?”

Barry looked around at the others. “No one’s shouting, Laurel.”

She frowned, slowly rising from the ground. “But I hear…” Abruptly, she passed by Joe and Cisco out of the cell and took off further into the pipeline. Barry hurried to catch up to her.

“Hey, you really should probably be taking it easy,” he advised gently.

“Someone’s calling for help,” Laurel insisted. She stopped and doubled back a couple of steps. “It’s loudest… here.”

There was nothing and no one there, but as Barry looked around, he noticed a barely-visible seam in the floor. It was almost like a square…

Heart pounding, Barry called back to the others, “Guys? Is there supposed to be a trapdoor in here?”

Laurel had winced at his raised voice and rubbed her ear while they heard back a, “No?” from Cisco.

Barry licked his lips. “Stay back, alright?” He tried to move around to block Laurel from any potential view, but she stepped to the side and crossed her arms. Right, fellow hero. He wouldn’t really appreciate it if Oliver tried shielding him from something, would he?

He opened the hatch, peering down into darkness. “Hello?” He called out cautiously. If it was Reverse Flash, he’d given away any element of surprise, but why would the other speedster be calling for help like Laurel claimed?

“Barry?” Eddie’s hoarse voice made him nearly jump out of his skin. “Is that really you?”

He rushed down the ladder and found his friend tied to a chair in a small basement. Barry undid the bonds and rushed back upstairs, Eddie in his arms.

“We found Eddie!”

It was a strange group that made their way up to the cortex again. Caitlin was extremely worried about Eddie’s condition, citing dehydration and possible malnutrition. Joe was on the phone with Iris to let her know to come to the lab. Cisco was pouring over some of the notes they had found down in the secret basement.

“The, uh, transfer,” Laurel said. “Was it already completed?”

“Yeah,” Barry answered, too embarrassed to disclose just how it had been completed.

“Then I think I need to be going. I’m the only one really watching Starling right now.”

“But we haven’t gotten you checked out yet,” Barry reminded her.

“I’m fine. Can’t take painkillers anyway, so I’m used to scrapes and bruises. He needs Caitlin’s attention more,” she added, nodding towards Eddie on the medical cot.

“I still think it wouldn’t hurt to wait.”

“Maybe, but I promised Ollie.”

It struck Barry that he’d never heard the billionaire’s old nickname spoken with such obvious tenderness. “Is something going on?”

Laurel shrugged. “I don’t have all the details. I just know someone needs to be protecting the streets. Thanks for getting me out of that… cell, I guess.”

“Don’t mention it.” He still didn’t know why she had been thrown in one to begin with. What had Reverse Flash been aiming to do? What was his game?

Laurel pulled her bag over her shoulder with just a slight wince and walked out of the cortex. Barry watched her leave the labs on the surveillance footage. Of anyone on the Arrow team, Laurel remained perhaps the biggest mystery to him. How did she fit into the group? Why did she do what she did? She seemed separate from the rest and yet clearly held Oliver close in her heart.

Iris arrived, going straight to Eddie, and Barry looked away. He knew she loved the detective and was happy for them to be reunited, but it only made it a little easier, especially after seeing that newspaper article. What could have been.

He tapped Cisco on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow him out of the room. They headed back down to the pipeline. “What’s up?” His friend asked.

“I just wanna check something. Can you stand in the cell Laurel was in?”

“Okay?” Cisco agreed slowly, moving to do so. Barry ran back down into the basement, closing the hatch behind him. He stood by the chair Eddie had been in and shouted for all he was worth.

“Help! Cisco! I’m down here!”

Barry waited, repeated the exercise and waited some more. Then he rushed back up to the main level of the pipeline.

“Did you hear any of that?”

“Any of what?”

He’d thought so. Barry frowned. It was good that Laurel was okay and even better that she had led them to Eddie, but how had she done it?

---

Something was happening to her student, Nyssa couldn’t help feeling. More troubling than this, something was happening to her friend.

She had never had someone in her life quite like Laurel. Only a few short months ago, she had hardly known her beloved’s sister, yet now she spent her nights training the other woman in the art of combating evil. Nonlethally at that, which was something else new to her.

Laurel improved with each exercise, though she still had a habit of underestimating the cruelty of the common thug. She was an idealist and believed the best of people until spindly shown otherwise. Then, in some cases, she kept stubbornly believing in them anyway.

This particular night, Nyssa watched from a concealed place as Laurel took on her latest foe. The man was armed, though her student took no notice of this — until he lurched back to avoid a swing of Laurel’s nightstick, his jacket hitting the fence. Laurel tensed and shoved her stick under the man’s throat.

“Hands up. Go for your knife and you will regret it.”

Nyssa watched with growing surprise as Laurel soundly disposed of the common street thug. “Well done,” she announced, stepping out into the open. “What caused you to realize his advantage?”

“I heard something metal hit the chain link. It wasn’t heavy enough to be a gun, so a knife,” Laurel answered. Nyssa raised an eyebrow. She had heard? And in the midst of battle?

“Yes, well, he did have two knives,” she felt the need to point out. “We must observe with eyes as well.” Laurel grimaced, so Nyssa added, “I believe we have done enough for now. We should seek food to replenish our energy.”

Laurel suggested they dine on something called a milkshake and added deep fried potatoes to the deal by the time they had reached the restaurant. Unhealthy as it was, Nyssa enjoyed herself until her friend finally confessed to knowing where Oliver Queen had disappeared to of late: he had taken her father’s offer. He had supplanted her, and she knew what that meant for her future.

Nyssa left the restaurant and retrieved her armaments, then made her way to the rooftop where Sara was slain. If she was to die, she would wish it to be on the very same spot her beloved drew her last breath; if she were to be victorious, she would wish to strike her enemy down on that same hallowed ground.

Oliver, or what manner of monster he had become under her father’s care, did not leave her waiting long. He claimed he was to return her to Nanda Parbat, but she would force his hand to deliver the killing blow first.

They dueled, Oliver showing just how much he had learned in his time with the League, the things her father had never really offered to teach her. Nyssa grit her teeth as she felt herself backed up against the roof’s edge just as Sara had been, though it was a sword at her throat instead of an arrow in her chest.

A sound pierced the night, unlike any she had ever heard. The closest she could think of were her beloved’s devices, but they had not been nearly so strong. Nor so visible.

Nyssa could only cringe in pain as glass shattered around them and something like heavy waves of air struck her assailant in his side. He did not keep his feet; instead, her pain was forgotten in a gasp as the man who had once been Oliver Queen went over the edge, the black bow and arrows strapped to his back flying and falling with a clatter.

“Oliver!”

Nyssa whipped her head around towards the source of this unexpected rescue. The shout had come from John Diggle, Oliver’s aid, and the sound… she could only guess had come from Laurel. Laurel, who looked frozen in shock and horror at what she had done.

She had told Nyssa about the adjustments she had asked an engineer to make to Sara’s device, though Nyssa had maintained they would continue to focus on her physical skill set before incorporating such additions. Perhaps that had been in error.

There was a distant bellow of pain, a popping noise and another clang. Nyssa rolled to her feet and peered down. Her adversary still lived.

He was dangling from the rail of a fire escape several flights below, one arm hanging uselessly at his side and at an odd angle. Out of socket. His grip with the other hand was tenuous at best. Did she wait for him to fall? Or would he survive the remaining distance?

Nyssa drew her bow and another arrow as she contemplated, hearing her two allies scrambling across the treacherous roof with its broken skylights. She aimed the arrow down, pointed straight between the eyes.

Something flashed in his expression, and he could not hide it. Fear for his life, something no one truly brainwashed by the League ever felt. There was Oliver behind his eyes. He seemed to know she had seen it too, for he grimaced and spoke just as Laurel and John Diggle joined her: “Little help, please?”

---

Oliver couldn’t quite grasp what had just happened. All he knew was one arm was on fire, the other was not far behind it, his ankle had collided painfully with something metal that without putting weight on it he couldn’t test the possible damage and his ears were ringing. His whole body felt like it was still ringing.

John and Laurel hurried down the fire escape to him, hauling him up though he couldn’t quite hold in another yelp and he collapsed into Digg’s side as soon as he was standing. His ankle was damaged in some way.

“Ollie, are you — I wasn’t trying to do that,” Laurel said in a rush.

“Yeah? What exactly were you trying?” He grumbled.

“Sara’s sonic bombs, I had Cisco reconfigure them but something’s wrong.”

“Something’s wrong, alright. The thing broke and that sound still came out. Come on, we gotta get back to the base before the police come check out the noise disturbance.”

“Where is the base?” He wondered idly as they helped him limp along.

Nyssa joined them as John and Laurel helped him into the back of the van, and Oliver let his head drop back to rest as he breathed in and out. He needed to push the pain to the back of his mind in order to think, because his plan had just gone sideways.

The others knew it was an act now. They would never believe that he had been fully brainwashed by the League, even if he went back to Nanda Parbat tonight. And if he did go back, would he even be alive tomorrow? Ra’s would have to know he had lost this fight and that his team had nursed his wounds. He would know he was being played. What did they do now?

Malcolm wasn’t here to propose a new strategy. Malcolm would probably be furious that their current strategy had been ruined. That it had been at Laurel’s hands… well, even Oliver could appreciate that irony.

He could feel her eyes on him. Nervous, worried, guilty. Oliver found himself reaching out with his good arm and taking her hand. Maybe he was too tired to maintain the distant facade anymore. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he’d just missed her too much.

Of everyone, he hadn’t given her a proper goodbye, yet he knew she’d understood what he was trying to say all the same, and she’d accepted it. As always.

He wished he had asked her to make the journey with them, that she’d been there to help Thea through the worst of the Lazarus Pit’s effects. More than anyone, he could trust Laurel to take care of his sister for no other reason than because she already cared for her. She had beyond proven that to him when she had thrown his fear and doubt about her reaction to learning Thea’s role in Sara’s death back in his face. With Malcolm, there was still the lingering risk that he was acting in self-interest, and Oliver could still remember Felicity’s chilling words when he’d asked her to look after his sister in his absence: And what is that worth?

He’d had a lot of time to think about his relationships in Nanda Parbat; it had been necessary in order to maintain a hold of his identity. And in all his recollecting, he was coming to a troubling conclusion. He wasn’t sure he and Felicity were in love the way he’d thought they were.

He cared for her, obviously. He was grateful for everything she had dedicated to the mission. There was fondness, respect, trust… or there had been.

He’d been out of it still in the catacombs when he thanked her. But with a clearer head, it had hit him that for no matter what reason, Felicity had drugged him without his consent. He’d been near-furious with John for doing the same thing only last year. And if Felicity’s plan had succeeded, there would have been far worse consequences.

That rash action aside, there was more he couldn’t help seeing once he’d been on his own. Felicity had fallen into a habit of speaking for him, or even over him, often. She took it upon herself to interpret his meaning for others when he never asked for such a thing to be done. And just picturing her reaction to learning his and Malcolm’s plan and how much she wouldn’t have been allowed to know to until the end… he was almost as nervous as Laurel was to return to the team’s new base.

Laurel’s reaction he could picture perfectly as well. There would be disappointment that he had relied on Malcolm rather than the rest of them, that he had lied. But there would be acceptance that it had been the one way forward to ensure the least amount of danger to the city. She would set aside her feelings to deal with the situation at hand, the way she almost always did. It was only when it came to things like her family that she could become over-emotional, a flaw Oliver could privately admit he shared.

He had been so hard on her. He had hoped it would keep her away from all this. Instead it had just kept her from him.

The new base turned out to be an unused room within Palmer Tech. Felicity was there to meet them, and her eyes widened as John and Laurel helped him hobble towards a medical table.

“Oliver! What- what happened? Was it the League?”

“Nope,” John answered for him. “He was trying to take Nyssa out for the League. Laurel stopped him a little too enthusiastically.”

“I was supposed to bring Nyssa to Nanda Parbat,” Oliver interrupted before too many fingers could start pointing back and forth. “It was not my intention to kill her.”

“And what do you imagine my father would have had you do once we arrived?” Nyssa asked coolly.

“Malcolm or I would have figured something out.” He hadn’t known precisely what that something would be, but he had known capturing Nyssa at the least would have been vital to convincing Ra’s he was on the man’s side.

“Malcolm? I don’t understand,” Felicity said. “You’re still working with him? They said you’d be brainwashed.”

“They tried. Didn’t take,” he answered shortly.

“But you wanted Ra’s to think it did,” Laurel realized quietly. She’d been wearing a frown from the moment he had mentioned Malcolm, but now her brow creased with apprehension. “What happens now?”

“I really don’t know. What happened on the roof?”

She shrugged helplessly. “It shouldn’t have been that strong.”

“What shouldn’t have been? Can we use our words, people?” Felicity asked.

“Laurel had Cisco at STAR labs modify Sara’s sonic bombs,” John explained as he finished retrieving some medical supplies. “But the tech didn’t work the way it was supposed to, and somehow she knocked Oliver clean off the roof. It’s how he got so banged up.”

Oliver carefully shed the upper layers of his League uniform with Digg’s help. He was glad the others were not facing the brand, at least for now. Felicity’s eyes drifted over his chest while Laurel’s own gaze remained solidly on his face. Nyssa was looking out a window, her lips pursed in quiet thought.

“This is… probably going to sound crazy,” Laurel said at last. “But I felt something.”

“Like what?” He asked, hoping it came off as encouraging. Laurel needed to open up if they were going to get to the bottom of this.

“It was like it came from in me, in a way.”

“What, like you’re the sonic bomb?” Felicity’s skepticism rang loud and clear in the room.

“The device broke before the sound came out,” John revealed. He gripped Oliver’s bad arm. “Ready?”

“Do it.” He bit down hard as the other man forced his shoulder back into socket. Pain rippled through him and he gasped for air.

Felicity darted forward as if to steady him at his other side, but Oliver leaned away. He knew he didn’t want to discuss his revelations about their relationship right now in front of the others, but he didn’t want to lead her to believe in something that just wasn’t there. She drew short of him, a hurt look in her eyes.

Oliver focused back on Laurel. “Has this ever happened before, or anything like it?”

Laurel shook her head, but it was Nyssa who said, “I believe there is more to it than producing sound. Laurel has developed an unusually keen sense of hearing.”

“You never said anything,” Laurel said with a frown.

“I only noticed it recently,” the former Heir to the Demon said. “And on its own it did not seem so remarkable.”

“How recent, Nyssa?” Oliver asked.

“Within the last month, certainly. I would say it was soon after you left to usurp me.”

He pointedly ignored the last of that sentence, keeping his gaze on Laurel while John fit a brace to his ankle. “Could anything have happened to you between them and now that might explain this? Anything at all.”

“I mean, I- I went to Central to try and help Barry and the others with something. They, um, were trying to move their prisoners,” she said, the last word twisting her lips with distaste in a way that was almost amusing. “I got there too late, though. But there was this guy they called the Reverse Flash, in a yellow suit like Barry’s—”

“The guy that killed Barry’s mom?” Felicity demanded. Oliver felt his heart stop.

“I wouldn’t know,” Laurel answered. “But he threw me in this box of some kind of reinforced glass, ran away and there was this big boom before I guess I passed out.” She hugged her arms to herself. “I came to and Barry and the others had gotten back.”

“But what happened?” John asked.

“That’s all I know.”

“Laurel,” Oliver started in frustration. She’d passed out and not told any of the others? What had Reverse Flash been trying to do to her? Why didn’t she care more?

“Well, they were all kind of busy with the man they found being held captive in their own basement,” she snapped. “Apparently I was the only person who heard him calling for help — which I guess was when that whole thing started. But I would’ve needed to get back here anyway because I needed to be looking out for the city.”

Oliver’s eyes slipped closed. The promise he had asked of her before he’d left. That was why she hadn’t bothered to remain at STAR and have them confirm anything.

“Felicity, call Barry,” he instructed. She blinked in surprise but got out her phone, shooting him an odd look as she did so.

“Alright, but you need to rest, man,” Digg said. “At least until he gets here.”

Oliver complied, if only because he knew Barry wouldn’t take long. Sure enough, the speedster was soon among them and listened attentively as they explained everything that had happened.

“It was the particle accelerator. Wells — or Thawne — Reverse Flash,” the younger hero decided on eventually. “He’d turned it on to use for something. We’re still not sure what the original purpose was, because even he shouldn’t have been able to guess Laurel would be showing up that exact evening.”

“Why would he want to use it to change her?”

“I’m not sure. He’s, he’s from the future,” Barry admitted to all of their shock. “And maybe that means he knows something about Laurel. Something that means she’s supposed to be a meta. But until we catch him, we can’t know for sure.”

“How do we do that?” Laurel demanded. He could tell she was shaken to hear that this man had made such a change to her without her consent. Oliver was beating himself up already for not being there. He should have kept a better eye on things at home; he should have protected her the way he always did; he should have—

It was with a sense of dawning wonder and fear that Oliver realized what this feeling was, the feeling that had never quite died in him no matter how hard he had tried to stamp it out: love.

He was in love with Dinah Laurel Lance, even when she had long gotten over him.

“Ollie?”

He started, working to school his features as the others all stared at him. He felt too shy suddenly to meet Laurel’s eyes, so he watched her shoulder and the lock of her hair that hung over the front of it. “Yeah?”

“We’re trying to figure out who to neutralize first,” John re-stated. “Ra’s or Reverse Flash.”

He swallowed. Right, the plan. He needed a new one, one that didn’t involve him resuming his place at Ra’s side. The longer they delayed, the more suspicious the Demon would become.

“Ra’s. We need to take the fight to Nanda Parbat now.”

“But you’re injured,” Felicity immediately protested.

“We can’t afford to wait. Ra’s will suspect he’s been betrayed and send out the best of his followers to kill all of us.” Everything he had tried to avoid by becoming Al-Sah-Him would come to pass.

His ankle wasn’t broken as he had feared. He could stand on it with the brace if need be. He would have to hope he could fight on it as well.

“A straight assault on Nanda Parbat is suicide,” Nyssa declared. “You would never be able to root each and every assassin out of the passages. They would surround you and slaughter before you had time to blink.”

“Not if it was Barry who was blinking,” Laurel pointed out. “Could you… I don’t know, run them all out of the fortress into the open?”

“Definitely. Not sure if I could stop them from going back in if I’m helping you to fight them, though.”

“Then we stop them from going back in,” said Oliver, a plan forming in his mind off the back of Laurel’s idea. “You can do that scream again.”

“I didn’t know I could do it the first time,” she protested, backing up even a step further. Oliver shifted his weight off the table onto his good leg to catch her hand before she could fully draw away.

“It’s your power, just like Barry’s speed. And I have a feeling it’s exactly what we need. You’re strong, Laurel. I’ve known that our whole lives. And no matter how or why you received this ability, you’re the one in control of it.”

Her gaze remained on their hands joined together. He rubbed a thumb over the fishnet material on the back of her glove, and slowly, she raised her head to meet his eyes. “What do you need me to do?”

There was a current between them, making his heart thump loudly in his ears and his mouth run dry. He wondered if he was the only one to notice it, or if Laurel could still somehow feel it too. Could he even be that lucky?

A throat cleared, and Oliver swallowed, glancing to the side to see the others watching and waiting. Felicity must have been the one to do it; she had a wet sheen to her eyes. He would have to speak with her soon. It was long past time to set things back to rights with his various affairs of the heart.

But ending the threat of the League in their lives came first.

---

Malcolm paced the small chamber he had been given in Nanda Parbat, far beneath the accommodations he had once held as Ra’s horseman. But soon, very soon, he would be occupying a much more opulent room within the fortress.

So long as Oliver didn’t screw everything up.

The man had yet to return with Nyssa or to report his progress. Ra’s was growing agitated, they all could tell and so all steered clear of their leader. It would certainly be an upset should Nyssa prove after all to be the better Heir, but Malcolm feared Ra’s discovering the truth: that Oliver was merely pretending to be the loyal disciple.

Had he quailed at killing the woman? The Oliver who had returned from the island two years ago would have been far better suited to this plan. He had developed a soft heart in his time back home. His friends were likely convincing him to try a new, futile strategy instead. It would end in ruin for all of them and Starling if they pursued it.

Malcolm began to pack his things. Once Ra’s discovered Oliver’s treachery, he would need to be far away from here. He would stop briefly in Starling to collect Thea and disappear. There were those who opposed Ra’s that they could ally themselves with and seek protection. At least for the moment.

But he had only the time to sling his pack over his shoulders before he was suddenly seized and felt himself carried impossibly fast. Malcolm closed his eyes and had his sword drawn when he was released from the strange sensation, blinking in the sudden light of day outside the fortress.

He took stock of his surroundings. All the League’s soldiers stood around in various stages of confusion. John Diggle had a gun aimed at Sarab, the current horseman. Nyssa stood proudly with her own bow and arrow drawn at him. Oliver favored his left leg but stood with head uncovered, his right arm braced on Laurel’s shoulder. At a nod from him, she stepped out from under him and marched to the front just as a streak of lightning rushed out of the fortress once more with a final member of this gathering: Ra’s himself.

“Al-Sah-Him, what is the meaning of this?” The Demon demanded once he had gained his feet. A man in red — the Flash from Central City, he realized — also appeared in solid form.

“Al-Sah-Him never existed. My name is Oliver Queen. And I’ve never been one for prophecies,” Oliver said. “Now, Canary!”

With a vicious smirk sent back Malcolm’s way, Laurel planted her feet and let forth a scream that shook the ground beneath their feet and the heavens above. The stone of Nanda Parbat’s entryway blasted apart under the force of the visible waves, and it’s pillars buckled before giving way.

Cries emanated from the members, some of horror and some of pain as they clutched at their ears. The Priestess clutched her robes and sobbed. And Malcolm could only watch in astonishment as his ambitions and plans crumbled to dust and rubble before his very eyes. Within minutes, Nanda Parbat was no more. His legs trembled, but he just barely stopped himself from sinking to his knees.

“No!” Ra’s scream of rage was marked with terror, and Malcolm knew why: the Lazarus Pit had just been buried and contaminated beyond any hopes of saving it. The Demon drew his sword and lunged — only for two arrows to embed themselves in his back.

The greatest warrior Malcolm had ever known fell just feet away from Laurel Lance. Both Oliver and Nyssa advanced on him as he raised himself to his knees.

“Your reign and your League is ended, Ra’s,” Oliver said. “You’ve lost sight of the mission you spoke to me of, descending into petty squabbles and schisms. You hoard your power and refuse to relinquish it. You’ve become what you swore to fight against.”

Ra’s eyes widened for a moment, before he sneered at his daughter. “And you, Nyssa? My own flesh and blood?”

“You forswore me the moment I discovered that love could rule my heart instead of fear. Your mistake was in thinking that it made me weaker.”

A puff of air left Ra’s lips as a trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. “You think yourself strong? You have destroyed your birthright. You will never be Ra’s al Ghul,” he rasped. Though he grew weaker, it seemed he was determined to die with a straight back. “And you…” his gaze fell on Oliver again, but the eyes glazed over and his body went limp before his final condemnation could be spoken.

Oliver turned to face the assembled assassins, frozen without orders to follow. “The League of Assassins is no more. You can either return to your old lives or make new ones for yourselves elsewhere. But if any of you even think about setting foot in my city, you’ll suffer the same consequences as your leader just has.” There was sweat beginning to bead on his brow, and Laurel returned to his side, subtly supporting his weight. Oliver smiled down at her briefly before they began a slow walk away from Ra’s fallen form, leaving Nyssa to see to what was left of her father.

Malcolm broke from his own stupor and hurried after them. “Oliver. What happened? This was not the plan.”

While Laurel did nothing to hide the contempt in her gaze, Oliver was more diplomatic. “The plan we had was riskier and would have taken longer. I realized I could end the League’s threat a different way, so I did.”

“And ended the League entirely?”

“Not exactly how you were hoping this would all go, was it?” Laurel asked, her tone entirely too smug. She had guessed his goal, then.

“How did you create that kind of force?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything, but I’d be more than happy to demonstrate how it works a second time.”

Malcolm shifted his weight back. He had no doubt if she used that new and strange ability again that it could kill him. No longer did he have the decided upper hand in their confrontations, and Oliver seemed to be far more inclined to favor her once again. How could he have missed such a dramatic shifting of the balance of power he’d been cultivating?

“You’re free to live your life without looking over your shoulder for the League, Malcolm. I’d say that makes us more than even,” Oliver said. “But use Thea for one of your schemes again, and it will not end well for you.”

So he wished to be enemies once more going forward, did he? “I see. Thank you for the cursory warning. I still think you’ve made a grave mistake today, Oliver, but it’s clear to me you aren’t interested in hearing it.” Malcolm stepped aside, allowing the two to rejoin John Diggle and the Flash as they left the mountains.

The Flash and now Laurel’s dangerous gift. Oliver had found himself powerful allies. Malcolm should have used the tension his presence on the team had caused between the former lovers to widen the schism while he’d had the chance. He should have remembered it did not take long for Oliver and Laurel to forgive each other their mistakes.

He returned to the grouping of League members who remained. Some had already departed; still others seemed to have taken the League’s ruination as their own and swallowed the poison capsule all members carried. Someone needed to take hold of the situation and fast before one of the most elite forces in the world was squandered completely.

While Nyssa ordered Sarab and the Priestess to help with the arrangements for Ra’s burial, Malcolm set to work doing what any good businessman would: networking.

He might not have the ring nor the seat nor the title of the Demon, but he would persevere.

---

Laurel felt an extra spring in her step that half of Oliver’s weight plus all his League uniform adornments couldn’t even dampen. She had ended the League that had taken Sara away from their family, both in life and death. She had denied Malcolm, the orchestrator of her sister’s demise, the prize he’d been so clearly seeking when he’d crafted the original plan Oliver had told them about. She had destroyed a centuries-old order with nothing but a scream.

It was a little scary, how much watching the stone fortress had exhilarated her. If someone else had these powers she’d had forced on her, what would they do with them? There had been no casualties from the destruction, but she would need to watch herself and hope her teammates had her back in the field.

Right now, she had Oliver’s, since it was difficult for him to navigate the rocky terrain with a bad ankle. Laurel couldn’t help wondering what was going through his head. He’d asked her to watch out for the city when he’d left to begin his deception of Ra’s, and ever since he’d come back, he had been… different towards her.

She didn’t want to think it or even dare to get her hopes up again. She wasn’t that much of a fool. He’d probably just missed everyone and was trying to express it in his unspoken way.

Though that didn’t explain the distance between him and Felicity when they returned to the plane where she waited for the news.

“Ra’s is dead, and the League is without a leader or a stronghold,” Oliver reported succinctly.

Felicity nodded and retook her seat, and it was John who joined her. Oliver directed them to keep moving further back to another row. She helped him lower himself down and then took the seat beside him. 

Barry hovered a bit between the rows before taking his own chair across the aisle from them, leaning forward to talk to Oliver. “I had Caitlin reach out to Ronnie and Professor Stein. They’re planning to meet us in Central to take care of Reverse Flash. Are you sure you’re good?”

“I can fire an arrow, Barry.”

“You could take a sniper position,” Laurel offered, seeing that Barry looked just as reluctant as she felt to put him directly in the path of that speedster while he was still recovering.

Oliver thought it over quietly for a few moments. “Depends on where the fight happens. If there’s a good position to take, I’ll be there.”

Barry relaxed back into his seat. Laurel nodded and did her best to settle in for the flight. They would need to be rested so that they were ready to move once they touched back down in Central.

She wasn’t sure how long she slept, given that the window shades were all pulled down, but gradually Laurel became aware that she tilted to the right and that her head had landed on something warm and solid. She jerked upright, wincing as Oliver’s face scrunched you and he awoke as well.

“Something wrong?”

“No. I… I just realized I was kind of in your space. Sorry,” she told him softly. Barry snores lightly across the aisle, and she couldn’t detect any movement from the row ahead.

“It’s okay.” Oliver licked his lips and shifted in his seat a little. “I’m glad.”

“For what?”

“For not ruining everything again. For you still being… okay with me. For relying on me.”

“Ollie, you’re my friend. We’re always going to be okay. I rely on you, and I hope you can rely on me because I care about you.”

“Even if…” He stopped himself, suddenly looking more vulnerable than she’d perhaps ever seen him.

“If what?”

A tone chimed, indicating passengers were meant to be buckling back in. She heard John moving in the seat ahead and the low murmur of his voice as he woke Felicity. Regretfully, Laurel turned to lean across the aisle and nudge Barry.

There wasn’t a chance for her to ask what Oliver had meant. They landed and were immediately driven to STAR labs where a number of people waited. Most of them she had met the last time she was here.

“I wish we had time to run some tests on your abilities,” Caitlin said. She had her phone out, checking for updates from the two men still making their way here.

An alarm at the computers was tripped before that happened. Felicity and Cisco bumped into each other as they both went to check.

“It’s him.”

Laurel drew in a breath and released it. It was time to confront the man who had done this to her, along with the crimes he had inflicted on so many here.

“Did Ray send you what he promised?” Oliver asked.

Cisco passed him a couple arrows in green. “You’re gonna have to make them count. I was also able to whip up a pair of these.” He held up a set of earbuds. “They cancel out sound above a certain decibel. Should avoid some possible friendly fire from the Super Boss Canary Cry.”

“Only one pair?” Laurel asked, chewing her lip. She knew it was a lot to expect more in such a short period, but she wasn’t keen on hurting any of her friends.

“Take them, Ollie,” Barry said. “I heal.”

Oliver hesitated a moment, eyeing Barry strangely, before reaching out for them as well.

Barry squared his shoulders and turned towards the door. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

She followed Barry out to the lot while Oliver and John took to the roof. The Reverse Flash waited with his cowl down, revealing a man with brown hair Laurel vaguely recognized from the news. The scientist that had set off the particle accelerator more than a year before he’d done it again to her.

“Well, looks like I provided you a friend,” the man called out to Barry, his grin sharp as he looked Laurel over.

“Why did you?” She asked. None of them had been able to figure that out.

“The same reason I gave everyone else their powers. I just missed you on the first try, and I couldn’t exactly waste the opportunity to correct it when you were good enough to walk right in,” he explained easily.

“Because it fit into your grand plan.” Barry added.

Reverse Flash shook his head. “You see me as the villain, but, Barry, if you were to look back, look back carefully at everything I've done, every wheel I have set in motion, you would realize I have only done what I had to do. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

A man with flames rising from his head and shooting from his hands and feet cleared a building to the right of the STAR Labs lot and descended. “Hope we weren’t late,” he said to Barry, his voice echoing slightly.

“You’re right on time.”

“Black Canary and Firestorm?” Reverse Flash remarked with raised eyebrows. Laurel wondered if he was ignoring Oliver and John for the moment or if they had managed to conceal themselves. She hoped for the latter.

Barry turned back to him, confidence in every line of his stance. “I don't care how fast you are. You can't fight all of us at the same time.” 

“Oh, I can't? Trust me. This... This is gonna be fun.” He lifted his hand and something yellow shot out of the ring on his finger. In a quick movement, he was wearing the suit she had first seen him in, eyes blazing with red. He and Barry shot forward, and the fight began.

The two speedsters circled each other so fast it was all one blur to her and Firestorm. They exchanged frustrated looks as they watched, waiting for some kind of opening. She could hit them both with her Cry, but that would take Barry out as well for the time it took him to heal. And they needed him.

“Move, Barry!” Firestorm urged. “We need a clear shot!”

Barry suddenly became clear when he was thrown against a wall. Reverse Flash tried to follow, but Firestorm put up a wall of flame between the two speedsters, and Laurel let loose her cry.

She managed to just clip his side as he dodged around the worst of it, grabbing Firestorm with a snarl and flinging him through the air.

Firestorm was sent careening out of sight. The streak of lightning that was Barry went racing after him, and Laurel readied her weapon as Reverse Flash turned to her with a leer.

An arrow sailed through the air and embedded in his leg before he’d taken one step. As he reached to pull it out, the blurring of his face and hands slowed.

“Nanites,” Oliver called down, his position having been revealed. “Courtesy of Ray Palmer. They're delivering a high frequency pulse that's disabling your speed. You're not gonna be running around for quite a while.”

Laurel didn’t wait a second longer. She went in with her nightstick, cracking her opponent across the face before delivering a combination of punches, only one of which the man blocked without his speed to aid him.

He had some training in throwing a punch, but at normal speed she was the better fighter. Laurel wasn’t sure if his healing had been disabled along with the speed, but she went in with hard blows just in case.

He landed on a knee and shook, faster and faster. The nanites were wearing off.

Laurel quickly backed up, readying her Cry, but he looked up with a grin and raced away towards the Labs. To her horror, the streak ran up the wall, making quickly for the roof.

John moved out in front of Oliver, firing down several rounds with his gun.

Laurel ran towards the building, but could only watch as the yellow blur dodged around the bullets and knocked into John, sending him crashing back onto the roof. Oliver’s bow and quiver fell down around her, raining arrows. The blur resolved, holding Oliver by his throat over the edge of the roof.

“The history books say you live to be 86 years old, Mr. Queen,” the speedster growled. “Well, I guess the history books are wrong.”

He let go. Oliver fell, and her heart dropped. She couldn’t watch this again, not so soon, there was nothing for him to grab onto and save himself—

“OLLIEEEEEEEE!”

The scream left her of its own accord, waves rippling upward. But where they met with Oliver’s falling form, something strange happened. He slowed, and then nearly stopped in his descent.

She was keeping him in the air. Laurel squeezed her eyes shut, maintaining the Cry for as long as she was able. Wind rushed past her and she could hear the crackle of two speedsters, but all that mattered was the man slowly lowering to the ground as her breath ran out.

“Laurel!” She heard it distantly over the sound of her scream. “Laurel, you can stop!”

She squinted her eyes open. Oliver was close; she could nearly reach him if she jumped. He was telling her it was okay; he would make it.

Laurel staggered back and gasped in a large breath of air to fill her lungs. She threw out her arms, and Oliver dropped the last few feet into them. They fell together, hitting the hard asphalt with two grunts.

Laurel sat up as soon as she was able, keeping one arm around his back as she checked the earplugs were still in place. “Did they work? I didn’t hurt you?”

“No. It was… I don’t know how to describe that. But I was safe.” One of his hands reached up, gloved thumb smoothing over where her cheek had scraped against the ground a little. “Thank you.”

She saw Firestorm’s feet come down in front of them, and Barry sped to her side. “We got him,” the speedster confirmed, which she was glad for despite having forgotten all about the fight. “And Digg should be good. Caitlin’s up there now checking to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion. You alright, Ollie?”

“Yeah,” Oliver said, his brow crinkling with confusion as he asked, “Since when do you call me Ollie?”

Barry blinked. “Oh. I don’t- didn’t, I mean. But Laurel calls you that sometimes, and I thought that meant you… liked it?”

Oliver smirked as a snort left his nose. Then he laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. She knows me.”

“Better than anyone,” she confirmed with relief. Everything was okay now. Both cities were safe, and if anything, she had just learned that her powers could do more than cause harm. They could protect. They could save.

There were issues back home, maybe. Her father, Oliver’s vigilante persona being effectively dead and, Laurel could admit as she looked into his eyes, the stubborn feelings she’d never quite given up no matter what she said. But they could handle them together this time. She could feel in her bones that this was where they had always been meant to be.

---

By order of Dr. Snow, Oliver was put on bed rest for the next week, and possibly two judging by how much clucking she had done with her tongue while examining his ankle and other varied injuries. He, Laurel, John and Felicity returned to Starling on a train the next morning after seeing Reverse Flash safely locked away in the pipeline. Laurel had looked more than a little uncomfortable doing so, as he knew she was still one to advocate for the law whenever possible, and he’d taken her hand briefly.

Now he was stuck on a couch in the loft, recounting everything that had happened to Thea, who had been away visiting Roy in his new home for most of it. He didn’t ask her about her trip. Whatever had happened between them was theirs to know.

“I still don’t get why he gave Laurel powers to help beat him,” his sister said, and Oliver frowned.

“Something tells me there’s still more to his plans than he let on. But it’s Barry’s decision on what to do about them.”

“So what happens here?”

“Well, I heal. Then… I don’t know. I want to keep helping the city, but Lance took away the only way I had. Laurel has her Cry now, and Ray’s helping, but—”

“You can’t sit at home while she’s out there,” Thea guessed with a knowing half-smile.

“Yeah.”

“Roy gave me something before he left, you know,” she said lightly. “A red jacket. A few modifications… I could join her out there. At least while you’re still healing up.”

Oliver looked up at her. “Thank you.”

Thea shrugged. “I should do something good with what Malcolm taught me, right? And for the record, I’m so glad he’s not hanging around anymore.”

Oliver nodded. It did feel easier to breathe in some ways, knowing he wasn’t indebted to or being used as leverage for one of the man’s schemes. He could do his mission his way once again, if he could figure out just how.

“There’s something I’m kinda hoping you can clear up, though,” Thea said, turning fully towards him.

He sat up a little straighter. “Oh?”

“Felicity said something about the two of you after you went to join the League that seemed to indicate you’re… together?”

He winced. “We’re… we’ve tried to be.”

“But you don’t want to be.”

His shoulders slumped. “What does that say about me?”

He was a horrible person, wasn’t he? Everything he had put Felicity through, all the disapproval he had rained on her choice of Ray Palmer all so she would end things with the billionaire, and now he felt it had been a mistake.

He had thought being in a relationship would be enough. But it wasn’t a relationship he wanted, really. It was a person. And that person was Dinah Laurel Lance. It always had been, but he kept thinking he could fool himself.

Felicity wanted to be with him. Laurel… Laurel cared about him, because that was the kind of person she was. But he knew better than to assume anything should come of it. If he could have just been better, made the right choices, acted the way she deserved. Maybe he did deserve to be alone.

There was a knock on the door of the loft. Thea got up and checked at the peephole. “It’s Felicity.”

His heart sank, but he said, “Let her in.”

Thea opened the door. “Hey, you here for Ollie?”

“Yes, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, I was just heading out to grab some lunch. See ya!” She called over her shoulder, grabbing her keys and leaving them the room. It was the right thing to do, but a childish part of him wanted to call her back here for help.

Felicity moved towards the couch, ending up standing next to the coffee table. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“How’s your leg?”

“Doing better. How’s… work?”

“Good. A lot of stuff you wouldn’t really be interested in, but, you know. Good.”

They lapses into silence. He wished it was comfortable.

“Felicity—”

“I had something I wanted to say,” she spoke at the same time. His mouth snapped shut. “I prepared it and everything, so I don’t go off-book and say something embarrassing. You know me.”

“Yes.”

She drew in a deep breath. “Okay, here goes. What happened in Nanda Parbat is not something I regret, but I feel like it didn’t go where either of us was expecting. Or hoping, maybe.”

He stayed silent.

“I thought part of that was just, you know, you going to the League to be brainwashed and all that putting an expiration date on us. But that was really a lie, and it made me realize something. I keep trying to save men from suicide missions,” she stated bluntly. “But I can’t. That’s your decision. And I think you made it on that island, and you’re not changing your mind.”

“No,” he confirmed quietly.

She nodded and took a small step towards him. “Ra’s told me that night that I should go to you to say goodbye. And I guess, in a way, I did. Or I should have. I need to, is what I mean. I can’t keep… doing this.”

He looked down. “I understand.”

“Do you? Cause I think you take it for granted sometimes. You are not easy to be close to or to care about at the best of times. Much less to love. So I hope you can see what it means, that someone you have hurt so many times is still standing there, standing up for you against virtually the only family she has left, fighting your fight when you can’t.”

He blinked, shock flooding his system as he realized truly who she’d been speaking of. Oliver slowly looked up, wondering if he was having some sort of hallucination.

Felicity smiled sadly. “Helena may have been crazy, but even a cuckoo clock is right twice a day.”

He was speechless, though he felt he ought to be saying something.

“Just… try not to screw it up this time, okay? You can only flunk out so many times, which you should really already know.” Felicity backed up and turned towards the door.

“Are you leaving the team?” He managed to ask.

“I’m still thinking about it. I won’t leave you guys in the lurch, but it’s all been getting a little too personal for me lately. I think I need to take a step back for a while.”

“Whatever you need.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

Oliver shook his head. “Thank you.”

She let herself out, leaving him to his thoughts. Felicity believed Laurel still loved him. She knew he still loved her, the same way Helena had known it. And Sara, and Slade… why was he so stubborn?

If Laurel could still find room for him in her heart, then he needed her to know.

Decision made, Oliver reached for the crutches he had been supplied with at the lab and left the loft. It was annoying and slow-going, and if he had a reliable income he would just signal a taxi, but he tried to use the time to marshal his thoughts and his words.

She was at work, most likely, so he steered his way towards City Hall. It was his luck as he cleared the steps that Captain Lance almost collided into him on his way out the door.

“Sorry bout— oh.”

“Afternoon, Captain.”

He glanced down. “Injured yourself, huh?”

“Twisted my ankle. Bad sidewalk,” he added.

“Right,” the man said dryly. He glanced around, and Oliver did likewise. They were the only two outside at the moment, and for a wild second he wondered if he should be worried for his safety. But then Lance spoke again. “You know, Laurel tells me that the League Sara was part of is no more. And that one of the vigilantes took care of the man that held my baby girl captive all these years.”

“Well, that’s… that’s good to know it will never happen to another family,” Oliver replied.

“Exactly my thoughts.” Lance walked past him but stopped on a step and looked back at him. “Do I wanna know why you’re here?”

“Probably not.”

Lance nodded, like he’d already surmised as much. Then he turned and made his way down towards his car.

Oliver squared his shoulders and pushed his way through the door. He knew where Laurel’s office was, so he didn’t bother stopping at the desk. Her door was slightly open and he knocked at the frame with the end of his crutch.

She looked up from a stack of papers, hair tucked behind her ears and pen dangling from two fingers. It dropped onto the pile as her eyes widened. “Hey! Come in.”

She got up and went around him to close the door.

“I thought you were staying at the loft until your ankle was better.”

“I’m keeping off it,” he assured her, taking the chair across from her desk. “And I wanted to talk to you about plans going forward.”

“Here?” When he nodded, she raised an eyebrow and said, “Okay, well, I assume you’ll want to keep, uh, working.”

“Yep. I also think I’ll try and find a day job.”

“Really? Why now?”

“Well, my savings won’t last forever, and I want to be able to provide for myself and my family in the future.”

She laid her elbows on the desk, leaning forward a little. “That’s good to keep in mind. I’m glad you feel like you can think about the future again.”

He felt something warm sweep through him. He’d never voiced his fears of dying this past year to Laurel specifically, and yet she had guessed it all the same.

“Me too. The thing about the future is… I never thought about it before the island. I was young, stupid and I thought everything could stay that way forever. Then thinking about the future became one of the ways I kept going after the shipwreck. Both then and now, I see the same things.”

“What do you see?” She asked it gently, not demanding it from him. He could answer vaguely, and she would be satisfied. But it was now or never.

“I see our city, restored to better than it was even when we were kids. I see my family, even if it’s changed from what it was.” He had lost his mother, yet he had a brother in John, close ties to Barry and, if he could find a way to keep in contact, Roy and a growing number of friends and allies in two cities. “And I see us.”

Laurel’s smile froze. “Us?”

“You and me,” he clarified. “That’s the definition.”

She turned her head slightly, eyes on the glass window through which she could see out into the rest of her office. He could see now it wasn’t anger or denial in her features. It was nerves.

He leaned forward and took her hands, making her jump slightly. “I don’t know when that future might happen. It might not at all. But when I let myself hope, it’s what I see. That’s the truth. And I just thought you had the right to know.”

He released her hands, swallowing down the lump that threatened to lodge itself behind his Adam’s apple and set his eyes watering. Oliver turned out, reaching clumsily for the crutches leaning against the desk.

Laurel made it around before he could even get them on either side of his body. Standing there, she looked strong the way she had facing down a raging speedster or bringing the seat of the League’s power crashing down on its foundations. “You think I’m letting you walk away again?”

She wasn’t waiting for his answer. Instead she leaned down, one hand going to the back of his head and the other gripping the front of his shirt as she crushed her lips to his. Oliver welcomed it; he wanted the feel of her pressed deep into his memory so he would never forget it again.

The crutches clattered to the floor, and there was no telling how many of Laurel’s coworkers could likely see them through the window. But he didn’t care. He was finally exactly where he’d wanted to be those long years on the island, and this time there was nothing that could stand between his and Laurel’s reunion. Their challenges and their triumphs, they would take together now as teammates and partners. Always and forever.

[popwasabi]

What “The Dark Knight” says about our bad politics

Waaay back in the summer of 2008, me and my dad drove up to Northern California to attend San Jose State University’s freshman orientation.

It was a long drawn out process where first-year students basically were told and shown a bunch of things they would forget and relearn by their first day anyways and culminated with all of us spending one night in the campus dorms so we could all get a taste of the “campus life” experience.

I wanted it to end badly for a couple reasons. Being an introvert, I was not comfortable sharing a room with anyone, let alone a stranger, for a night but more importantly, I was being kept from the biggest movie premiere of the year that day: “The Dark Knight.”

As soon as I woke up the next morning, I rushed my dad to find the nearest theater and purchased tickets immediately for a late-night screening. I was already a huge fan of “Batman Begins” but every trailer to Christopher Nolan’s epic follow-up indicated we were in for an even bigger blockbuster than before and I was beyond pumped.

(Me getting the fuck off campus to watch “The Dark Knight” that day.)

Two and a half hours later I left the theater blown away by the experience. “The Dark Knight” was everything, at the time, I was hoping for in a comic book movie; angsty, dark, edgy (all things I thought I was as a teen), cinematically sharp, thrilling, a fantastic score once again by the legendary Hans Zimmer, and fulfilled just about every fanboy wet dream I had at the time for a perfect Batman movie.

To this day it remains the most satisfying theatrical experience I’ve ever had seeing a movie, not that it’s my favorite movie of all-time anymore, mind you, but that I have never gone into a movie with such high expectations and had them blown away quite like that since.

(Conversely, this^ was my most disappointing experience...)

I’m a different person now, of course. If you were to wipe my memory of the film and had to watch it again today I doubt I would have the same fanboygasm I had then as the cynical 30-year-old I am now but I’ll argue that “The Dark knight” still remains a high mark, if not the standard, for comic book movies today.

That said, parts of this film have definitely not aged well. Visually the film still holds up, the action is still exciting, the performances are all stellar (though Bale’s Batman voice is still bad) but what hasn’t aged well, for me, are the movie’s politics.

“The Dark Knight” is, of course, a post 9/11 movie, in fact, it’s arguably the definitive one as its pop-cultural footprint dwarfs pretty much all within its sub-genre. This Nolan sequel deals heavily in themes of terrorism with its iconic villain The Joker, played maniacally by the late great Heath ledger, wreaking havoc across Gotham with various explosive devices. Though the Clown Prince is more an anarchist than someone with an ideology, like those in Al Qaeda or the Taliban, the results of his beliefs/non-beliefs are more or less the same; cause pandemonium and fear in the masses. Batman, representing the power of justice and order, does battle with this in a war to save Gotham’s soul and again this is still a damn entertaining and thrilling story.

(Seriously, it’s still a rock solid entry in the comic book movie genre.)

But where the film’s 9/11 politics become problematic is toward the end of the film when the Joker begins his final act to plunge Gotham into unstoppable chaos. Batman becomes desperate; The Joker has eluded him at every turn, always two steps ahead of him, escaping justice no matter what Bruce Wayne does so he concocts a plan to finally to locate and stop the Joker for good.

He creates an elaborate sonar system using every cell phone in Gotham, effectively creating a massive surveillance state to spy on its citizens in order to locate the Joker.

(And it’s the only time we have ever got the real Batman eyes on screen, damn it!)

Lucius Fox, played by Morgan Freeman, appropriately calls this out telling him he’s wrong and that he cannot support this but Batman insists that it’s the only way. Fox reluctantly agrees and tells him he’ll resign once this is over as he can’t morally support such a system. The sonar, of course, works and Batman is able to stop the Clown Prince once and for all and upon Fox entering his name into the sonar computer the program dissolves and is deleted presumably for good.

This is of course to wash Batman’s hands of this deed to the audience. Our protagonist knows this is wrong, the audience is told it is wrong but by ending the surveillance he shows he would never abuse such a program, that sometimes good men have to do terrible things to defeat evil and that makes it ok.

For years, as a bleeding heart liberal (at the time) who grew up in the Bush years but loved the hell out of this movie, I tried to reconcile with this part of the story because Batman was the hero. I thought maybe this kind of action is ok because if the “good guy” is in charge bad stuff is fine because he/she won’t abuse such power. That’s real justice, right?

The problem is in the real world, at the top, there really aren’t any good guys and they are counting on you to believe that they are when they get a hold of such power because that’s how we are programmed.

The Patriot Act, which was the signature Bush-era reform post 9/11, created our current surveillance state. In the interest of national security and ensuring those “dern turrists don’t go killing lil’ Timmy riding his tricycle out in Des Moines, Iowa” our elected leaders, both republican and democratic (make no mistake), effectively signed away our constitutional rights to “ensure our safety” by spying on us basically without warrants. The proponents proudly claimed its necessity in fighting the “War on Terrorism” and those naysayers either shouldn’t worry “if you have nothing to hide” or worse were un-American Taliban sympathizers.

For progressives, of course, this was an evil violation of our civil liberties but for many conservatives, this wasn’t a big deal. They are just trying to keep us safe after all. 

But conveniently ignored by many on the left still today is the complicity they had in bringing about this era in warrantless surveillance. Yes, this policy started under Bush, of course, but it continued to be re-upped through the Obama administration and the Trump administration, not to mention revolving majorities in the House and Senate, showing no matter who was in charge they all liked the idea of keeping an eye on all of us with or without reason.

Considering the Patriot Act was made to win the “War on Terrorism” our leaders were never going to relinquish this power anyways because you can’t win a war on terrorism. Terrorism is not a country or a people, it’s an ideology behind many different ideologies. The US, no matter how you see it, be it as liberators or oppressors, will always have enemies and that’s all the reason they need to keep this power it seems.

Having the data on our lives mined like oil can easily be used against us in a variety of ways regardless of if any of us have terroristic or even criminal intentions. But for many in this country, it was only a problem if the wrong guy wielded that power. As soon as their “good guy” got in though, suddenly it was no big deal. I wonder why...

“The Dark Knight” puts forth a problematic view on who can and should wield supreme power, that even terrible choices can be made as long as the “right” person is the one making them.

Liberals are notorious for justifying them when it’s one of them who does it.

It’s a lie. A lie that both parties use to their advantage because they want you believe everything they do can be justified because you happen to be a part of their party; the “good guys” once again. But there is something extra cynical about the way liberals wield it as they parade themselves around as paragons and moral pillars against the Jokers of the Republican party.

For all the platitudes liberals give, that would make some superhero speeches seem benign, they wear masks about as well as the vigilantes do but not for the same reasons. When confronted by this blatant hypocrisy, liberal voters justify all kinds of horrible things as long as the other “bad guy” isn’t the one doing it. For all the shit Bush gets, and rightfully so, for plunging us into a military, financial, and humanitarian quagmire in the Middle East, Obama gets almost zero real pushback by liberals for effectively drone bombing the hell out of the same people. During these past three years Trump has more or less allowed ICE to run rampant on immigrant communities sure and liberals have been critical, again as they should, but who made the cages they were thrown into and who deported more of them during his first three years in office than Trump did?

(And once again, and I can’t emphasize this enough, Andrew Cuomo is NOT your fucking friend...)

Liberals often like to present themselves as the moral purveyors of good in the face of conservative opposition and they use it to their advantage to more or less do many of the same foul things those with R’s next to their name do. Sure, not all their actions are equally as evil but even then, we rarely truly hold either of our leaders feet to the fire because we believe their actions are somehow better because they have a “D” next to their name.

These horrific policies and actions will never see justice as long as we keep justifying them because the “right” person is behind them.

No, this is not an all sides are equally bad take. That discussion requires more nuance and for a different time, but I will say both sides are varying degrees of bad that should be taken seriously instead of not at all and can’t be pushed aside again and again and again because “the other guys are worse.” 

We are running into the same situation today as our presidential election features a credibly accused rapist, sexual predator, who supports Bush-era tax cuts, who takes money from major corporate lobbyists, who is against Medicare for All, has open disdain for millenials, and not only supports but openly bragged about the aforementioned The Patriot Act.

Hmmm, sounds an awful lot like someone we know, huh?

You could argue that one of these two men mitigates, or even vastly mitigates, harm if in office and I’m not here to necessarily scold you for making what you feel is morally the least awful choice but the point still remains; we are justifying evil again because our “good guy” is in charge.

Being liberal, just on its own, does not vastly minimize the problematic nature of a bad person.

Regardless of how you feel about this election and what choice you plan to make this November (and again, I’m not here to tell you what to do), bad things and bad policies will be continued to be enacted by bad people because that’s what choices we’ve been given. There isn’t a good one and the most vulnerable will be hurt the most by it regardless of who wins. There is a reason so many are disillusioned with voting and it’s not just voter suppression laws.

I can already hear some of you screaming “OH MER GERD pURiTy TeStS,” but this is far more cynical a standard we have than simply choosing a less than perfect candidate. Many are already making rather tone-deaf comments about people being “privileged” for choosing not to compromise their morals anymore. What’s “privileged” is voting for the guy who will do less harm for you but ultimately still disproportionately harm more people of color no matter who is in office.  

(The country and the world can really begin to truly heal when a Democrat is in charge of one of these Freedom Machines once again!)

Yes, I might agree that one is probably a net positive for the world at this point but to act like someone choosing to not participate anymore in what is effectively a never-ending cycle I can’t say I blame them either. At some point, our society has to draw a real line in the sand on these things with our leaders and force a more moral standard for our government instead of the status quo.

We can’t go on this endless “pragmatic” path picking “the lesser of two evils” until we gradually just become evil. You can make the argument that maybe the time isn’t now, and you might be right but when? These folks at the top are COUNTING on us accepting circumstances and justifying terrible beliefs and actions over and over again because of the state of our politics.

“The Dark Knight” believes that sometimes bad things must be done to defeat evil but the real world can be so much less cynical if we stopped compromising on our beliefs. It’s not entirely too late for us to do the right thing. We can’t go on forever letting bad behavior go because the “good guy” will be the one doing it instead of the other one.

Taking money from corrupt billionaires is wrong. Extra-judicially drone bombing the Middle East endlessly is wrong. Throwing migrants in cages like fucking animals is wrong. Rape and sexual assault are wrong. Mass warrantless surveillance is wrong. Doesn’t matter if its Batman or fucking Superman doing any of these things; immoral behavior cannot and should not be ever justified.

Otherwise, we really will live long enough to see ourselves become the villain...

Looking forward to the comments on this one...

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One:  The Dark Curse

Chapter 77: A Pain in the Heart

In his journey, there were moments, long stretches of boredom where nothing happened. In contrast, there were also times that he felt as though he was in a carriage that was racing out of control. It felt like the world was spinning faster than usual, that there was far too much happening at just one time. Disorienting as it was, it was that feeling that drove him to feel like he was getting closer to his end goal. He operated best in those conditions, and so it was the feeling that he longed for most of all. But the space in between…that was the difficult part.

The thing about possessing a power that was not his own meant that it gave him information he didn't have, but also kept him guessing. He could see the future, but he didn't always have a clear understanding of it. Sometimes that could be an annoyance, but sometimes it gave him just enough of an edge to outwit others while still keeping life interesting. He never knew when someone he knew was important was going to pop up in his life, or in the life of one of his targets...again.

Snow White was on the run. It wasn't long after her father's funeral that Regina had hired a man, a hunter, to take Snow White into the forest and kill her. But Regina had put her trust in the wrong person, and that poor hunter had put too much faith in the death that awaited him if he returned without Snow White's heart. He'd let the Princess go, and Regina hadn't killed the poor Hunter, but rather taken his heart. She kept him on staff as a guard primarily, but the entire Kingdom knew she kept him as her plaything on the side. Poor fool. From what he understood of the lad, there would have been no harsher punishment than capture.

As for Snow White, she'd run off, escaped to the farthest corner of the Kingdom, it was necessary now that Regina was hunting her. With Leopold dead and Snow on the run, there was no other choice but for her to ascend the throne. She used her magic flagrantly now, striking fear into the heart of all who might try to oppose her. And she spread rumor after rumor of the crimes of Snow White, accusing her of murdering her own father, treachery against the crown, and stealing from her own people. Of course, the Kingdom didn't truly believe her. Snow White had grown up before them, and many remembered how years ago she'd saved them from a bandit, the one that Regina had hired. But it didn't matter. Regina had the power now, and she used it beautifully to finally take the revenge she'd longed for from her step-daughter and hold the Kingdom in her sway. Her mother would be proud.

But Snow White continued to elude the Queen. She was clever with a bow and arrow, good with which berries she could eat and which she couldn't, and she'd been taken in by a family on the edge of the Kingdom, a family the likes of which he'd never anticipated seeing again…

"Well…hello again Granny…" he muttered as the watched the three of them sit down to eat one night. "My oh my, how you've grown."

It had been a long time since he'd see the werewolf who had helped him to acquire that useless tea set of his. She had been important, but he'd never known how and he'd never understood why his visions always only ever referred to her as "Granny". She'd been in her late teens then, maybe early twenties, now she was much older. If he was honest, it wasn't her that gave it away, but the brunette who was sitting across from Snow White. Not only was she the spitting image of the "Granny" he'd once known, but she was also wearing a very familiar red cape. He'd smiled then, the beginnings of a complicated relationship that would span decades. It was interesting.

Of course, sometimes his visions left him no room for shock or surprise. He kept an eye on Jefferson and his new, ever-growing wife, looking for any sign of temptation or hint that he might return to his old ways. But alas, the only thing he ever saw was the birth of his daughter, just as he predicted. Jefferson wrote to him not long after that, informing him of what he already knew, and that the girl was called Grace. He responded by sending him a new hatbox, one with the ability to block the powers of his magical hat from being sensed by others. Jefferson, in his newfound stupidity, would probably think it was kind, but part of him hoped he'd see it for what it was, a gift to represent the burying of something truly spectacular.

That year, at Bae's birthday, he lit a candle and resolved to move on, to forget about Jefferson and the waste that he was, and focus on moving forward. There was still much to do. He had to find his curse. He had to keep watch over Snow White, a far more difficult task now that Regina grew more bloodthirsty by the moment. He had to look after her Prince Charming and ensure they meet one day now that she was of age to carry a little Princess, or in this case, a Savior.

He started his research looking at True Love, the True Love that he knew in his heart James, or Prince Charming, as the Seer insisted, and Snow White would share. But children born of True Love often weren't Saviors at all, simply very magical beings. Saviors were rare. Saviors could have magic but also could not. They were not the result of True Love as magic was in people, they were the result of a curse. A special child born by fate with the ability to defeat a curse. How was he supposed to ensure that this girl, whoever she may be, became the Savior, specifically to his curse. That was the question…

And that was the moment he first felt another problem…one that he should not have.

Chest pain.

It interrupted his genius, stopped his thoughts, silenced the Seer in his head.

It felt like…like a squeeze. He had never had his heart removed from his chest and squeezed, but he imagined that was what it would feel like if he had. He was the Dark One, he'd been the Dark One for a long time, he was no stranger to pain, he got headaches and odd twinges now and again, he simply applied his magic to his ailments and was better. But this was no ailment…there was something magical to the pain.

The pain was gone almost as soon as it had arrived. He supposed if he were mortal he would have ignored it, explained it away as some kind of normal bodily ailment, but that thrill of magic haunted him. He searched the Chronicles, looking for any explanation he could find. There was none. No one mentioned such a pain in their chests, no one talked about ailments they couldn't control.

It was getting ridiculous, he had work to do, he didn't have time to be spending every waking breath on this, he needed to get back to his work on the curse, his research on Saviors…any yet every time he turned away from such a pain, something inside warned him, something inside poked and prodded and whispered that it wasn't nothing, but something. There was nothing in the Chronicles, but he had the sensation he knew, if only he ask the right person, he might find something helpful.

He hadn't been out to Camelot in years. Though he hadn't given up on the tasks Nimue had given him entirely, he'd been devoted in the years since Baelfire left to finding him again. He'd been watching the Apprentice, should the opportunity arise that he might kill the bastard child, he would. Until that opportunity arose, however, that curse and getting back to Baelfire was his main focus. The Dark Ones all seemed to accept that, they'd left him alone ever since the night Bae had gone, leaving him to hear their voices as his own these days, but for once the nagging voice in the back of his head over this pain in his chest wasn't his own, but one he'd not seen in decades.

"Nimue…" he muttered, standing alone on the dark cliff. He was where it had all begun, the place the Dark One was born, the place that all Dark One's felt closest to their power. She'd always promised she would be close if he needed her, and so she was. All he'd had to do was come out here and summon her forth with the dagger that now reflected her own name.

"It's been a long time, Rumplestiltskin."

"Not long enough," he growled. She stood there, still as ever in her long robes. He was pacing and pacing back and forth when he usually much preferred to be still himself. But he couldn't help it. He would much rather do this in his tower, with his wheel before him so he could spin. Instead, he was alone in the dark woods at night talking to a woman he'd grown to despise for no reason in particular other than the fact that she was holding this over his head. She knew something, or one of the others did, but it wasn't in the Chronicles! Why wasn't it in the Chronicles?!

"Our meeting is of your own choice," she snapped knowingly. "If you don't want me here-"

"You've something to tell me," he interrupted. "You have something you want to share you just won't do it…if this is how I have to have a conversation with you these days then so be it."

"Such fire," she smirked. "It would seem you've come a long way from the scared little spinner we once encountered. You've been the Dark One the longest now…congratulations."

"I don't want your appreciation," he snapped, pacing again. "I want your information. I want to know what you know."

"Still so disrespectful. Still without a care for who you speak to."

He stopped walking. Maybe that was it, maybe that was a reason that she bothered him. Even when he had just become the Dark One, her spirit had always been so haughty. The other voices had always bowed down to her like she would kill them if she could, but now that he held the title of the Dark One longer than anyone and that included her, he'd learned a few things. If anything…she was second to him.

"You are nothing…" he stated, looking her dead in the eye. "You are but a fragment, a memory of a curse left behind. You are knowledge and nothing more. It is you who are subordinate to me."

Her gaze narrowed, though her face never flinched or barely moved at all he could feel the anger at him gathering in the pit of his stomach, but he wouldn't be moved. He didn't care if the others never spoke to her in such a way. He wasn't afraid of her like he once had been. She couldn't hurt him even if she wanted to. And even if she could, as the carrier of her curse, it was in her best interest not to.

"Have care the way you speak, Rumplestiltskin. Mind your thoughts."

"I'm not afraid of you as the others are. Mind your own thoughts. The pain in my chest, you know something about it, but nothing is written in the Chronicles. If this is how I have to speak to you about what you know, then so be it. Tell me…"

"The pain you feel is because of your age," she answered immediately and without emotion. Because she was a memory. She belonged to him, not the other way around. He'd summoned her, and now she had no choice but to answer because he willed her to.

"Explain," he ordered.

"The pain you feel has only ever been felt by three other Dark Ones, myself included. The pain is in your heart, Rumplestiltskin…how foolish you never thought to check it."

Check his own heart…pull it from his chest, offer someone the opportunity to take it and control him like the dagger…a foolish notion that was. It was a notion that had gotten at least two of his former Dark Ones killed. He wasn't about to repeat their mistakes.

"What's wrong with my heart?"

"Let's see if you can answer that yourself…the hearts you pull from the chests of your victims aren't real hearts."

"No, they're magical representations of their soul."

"Red is granted to good hearts, and black goes to…"

His skin felt tight. It tingled. His aunts…in his youth they'd told him a story, one about a child who did wicked deed after wicked deed while his brother did good deed after good deed. The brother who did good deeds ended up with a heart of gold, the one who did bad deeds…

"His heart turned black and cracked in two. Funny what passes for a children's tale sometimes, isn't it?" Nimue questioned with something like casual amusement. "Amusing" wasn't exactly the word he'd use.

"I'm the Dark One. I'm immortal. I can't die as the child in the story."

"No one ever mentioned death, Rumplestiltskin. And you may be immune to a great many things, but a black heart isn't one of them."

"Stop talking in riddles."

"Ah, but it's what so many of us are good at, aren't we! Riddles are practically our first language."

It said something about how angry he was that he couldn't bring himself to roll his eyes at her. If he could, he would have raced forward and squeezed her neck beneath his palm to get the words out of her. As it was, all he had to do was glare at her like she'd once glared at him.

"Tell me what it means…"

The First Dark One smirked at him. "See if you can work it out for yourself. Dark as we Dark Ones are, it is those little flecks of red left within us that keep us weak. And those weaknesses are what keeps us human. Without those, without a single flicker of humanity left...why, then we'd truly become-"

"A monster," he realized. It wasn't the word that set his heart pounding, but Nimue's response, her build-up to it. That woman, if he could even call her that, was truly wicked. She hated the human parts of her and hated weakness, but if even she thought that the end result would be bad then...it would be bad. Very, very bad.

"It's nothing I'd worry about, for now, Rumplestiltskin," she shrugged. "The curse does take a great toll on the heart, but you are still many decades away from a completely black heart. Until that day comes, if it ever does for no Dark One has ever lived to see that day, you can manage your pain with magic."

"And when the day comes that I can't," he insisted, ignoring her jab about not living long enough to see it. All he cared about was living long enough to see Baelfire, he couldn't risk not making it long enough for that at least.

Nimue sighed. Finally, she took her first steps off of the platform she'd been on, the forge where Excalibur had been created and broken. "Toward the end of his human existence, Merlin worked on a potion. At first, I believe he worked on it with the hope it might make me back into the woman I'd once been for him, but in the end, he created it, I believe, to heal his own heart. He had hoped to take it the night before he faced me but couldn't bring himself to the coward. He always did believe that pain had its purpose. It made him a sap, and now…he lives on making sap, how perfectly ironic."

"The potion, how do you know about it? You want me to break into Merlin's tower to get his notes, but if this was after you left, then how do you know it exists."

"Because the Elixir of the Wounded Heart, as it came to be known, was stolen. It was removed from the tower by the Apprentice, stolen, and changed hands several times. The last Dark One who thought he might have need of it tracked it to Oz."

"Oz."

"He had no means to reach it…perhaps you do…as the oldest your reach extends so much farther than any of our own ever did."

Indeed. And one of the portals that Jefferson had left him would take someone to Oz and return it. He only needed to locate the bottle.

"And this Elixir…it'll help the problem."

"As I've said Rumplestiltskin 'the problem', if it ever comes to pass, is decades away. But if there is any hope for you, then that would be it."

"And there are no copies of the potion? No way to recreate it."

"If any exist they lie with the Apprentice or are kept safely tucked away in Merlin's Tower. If you went after the Apprentice, like I asked-"

"I have no time for chasing your demons," he insisted, setting his jaw. "I'll handle the Apprentice in my own time, in my own way, until then I will find a way to see my son again. As for my heart and locating the Elixir…now there's the problem with all the rest of you that never made it this far…you have no vision for the future."

[nakedfullmonty-fr]

I wanted to write something for Galure and Tirumala together since it’s not a dynamic I’ve explored before! I wanna do another companion piece for Dantalion and Vanadev together too.

Tirumala belongs to my dear @avalonianrising !! It’s my first time trying to properly write someone else’s character so I hope it’s okay!!

-

Galuré sat on the top step of the porch, admiring the way that the rising sun bathed the wood and surrounding forest in an amber hue so pleasantly saturated it even made the heavy mists look welcoming. He took a few slow breaths through his mouth, picking up the soft wet of the morning dew, along with the steady meandering sounds of a creek a small ways off, and something a little more musical just on the boundaries of his hearing. The air had an autumn crisp to it, but the blankets of sunlight that slid through the trees warmed him enough to keep the edge off.

As with most things, he saw the figure before he heard it, fog curling back as if to bow as it cleared a path. He shifted his weight to where his feet rested on the step below; a conscious effort he was trying to force into a habit, but any subtlety in the motion was lost as the boards creaked underfoot. He knew who the figure would be, but Dantalion chided him often for being too lax, a trait unfitting for someone in their line of work.

The first of the fallen leaves crunched closer, laying his companion’s intentions, or lack thereof, bare. As they crossed into the path of a light beam, the familiar face of a Wildclaw was illuminated, scaled lips and jaw curling around whispers that hogged the attention away from Galuré.

Vanadev had explained the counting thing to him before, or at least tried to. In truth he understood very little of it, but kept his mouth shut as the dragon approached, for once not feeling up to the task of inconveniencing someone else. The numbers continued, spoken too low for his faulty hearing to pick up even once the Wildclaw was only an arm’s length from him, but luckily at that point they stopped. Galuré smiled as an eye that reminded him of the pines of East Coast of home in the summer flicked up to meet him, but he knew so little of how dragons acted in their natural state that he couldn’t tell if the gesture was returned.

“Morning, Tirumala.” He said, voice thick with fondness. He reached out with just a hint of admiration for the form he couldn’t take, and let the palm of his hand grace the top of the Wildclaw’s leathered snout. Anyone else might’ve thought such an action a potential offence, but Galuré never was one for doubting himself. Tirumala didn’t return the greeting, but did give a soft trill that Galuré assumed was the same thing.

“I made tea, and some for you too, if you want it?”

Tirumala took a step back and there was a flash of elemental energy, the mists whipping in circles, running from the force as he took gijinka. The light lasted only a moment, but Galuré flinched away from both the brightness and the distant memories it brought up. He had only changed forms once, and the process had been so slow and agonising that he’d never attempted it again since. Just the sight of someone else doing so was enough to drag up the feeling of his bones snapping as every inch of him, down to a microscopic level, rearranged itself over the course of several minutes, so he snatched up the two mugs he’d left beside him and drank from his. It scalded his mouth, but somehow the real pain was more tolerable than a phantom one.

Tirumala lowered himself to sit beside him with a grunt, on the same level, but still he kept his distance. He took the drink when Galuré offered it, before quickly setting it back down on the decking with a panicked frown as he shook the heat from his fingertips.

“Oh, is it too hot? Sorry, I can’t feel it.” Galuré said, raising his free hand as if to demonstrate like Tirumala didn’t already know. He supposed he could feel it, but the existing pain on the surface that deepened into numbness meant any other pain or feeling was superficial. His skin was likely blistering as he spoke, but he held the mug close regardless – The warmth of it outweighing the need to prevent the damaging of flesh that would soon fall away and be replaced regardless.

Tirumala turned his eye back to the thickets he’d just emerged from, armour still thick on his shoulders from the morning’s patrol. He had a ruggedness about him that Galuré found captivating; Tirumala had a good 20 years on him – had a son about his age, even – and it made him wonder about his own future. He’d have cut a path through the underworld for Dantalion’s retirement long before that time, and he had no doubts his lover would age like a fine wine then, but himself… They’d have to catch me first, he thought. I’d look good with an eyepatch, anyways.

Tirumala said something that Galuré didn’t pick up on.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Again, he tasted the vibrations on his tongue and heard the rumble of his voice from within his chest, but couldn’t quite make out all the syllables.  

“I – You need to speak up, I’m hard of hearing.” In an old habit, he gunned his fingers and swiped them down, then bounced them in a small arc outwards. “Do you sign? No, wait, never mind, it’d be a different language anyways – It helps if you face me when you speak, though.”

For the last few months, he’d been in good health which helped his hearing, and conversations were manageable, but Tirumala spoke so softly that some of the sounds were missed. Vanadev had said before that Tirumala didn’t speak much and wasn’t adept with eye contact either, and he worried for a moment about how to find a compromise between his needs and his friend’s comfort. Luckily, Tirumala swivelled round to face him, one leg folding to rest on the flat of the porch as he spoke, and this time the words rang through.

“You’re up early.”

“It’s more that I haven’t been to sleep yet.” He chuckled.

“So, it’s… Galuré then?” Galuré gave a nod of affirmation, a small glow of secret pleasure blooming in his chest that Tirumala had made the effort to remember. “Why haven’t you slept?”

Now there was a question.

He wasn’t unused to being awake all night, having being born out of Aneikenon’s wish to freely go drinking in town of an evening, and he and Dantalion often travelled under the cover of darkness, but there was no reason for him not to sleep on this evening in particular. On his own, Galuré did most of his sleeping on a mid-afternoon basis, but last night he’d crawled into bed alongside his three lovers, yet still found himself unable to drift off with them.

He’d remained there, still, just enjoying the intimacy of it. Dantalion to his right, naked, limbs curled around him in a full body embrace and the warmth of his body heat not unlike that of a hot bath. Vanadev to his left, one arm still loosely holding Galuré’s head to the soft silk of the bed-robes covering his chest, and Tirumala just a little beyond him, leaning in with an arm draped over his husband’s waist. It was a gentle, domestic bliss that Galuré had never thought he’d ever feel, and for once, he’d counted himself a lucky man. Sleep eluded him, but someone how felt better off for it.

“I wanted to be up bright and early to greet you after your morning patrol, of course!” Galuré hoped a partial truth would be enough to satisfy him.

He’d felt the shift in weight on the bed as Tirumala had got up, but had said nothing for the sake of Dantalion, who was always so on edge that the slightest sound would jolt him awake. Once the room had settled and he was sure Dantalion was still sleeping, he’d crawled out from his pile of bodies and warmed himself by the fire as he stirred his hazy mind back to the day’s reality. At the time he wasn’t sure how long Tirumala’s patrol would take, but once he’d found the energy to re-dress himself, he’d moved to the kitchen to make the two of them some tea for his return.

Tirumala dipped his head in acknowledgement, but offered no further opportunity for conversation. He picked up his cup and brought it to his lips once more to take a cautious sip. His reaction would’ve been perfectly concealed behind the polite lack of reaction, but a slight creasing to his inner eye gave him away; too hot still. Over the years, Galuré had found that he had a knack for reading people, especially faces, his sight compensating for his hearing – It made card games easy, but very boring. “You got brought up proper, didn’t you? Are you a Prince or something?”

“No,” Tirumala snorted. “but an Heir? Maybe.”

“You can tell. Or I can, at least.” Galuré took a drink of his own tea, and found it to be just right in temperature, if not a little bland in flavour. “I’m good at that, but I’m not sure how. I don’t really know much about being a Prince though, you’d have to ask the other guy about it.” He tapped the side of his head.

Tirumala didn’t want to talk about it. Aneikenon wouldn’t either.

A silence of his own creation fell between them, and it made his skin itch. Dantalion was good at this, the sitting and the quiet, but Galuré was not. He’d never had a problem holding up a conversation by himself before, and couldn’t put his finger on why Tirumala suddenly made it difficult. One hand reached to the hairline of his neck, and he drove his fingers in hard, hoping bones would scratch where his missing fingernails could not.

“What happened to your eye?” Tirumala wasn’t like Dantalion, and probably wouldn’t tell just because he’d asked, but grasping at straws was better than the quiet. “Is it still in your head or is it like, gone?”

Tirumala’s fingers landed on his eyepatch, as if he was surprised to find it there. For a moment he said nothing, and Galuré fought down the urge to air his frustrations with a heaved sigh.

“It’s there…” He trailed off, pupil narrowing as it looked back in time to a world Galuré couldn’t see. Whatever emotions he felt towards it, he didn’t let them show. “Just about. Any deeper and I’d be dead. Vanadev saved me.”

“Well, see? Isn’t that nice and romantic?” Galuré leant in to rest his elbows on his knees, a clever trick to get closer without moving at all. His hair slid from his shoulders at the angle, curtaining him, and he left it there, not keen on moving his hands more than was needed.

Tirumala’s eye dragged back to scrutinise him, a gesture far more obvious that any other he’d displayed so far, although there was no creasing of brows to indicate that he’d found something he didn’t like.

“That’s what you consider romantic?”

“You don't? Fighting alongside someone and protecting one another… If that’s not a good indication of trust and love then I’m not sure what is. I mean, sure, most of the fights me and Dantalion get into are pretty one-sided, but …” Galuré felt the grin split his face as he thought back. “Like, when we’re taking cover from enemy fire, crouched together behind some wall and trying to figure out our next move, I think that’s when I feel closest to him.”

Tirumala sipped his tea, but the edges of his mouth curved parallel to the mug’s rim, and a chuckle rocked the liquid as he swallowed. Galuré watched as he ran his tongue across his top lip, catching a stray droplet that remained, and somehow he knew that at the very least, Tirumala understood.

“Work shouldn’t be your whole life. You’ll last longer if you have romance outside of it.”

Tirumala was special, Galuré realised then, as in that moment he felt not an ounce of his usual indignation. He took poorly to advice, even Dantalion’s on occasion, for who could presume that they were on a level even close to his, and yet, for the first time, Tirumala’s words made him consider the future.

‘I’ll help Dantalion retire’ had become his primary driving force, at some point completely eclipsing his previous motives of fun and freedom that were once overpowering but now felt so fickle. A goal, certainly, but one that felt so far away as every action seemed to dig them further down away from that light, that never once in all the this time had Galuré considered what happened once they reached it. He couldn’t fathom what life after all this would look like for Dantalion, and it occurred to him all too suddenly that he wasn’t necessarily guaranteed a place within it.

Now that he thought about it, he and Dantalion were always together, and yet when they weren’t out on a job or travelling for one, it felt like they didn’t do very much anything at all. They went down to The Black Lagoon often enough, but even that was because it was a known hotspot for criminal activity so it was easy to pick up jobs there. Sure, Galuré knew it wasn’t his fault that he was so sickly and that Dantalion had no hobbies whatsoever, some things can’t be helped, but compared to when he lived back at home on the Icefields, where there was always some skill for him to practise or some duty for him to fulfil, life outside of work was now frighteningly hollow.

What would happen to them once the work stopped?

Underneath it all, he found himself envious of the power behind Tirumala’s ability to stun a man into silence with so few words.

“It’s that dire?” Galuré wrinkled his nose in contempt at the description, for while he knew Tirumala’s mind was as sharp as his senses, he had not taken him to be foolish enough to poke fun. “We’ll go out then, all four of us. There are plenty of beautiful places Vanadev and I can show you. After, we can watch one of the Fireflies’ performances and go somewhere nice to eat… I think Vanadev’s wanted to for a while, but you two never stay for very long when you visit.”

Tirumala looked him in the eye then, gaze soft, but he may as well have pinned Galuré to the deck and snarled in his face for all the good it did his heart. A torrent of emotions tore up inside him like sand kicked loose at the bottom of a river, too fast and made of too many small parts for him to be able to grasp. A few grains thought it sounded nice and wanted it, before a cascade of others slammed them against the rocks and silenced them.

He liked Tirumala and Vanadev, loved them even. He looked forward to visiting them when they could, was always eager to climb into bed with them and more than happy to play house with them for a few days at a time. He felt the undertone of closer in Tirumala’s words though, and closer was something he wasn’t sure he could do. They were both in his heart, but were kept banished to the outskirts; any closer he might start to resent them, the way he resented everyone else, sweetness turned sickly from a stable diet.

Any closer, he thought, and they might start to resent me.

Curses in his skin, venom in his veins and a mind where doors only opened inwards, Galuré teetered dangerously on the edge of what it meant to be human, but had not yet fallen from that cliff, and so like most mortals he was desperate for love. He had it, of course, in Dantalion, but now he had new things in Vanadev and Tirumala, and once a child is gifted a new toy they are rarely keen to give it back.

A strong breeze startled him from his ruminating, carding its fingers through his hair and feathers and thieving the heat from his drink and hands. It must’ve caught Tirumala’s attention too, for he finally slid closer, guiding the hair that had fallen loose with the backs of his fingers to return it delicately to its place, hand hovering in place for a few moments longer.

It was a gentle gesture, full of genuine tenderness. Galuré felt like there was a loaded gun pressed between his eyes.

Keeping their eyes locked, as if Tirumala would vanish into the forest mists if he looked away for even a moment, an unwatched hand moved to place his mug onto the decking, the sound of baked clay meeting wood louder than all else other than the eternal march of his heart chased into a run. His other hand moved up, divergent in visual but mirror in gesture, to Tirumala’s jaw; neither touching, stuck in orbit of one another but kept at bay by the smallest layer of something distinctly foreign, but Tirumala’s gravity was too great and Galuré fell, aflame, out of control.

He did not crash, though. Tirumala’s lips embraced, accepted, his - a silent message, received, understood and challenged with a nip of teeth against a scar long healed.

It’s only fun if it might destroy me.  

[beckzorz]

Out of Nowhere (13/21)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/OFC Summary: An offhand comment at work draws Jesse Kaplan into the orbit of Bucky Barnes. Bucky’s excited at the prospect of normalcy, but there’s nothing normal about falling in love with the Winter Soldier. Words: 3276 A/N: The song for this chapter is “Just Squeeze Me” by Gordon Webster on Blues Til Dawn.

PART 13: “JUST SQUEEZE ME”

Considering its breakneck speed along the throughway, Bucky’s bike was oddly quiet. The dull thrum of other cars and the wind in her ears were more noticeable than the noise of the engine. Once again, Jesse was too distracted to keep track of where Bucky was taking her. Every time before, she’d worn a helmet, but there hadn’t been time to consider road safety when there were people with guns behind them. How could she focus on geography when she was overwhelmed by the wind on her open cut? By their closeness, and her arms wound around his waist and her cheek pressed tight against his back? Not to mention the stray intrusive thought of let go!

It was still well before dawn, and Jesse had no idea how long had passed since they’d escaped from Current Relief.

Bucky turned off the highway and took a circuitous route through Cobble Hill. Finally he pulled into a basement garage—a familiar garage, Jesse realized, even if its exact location eluded her. They took the elevator again, and as it went up, Jesse leaned against the back wall behind Bucky and pressed a finger to the reopened cut on her face. She winced. Her fingertip was shiny with blood, though none was running down her face anymore. She sucked the blood off her finger while Bucky was still facing away from her, silent and still save his oddly shallow breathing.

The difference from their first elevator ride together was enough to make Jesse’s eyes sting, though she didn’t cry. If only they could be so at ease with each other again, but now? Now it was impossible.

The elevator dinged, and Bucky pulled her along to his apartment door. His grip on her upper arm was solid, but not harsh like her captors had been. He didn’t make her skin crawl, or sting, or burn.

Bucky stood between her and the elevator down the hall as he unlocked his door, then quickly ushered her inside. He followed, relocked the door, and turned to inspect her. His expression was unreadable as he looked her up and down; she just stared at his face. He did not hold her gaze, nor even change his expression when their eyes met. His eyes did linger on her cut, and he shouldered past her to the kitchen. Jesse just stood in place, eyes closed, until she felt him looming by her again. She opened her eyes.

“Put this there,” Bucky ordered, pressing a damp paper towel to her open cut. The relief was immediate. Jesse took hold of it and he stepped back, though he also held out a protein bar. “Eat this. And sit down.”

Jesse faltered over to Bucky’s couch. She lowered herself down, toed off her shoes, and crossed her legs, resting her elbows on her knees. Her limbs felt heavy, as though her bones had turned to concrete. She was too drained to to turn and see what Bucky was doing; she couldn’t even tell if the noise was coming from the bedroom or the bathroom. Opening the protein bar and holding it up to eat was a trial in and of itself; the food stuck in her dry throat.

Well, they’d both made it back in one piece, apart from whatever amount of blood she’d lost. How did it compare to his other missions? The infiltration of Current Relief surely was a mess from the perspective of the man who had flawlessly executed clandestine assassinations for decades—under brainwashing, no less.

There was a lot to be disappointed about, all things considered. She’d fallen. She’d gotten hurt. She’d actually gone at all, which was what Bucky had objected to most. He might have been right. But she’d saved Mike from being shot at point-blank range, and no one had been killed. Not that she knew of, anyway.

Would Bucky have shot Liz, if not for her? Would he have tried to knock her out before she could shoot Mike? Or would he have let her do it? He’d been focused on keeping Jesse safe, at least until she jumped out into the open. From that point on, his hands had been tied. How much had her spur-of-the-moment decisions made him feel utterly powerless?

And her thoughtless retort…

Jesse shuddered. She lowered her hand, and the damp paper towel with it, and leaned over her crossed legs, pressing her free hand over her eyes.

Like a fucking serial killer.

How could she have said that to him? She knew what he’d been, and she tried not to let it affect their… acquaintanceship? She didn’t dare call it friendship, not when he’d never referred to her as a friend. She had never assumed anything with him, and yet in a moment that should have been triumphant, she’d called him the worst of all possible things. She squeezed her eyes shut. God, what must he think of her now? Foolish for her behavior, cruel for what she’d said to him. Would she ever be able to look him in the face again? How could he forgive her?

The couch dipped to her right; Jesse took a shallow breath and dropped her hand from her face.

Bucky had taken off his jacket and much of his tactical gear; all that remained was a holstered gun strapped to his leg. He’d rolled up the sleeves on his shirt too, baring his lower arms to her. His legs, torso, and upper arms were still fully covered—his boots were still on, even—but she’d still never seen so much of him bared.

“Turn this way,” he instructed.

Jesse shifted around to face him, her legs still crossed. She blinked. A first aid kit lay open on his other side. It was everything she’d need to bandage her face back up. She fiddled with the damp paper towel on her knee; it was beginning to soak through her jeans.

Bucky grabbed her chin and turned her head to inspect her cut. Jesse sucked in a breath at the feel of his hand—his flesh and bones hand—on her face. His fingertips were rougher than her own; his hands were cool from a recent wash. She stared over his shoulder at the fruit painting behind her. It wasn’t just oranges; there were apples, too. Bucky might know the painter, but Jesse didn’t have the courage to speak to him yet.

“Keep looking there.” Bucky dropped her chin and rummaged in the kit at his other hip. He made a little frustrated noise. Jesse winced.

“I can do it, if you like,” she offered.

Bucky leaned back and stared at her, and she flicked her eyes to him when he didn’t respond. Eventually, he shook his head, incredulous.

“Why do you hate to be taken care of?” he asked. “You…” He shook his head again, and this time he didn’t meet her gaze. He twisted his hands together between his legs; his arms clenched, sending the muscles of his right arm into stark definition. Jesse flushed and turned to hug her knees to her chest.

“I don’t hate it,” she said hesitantly. “But I shouldn’t be your problem.”

“My problem?”

“I’m not—I’m not supposed to be a problem to anyone. But especially not you.” Jesse didn’t dare look at him. Here she’d called noted reformed assassin Bucky Barnes a serial killer only an hour ago, and now… now they were having a heart-to-heart on his couch.

“Why the hell not?”

“This was supposed to be normal,” Jesse blurted. “You said so yourself! And if I could do that for you—”

“Jess,” Bucky interrupted. He put his prosthetic hand on her shoulder; she finally looked up at him. His face was unsmiling but still gentle, still sincere. “Normal isn’t worth being hurt. It’s… what did you say when we met? It’s the cost of doing business.”

“Things have gone way past business,” Jesse joked hoarsely. She couldn’t even remember saying that; how much did he remember? How much had he picked up on, over the last weeks? Did he know everything?

“You’re right,” Bucky said. The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Friends look out for each other, no?”

Friends. Jesse sighed. She couldn’t quite smile, but her heart warmed at finally being called his friend. “I was trying to do that, as much as I could, but… Well, I’m not very good at it, I guess.”

“Yes you are,” he argued. “You always did for me. Unless you were busy jumping in front of someone about to be shot.”

Jesse scratched the back of her neck and screwed up her mouth. “I didn’t mean to fuck everything up,” she said.

“You didn’t,” he told her. “Now face the damn painting and hold still.”

She did as she was told, though this time her eyes flitted to his face as he focused on her cut. He was focused, serious; for a moment he reminded her of the blond doctor’s businesslike manner, but Bucky’s hands were gentle on her skin. Even the metal one. The astringent burned something fierce; she clenched her teeth against the pain and tried to keep her head still.

As he rubbed a soothing ointment in with a gentle finger, he said, “Why don’t you let people worry about you?”

Jesse blinked. “What?”

“Whenever I’m worried, you shut it down, or you shut down.” He pressed a gauze pad to her temple and turned to fiddle in the first aid kit for body tape.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“Right now, yesterday with the notebook. The break-in at your apartment, for god’s sake.”

“That? I thought I was crazy!” Jesse exclaimed. “I thought I was imagining things. Why would I tell anyone about that?”

Bucky paused. “You didn’t tell anyone at all?”

“No, of course not,” Jesse answered, face pinched. “It’s like I said. I don’t want people to have to worry about me!”

Bucky shook his head. “I can’t help but worry about the people I care about. I don’t think anyone can help it, honestly.”

Jesse’s heart pounded in her chest. He cared about her? After all she’d done, and all she’d said? How was this possible?

“More to the point,” he continued, “I like you as you are. It’s the circumstances that suck. But none of that is your fault.” He finished taping the gauze onto her face, and he squeezed her shoulder. “All good.”

Jesse’s heart was too full for her to speak. She reached out and hugged him tight around the neck, pressing her face into his shoulder. She was afraid to look at him; she felt close to tears from his words. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said something so nice about her. Her work, sure; her dancing, of course. But about her?

She couldn’t remember.

Bucky slowly put a hand on her back; it was his natural hand, the warm one that he put around her when they were dancing. She’d missed this so much. Being held in his arms, even as little as now, was a balm even when she was miserable about him. Would that she could bottle this feeling. After a minute she even felt bold enough to speak.

“I’m so sorry for what I said,” she murmured. “I wasn’t thinking, and I said something awful, and I’m sorry.”

Bucky was quiet; for a moment he just rubbed a little circle on her back. “I get it,” he said. He pressed his face into her hair; his breath was warm on her scalp. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… I was worried, Jess. I was worried.”

“You were right to be.” Jesse sighed. “Who jumped in front of a gun? It wasn’t you.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look her in the face. A little smile played across his lips. She’d never been this close to him; her arms were still hooked around his neck. She looked away from his soft pink mouth—god, in another world she’d have the guts to throw caution to the wind and just kiss him—and met his eyes instead. Not that his eyes were any less distracting. There was something hesitant about them, something that made her want to comfort him. She was so close she could have counted his eyelashes. But she was too buried in the blue depths of his eyes.

“—your help,” Bucky was saying.

Jesse had been too focused on him to process what he’d said. She had to ask him to repeat himself; her cheeks burned, but he didn’t comment on her distractibility.

“You did a good thing, even though he in no way deserved your help.”

Jesse opened her mouth to respond, but Bucky cut her off.

“He’s the reason you went through hell. He could have taken your name off the list. He could’ve protected you at all. But he’s complicit, Jesse. He’s complicit.”

Her shoulders slumped. She unwound her arms from around his neck. Letting go felt like a loss, like an opportunity had passed and she’d fucked it up. She hugged herself and shook her head. “I know,” she said. “I know! But he still regretted it. He wanted to help me, in the end. He got Liz out, too.” She blinked. “I hope, anyway.”

“He should have gone to someone who could help,” Bucky argued. “Why did he have to get you involved?”

Jesse frowned at her lap. “He… he knew he’d see me,” she said slowly. “Maybe he couldn’t have stopped it.”

At that, Bucky scoffed. “It was a hazard to involve you. You’d seen two of them already!”

“Sure, but…” Jesse’s cut began to ache from her deep frown, but she ignored the pain and tried to think. The blond doctor had said something, when she’d first seen Jesse… “Wait,” she said. “Even the doctor—Dr. Faulk, I guess? Even she didn’t want me there. She asked who put me on their list. How could it have gotten to that point without her knowing? She seemed so in charge, at least compared to the others I saw. But I didn’t see the whole operation.”

“We’ll know more soon,” Bucky said darkly. He nodded at the kitchen counter; his laptop was up and running, and Stark’s drive was plugged into it. “In the meantime, you should get some rest.”

“Well, you’re hogging my space,” she quipped, sounding far more chipper than she felt. Her chest was clenched with an awful grief, grief and something that felt like heartbreak. Would she ever have the courage to do something about all her suppressed desires?

Probably not.

Bucky gathered his kit and stood up. “You should get some real sleep.”

“I can sleep here,” she protested. “I’d just need a blanket and—”

“Let me take care of you,” he interrupted. He gave a tiny smile. “For a change.”

“For a change?” Jesse stood up, but she couldn’t let his last statement slide. “You just saved my life! You took on this crazy project for me, you cured me of whatever they’d done—wait.” She paused at the door to the bedroom, her memory suddenly jolted. “You knocked me out!”

He gave an apologetic smile and scratched the back of his head. “I did. It worked on me, before. Uh, sorry?”

Jesse just laughed. His smile was a cure for anything. “Apology not accepted. You’ll have to live with that guilt. I think you’ll manage, though.”

Bucky shook his head and rummaged through his drawers, giving Jesse a chance to look his bedroom over. He’d discarded his tactical gear in a pile by the closet door, but his guns were nowhere to be seen. Hopefully they were locked up in a safe somewhere. The bed was rumpled, but nominally made, with a dark red blanket and white sheets. The walls here had more art than the common space: a poster with a poem in some Cyrillic language, an exhibit poster from the Met, and an oil painting of a cityscape in the rain. All of the art featured the same red as the blanket. Had he picked it all out? She couldn’t quite imagine it.

Bucky turned back and held out a pile of clothes. “For sleeping,” he explained. “Use whatever you want.”

“Thank you,” she said with awe. She was already wearing a borrowed shirt; she could have slept in it. But no, he was taking care of her. For a change, he claimed. That was laughable, really. He’d been taking care of her nonstop for the last day and a half, not to mention his harried visit to her place when she’d first gotten home. He’d freed her, given her back her autonomy. He’d arranged for her to leave the hospital safely. He’d fed her and given her a place to stay. How could she ever thank him enough?

“Bathroom’s free,” he said.

Jesse left, the pile of clothes in hand, and locked the bathroom door behind her. She sagged against the door, dropping the clothes on the floor. Bucky was so good, so kind. He’d been through hell in so many times and ways, but he hadn’t given up. He’d still done so much to help her, to help BCEI.

Her work… She’d forgotten all about it. Would she be able to go back tomorrow? Would Bucky want her to keep a low profile until they knew just what they were up against?

Jesse shook her head. Work would have to wait.

She sorted through Bucky’s clothes. Drawstring pajama pants—flannel, no less—and a long-sleeved shirt, a t-shirt, and a button-down shirt. She raised her eyebrows at the latter. Who wore buttons to bed? She put on the t-shirt; it had a nice loose v-neck and was long enough on her that she felt safe in forsaking the flannel pants, which would undoubtedly end up bunched in annoying bands around her knees within an hour. Bucky could survive witnessing some leg.

She did as much of her bedtime routine as she could. Toilet, teeth-brushing with the toothbrush Bucky had given her the day before, washing her face without disturbing her bandaged temple. She shook out her hair and rebraided it tight across her head, catching as many flyaway strands as she could.

Before she went back to the bedroom, Jesse looked herself over in the mirror. The bandage on her face wasn’t as big as the one from the hospital, and though she was still mostly pale she knew the color in her cheeks wasn’t from the temperature in the apartment. She was getting goosebumps just standing in the bathroom in the nightshirt, though her blush had yet to recede.

Yet for all her little blunders, Bucky was still acting much the same, as if her own internal struggle was invisible to him. She could only hope he didn’t know, didn’t recognize the strain she was under in being so close to him, so comparatively open. They were friends, dammit, nothing more.

Nothing more.

Jesse splashed cold water on her face one more time. Her face was almost back to its normal state—normal when Bucky wasn’t around, anyway. If he didn’t let her go straight to bed, she was sure she’d be red as a beet within a few minutes. As much as she regretted her longing, she wasn’t so deluded as to think that she didn’t have good reason for it. If only he was a little less kind, or a little less magnetic, or a little less talented, or—

But Bucky was Bucky, and even though she was barred from being with him as she wanted, she knew she’d never leave him.

Not unless—or until—he made her.

A/N: Finally, some rest for these two!!! And a good old-fashioned heart-to-heart. I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think :3

[keepeacer]

Ride the Wind to the Sun

a gyjo fic. hehe

Words: ~2101

Rating: T (just for language)

Content Warnings: none really applicable

Summary: Gyro and Johnny enjoy a fireside chat. Sappy.

Ao3 Link

Fic under the cut:

Ever since he saw him getting dragged by a horse along the ground with a plank of wood through his leg, he knew the man would be the death of him.

Gyro’s father’s voice echoed in his mind every time he looked at Johnny. “Sentimentality will get you nowhere. You have a duty to live up to. Remember that.” Duty, schmuty. He’d originally gone to America to participate in the race because of his “duty”, sure. The plan was to win, get the money for Marco, and move on with his life.

He didn't know that some moody American with a serious attitude problem and a wild mane of red hair would throw a wrench into his plans, but here Gyro was, sitting with him at a fire somewhere around Lake Michigan, swatting at mosquitos that had apparently decided his arms were a suitable meal for the night. Johnny had a faraway look in his eyes as he poked at the fire with a stick, mind probably lost in whatever mental malady was plaguing him that night. He had plenty of those.

Johnny must’ve cast some sort of spell over him as soon as they first set sights on each other, ‘cause he found himself totally going against his own logic and reasoning and inviting the fellow to accompany him on the race. He was supposed to be there to win, not teach some depressed kid how to spin a cork. And yet… he saw that determination in his eyes. He’d never seen anything like it. It drew him towards Johnny like a magnet, and he found himself hopelessly stuck.

The flames before him grew taller, illuminating the face of his race partner across him. He must have thrown in an oil rag. Johnny was resourceful like that.

Gyro could see his face more clearly now. Furrowed brow, elegant nose, high cheekbones, full lips drawn into an eternal pout. He could even make out the freckles peppering the bridge of his nose in the low light, though he had to squint to do so. Johnny was cute in a country sort of way, that much had already been established in Gyro’s mind soon after they met; he couldn’t keep his eyes off him on the best of days.

He leaned against the rock next to him, hand going up to support his chin as he sighed. “Lovely creature,” Gyro found himself murmuring. “What act of God brought you before me?” Ah, shoot. He had said that out loud, and in English. Maybe Johnny didn’t hear him?

“The hell you on about?” Johnny asked with a bored expression. He was still poking idly at the flames. Gyro couldn’t see, but a faint shade of red was slowly dusting across his nose, cheeks and ears.

Gyro cursed internally. He shouldn’t have underestimated a jockey’s hearing ability.

Shifting himself up to sit with a grin, he decided to roll with it. A hand was placed over his heart as he used the other to gesticulate dramatically, eyes closed for effect. “Ah, amore mio. Sei un modello? Dio si stava mettendo in mostra quando ti ha creato.”

He peeked an eye open to see Johnny scowling across from him.

“You know damn well I can’t tell a lick of what you’re sayin’, Gyro.”

Gyro laughed and stood up, walking over and plopping himself down next to Johnny, whose face remained as grumpy as ever. Didn’t matter how much he twisted his face up, he was still cute to Gyro. None of the girls—or boys—back home could compare.

He tentatively reached over to gently place his hand over the one that Johnny wasn’t using to wield a stick. A sigh of relief escaped his lips when Johnny didn’t yank his own back. So it wasn’t one of those nights, then.

His thumb rubbed over Johnny’s hand. Hard and calloused. “My Jojo. Always so grumpy.” Johnny made a noise in the back of his throat before replying. “Wouldn’t be so grumpy if you didn’t go ‘round talkin’ like some sap out a romance novel.”

“You love when I do that.”

“Maybe if I knew what the hell was coming out that mouth. For all I know, you could be cursin' me.”

With that he tossed his stick into the fire. His head turned to face Gyro, mouth set in a frown but his eyes glistening in a smile. He really had such cute lips.

Gyro used his free hand to snake around Johnny’s waist and drew him closer, snickering at the surprised grunt from the other man. Green eyes bored into blue as they simply sat there for a while, silent save for the crackling of the fire and the occasional sniff of a horse.

He let go of Johnny’s hand to reach up and pull off the starred cap that seemed  glued to his head, his hand shifting down to gently cradle his face. A lock of hair was pushed behind his ears. No complaints yet from Johnny. Ah, his cheeks had felt a bit warm, and now Gyro could plainly see.

For all the aloof, plain-faced fronts Johnny put on, his body was damn terrible at lying along with him.

A thumb brushed over Johnny’s lips. “Was sayin’ you’re so handsome you could pass for a model. God, glory be to Him, was flexing His talents when He whipped you up.”

The corners of the frown lifted up into the faintest smile. “Says you.” His voice was soft.

“Johnny Joestar, you’re the prettiest thing I ever did see. I mean that.”

A snort from Johnny. Not a laugh, but it was close enough. The sound was like music to Gyro’s ears—no, better. It was like an angel’s voice whispering to him. Whatever it was like, it was one of Gyro’s favorite sounds that he desperately tried to get the other man to recreate whenever possible. Those gags weren’t for nothing.

Johnny’s voice was still soft as he spoke, although it had a sad tinge to it. “You won’t be lookin’ at me for much longer, though.”

That was the sad reality to their "goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation". Best case scenario, Gyro won the race, went back to Napoli, freed Marco, and life went on. Johnny would walk again and go back to racing professionally like he wanted. That was the problem—they’d both have to get on separately. Gyro hadn’t wanted to think about it, but he couldn’t ignore it forever.

He couldn’t stand that look on Johnny’s face. Hated when tears welled up in those big blue eyes, hated it even more when those tears were for him. Maybe his father was right about his sentimentality. He almost had a mind to quit the whole damn race and find a nice cabin, maybe somewhere back out west. Take Johnny with him and live out the rest of their days together, away from all this corpse bullshit, away from all the Zeppeli family expectations that weighed down Gyro like a ball and chain.

“Hey, hey,” Gyro whispered, thumb shifting to wipe a stray tear from Johnny’s eyes. “I’m not gone just yet.”

Johnny’s lower lip trembled as he nodded slightly. “Y-yeah. Sorry, you know my damn fool emotions always get the best of m—”

Gyro silenced him with a soft kiss. Johnny’s eyes closed and so did Gyro’s. Until Gyro found a solution, and he honestly didn’t know if he could, they had to revel in the small moments like these. Truth be told, they didn’t even have to be doing anything. He reckoned that as long as Johnny was near him he’d be happy with the outcome.

Gyro grinned as they separated, baring his golden teeth that Johnny claimed to hate. “Now turn that frown upside down, partner. I’m right here.”

His—well, he wasn’t sure what exactly to call him—sniffed, nodding again. A gentle smile, much more visible than before, unfolded across his face, which Gyro decided then and there was one of the most gorgeous sights in all of America. In all the world. Johnny’s arms wrapped around Gyro’s waist as he buried his face in his chest, still sniffing a bit. “I know ya are, dummy. I just wish we could stay this way forever, corny as it sounds.”

“Corny?” Sometimes American English phrases eluded him.

“Means like, well. Uh, trite?” Johnny’s voice was muffled by Gyro’s chest. Gyro’s hand went up to brush through his hair thoughtfully. “Ah. Well, I think corny’s good, then.”

“Mm. Guess you’re right. You’re corny, ‘n I like you.”

Forever, huh?

Johnny’s hair was softer than a haggard ex-jockey’s should be, but Gyro wasn’t complaining. Gyro leaned down to press a kiss to the top of Johnny’s head, a light bulb going off in his own. “You know, I have an idea.”

A groan as Johnny separated his face from Gyro’s chest to face him, a curious look developing in his eyes. Gyro just now realized that Johnny had somehow wormed his way into his lap, but again, it was far from something to complain about. Johnny cocked an eyebrow. “Not another one of your ‘ideas’.”

His own arms went around Johnny’s waist as he pulled him closer, effectively tangling their arms together. It was an extremely far-fetched, flighty notion, but it was worth putting out into the world.

“Come with me to Napoli.”

Johnny’s eyes widened. “Gyro, what?”

“Did I stutter?” His hands rubbed the small of Johnny’s back, near where he knew his injury was. Gyro’s voice had taken on a more serious tone, but it was still tainted by that ever-present sense of melancholy that had suddenly plagued the two. “I can’t stand to leave you here.”

“Gyro…?”

“Please, Johnny,” he found himself pleading. There was that damn sentimentality his father always got on him about.

Johnny’s face was almost as red as his hair, his eyes looking as if they were threatening to burst into tears at any moment. Gyro tensed, worried that perhaps he had been a bit too forward. Of course Johnny wouldn’t want to go back to Napoli with him, and he was a fool for even thinking that. Sure, their remaining time together was limited, but Johnny had probably already resigned himself to going their separate ways. Johnny probably thought he was just lying to him like everyone else.

No.

He wasn’t going to be one of the people that left Johnny behind, and that was the end of it.

To his pleasure (and displeasure because of the tears spilling from those beautiful blue eyes) Johnny nodded, leaning in to kiss Gyro again, deeper this time. His tongue brushed over Gyro’s grills, a tingling sensation running down his spine as Johnny’s hands worked their way through his long blond hair.

They pulled apart breathlessly, Johnny’s hands still tangled in Gyro’s hair. A full-fledged grin was on his face now, and Gyro’s heart soared at the sight.

The voice like audible gold danced in his eardrums as it spoke to Gyro, shining eyes smiling at him fondly. “Can’t say no to you. Dunno what I’d do if I couldn’t see your ugly beard and your dumb teddy bear ever again.”

Gyro cackled at that. He left waist-holding duty to one hand as he reached up and grabbed the hat off of his head, lowering it onto Johnny’s own. “But you gotta admit, the hat’s cool.”

“The hat is cool,” Johnny agreed, and then he laughed, a real, full laugh, and Gyro could feel his own cheeks heating up. Dio mio, he’d do anything to hear that on loop.

They sat like that for a bit, basking contentedly in each other’s presence before Johnny spoke up again, tilting Gyro’s hat up so he could see. “Think it’s about bedtime, darlin’.”

Gyro’s eyes widened. “That’s a new one.”

“Well, get used to it!” Johnny smacked the side of Gyro’s ass and smiled real goofy-like, shifting himself off of Gyro and motioning with his chin toward the tent. Gyro sat there bewildered at Johnny’s sudden change in demeanor, but the surprise melted into a tenderness as he leaned down to scoop Johnny up, despite the other being perfectly capable of scooting himself the 10 feet away to the tent. The usual protests were absent, a pleasant hum coming from the man in his arms. Gyro felt a new sort of hope in his chest.

Gyro Zeppeli decided that whatever would actually happen at the end of the race, it would be worth it just to end up with Johnny Joestar.

[docholligay]

The Mind of an Eagle, the Heart of a Dove: Part One of Two

Hello all! This is part one of a fic sponsored by @katrani, so anyone who wants to enjoy some fine Pharah screwing up but being determined action please let her know! Part two is next month, and from Mercy’s perspective, instead. 2500 words thank you for reading!! 

Pharah did the things she was meant to do. The things she had been born for. This was her guiding light, to uphold the principles she had sworn herself to and to do it fully and without hesitation. It made life easier, when you had a guideline. When there is no question over the correct course, life falls into place. Less messy.

Given that she had simply continued to do these things, she struggled to understand why Mercy had simply made her coffee and stormed out of the apartment that morning, without even telling Pharah where she was going. Mercy had barely looked at her since yesterday, save for a few sniping questions and a slammed book in the reading nook.

And Pharah could not imagine why. She knew she was given to say the wrong thing in her desire for precision, but it was so unlike Mercy to simply be angry. Mercy often gently told her when she was too rough or too direct, when she had been insensitive to someone’s sore spot. Even Mercy’s own. But Pharah had said nothing she imagined would be hurtful, and indeed, after the rescue yesterday, there had been little to be said, comparing bruises and eating Indian takeout at Winston’s until they dropped off to go home and sleep.

Mercy was so obviously furious with her, and Pharah could not divine the reason.

She sighed heavily. If she asked Tracer, all Tracer would give her that look of amusement and pity, and say Pharah might try asking Mercy, instead of her. It would not be an unfair thing to say. Tracer was many things, but she was rarely unfair.

But she could not explain to Tracer that she felt she should not need to ask Mercy what was wrong. She knew so well, after the years they had been together, how Mercy’s feelings went, the things that made her happy or sad, and how rare it was of her to be angry. Mercy generally considered anger a vice, and not a virtue, and rarely gave in to it.

Pharah looked around the quiet and empty apartment, the one they had so carefully chosen together, the location and decor all researched and checked again, the long days they’d painted every room.

Tracer has a gift with people you do not.

It pained her to say it, but the thought was true. There were reasons far beyond her experience and rank that Tracer had been her natural choice for co-commander of Overwatch. Where Pharah was regimented, Tracer was flexible. Where Pharah was dependable, Tracer was nimble. Where Pharah was commanding, Tracer was affable.

It was silly, Pharah would often say, that Tracer was ever jealous of her, but she never added that she often felt jealous of Tracer.

It did no good to dwell on this situation, on Mercy’s anger, on her own confusion, on the knowledge that a tiny British bouncy ball might be her only savior. Pharah did the right thing, and because Pharah did the right thing, she would swallow the ember of her own pride, feel it burn all the way down, and ask Tracer what she might have done.

Mercy was worth burning for.

___

The walk to the office from the apartment was mercifully brief, one of the many reasons they had selected it out of a multitude of options, but it gave her time to reflect on all the things she had said and done. The conflict had gone well enough, as much as could be expected, with little property damage and no civilian casualties. Even the team simply had a few bruises and cuts, Winston with a graze on his arm, the worst injury anyone could lay claim to. The dinner afterward had been the usual gathering in Winston’s home, more secure than the rest, until they felt the danger had reasonably passed and Talon was licking their wounds.

Mercy had pulled away from her that night. Had glowered at her, and snapped, and Pharah had seen tears in her eyes. When she’d asked what was wrong, Mercy had shaken her head, and drawn her shawl over her shoulders, and hurried home, alone, telling Pharah not to follow her.

Pharah ran the situation over and over again in her mind, but every time she tried to remember the words, all she could see were the tears in Mercy’s eyes, the way she pulled her shoulder away from Pharah’s, and these hieroglyphics held no meaning for her but sorrow.

The door creaked as she opened it, the bright tap tap tap of computer keys greeting her, accompanied by the fierce bubble of a water kettle and the cheerful hum of the office occupant.

“You were bloody brilliant last night, love,” Tracer did not wait for the door to close behind Pharah, “what with your swoop down into the middle of all them omnics. I mean, bloody stupid, but bloody brilliant,” she paused for a moment, “say it’s a rather me sort of maneuver, but you was the one what done it, not even waiting one bit for us to catch up with you, right?” She shook her head and grinned out the window, “Bloody brilliant, so it is.”

“Good morning.” She turned to hang up her coat immediately, keeping her voice neutral, afraid that Tracer would notice, even as she planned to ask. “I am pleased to see you are working on the press--”

“What’s the matter, Fareeha?” Her voice was kind but inquisitive, leaned forward over her desk now, her head cocked as she looked at Pharah.

Tracer’s mind paid attention to everything. Snippets of conversations she wasn’t having, the pattern on the wallpaper behind someone’s head, the smell of kebab down the block, and the downside to all of this was that her mind occasionally missed whatever it was Pharah was saying in all of the traffic.

Except, of course, when Pharah did not want her to notice something.

Pharah sighed, still facing the wall. She had known Tracer for years now, knew that once she had latched onto some perceived problem, she would refuse to let go until you had told her or she’d puzzled it out for herself. She was tenacious to a fault, and while this was useful in battle, it was less so standing in the office, wishing that she could simply ask Tracer, wishing that she could escape from the situation.

“It is nothing.” She lied, turning toward her desk.

“Oh come on--”

“Yes,” she turned back to face Tracer, to face the difficulty. She had come here to ask Tracer’s counsel, and here she was avoiding it. Mercy deserved better. “I--I would like to ask your advice. It is a personal matter.”

Tracer said nothing, something Pharah always claimed to want but never seemed to settle into easily.

“Angela,” She took a breath, at attention, hands behind her back, hating everything coming out of her mouth, hating that she had to say it to anyone, “She seems very upset with me. I cannot,” she gave a small sigh, afraid for a moment that she would break, that Tracer would see just how concerned she was, “I have tried to find a reason, and it eludes me. You have known Angela for many years, and you have a good sense of people. If you know the reason, I would appreciate knowing.”

“Aw yeah,” Tracer said, nodding, “last night. I mean, it ‘appens,” she chuckled, “Number of times Win’s near gone bloody mental over me, that ‘e’s not just told me to get stuffed is the miracle of me life, it is.”

Pharah stared at her. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“The Omnics. Last night.” Tracer leaned forward, eyes wide and nodding toward Pharah.

“We defeated them.”

“Right. You was in a real scrape, though, right love?”

Pharah shrugged. She had jumped into the middle of the group of omnics, that was true, but she knew her team was behind her, or would be soon and while it was risky, it was not, to Pharah’s mind, utterly careless. Innocent people could have been hurt, and it was Pharah’s duty to stop those things from happening. What she was born for.

She sat down at her desk and looked over at Tracer, in that same terrible silence.

“There was nothing in my manuver to be criticized.”

“You know,” Tracer looked out the window a moment, licked the edge of her lip, and began. “Crashed me glider when I was, must ‘ave been thirteen. Young. Just got me glider’s license. We was out over a field, and I, well, you know ‘ow I can be, right? Get a bit of the wind in me face, and I just--”

“Tracer.”

Tracer nodded, called back to the scene. “Right. So I’m a bit careless, I crash me glider, and its a bad crash, love, broke me collarbone, few ribs, me wrist. Bad bump to the ‘ead. “She indicated each spot on her body with a point of her finger, as if Pharah would not know otherwise,and then paused, looking off for a moment. “Now as I think on it, think it’s the worst crash I’ve ever been in. One where I got ‘urt the worst, at least. Well, except for, of course,” she tapped the edge of her CA, “this. Crawled out the wreck, rested me back against the fuselage. Waited.”

“I am fascinated to hear what this has to do with anything other than your congenital inability to employ caution” She drummed a pen against the desk, both distracted and annoyed.

“God, but you accuse me of ‘aving no bloody patience. So, me dad comes after me, right? He finds me and god, I’ve never seen ‘im so bloody angry, before or since.” Tracer shook her head and snorted, “‘Owled and screamed at me, ‘e did, told me I’s irresponsible and what the bloody fucking ‘ell was my problem, et cetera and all that. And let me tell you this, Fareeha Amari, that crash bloody well ‘urt but it was me dad what made me cry. ‘E did, ‘e yelled at me so ‘ard I burst into tears. Convinced ‘e hated me, I’s absolutely crushed, felt just awful for ruining the glider, all of those things. Cried the whole way to emergency.”

“Yes.” Pharah was never the best at active listening. Luckily, Tracer didn’t seem to mind.

“Later, in ‘ospital, me dad apologizes to me, says ‘e never should have said those things, and ‘e was so, so sorry, and ‘e loved me so much, and ‘e wasn’t angry over the glider at all.”

“Thought I’d lost you,’ was all he said, and that,” She smacked her hand against the desk and pointed to Pharah,”that was the moment, through this ‘aze of medication, I realized I’d scared the bloody ‘ell out of me dad. ‘E thought I’s dead, and when I wasn’t, well, ‘e ‘ad to be cross with someone for tearing ‘is ‘eart out, right? Protective, like.”

Pharah considered for a moment, looking down at the pen in her hand, rolling it over and over “Are you saying Mercy is not speaking to me because she loves me?”

“Oh see, you can take a parable as it’s meant!”

“I did not have so much as a broken rib.”

“But,” Tracer leaned back in her chair, apparently pleased with her pursuit of hidden knowledge, “you did rather fly out the frying pan into the fire, right? Not a thing you generally do love, that’s me job, so it is,” she gave a playful scowl and jumped back to sitting, “And don’t think I don’t notice you encroaching.” She looked up at the planes on the ceiling, “Ang ‘as ‘ad more than ‘er share of people come and gone. Bit ‘ard for ‘er to imagine you.” She tossed a pen at one of the planes, and it spun on its metal wire. “Not something you ‘ave to think about, what with the rules of engagement. No shooting the medic and all.”  

Pharah knew it was true, even as Tracer said it. It was so easy to forget that Mercy had lost so much. She did not wall herself off from the world, had never become bitter or hard, she simply took each heartache, each lost team member or civilian into her heart and let it hurt her, again and again. And here Pharah had willingly put herself in harm’s way.

Had it really been necessary? She told herself it had been, that if she had hesitated, an innocent bystander might have been lost. But looking back now, that didn’t seem to be true. At least, she could not recall it. What she did recall was the joy and excitement she felt at diving into the fray, the way she’d smiled when she thought about how they would not be talking about Tracer’s daring, but Pharah’s, the logical and confident leader, now also the daredevil.

It had been selfish and vainglorious, and Pharah felt hot shame rise to her cheeks.

“She loves you, Fareeha, she’ll move on from it. Winston always does with me.”

“No.” Pharah shook her head.

“She will, love, don’t--”

Pharah raised her hand. “What I mean to say is, I will not let that be the end of it. I owe her,” she rose to her feet and tugged at her shirt to straighten it, “my truest apology. Do you never apologize?”

Tracer gave a smirk and a shrug. “If I’s to apologize, I ‘ave to think I won’t do it again. And I will. It’s part of me job description, part of me family line, part of, well, me, I suppose.”

“But not me,” Pharah nodded to her, “Selfishness masked as heroism was my mother’s game, and I will not allow it to be mine. I am no flank, no dogfighter, and I should not behave as if I am. Thank you, Tracer.”

She headed to the door, unsure of exactly what she would say to Mercy, or how she would say it, how she would soothe the secret hurts in her heart, the ones that Pharah had caused with her own need for attention, the sort of thing she had called out so many times in team members as unnecessary and childish.

The greatest battles Pharah had ever known were not the Omnics or Talon or anyone she had fought with Helix. No, she had been well prepared for all of those battles, her mind found the holds and worked a pattern to the top of the wall, no matter how high or how strong.

It was only on these fields of love and of emotion that she found herself unable to even hold the weapon. Her mother, her aunts, the people she had known and loved in her mother’s Overwatch, they had taught her to shoot and to study, to grow and to fight, but never the small and soft things, the things Pharah needed now most of all.

So she would work. Practice did not make perfect, but it made progress. She would think of what to say, think of what to do, and show Mercy that she would hold Mercy’s heart in her mind most of all.

Pharah did the things she was meant to do. The things she had been born for. And Mercy was her guiding light.

[reddeadtrash]

Ghosts

Summary: There is something strange about the woman they find in the winter wilderness. She is cold, unwavering, and strangely menacing. Arthur Morgan finds himself pulled in by that vivacity. Unbeknownst to him, she knows many things that elude this cowboy. Like magnet to metal, no matter how far he throws her away, he always finds himself going back. 

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC

Rating: M

Word count: 3297

A/N: For those of you who know me from fanfiction.net, yes it is I, jjboivin. I have a main account for marvel, but yo, this Arthur boiiii has got me fucked up so let’s do this.

PROLOGUE: WE’RE MORE GHOSTS THAN MEN

I got a woman with eyes that shine Down deep as a diamond mine She's my treasure so very rare She's made me a millionaire 

Arthur slipped into his coat, watching as Dutch and Micah got onto their respective horses. The wind picked up and it became hard for Arthur to keep his hat on as he stepped out of the little shack, his gloved hand keeping the rugged hat in place. Blue eyes scanned the white horizon as he climbed onto his mount; a black stead borrowed from one of the guys.

              “It’s not far Arthur!” Dutch bellowed over the wind and snow. Some flakes have caught in his black beard, ice forming on the tips of his long hair.

              Micah closed in behind Arthur. “We found the first O’Driscoll-infested house and it went fine,” Micah cackled. “Found a darling little peach-Sadie that is. But otherwise, got to kill some stupid O’Driscolls.”

              “What’s to say this ain’t gonna be the death of us?” Arthur replied, steadying his horse.

              Micah smiled, and it cut his stupid face in half, and Arthur would give his left hand if it meant he could carve his knife into Micah’s face.

              After they’d found Mrs. Adler and killed the entire lot of squatters at her house, they’d heard wind of another place. Arthur was surprised to hear from Charles that there might be another home available to raid. Only thing was that he suspected O’Driscolls had taken over, as these parts were in their complete territory.

              “Here’s the plan!” Dutch bellowed. Arthur gave Micah one last glance from under the tip of his hat, then moved his horse alongside Dutch’s. “We need to find a way to spy in on the house. Not like last time. Almost got myself killed! So this time, we sneak in, and if we can make it, we go in. On my orders!”

              With that, Dutch, Arthur, Charles, and Micah rode off into the blizzard. It was a long ride. Tenacious. Snow seemed to get into every nook and cranny of Arthur’s clothing. No matter which way he placed himself, freezing bits of ice found home on his warm skin. Shivers sliced through his body as they headed uphill, his gloved-hands gripping the reins of his stead. The cold made his mouth dry, the skin of his lips cracking under the mask he’d pulled over his face.

              From the top of a hill, with snow beating against his face, Arthur saw the little house. Wooden built, two small barns out back, and a coop that was clearly being used for storage. From his vantage point, Arthur also saw the dim glow of a candle through a window.

              “Here we are boys!” Dutch reared his mount. “Let’s go!”

              They rode down the hill like wind. Fast, harsh, and tenacious. Arthur left his mount hitched on a tree just beyond the eyesight of anyone watching from the house. The four of them marched in the knee-deep snow until Arthur could not feel his feet anymore. He made a small mental note to go hunting for pelts.

              Dutch grabbed Arthur by the shoulder, brought him close. “You take the back with Charles,” he grumbled, “and Micah and I will take each side.”

              With a quick nod, Arthur dipped his hat and started his way towards the back of the house. Charles close by, they trekked through the snow. The two men were slightly jealous of the clear warmth of the house, proved by the thin sliver of smoke coming from the chimney.

              “You think we’ll find anything interesting in there?” Charles asked over the deafening screech of the wind.

              “We need food,” Arthur replied. “And money. Anything we can grab in there is useful. If we can grab ‘em off dead O’Driscolls, even better.”

              That seemed to satiate Charles, and the men went back to the task at hand.

              Arthur crept along the wooden wall until he came beside the window. Strangely it was opened, seeping warmth, the smell of cooking meat, and the voices of many men within. Frowning, he leaned against the wall and slid down, gaining more range to what he would hear.

              “They’re on the run, anyway,” one was saying. “It’s going to be hard to find him.”

              “You’ll need a trap,” this from a voice closer to the window.

              Charles crept until he was standing on the corner, eyes on Arthur and Dutch.

              “If you’re looking for ‘em, sweetheart, you’ll never find ‘em,” One added.

              Sweetheart? Arthur frowned, looking at his comrade with a skeptical look. There was rustling noise, clearly more than two bodies. A cough. A groan.

              “So you came to us to find him?” A new voice. Made a total of three unknown bodies.

              “Let the little lady have her fun, will you?”

              Arthur’s eyes locked with Charles’. The latter’s eyes went round not only because that had been a new voice which added to a total of four O’Driscolls but also because there was a woman in there. Six individuals, one of unknown intention.

              Arthur quickly crept from his perch to join Charles. “We need to get a move on,” he grumbled. “There’s a woman in there. Possibly young by what I heard. She could be in danger too.”

              “That ain’t our problem, though,” Charles said tentatively. Arthur had once been in the opposite situation, where he hadn’t given any cares for saving ladies. Now was different.

              Ignoring him, Arthur trudged in the snow to find Dutch. The latter was peaking through a window, the slight glow of candles illuminating his face; long, straight nose, dark-set eyebrows.

              “There’s a woman in there,” he said once Arthur had reached him. “There’s no guards outside. They’re drunk. It’ll be easy.”

              They regrouped in front of the house, just lightly to the side where no one could see them through the window. Arthur’s heart was beginning to hammer into his chest. No matter how many times he’d done robberies or infiltrations, he couldn’t stop the way his body reacted every time. Sweat in places he didn’t know he could make sweat. Trembling lips. Racing heartbeat. His hands, however, always remained steady.

              “Sweet and easy, boys,” Dutch grumbled.

              Like ghosts, they pulled from the shadows. Four men, hats dipped over their eyes, masks covering their faces, melted from the darkness. The glow of the candles illuminated the powerful bursting of invaders within the home. Wood tore from the hinges of the door, glass shattered from the bullets firing from guns and missing their targets. Bodies moved with practice; fire, reload, aim, kill.

              Little explosions ripped from the weapons being used to survive. The entire cabin was filled with noises of death and murder. Blood splattered from open wounds, brains staining the wood of the walls. Candles blew out from the wind screeching in from the open door.

              At the end of it, Arthur still stood beside the door, Micah, Dutch, and Charles to his left. Arthur’s gun was smoking, aimed at the last O’Driscoll he’d shot. His chest was heaving as the blue of his orbs caught the candlelight, scanning, until he met the woman surprisingly still sitting at the kitchen table.

              Arthur had seen may women in his time. Not that he was old. He’d bedded some. Played with some. Talked with many. He enjoyed the company of many women, as he was not unfamiliar with the likes of them. He loved their bodies, obviously. He could enjoy the warmth they could bring to him, the release, the entirety of being touched. He’d loved only two.

              Needless to say, Arthur had seen many women in his lifetime. But her. She could easily be the most beautiful woman he’d ever lain eyes on.

              Even though her hair was the color caramel (brunettes were more his type) and her eyes were black as midnight, Arthur was stunned for a second. His eyes came to rest on the smooth planes of her face, the slight redness of her cheeks, and the fullness of her lips. His body started to tingle. Fingers itched to smooth the tension from her eyes, to feel the plumpness of her mouth.

              Then he snapped out of it. He aimed his weapon at her.

              “Woah, there, cowpoke,” Micah grumbled. The rest of the boys had holstered their weapons. Only Arthur was still armed and ready to fire.

              Risking one last glance at the woman, Arthur carefully holstered his weapon. He lowered his mask, revealing the small itch of a beard to the warm air of the cabin. That’s when he saw the strangeness of the entire situation.

              The woman, not much older than her mid-twenties, was hogtied to the chair. Feet and hands, unable to hurt anyone or defend herself. What was stranger, however, was what she was wearing.

              Arthur had nothing against women wearing pants. But those were pants he’d never seen before. Loose and tight all at once, exposing curves. Pockets on each side of her thighs. She also wore leather boots, which had to have cost her a colossal amount of money. A loose cotton long sleeve covered her upper half, the material a dark blue. She wore no coat or any coverings to hide her from the ferocious weather.

              She was also gagged.

              “What in the hell?” he groaned.

              She was struggling against her bonds, her swan-black eyes stuck on him of all people. Arthur’s skin tingled again. Sweat coated her forehead, which was surprising, given the weather. Her caramel locks, so long they fell beyond Arthur’s eyesight, were messy and clearly needed a brush.

              “Charles,” Dutch barked, “get her talking. Micah, loot the bodies.”

              As they watched Charles take the humid gag from the woman’s mouth, the hairs at the back of Arthur’s neck stood on end.

              There was something vicious in her eyes. Something he’d seen many times; it had stared back at him and he’d stared at it right in the face. It was the same vivacity, the same tenacious anger he’d harbored into his own soul. The way the world had hardened him, he could see the reflection of it now within the blackness of this girl’s eyes.

              “Lady!” Dutch was saying, trying to catch her attention. But she was staring at Arthur. “You’re going to be okay now. We just want to ask you some questions.”

              Arthur began looking around the house. He couldn’t take her heavy stare, the perpetual blackness of her orbs, the emptiness of them. They had come here to rob, take what they most dearly needed, and be on their way.

              “Madam,” Dutch continued. By now, the wet gag was hanging from her neck. The girl exercised her jaw, eyes finally finding home somewhere else. Arthur was relieved of that. “We won’t hurt you. I promise.”

              She made a sound deep in her throat that took Arthur by surprise. A growl?

              “Really, miss?” Dutch added. “You are safe. I swear it.” When Arthur looked back at her, she was staring at him once again. She had deep-set eyebrows, thick and curved over her eyes. Her nose was small and straight, as if cut from a knife. Just over the fabric of her shirt was a long and elegant neck. This woman was made to either be a circus actress or a singer, not alone in the winter wilderness with O’Driscolls.

              “Nothin’ on these boys,” Micah grumbled, throwing away useless papers he’d found on the bodies.

              Dutch sighed heavily. “Micah, take upstairs with Charles,” he ordered in that baritone voice of his. “Arthur, stay with me and little miss… something here.”

              “I think she wants to stay mute,” Arthur grumbled. Charles and Micah headed upstairs, not with their usual banter. The girl seemed to take Arthur’s comment with anger.

              “Before we untie you,” Dutch said, “would you like to tell us your name?”

              Her black eyes slid from Arthur to land on Dutch. Her brow furrowed and something quick and menacing flashed in her features, but it was gone quickly. Arthur had enough a mind of his own to put his hand on his revolver. The girl was still tied to the chair, but something slick was crawling up on Arthur’s flesh.

              “Arya.” Her voice was hard, like frozen rain when it hits the roof of a house. Arthur remembered what it was like to huddle beside his son, listening to hail hammer on the roof. Mesmerizing and terrifying all at once.

              “That’s a pretty name,” Dutch added. “Where are you from, Arya?”

              She frowned deeper. Jokingly, Arthur imagined that if she wasn’t tied, she’d try to stick it Dutch one way or another.

              “I’m from… Delaware.”

              The hesitation was not what got to Arthur. Yes, she could be lying about where she was from, but didn’t lie about their origins occasionally? What triggered something in Arthur was the accent. Sweet, low, and something he’d never heard. He’d been around enough to hear all kinds of accents, but this was something he’d never heard before.

              It seemed like Dutch thought the same thing. “Never new folks in Delaware spoke with such an accent,” he joked, a smirk cutting his face.

              The woman – Arya – jerked her chin. “If you would be kind enough to untie me,” she said, her accent still catching Arthur off guard, “I’d like to go.”

              Dutch put up his hand so fast, even Arthur didn’t see it. “Now, now, little lady,” he grumbled. “I’d just like to know why the O’Driscolls had you tied up like fresh meat.”

              Silence filled the room. Arthur took off his gloves and passed a hand over his face. “We just want…” he trailed off, meeting her dark gaze. Shivers ran down his spine. “It ain’t like the O’Driscolls to leave a woman… untouched.”

              Dutch cleared his throat, albeit awkwardly. “Why were they questioning you?”

              Again, that defiant chin jerk. “Because I was following them.”

              The admission was surprising. A woman following the O’Driscolls?

              “You’re the law?” Arthur asked, perplexed.

              Arya made a weird gesture with her mouth, scoffed out, “do I look like the law to you, gentlemen?”

              “Then why were you following them?” Arthur pressed. He put both palms on the table, leaning closer. This time, with the glow of the candlelight, he could see freckles on the bridge of her nose. It made him think of his younger days, when he himself had a wash of freckles on his cheeks. Only two remained, however.

              “They could bring me to the man who murdered my brother,” she admitted coolly.

              Dutch stirred. “Colm?” he asked.

              She veered her icy glare on him. Shrugged. Bit the inside of her cheek. All with the allure of utter viciousness. “Yes,” she replied. Something in the way she stared at Dutch made Arthur believe she was hiding something. Either it was the answer to Dutch’s question or something else altogether, Arthur didn’t want to know.

              “Then, little miss Arya-“ Dutch began.

              “Don’t call me little,” she growled.

              Dutch smiled widely, like Arthur had never seen him do. “Oh, I like you,” he bellowed, pointing at her. “If you’re planning on getting your hands on Colm O’Driscoll, then you should be riding with us.”

              Arthur straightened, looked at his boss with shock. Wasn’t he the one that said to stop bringing strays in?

              “Do you have information on them?” Dutch continued.

              “Dutch!”

              Micah ran into the kitchen, his eyes wild with bloodlust. Arthur’s skin crawled.

              “I see some comin’!” he panted. “Three on horseback, maybe more!”

              Dutch considered that for a second, before jumping into action. “Go back upstairs with Charles and hold the windows,” he ordered. “Arthur, take the back of the house. I’ll take the front.”

              “I can handle a weapon, you know,” Arya said. In the little mess, they’d all forgotten about her.

              “The little lady speaks!” Micah cackled, but cowed under the growl Dutch gave him, and scurried up the stairs.

              “Arthur,” Dutch grumbled, “untie her. Give her a gun.”

              The order was banal and so unbecoming of Dutch. Give a woman a weapon? Could she really handle herself?

              Arthur did as he was told, however, and used his knife to cut her bonds. Up close, she smelled of lake water and fresh air. Her wavy hair was soft against his cheek as he brushed on it to free her ankles. And when she stood, much smaller than he would have guessed, she looked up at him with a deep frown.  “You gonna give me a gun, or what?” she growled, still with that accent of hers he couldn’t place.

              Grumbling, he handed her his revolver and took out his rifle. “Cover the windows,” he said lowly. When she turned and walked away from him, he could see how her trousers hugged her curves and he knew that if this woman accepted to ride with them, Miss Grimshaw would have a field day with her.

              The shooting started not long after. Micah would be heard upstairs, roaring his pleasure from the top of his lungs. Windows and glass broke all over again. Wood splintered and shattered, curses thrown in the air like confetti, and one thing was sure, that little Arya was fending for herself good enough.

              When it was all over, and the house was once again rendered a total mess, the five of them stood in the kitchen. Arya stood near the entrance, still gripping Arthur’s revolver. The latter was panting beside Dutch in the kitchen. Charles and Micah were staring at the woman from their perch in the stairs.

              “Little lady knows how to shoot,” Micah taunted again. His blonde hair was stuck to his sweaty face, and when he stuck his tongue out to lick his lips, even Arthur shivered in disgust.

              “Call me little again, and I’ll show you just how good I can shoot,” Arya growled, turning to face Micah.

              Just then, the door burst open. A gush of wind blew across the kitchen, cold and brutal. A lone O’Driscoll, desperate and terrified, came staggering in, aiming aimlessly around the cabin. In a movement so quick and precise, Arya had wormed her way into obtaining that man’s knife. Arthur was readying to draw and save her life, but the woman had sunk the knife so deep in the O’Driscoll’s throat that blood was already pooling on the wooden floor. The body made a sickening thud as it hit the ground.

              The silence didn’t last long, but in it, Arthur saw no evidence of fear in Arya’s face. She was stoic, brows pulled, lips puckered, as she sheathed the knife into the belt of her trousers. She wasn’t even trembling.

              “Okay!” Micah laughed as he jumped down from his perch. He strolled by Arya, giving her a light tap on the shoulder. “I like you.”

              Dutch was laughing too. “You’re welcome to come with us, miss,” he said, then gesture to her bloody hands. “We could use someone like you.”

              Her silence was answer enough. She was strangely attractive, with blood speckled on her face, anger written all over her features, hair in a mess.

              “Arthur, you can ride with her.” Dutch’s command brought Arthur out of his reverie.

              He was not pleased by that. He didn’t want to get any closer to the strange vivacity of her. It seemed like it would pull him in, too.

              He gestured for her to follow him. She grabbed the O’Driscoll’s coat and followed him out into the still-raging blizzard.

              Arthur’s mount waited for them at the stable. Everyone mounted, Micah yapping on about something that seemed to displease Charles, because they were going at it. Arthur was more concentrated on the woman he was currently gripping by the forearm and helping up onto the saddle, in front of him. He wasn’t comfortable with having her behind him yet. When she moved her legs so she could straddle the horse, Arthur frowned deeply. Could this woman get any stranger?

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 2: Lure of Sleep

Chapters: 2/?Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: Illness, Alcohol Mention Relationships: Loki x Reader Characters: Loki (Marvel), Thor (Marvel), OFC, Heimdall (Marvel), Brunnhilde/Valkyrie (Marvel) Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending, New Asgard, Stark is Stubborn, Loki is Impatient, The Power of Dreams

Summary: Loki tries to keep his head on straight as a mysterious illness creeps up on him.

Loki awoke in a feverish haze.  That dream again. Again! For the past six months it had filled his sleeping hours, more and more often. It came every night now, and robbed him of rest. It wasn’t an unpleasant dream exactly, but it was accompanied by growing weakness. He was sickly now, and people were starting to notice.

Especially his brother, who shot him a concerned look when he stumbled into their hastily set up council chambers, sheen of sweat shining in the electric lights.

He took his usual seat at Thor’s side, determined to be present, even though his head was swimming. Luckily the meeting was mostly discussion of delays of the next shipment of building supplies, due to their makeshift Bifrost’s continued inaccuracy issues. The thing worked, but just barely. It could only be used a few times a day, and tended to drop things anywhere from thirty to two hundred yards from their intended target. With the large, natural fen just north of the construction grounds; that inaccuracy was a potential problem. They’d already lost some supplies to the mire, they really couldn’t afford anymore.

The government of Iceland, and its people had been blessedly welcoming of their refugee nation; however, there was only so much aid they could give. The people of Asgard survived as they could, offering their knowledge and skills in exchange for the odd paper currency of this world. It was slow going; an entire year and they’d only gotten a few buildings up and finished. The creation of the makeshift Bifrost had been cause for celebration, but it simply was not effective enough. Their engineers were working on it every second that they weren’t needed elsewhere, but the old one had been completed eons ago, and none who worked on it still lived. The younger generations knew how it was supposed to work; they’d just never had the experience of actually building one.

The discussion turned to lists of necessary supplies, price lists and available funds. Loki drifted in and out, his mind sliding between the mystery of his dreams, and the thing that lingered on his hand. He still didn’t know what to make of it. Certainly, it was magical in nature, but he had no idea from where it sprang. That woman from the tower…of course it came from you, but the whys and hows eluded him. He had been assured firmly that it was not intentional, and once security arrived, there were no more chances to ask. You were whisked away, and he had been ‘encouraged’ to return home.

Yet half a year later, and he still remembered the face of a woman he’d spent less than a minute with. You were in his dream.

The meeting ended without him noticing, the people shuffling out of the room and back to their work. He had work to do today. He had work…

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

“Brother, are you…ill?” Thor asked, expression full of concern. Loki looked up into his face, reading it as confusion.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He said. “We don’t fall ill. I simply didn’t get enough rest.”

Thor sat back down next to him. “You’ve been having this problem for some time now.  Something has to be done.  We need you, Loki, and you’re not here. Is it the dreams?”

“What do you know of-“ He began.

“You mentioned it some months ago.” Thor interrupted. “A recurring dream you were having, but you gave no details. So you’re still having them? Dreams mean things to people like us. Tell me, perhaps we can come up with a solution.”

He didn’t want to. Dreams were private things, and this one might be construed as a little embarrassing. But galling as it was, Thor was correct. Something had to be done. He was wasting slowly away, and it had to stop. He didn’t have to give every little detail, after all.

“Do you remember, some months ago, the incident in the tower?”

“With that girl? Did you ever figure out what happened?”

Loki shook his head. “If we still had our libraries, perhaps I could find something. But I have not been able to locate another single such incident happening in the history of this realm. It was magic, but other than that, I do not yet know what that was. But I see her in my dream. She is… in danger. “

It wasn’t a clear danger, just a nebulous darkness that tried to drag you in. In the way of dreams though, he knew it was dangerous, and so, he would reach out to you…

“I save her from it, but it follows her. I keep her close and safe.”

The darkness s could not be dispersed, not by magic or force. It wanted to devour you. He’d once let it do so, and he’d been drained so badly when he awoke, he hadn’t been able to rise from his bed for hours. That was when he realized that the dream was connected to his health, somehow. After that, he made sure to always save you, and even began to enjoy it a little. Playing hero to a helpless little thing made him feel powerful, and the way you pressed against him in appreciation and fear, as if he were the only thing in all the realms strong enough to protect you, gave a welcome stroke to his confidence. He didn’t really want the dreams to stop. They were self -indulgent and somewhat pleasant, but if they were indeed related to his declining health, he had to put an end to them.

But in the dream, you had…

“She has a mark on her hand. Like mine.”

“Didn’t that heal?” Thor asked.

Loki rolled his eyes and held out his right hand. The illusion he held over it dissipated, revealing an odd, rectangular shape, and a collection of circles with pitchfork finials on each line, all burned into his palm.

“I didn’t want any awkward questions.” He explained. “And it hasn’t flared up again since that day in the tower. But it did not heal either, and I have found out what it is, if not why it’s here. It’s called  galdrastafur. A little spell about locks. Midgardian attempts at our magic. Nowhere near as effective, of course.”

“Effective enough, if you can’t make it heal. Do you think she still bears this mark as well?”

Loki shrugged. “In the dreams she does, but in life? Who knows? Nothing has happened since then, except for those dreams. Which have been making me ill, in the way of a human…damn. I’ve been too burned out to make the connection.”

“Do you think these marks may be connecting you? Do you think you are sick, because she is?”

“If I am ill because of this, she may very well be dying.” He stood. “If she dies, we never find out what this is, or what caused it.” If you died, there might be no more pleasant dreams.

His brother stood with him. “If she dies, who knows what might happen to you? So. We find her?”

“We find her.”

“Very well. Though, I thought you didn’t care much for humanity.” Thor teased.

“I don’t. But we live on their land now. And besides, my reputation is fragile. If this woman dies, and it is pinned on me, her entire belligerent country may decide to take it out on us.”

Thor nodded.  “I will speak with Stark on the morrow.” Noticing his brother’s sour expression, he added, “He owns the tower, and his security will at least help us narrow down who we are looking for.”

“I know what she looks like.” Loki protested.

“But not where she lives, or what her name is, nor anything else about her, save some nebulous feeling of danger.  Stark may be able to provide us all of those things. Now you…” He steered Loki towards the door. “You are to take what I believe is referred to as a ‘sick day’. Get something to eat, have a bath, and most importantly, rest. Rest as much as you can.”

Loki went along with it with only a cursory protest; a testament to how out of sorts he really felt.

The kitchen was always open, and stocked with simple, easy to eat staples. With so many workers and sentries about at all times of the day, it was a necessity. Loki grabbed a small bunch of grapes out of the fruit bowl, and headed back to his rooms, eating them along the way.

He knocked on the door to the guard room, just inside his suite and informed the live-in guard-a young man from a prominent Asgardian family-that he was retiring early. The young man took up his post instantly. He was decent at his job, even if he wasn’t strictly necessary.

Once the grapes were gone, he decided a bath really did sound very nice. He started the water running and grabbed a book to read while he waited.

There had been a lot of debate on how to go about building their nation. Thor hadn’t really wanted to burden the people any further with providing excess luxury just for himself and Loki. He’d gotten used to living in cramped quarters and dressing like a peasant in his time on Midgard.

Loki however, knew that it was important to put on a good show, not only of power, but of capability. Midgard could be an exceptionally savage place, and people who were perceived as having less, were all too often perceived as being less. There were nations here who would love nothing more than to use them until they were empty, take everything that they were, erase their claim to their own selves, and then discard them like so much garbage. There were more who would hold every Asgardian man, woman, and child responsible for the things he had done, and wish to punish them in his place. They had to show their greatness from the first step. For their own protection.

So there would be no golden palace. That was fine. But no one would say that Asgard was lesser. No one would be allowed to take advantage. Asgardian ingenuity, capability, and power would be shown to the world. They would be envied. They would be emulated. They would be coveted. But they would never be up for grabs. In the end, he and Thor had compromised.

This was why Loki got to have his large, sunken bath, but had to fill it himself. There weren’t really any royal servants anymore. Truthfully, neither brother really needed them. There were maids, and cooks, and sentries, and janitors of course, but aside from a few guards, there was nobody specifically to attend just to them. In their short years away from home, they’d both grown much more self-sufficient.

How much could happen in just a few years. It seemed no more than a blink of an eye, and suddenly everything was different.  Loki set his book aside, discarded his clothing, turned off the water, and slid into the bath. The water felt delightful, easing the ache of muscles that were sore for no real reason.

Why was that happening? What was causing it, this strange and detrimental connection to you in dreams, through this mark? He raised his right hand out of the water and examined the mark once more. It hadn’t lit up since that meeting in the tower, but nothing he did made it fade. It couldn’t really have been you that caused it, no mortal could possess magic so strong that he could not undo it. That meant it had to have been him. Somehow. It was always him. The how and why still eluded him.

Loki sunk down to the neck in hot water. There was planning to do now. They had to find you, first of all. Bring you here to study what had happened. Erase it if they could. Find a way to deal with it, if they could not. He very much doubted that he would die from this thing, even if you did, but it would still likely be very uncomfortable, and not the desirable outcome. You would need a place to stay, certain basic amenities. It might be a few days, or it might be the rest of your natural lifespan. Either way, it wouldn’t be all that long from his perspective.

He stayed until the water began to chill, then drained it, toweled off, grabbed his book again, and headed to bed. He read until his eyes grew heavy, and the book threatened to slip from his hands. Heeding Thor’s advice for once, he allowed himself to drift away.

                                                                                    *****

 The void pulled harder than ever, threatening to yank you out of his arms, but he planted his feet and held on. He was a god, he would not lose to a formless blob of darkness! But as he clung to you, defying the nothingness that loomed over you both, the pull only increased the shadow unmoved by either godly pride or mortal fear. It stole his footing, sent you both crashing to the ground. He kept his grip on you, but he no longer had traction; the terrible pull towed you both toward the void. It swallowed your legs before he got back to his feet and tore you free. The darkness did not seem to care that it had been denied; it was not some stalking, thinking enemy. It simply existed. An inexorable danger that loomed, without wanting or needing anything, just being. It would continue being, continue growing in strength, until he either failed, or did something about it.

                                                                                        *****

 It was late in the morning when he woke. He had a headache, but he felt a little better than he had yesterday. Getting out of bed and dressed was still tiring, but not so much of a struggle. Breakfast was actually lunch; half a sandwich, and a hearty soup to ward of the chill. Not that he needed protection from the cold, but it still tasted good.

When Thor found him, he was attempting to catch up on some of the paperwork he had neglected the day before. One look at his brothers dour expression told Loki he was about to hear bad news.

“Your meeting with Stark did not go in your favor.” Loki said flatly.

“He refused to give me any information about the woman.” Thor growled. “Oh, he knows who she is, but he won’t tell me anything.”

“Did you really expect otherwise?” Loki asked. “He is never very cooperative when I am involved.”

“I thought he might be, for the safety of his countrymen, but I can also see his point of view. We don’t really have much information to give him, just that some woman we don’t know is in some kind of danger, and you are somehow tied up in it. Naturally he wants to check it out for himself.” Thor sighed. “I don’t like it, but I understand it. Would I do any different?”

“The difference here being that Stark is not a king, and has no responsibility to the people around him, save what he decides for himself. Nor does he have any real authority over them.” Nor me, he thought.

“I left Brunnhilde with him, to plead my case.” Thor said, and Loki choked over a barked laugh. “Stark bends more easily to strong women.” Thor explained.

“Oh yes, and the fact that she will drink through all his alcohol so quickly that he will soon be doing whatever it takes to convince her to leave has nothing to do with it?” Loki asked. The last Valkyrie was not a diplomat, but she certainly did have some political usefulness.

“I can’t imagine what you mean.” Thor said, the ghost of a smile sweeping across his face. “I’ve merely put Stark in a position to reconsider cooperation. In any case, we will hopefully have the information we need in a few days. Now, I’ve got to go meet with an environmental specialist, regarding the fens. I think they’re afraid we’re going to destroy them.  Do not neglect your rest.” With that, Thor left, and Loki set his paperwork aside.

This wouldn’t do. After last night’s dream, Loki had grown certain the there was no time left. Not for formalities, and certainly not for waiting for a stubborn Stark to come around. He left his paperwork with an aide, and headed back to his rooms to retrieve his cellphone.

Most of them had one now, though few of them had taken up the habit of carrying them everywhere in the way of humans. Thor was still not very good at handling Midgardian tech, but Loki had become somewhat proficient. He sent a quick text to Brunnhilde, and waited.

Can you expidite?

Why? You have a date?

Yes.

I don’t believe you.

All I need is the name and address. Can you do it?

Yeah, yeah.  I can probably do better than that, if this guy doesn’t have a fit first. Give me a few.

The Valkyrie was usually as good as her word. Loki grabbed his book, took a seat, and waited. It took an even shorter time than he had anticipated, the information popping up in terse snippets. Full name. Age. Address. Family. Workplace. He typed out a quick thanks as he went over it. It was with some small relief that he saw you were well into the human age of adulthood, but had no family other than a father. That would make your leaving easier. He wouldn’t have the time to convince, or cajole.

He left his rooms, left the limits of New Asgard altogether, and headed straight for the makeshift Bifrost. Heimdall looked him over impassively, taking in the light armor and the horns, and saying nothing.

“It is important to a life, that I go here, right now.” Loki said, showing your workplace address.  He thought it was about the time a person in your time zone would be going to work.

Midgard was so very, very large. The largest of the nine realms, by a great margin. So large, that it didn’t all exist at the same time, at least, by human reckoning.  Heimdall gazed out over the vast expanse, and twisted his sword in its socket. The narrow beam of light that made up the tiny Bifrost gathered up everything Loki was, and flung it out over the expanse of the ocean and beyond.