#story is A Pail of Air btw

[waspsinyouryard]

Pa had sent me out to get an extra pail of air. I'd just about scooped it full and most of the warmth had leaked from my fingers when I saw the thing.

You know, at first I thought it was a young lady. Yes, a beautiful young lady's face all glowing in the dark and looking at me from the fifth floor of the opposite apartment, which hereabouts is the floor just above the white blanket of frozen air. I'd never seen a live young lady before, except in the old magazines—Sis is just a kid and Ma is pretty sick and miserable—and it gave me such a start that I dropped the pail. Who wouldn't, knowing everyone on Earth was dead except Pa and Ma and Sis and you?



Even at that, I don't suppose I should have been surprised. We all see things now and then. Ma has some pretty bad ones, to judge from the way she bugs her eyes at nothing and just screams and screams and huddles back against the blankets hanging around the Nest. Pa says it is natural we should react like that sometimes.

When I'd recovered the pail and could look again at the opposite apartment, I got an idea of what Ma might be feeling at those times, for I saw it wasn't a young lady at all but simply a light—a tiny light that moved stealthily from window to window, just as if one of the cruel little stars had come down out of the airless sky to investigate why the Earth had gone away from the Sun, and maybe to hunt down something to torment or terrify, now that the Earth didn't have the Sun's protection.

I tell you, the thought of it gave me the creeps. I just stood there shaking, and almost froze my feet and did frost my helmet so solid on the inside that I couldn't have seen the light even if it had come out of one of the windows to get me. Then I had the wit to go back inside.

Pretty soon I was feeling my familiar way through the thirty or so blankets and rugs Pa has got hung around to slow down the escape of air from the Nest, and I wasn't quite so scared. I began to hear the tick-ticking of the clocks in the Nest and knew I was getting back into air, because there's no sound outside in the vacuum, of course. But my mind was still crawly and uneasy as I pushed through the last blankets—Pa's got them faced with aluminum foil to hold in the heat—and came into the Nest.

Let me tell you about the Nest. It's low and snug, just room for the four of us and our things. The floor is covered with thick woolly rugs. Three of the sides are blankets, and the blankets roofing it touch Pa's head. He tells me it's inside a much bigger room, but I've never seen the real walls or ceiling.

Against one of the blanket-walls is a big set of shelves, with tools and books and other stuff, and on top of it a whole row of clocks. Pa's very fussy about keeping them wound. He says we must never forget time, and without a sun or moon, that would be easy to do.

The fourth wall has blankets all over except around the fireplace, in which there is a fire that must never go out. It keeps us from freezing and does a lot more besides. One of us must always watch it. Some of the clocks are alarm and we can use them to remind us. In the early days there was only Ma to take turns with Pa—I think of that when she gets difficult—but now there's me to help, and Sis too.

It's Pa who is the chief guardian of the fire, though. I always think of him that way: a tall man sitting cross-legged, frowning anxiously at the fire, his lined face golden in its light, and every so often carefully placing on it a piece of coal from the big heap beside it. Pa tells me there used to be guardians of the fire sometimes in the very old days—vestal virgins, he calls them—although there was unfrozen air all around then and you didn't really need one.

He was sitting just that way now, though he got up quick to take the pail from me and bawl me out for loitering—he'd spotted my frozen helmet right off. That roused Ma and she joined in picking on me. She's always trying to get the load off her feelings, Pa explains. He shut her up pretty fast. Sis let off a couple of silly squeals too.

Pa handled the pail of air in a twist of cloth. Now that it was inside the Nest, you could really feel its coldness. It just seemed to suck the heat out of everything. Even the flames cringed away from it as Pa put it down close by the fire.

Yet it's that glimmery white stuff in the pail that keeps us alive. It slowly melts and vanishes and refreshes the Nest and feeds the fire. The blankets keep it from escaping too fast. Pa'd like to seal the whole place, but he can't—building's too earthquake-twisted, and besides he has to leave the chimney open for smoke.

Pa says air is tiny molecules that fly away like a flash if there isn't something to stop them. We have to watch sharp not to let the air run low. Pa always keeps a big reserve supply of it in buckets behind the first blankets, along with extra coal and cans of food and other things, such as pails of snow to melt for water. We have to go way down to the bottom floor for that stuff, which is a mean trip, and get it through a door to outside.

You see, when the Earth got cold, all the water in the air froze first and made a blanket ten feet thick or so everywhere, and then down on top of that dropped the crystals of frozen air, making another white blanket sixty or seventy feet thick maybe.

Of course, all the parts of the air didn't freeze and snow down at the same time.

First to drop out was the carbon dioxide—when you're shoveling for water, you have to make sure you don't go too high and get any of that stuff mixed in, for it would put you to sleep, maybe for good, and make the fire go out. Next there's the nitrogen, which doesn't count one way or the other, though it's the biggest part of the blanket. On top of that and easy to get at, which is lucky for us, there's the oxygen that keeps us alive. Pa says we live better than kings ever did, breathing pure oxygen, but we're used to it and don't notice. Finally, at the very top, there's a slick of liquid helium, which is funny stuff. All of these gases in neat separate layers. Like a pussy caffay, Pa laughingly says, whatever that is.

I was busting to tell them all about what I'd seen, and so as soon as I'd ducked out of my helmet and while I was still climbing out of my suit, I cut loose. Right away Ma got nervous and began making eyes at the entry-slit in the blankets and wringing her hands together—the hand where she'd lost three fingers from frostbite inside the good one, as usual. I could tell that Pa was annoyed at me scaring her and wanted to explain it all away quickly, yet could see I wasn't fooling.

"And you watched this light for some time, son?" he asked when I finished.

I hadn't said anything about first thinking it was a young lady's face. Somehow that part embarrassed me.

"Long enough for it to pass five windows and go to the next floor."

"And it didn't look like stray electricity or crawling liquid or starlight focused by a growing crystal, or anything like that?"

He wasn't just making up those ideas. Odd things happen in a world that's about as cold as can be, and just when you think matter would be frozen dead, it takes on a strange new life. A slimy stuff comes crawling toward the Nest, just like an animal snuffing for heat—that's the liquid helium. And once, when I was little, a bolt of lightning—not even Pa could figure where it came from—hit the nearby steeple and crawled up and down it for weeks, until the glow finally died.

"Not like anything I ever saw," I told him.

He stood for a moment frowning. Then, "I'll go out with you, and you show it to me," he said.

Ma raised a howl at the idea of being left alone, and Sis joined in, too, but Pa quieted them. We started climbing into our outside clothes—mine had been warming by the fire. Pa made them. They have plastic headpieces that were once big double-duty transparent food cans, but they keep heat and air in and can replace the air for a little while, long enough for our trips for water and coal and food and so on.

Ma started moaning again, "I've always known there was something outside there, waiting to get us. I've felt it for years—something that's part of the cold and hates all warmth and wants to destroy the Nest. It's been watching us all this time, and now it's coming after us. It'll get you and then come for me. Don't go, Harry!"

Pa had everything on but his helmet. He knelt by the fireplace and reached in and shook the long metal rod that goes up the chimney and knocks off the ice that keeps trying to clog it. Once a week he goes up on the roof to check if it's working all right. That's our worst trip and Pa won't let me make it alone.

"Sis," Pa said quietly, "come watch the fire. Keep an eye on the air, too. If it gets low or doesn't seem to be boiling fast enough, fetch another bucket from behind the blanket. But mind your hands. Use the cloth to pick up the bucket."

Sis quit helping Ma be frightened and came over and did as she was told. Ma quieted down pretty suddenly, though her eyes were still kind of wild as she watched Pa fix on his helmet tight and pick up a pail and the two of us go out.

Pa led the way and I took hold of his belt. It's a funny thing, I'm not afraid to go by myself, but when Pa's along I always want to hold on to him. Habit, I guess, and then there's no denying that this time I was a bit scared.

You see, it's this way. We know that everything is dead out there. Pa heard the last radio voices fade away years ago, and had seen some of the last folks die who weren't as lucky or well-protected as us. So we knew that if there was something groping around out there, it couldn't be anything human or friendly.

Besides that, there's a feeling that comes with it always being night, cold night. Pa says there used to be some of that feeling even in the old days, but then every morning the Sun would come and chase it away. I have to take his word for that, not ever remembering the Sun as being anything more than a big star. You see, I hadn't been born when the dark star snatched us away from the Sun, and by now it's dragged us out beyond the orbit of the planet Pluto, Pa says, and taking us farther out all the time.

I found myself wondering whether there mightn't be something on the dark star that wanted us, and if that was why it had captured the Earth. Just then we came to the end of the corridor and I followed Pa out on the balcony.

I don't know what the city looked like in the old days, but now it's beautiful. The starlight lets you see it pretty well—there's quite a bit of light in those steady points speckling the blackness above. (Pa says the stars used to twinkle once, but that was because there was air.) We are on a hill and the shimmery plain drops away from us and then flattens out, cut up into neat squares by the troughs that used to be streets. I sometimes make my mashed potatoes look like it, before I pour on the gravy.

Some taller buildings push up out of the feathery plain, topped by rounded caps of air crystals, like the fur hood Ma wears, only whiter. On those buildings you can see the darker squares of windows, underlined by white dashes of air crystals. Some of them are on a slant, for many of the buildings are pretty badly twisted by the quakes and all the rest that happened when the dark star captured the Earth.

Here and there a few icicles hang, water icicles from the first days of the cold, other icicles of frozen air that melted on the roofs and dripped and froze again. Sometimes one of those icicles will catch the light of a star and send it to you so brightly you think the star has swooped into the city. That was one of the things Pa had been thinking of when I told him about the light, but I had thought of it myself first and known it wasn't so.

He touched his helmet to mine so we could talk easier and he asked me to point out the windows to him. But there wasn't any light moving around inside them now, or anywhere else. To my surprise, Pa didn't bawl me out and tell me I'd been seeing things. He looked all around quite a while after filling his pail, and just as we were going inside he whipped around without warning, as if to take some peeping thing off guard.

I could feel it, too. The old peace was gone. There was something lurking out there, watching, waiting, getting ready.

Inside, he said to me, touching helmets, "If you see something like that again, son, don't tell the others. Your Ma's sort of nervous these days and we owe her all the feeling of safety we can give her. Once—it was when your sister was born—I was ready to give up and die, but your Mother kept me trying. Another time she kept the fire going a whole week all by herself when I was sick. Nursed me and took care of the two of you, too."

"You know that game we sometimes play, sitting in a square in the Nest, tossing a ball around? Courage is like a ball, son. A person can hold it only so long, and then he's got to toss it to someone else. When it's tossed your way, you've got to catch it and hold it tight—and hope there'll be someone else to toss it to when you get tired of being brave."

His talking to me that way made me feel grown-up and good. But it didn't wipe away the thing outside from the back of my mind—or the fact that Pa took it seriously.

It's hard to hide your feelings about such a thing. When we got back in the Nest and took off our outside clothes, Pa laughed about it all and told them it was nothing and kidded me for having such an imagination, but his words fell flat. He didn't convince Ma and Sis any more than he did me. It looked for a minute like we were all fumbling the courage-ball. Something had to be done, and almost before I knew what I was going to say, I heard myself asking Pa to tell us about the old days, and how it all happened.

He sometimes doesn't mind telling that story, and Sis and I sure like to listen to it, and he got my idea. So we were all settled around the fire in a wink, and Ma pushed up some cans to thaw for supper, and Pa began. Before he did, though, I noticed him casually get a hammer from the shelf and lay it down beside him.

It was the same old story as always—I think I could recite the main thread of it in my sleep—though Pa always puts in a new detail or two and keeps improving it in spots.

He told us how the Earth had been swinging around the Sun ever so steady and warm, and the people on it fixing to make money and wars and have a good time and get power and treat each other right or wrong, when without warning there comes charging out of space this dead star, this burned out sun, and upsets everything.

You know, I find it hard to believe in the way those people felt, any more than I can believe in the swarming number of them. Imagine people getting ready for the horrible sort of war they were cooking up. Wanting it even, or at least wishing it were over so as to end their nervousness. As if all folks didn't have to hang together and pool every bit of warmth just to keep alive. And how can they have hoped to end danger, any more than we can hope to end the cold?

Sometimes I think Pa exaggerates and makes things out too black. He's cross with us once in a while and was probably cross with all those folks. Still, some of the things I read in the old magazines sound pretty wild. He may be right.

The dark star, as Pa went on telling it, rushed in pretty fast and there wasn't much time to get ready. At the beginning they tried to keep it a secret from most people, but then the truth came out, what with the earthquakes and floods—imagine, oceans of unfrozen water!—and people seeing stars blotted out by something on a clear night. First off they thought it would hit the Sun, and then they thought it would hit the Earth. There was even the start of a rush to get to a place called China, because people thought the star would hit on the other side. But then they found it wasn't going to hit either side, but was going to come very close to the Earth.

Most of the other planets were on the other side of the Sun and didn't get involved. The Sun and the newcomer fought over the Earth for a little while—pulling it this way and that, like two dogs growling over a bone, Pa described it this time—and then the newcomer won and carried us off. The Sun got a consolation prize, though. At the last minute he managed to hold on to the Moon.

That was the time of the monster earthquakes and floods, twenty times worse than anything before. It was also the time of the Big Jerk, as Pa calls it, when all Earth got yanked suddenly, just as Pa has done to me once or twice, grabbing me by the collar to do it, when I've been sitting too far from the fire.



You see, the dark star was going through space faster than the Sun, and in the opposite direction, and it had to wrench the world considerably in order to take it away.

The Big Jerk didn't last long. It was over as soon as the Earth was settled down in its new orbit around the dark star. But it was pretty terrible while it lasted. Pa says that all sorts of cliffs and buildings toppled, oceans slopped over, swamps and sandy deserts gave great sliding surges that buried nearby lands. Earth was almost jerked out of its atmosphere blanket and the air got so thin in spots that people keeled over and fainted—though of course, at the same time, they were getting knocked down by the Big Jerk and maybe their bones broke or skulls cracked.

We've often asked Pa how people acted during that time, whether they were scared or brave or crazy or stunned, or all four, but he's sort of leery of the subject, and he was again tonight. He says he was mostly too busy to notice.

You see, Pa and some scientist friends of his had figured out part of what was going to happen—they'd known we'd get captured and our air would freeze—and they'd been working like mad to fix up a place with airtight walls and doors, and insulation against the cold, and big supplies of food and fuel and water and bottled air. But the place got smashed in the last earthquakes and all Pa's friends were killed then and in the Big Jerk. So he had to start over and throw the Nest together quick without any advantages, just using any stuff he could lay his hands on.

I guess he's telling pretty much the truth when he says he didn't have any time to keep an eye on how other folks behaved, either then or in the Big Freeze that followed—followed very quick, you know, both because the dark star was pulling us away very fast and because Earth's rotation had been slowed in the tug-of-war, so that the nights were ten old nights long.

Still, I've got an idea of some of the things that happened from the frozen folk I've seen, a few of them in other rooms in our building, others clustered around the furnaces in the basements where we go for coal.

In one of the rooms, an old man sits stiff in a chair, with an arm and a leg in splints. In another, a man and woman are huddled together in a bed with heaps of covers over them. You can just see their heads peeking out, close together. And in another a beautiful young lady is sitting with a pile of wraps huddled around her, looking hopefully toward the door, as if waiting for someone who never came back with warmth and food. They're all still and stiff as statues, of course, but just like life.

Pa showed them to me once in quick winks of his flashlight, when he still had a fair supply of batteries and could afford to waste a little light. They scared me pretty bad and made my heart pound, especially the young lady.

Now, with Pa telling his story for the umpteenth time to take our minds off another scare, I got to thinking of the frozen folk again. All of a sudden I got an idea that scared me worse than anything yet. You see, I'd just remembered the face I'd thought I'd seen in the window. I'd forgotten about that on account of trying to hide it from the others.

What, I asked myself, if the frozen folk were coming to life? What if they were like the liquid helium that got a new lease on life and started crawling toward the heat just when you thought its molecules ought to freeze solid forever? Or like the electricity that moves endlessly when it's just about as cold as that? What if the ever-growing cold, with the temperature creeping down the last few degrees to the last zero, had mysteriously wakened the frozen folk to life—not warm-blooded life, but something icy and horrible?

That was a worse idea than the one about something coming down from the dark star to get us.

Or maybe, I thought, both ideas might be true. Something coming down from the dark star and making the frozen folk move, using them to do its work. That would fit with both things I'd seen—the beautiful young lady and the moving, starlike light.

The frozen folk with minds from the dark star behind their unwinking eyes, creeping, crawling, snuffing their way, following the heat to the Nest.

I tell you, that thought gave me a very bad turn and I wanted very badly to tell the others my fears, but I remembered what Pa had said and clenched my teeth and didn't speak.

We were all sitting very still. Even the fire was burning silently. There was just the sound of Pa's voice and the clocks.

And then, from beyond the blankets, I thought I heard a tiny noise. My skin tightened all over me.

Pa was telling about the early years in the Nest and had come to the place where he philosophizes.

"So I asked myself then," he said, "what's the use of going on? What's the use of dragging it out for a few years? Why prolong a doomed existence of hard work and cold and loneliness? The human race is done. The Earth is done. Why not give up, I asked myself—and all of a sudden I got the answer."

Again I heard the noise, louder this time, a kind of uncertain, shuffling tread, coming closer. I couldn't breathe.

"Life's always been a business of working hard and fighting the cold," Pa was saying. "The earth's always been a lonely place, millions of miles from the next planet. And no matter how long the human race might have lived, the end would have come some night. Those things don't matter. What matters is that life is good. It has a lovely texture, like some rich cloth or fur, or the petals of flowers—you've seen pictures of those, but I can't describe how they feel—or the fire's glow. It makes everything else worth while. And that's as true for the last man as the first."

And still the steps kept shuffling closer. It seemed to me that the inmost blanket trembled and bulged a little. Just as if they were burned into my imagination, I kept seeing those peering, frozen eyes.

"So right then and there," Pa went on, and now I could tell that he heard the steps, too, and was talking loud so we maybe wouldn't hear them, "right then and there I told myself that I was going on as if we had all eternity ahead of us. I'd have children and teach them all I could. I'd get them to read books. I'd plan for the future, try to enlarge and seal the Nest. I'd do what I could to keep everything beautiful and growing. I'd keep alive my feeling of wonder even at the cold and the dark and the distant stars."

But then the blanket actually did move and lift. And there was a bright light somewhere behind it. Pa's voice stopped and his eyes turned to the widening slit and his hand went out until it touched and gripped the handle of the hammer beside him.

In through the blanket stepped the beautiful young lady. She stood there looking at us the strangest way, and she carried something bright and unwinking in her hand. And two other faces peered over her shoulders—men's faces, white and staring.

Well, my heart couldn't have been stopped for more than four or five beats before I realized she was wearing a suit and helmet like Pa's homemade ones, only fancier, and that the men were, too—and that the frozen folk certainly wouldn't be wearing those. Also, I noticed that the bright thing in her hand was just a kind of flashlight.

The silence kept on while I swallowed hard a couple of times, and after that there was all sorts of jabbering and commotion.

They were simply people, you see. We hadn't been the only ones to survive; we'd just thought so, for natural enough reasons. These three people had survived, and quite a few others with them. And when we found out how they'd survived, Pa let out the biggest whoop of joy.

They were from Los Alamos and they were getting their heat and power from atomic energy. Just using the uranium and plutonium intended for bombs, they had enough to go on for thousands of years. They had a regular little airtight city, with air-locks and all. They even generated electric light and grew plants and animals by it. (At this Pa let out a second whoop, waking Ma from her faint.)

But if we were flabbergasted at them, they were double-flabbergasted at us.

One of the men kept saying, "But it's impossible, I tell you. You can't maintain an air supply without hermetic sealing. It's simply impossible."

That was after he had got his helmet off and was using our air. Meanwhile, the young lady kept looking around at us as if we were saints, and telling us we'd done something amazing, and suddenly she broke down and cried.

They'd been scouting around for survivors, but they never expected to find any in a place like this. They had rocket ships at Los Alamos and plenty of chemical fuel. As for liquid oxygen, all you had to do was go out and shovel the air blanket at the top level. So after they'd got things going smoothly at Los Alamos, which had taken years, they'd decided to make some trips to likely places where there might be other survivors. No good trying long-distance radio signals, of course, since there was no atmosphere to carry them around the curve of the Earth.

Well, they'd found other colonies at Argonne and Brookhaven and way around the world at Harwell and Tanna Tuva. And now they'd been giving our city a look, not really expecting to find anything. But they had an instrument that noticed the faintest heat waves and it had told them there was something warm down here, so they'd landed to investigate. Of course we hadn't heard them land, since there was no air to carry the sound, and they'd had to investigate around quite a while before finding us. Their instruments had given them a wrong steer and they'd wasted some time in the building across the street.

By now, all five adults were talking like sixty. Pa was demonstrating to the men how he worked the fire and got rid of the ice in the chimney and all that. Ma had perked up wonderfully and was showing the young lady her cooking and sewing stuff, and even asking about how the women dressed at Los Alamos. The strangers marveled at everything and praised it to the skies. I could tell from the way they wrinkled their noses that they found the Nest a bit smelly, but they never mentioned that at all and just asked bushels of questions.

In fact, there was so much talking and excitement that Pa forgot about things, and it wasn't until they were all getting groggy that he looked and found the air had all boiled away in the pail. He got another bucket of air quick from behind the blankets. Of course that started them all laughing and jabbering again. The newcomers even got a little drunk. They weren't used to so much oxygen.

Funny thing, though—I didn't do much talking at all and Sis hung on to Ma all the time and hid her face when anybody looked at her. I felt pretty uncomfortable and disturbed myself, even about the young lady. Glimpsing her outside there, I'd had all sorts of mushy thoughts, but now I was just embarrassed and scared of her, even though she tried to be nice as anything to me.

I sort of wished they'd all quit crowding the Nest and let us be alone and get our feelings straightened out.

And when the newcomers began to talk about our all going to Los Alamos, as if that were taken for granted, I could see that something of the same feeling struck Pa and Ma, too. Pa got very silent all of a sudden and Ma kept telling the young lady, "But I wouldn't know how to act there and I haven't any clothes."

The strangers were puzzled like anything at first, but then they got the idea. As Pa kept saying, "It just doesn't seem right to let this fire go out."

Well, the strangers are gone, but they're coming back. It hasn't been decided yet just what will happen. Maybe the Nest will be kept up as what one of the strangers called a "survival school." Or maybe we will join the pioneers who are going to try to establish a new colony at the uranium mines at Great Slave Lake or in the Congo.

Of course, now that the strangers are gone, I've been thinking a lot about Los Alamos and those other tremendous colonies. I have a hankering to see them for myself.

You ask me, Pa wants to see them, too. He's been getting pretty thoughtful, watching Ma and Sis perk up.

"It's different, now that we know others are alive," he explains to me. "Your mother doesn't feel so hopeless any more. Neither do I, for that matter, not having to carry the whole responsibility for keeping the human race going, so to speak. It scares a person."

I looked around at the blanket walls and the fire and the pails of air boiling away and Ma and Sis sleeping in the warmth and the flickering light.

"It's not going to be easy to leave the Nest," I said, wanting to cry, kind of. "It's so small and there's just the four of us. I get scared at the idea of big places and a lot of strangers."

He nodded and put another piece of coal on the fire. Then he looked at the little pile and grinned suddenly and put a couple of handfuls on, just as if it was one of our birthdays or Christmas.

"You'll quickly get over that feeling son," he said. "The trouble with the world was that it kept getting smaller and smaller, till it ended with just the Nest. Now it'll be good to have a real huge world again, the way it was in the beginning."

I guess he's right. You think the beautiful young lady will wait for me till I grow up? I'll be twenty in only ten years.

I wondered who submitted the first couple of paragraphs of the Library of Babel story as propaganda in a submission for @gimmick-blog-bracket but now I think I know the culprit

[theteasetwrites]

Father's Day

❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: during Season 9 time jump (The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning series) ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: references to child abuse, swearing, touch of angst with sweet happy fluffy ending ❧ Word Count: 4.4k

❧ Summary: It's Father's Day in Alexandria, but it brings bad memories to the forefront for Daryl, leading his daughter to wonder why Father's Day is so emotional for her dad.

❧ A/N: This oneshot takes place in The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning universe! So we got Robin and the gang (the gang being Daryl and his wife who he's a simp for). Fair warning, Daryl is a little grumpy in this oneshot, but there's a lot of angst and fluff and sweet/bittersweet moments. Also Aaron is Reader's brother, btw.

It was always the third Sunday of June, the day everyone decided would be dubbed the day to celebrate their fathers. Like Mother’s Day, it was one of the few holidays that had wormed its way into the small cultural microcosm of Alexandria. 

Daryl never liked the day, not even before he became a father. He hated the stinging reminder of how his father had treated him, how long he spent cowering in the shadow of a man who was supposed to protect him, but only hurt him. It was insulting, he thought, having to devote a whole day to celebrating someone who was more of a monster than a father to him. For a long time, he was resentful of anyone who’d had the luxury of having a good father. Why should they be so lucky, while a young boy’s back faced the wrath of his father’s cowhide belt for the third time that week? 

Father’s Day, he thought. What a load of bullshit. 

And then he saw that face.

“Daddy,” was her first word. 

Her colorful Crayon drawings and whimsical watercolor paintings were pinned proudly to the bulletin board in his garage. 

More than once she had requested her father to read her bedtime story instead of you, much to your ever so slight annoyance with how effortlessly Daryl won the child’s heart. 

He proudly wore his crudely painted toenails, coated in a thick layer of bubblegum pink nail polish. He even let her do his fingernails on occasion, though he would have to mentally prepare himself for the side-eyes and cheeky smirks he’d surely receive from Aaron.

Fatherhood wasn’t in the cards for most of his life. In fact, he was sure he wouldn’t be a father at all if he hadn’t met you, the only person he could even consider having a child with. As much as he loved his role, his duty of being a father and husband, there were days like today. Especially today, Father’s Day. 

Days like today, he couldn’t bring himself to smile, couldn’t say much of anything to anyone without losing his temper, couldn’t even bear to look you or his four-year-old daughter in the eye. It was the same every year, though he’d always been good at hiding it. This year, something just seemed off. He woke up earlier than usual, careful not to disturb you in your deep sleep. His mind was restless, like a spinning top without any signs of stopping in the foreseeable future. 

As always, he attempted to tinker with his bike in the garage until the sun came up, hoping it would help free up some of the congested space in his head, preparing him for the mentally taxing day ahead. When that didn’t work, he met the early morning sun outside, taking in the fresh air of the mid-June breeze contained within the high, sturdy walls of Alexandria. 

In an attempt to maintain your pink rose bushes lining the front porch, he pruned the dead heads and fetched a rationed pail of harvested rain water to drench their roots, but the thorns on those bastards were sharp, and Daryl never wore gardening gloves, despite how many times you told him to.

“Fuck!” he hissed under his breath, jerking his hand back as the garden shears thudded onto the wet soil below. He’d had so much worse than a little thorn from a rose bush poking a sliver into his skin, but man, did it hurt. 

That was only the beginning of his problems today, and with Daryl, one little thing could set the mood for the next twelve hours. 

Retreating back into the house, he kicked off his shoes with a grunt and nearly tripped over Dog’s chew toy. He growled and kicked the rubber bone with a squeak, then trudged into the living room to look upon the face of a little girl, eyes alight with excitement as she scrambled off the couch to leap towards her father.

“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!”

He didn’t feel like smiling, not at all, but he did. What kinda father am I? he asked himself, ashamed that it took so much energy just to lift the corners of his mouth enough to elicit a small smile for his pride and joy. 

“Thanks, little bird,” he rasped quietly, patting the child’s back as she hugged him. 

“Are we still going to have a picnic?” she asked. “Mommy made sandwiches.”

Of course she did. Despite his insistence that he didn’t need anyone to celebrate Father’s Day for him, you always somehow found a way to make the entire day about him. Still, Robin was eager to have a picnic with her father, and who was he to say no to the bearer of such a sweet face? 

“Sure,” he said. “Why don’t ya go get dressed and I’ll get the basket ready, yeah?”

She nodded eagerly, then tugged on Daryl’s hand to lean him down until she could bestow a kiss on his cheek. “Okie dokie artichokie!” she giggled, then nearly face planted on the first step of the stairs in her excitement. 

“Careful!” he called out, though in her quickness, she had already made it up several more steps. He shook his head, watching the excitable child’s legs flail with each step. “Crazy kid.”

Crossing into the kitchen, he met another familiar face—you, his wife, the woman with a master plan to make today Daryl’s day. Indeed, you had already packed the picnic basket, filled to the brim with sandwiches, casserole, salad, and assorted fruits: strawberries for you, peaches for Daryl, and blackberries for Robin. You even snuck a few treats for Dog, since he’d become a member of your family in his own right ever since Daryl brought the puppy home a year ago.

“You been busy,” he huffed, crossing the kitchen to tear a paper towel from the roll in an attempt to wipe the dried blood from his hand. “Plannin’ my day for me, as usual?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, wrapping the last sandwich in its tin foil. “If I didn’t, you’d just let Father’s Day pass without a second thought.”

Oh, he thought about it. He’d been thinking about it all week. He’d been dreading it. Part of Father’s Day was fine, joyous, even. He could spend all day basking in the merriment of being a father, having a doting wife, raising a sweet child, providing for a happy family… The whole image of an “American dream,” as they used to say, back when that kind of thing used to really matter. 

That was all well and good, and he spent most days of the year relishing his position, but then there was this… haunting feeling. 

He always tried not to think too much about fatherhood, lest he find himself reliving the chaos of his own childhood, inflicted by his own father. Tried as he might, he couldn’t shake it, and on days like this, when the whole point was to celebrate fathers, he struggled to forget. 

“Just another day,” he said, pulling the jug of fresh milk from the refrigerator. “Ain’t gotta do nothin’ special.”

You huffed and turned to face him, arms folded and eyebrows furrowed as you studied him. “You’re a father,” you said. “You deserve a special day. Besides, Robin’s been begging to go on a picnic…”

You trailed off, noticing something off that was different than usual. Father’s Day was never his favorite day, but it hadn’t been so bad that he couldn’t look at you. Every morning, he’d look at you, meeting your gaze and kissing you almost as soon as he saw you. Rarely did that routine change, and Daryl was a man of routine, through and through. 

Now, he simply had his back to you, shoulders slouched forward as he tried to make himself small, pouring his glass of milk all the while.

“…Daryl…” 

“Hm?”

“You feeling all right, hon?”

“Fine,” he said brusquely, replacing the milk with a thud and throwing the refrigerator door to a close. “Jus’ tired.”

It was unspoken knowledge that “tired” was Daryl’s term for “something’s wrong.” 

“Daryl,” you sighed. “Look at me.”

He let out a deep huff, and you knew then that you were poking the bear. “Told ya I’m fine.”

That sent you straight into your stern voice, the same one you used to scold Robin when she had one of her rare tantrums, though that was only about twice a year. 

“Daryl Dixon, turn around and look at me,” you said. 

It took him a few moments of huffing and puffing to do so, but he did turn around, and slowly raised his eyes until they met yours. Perhaps someone who didn’t know him as long as you did couldn’t see it, but you could. He was hurting. You could tell by how his pupils couldn’t focus in one place, how they flitted about in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact, but your eyes were hard to ignore. 

“Hey,” you said, “what’s wrong?”

Of course, you knew what was wrong. It wasn’t that hard to understand, even if he hadn’t been this bad the years before. Perhaps it finally started to catch up with him. Maybe he thought about his father more lately, as Robin was nearing the age when his mother died, around the time his father began to beat him. Whatever the reason, you knew what it was, so you saved him from having to say anything. His pride, or lack thereof, wouldn’t have it.

“Are you thinking about him?” you asked softly, trying to be as sensitive as possible, even though you couldn’t begin to understand how he felt. Your father was a great man. He didn’t leave any trauma for you to unpack, no scars to mar your skin, no cigarette burns on your memory. “Are you thinking about your father?”

He closed off—his favorite defense mechanism. After all, he felt small today, weak and vulnerable, so how else was he to act? He went on the offense, puffing up his chest and narrowing his eyes at you until you felt like you were being squeezed into a jelly. Oh no. You struck a nerve.

“The hell does it matter?” he asked, voice grittier than sandpaper and rising in volume, much higher than it needed to be for the quiet midmorning hour. “You a therapist now or somethin’?”

“No,” you scoffed. “I’m just… I know you, Daryl. And I know sometimes it’s hard for you to be reminded of him, so I—”

“Goddamnit, woman!” he barked suddenly, causing you to flinch and grip the kitchen counter behind you. “I didn’t ask ya to bring that up. Why you always gotta… gotta analyze me?” He gestured to his head accordingly. “It’s always about my dad, huh? Yeah, I had a shitty dad so now I got… I got daddy issues or somethin’, right?”

You shook your head, frowning at his reddened face. “You said it, not me.”

“Yeah, but you’re thinkin’ it,” he replied. “Christ, woman, ain’t my damn fault I’m like this… Ain’t—ain’t like everyone got a perfect life like you did. Didn’t have the best dad in the whole goddamn world, so sorry if I ain’t exactly peachy!”

That was just about as much of Daryl’s irrational anger that you could take. “Oh, that’s a bunch of bullshit, Daryl! And you know it! I know Father’s Day is hard for you, but that doesn’t mean you get a free pass to be an asshole!”

“Oh, I’m bein’ an asshole?” he asked, pointing to himself to clarify. “Well, shit, I’m sorry, sweetheart. Sorry I ain’t goddamn Mike Brady. Sorry I ain’t fuckin’ perfect!”

“Would you stop?!”

“Sorry I ain’t—”

“Why are you guys yelling?” 

Robin’s small but clear words cut through Daryl’s much more powerful voice, forcing him to step back and take a deep breath, realizing how much he had lost control over just the smallest mention of his father. 

“H-hey,” he rasped. “You ready to go?”

She looked wide-eyed between the two of you, as if asking for permission from you to answer. “Why don’t you two go without me,” you said, a small quiver in your voice. “I’m… I’m not hungry. You two go on. I labeled your sandwiches.”

“(Y/N),” he began to say, but you quickly cut him off, shoving the heavy picnic basket against his chest and forcing him to grab it before it fell. 

“Take the dog with you,” you said sternly, trying to hold back your tears. It was hard, though. You had always been sensitive to yelling, a bit of a crybaby, if you will, but Daryl yelling at you? That made you more breakable than eggshell, and as much as you wanted to spend the day with him and Robin, you now couldn’t bear to look at him. Even if you did, his face would’ve been clouded by your tears. 

“You’re not coming, Momma?” asked Robin. 

“No, sweet pea,” you said with a sniffle, hoping she didn’t notice your crying. “You go have a day with Daddy.”

“(Y/N)—”

“Just go.”

Walking towards the pond in the center of town, one hand holding Robin’s, the other carrying the picnic basket, Daryl eyed a spot in the shade of an oak tree. Robin insisted upon carrying the picnic blanket, and tried her hand at laying it out on the grass, though Daryl had to help her straighten it out, his worn out knees feeling like they were about to shatter underneath him. 

Dog laid himself straight away on the corner of the blanket, dutifully watching as Daryl unpacked the hefty basket. Each item of food had been lovingly prepared, with your handwriting etched on an array of pastel colored sticky notes identifying each thing. He handed Robin her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then pulled everything else out until he reached the bottom of the basket, where a lone sheet of paper sat folded in half with Daryl’s name written in dainty cursive writing. 

Great, he thought, knowing whatever you had written was going to make his heart shatter even more than it already had when he saw the first tear trickle down your cheek as he and Robin went out the door. He knew you well enough to know you were probably sobbing into a throw pillow on the couch in the living room by now, and he felt terrible. 

Still, he swallowed his pride and opened the handmade card. You were never much of an artist, but inside were a myriad of hearts drawn to surround your words:

Happy Father’s Day to the best daddy in the whole world! Thank you for everything you do for us. Life is so much better when you’re around, and we love you so much. Always and forever.

Love, 

(Y/N), Robin, and Dog

“Daddy?” said Robin, reddish-purple jelly globbing in the corners of her mouth as she chewed. 

He must’ve read the simple note at least three times, each time with a pang in his heart when he remembered how quick to anger he had been earlier. He had always hoped becoming a father would significantly wilt his temper, and for the most part, it had, but today was an exception. Now, though, he was just regretful, and felt as though he didn’t deserve anything you had done for him today. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, the curious and thoughtful tone of her voice sounding a little too familiar. 

“Nothin’,” he said, tucking the folded paper back into the basket. He made a wide, close-mouthed smile to prove that he was fine, even though he wasn’t. Not even close. “How’s your PB & J?”

“Good,” she said, though Daryl’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were always better than yours, surprisingly enough. “Daddy?”

He peeled back the tin foil on his sandwich to take the first bite. “Mhm?” he mumbled with the food in his mouth. 

“Why were you and Mommy fighting?”

He should’ve known the curious child wasn’t going to let that go so easily. Ever since she’d learned how to talk three years ago, “why” had been her favorite word.

He took a sip from his canteen to wash down the food, and to buy more time before he had to speak. “I, uh… I wasn’t bein’ very nice.” He wasn’t sure how much he could say to such a young child, especially not a child who didn’t understand the first thing about the abuse he suffered, so she couldn’t understand the reason behind his irrational anger, either. 

“You should be nice to Mommy,” she said, peanut butter and jelly sandwich stuffed in her mouth as she chewed. 

“Yeah, I should,” he agreed. “Sometimes you just get mad, though. No good reason, just… lose it.”

“You gotta say sorry,” she said with a nod. 

“I will,” he said. “Sorry you had to hear that, peanut.”

She shrugged and smiled solemnly. “I just want you to have a good Father’s Day, s’all. Are you having a good Father’s Day? Mommy said she wants you to have a good one, too. That’s why she made the food.”

He nodded and flashed a genuine, albeit crooked, smile. “Yeah, I’m havin’ a good day, kiddo.” It wasn’t entirely true, but in that moment, with his baby sitting across from him, so innocent and unaware of the pain he had to suffer when he was just a little older than her age, he couldn’t complain too much. “I’m just happy to be your dad.”

She shrugged bashfully. “I’m glad you’re my dad,” she replied, then leaned forward to steal a homemade potato chip from the Tupperware bowl. “Hey, Daddy?” she asked, munching on a chip all the while. “What was your dad like?”

Shit, he thought. I can’t get a break. 

That was another question he should’ve seen coming, especially since you had told Robin so many stories about her maternal grandfather, all of which made him seem like a damn saint. And he was, but it got the girl thinking about her other grandfather, the one on her father’s side, the one he had never, ever talked about. 

As much as he wanted to shrug off the question, he couldn’t do it, not with Robin’s small smile and eager eyes flashing at him as she waited patiently for his answer. She was insatiably curious, and she was smart—she knew everyone had a father, so her father had a father, too. At least, she assumed as much. She was right, but he had no clue how to answer that question. 

“Well, uh…” He was surprised he could get any words out at all, so this was a good sign. “I dunno… I wasn’t real close to my daddy, tell ya the truth.”

He’d hoped she’d stop asking from there, but he knew his daughter, and although she was young and didn’t know too many words, she was talkative. “Why not?”

Damn kid. “He just wasn’t very nice.” Maybe someday he’d be more specific, but that was about as deep as he was willing to go. He promised himself the day she was born that he’d never hurt her, and from his perspective, telling her about the abuse he suffered certainly would’ve hurt her. “Some daddy’s just ain’t very nice.”

“Like how you weren’t nice to Mommy?”

She absorbed everything like a sponge. “Uh… no. No, he was worse. It’s somethin’ maybe I’ll tell you when you’re older, but… he wasn’t a good dad. S’why I’m tryin’ to be a good dad for you, ‘cause I know what it’s like to have a bad one.”

She quirked her lip as she tried to understand, but it was difficult to fathom any father being bad, not when she had such a wonderful one. “Did you love your dad?” she asked. “You have to love family.”

He huffed and shook his head, feeling his defenses crumbling with every question the little girl asked. Somehow, though, it felt good. It felt soothing to say these things to her, even if she couldn’t understand. 

“I dunno,” he said. “It’s complicated. Sometimes… Sometimes family ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. When I met your momma, though, I got a new family. We made you, and everythin’ started to… get better. So I guess I dunno if I loved my dad, but I know I love you and your mom, so’s I got all I need.”

Somehow, she seemed to understand, so she leaned forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders, nearly knocking his sandwich from his hands, which roused Dog as he tried to take a bite. “I love my daddy,” she said matter-of-factly. 

He smiled and pressed a kiss to her hair, his other hand combing through the light ashy brown waves. “I love my little bird,” he said. “I love you so much… Thank you.”

She giggled and shook her head as she pulled away, smiling wide with her small set of teeth, two of which were missing. “For what, silly?”

He scrunched up his nose in faux sass, then huffed as he brushed back her bangs to better see her face. She really did look a lot like him, but more feminine and delicate, like you. “For bein’ my daughter.”

Not a half an hour later, Aaron and Gracie emerged from their house across the street, frisbee in hand as they approached. As Robin, Gracie, and Dog tossed the disk under the watchful eye of his brother-in-law, Daryl’s guilt for how he had talked to you earlier reached a boiling point, and soon he was walking in through the front door, he crossed into the archway of the living room to see you curled up on the couch, dozing off as your head rested on the very same pillow you had bawled into just an hour ago.

“(Y/N)?” he said quietly, slowly sitting himself down on the other end of the couch, just below your feet. “Hon?”

You had been just moments away from falling asleep, but the feeling of his light hand on your shoulder jolted you awake. “Wh-what?”

“Shit, sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to wake ya, just…” His voice trailed off as he noticed the dried, crusted over tears in the corners of your eye, and the redness still staining your scleras. You quickly wiped your eyes, hoping he wouldn’t make a fuss out of it. He did. “Ah, angel…”

“Pfft,” you scoffed. “Don’t ‘angel’ me. I’m pissed at you. I can’t believe the way you were acting.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I don’t blame ya. I was an asshole. I know it ain’t an excuse but… you were right. I was thinkin’ about my dad. Turns out I’m just like him, huh?”

You huffed and shook your head, already feeling your anger melt away. “Daryl, no. You’re not like him at all.” You sat up to better see him, and his eyes appeared glassy, signaling that he was close to crying, too. “Is that why you were so upset? You think you’re like your father?”

He shook his head, letting the dark waves of his hair curtain his face. “Nah, I don’t… I dunno. I just know I’m real sorry. Shouldn’t have taken that out on you. Shoulda just sucked it up like I always do.”

“No,” you said, taking his hand in yours. Despite your hurt, you couldn’t be mad at him for long, you never could. Besides, you knew his heart was in the right place. “It’s good to talk about it. I want you to talk about it, even if you’ve already told me a thousand times. You can always talk to me… Just maybe don’t make me cry next time.”

He nodded seriously, though you laughed. “I hate makin’ you cry,” he said, wrapping his hand tight around yours, and tugging you gently just to get you close enough for his forehead to lean against yours. “I’m so sorry… You’re everything to me.”

You pouted your lips as they curled into a smile. “Oh, sweetheart… You’re everything to me, too. And you’re a great dad. You need to remember that.”

“I will,” he nodded. “And ya know I didn’t mean anythin’ I said, right? That was bullshit.”

“I know,” you sighed. “You say a lot of stuff you don’t mean when you’re mad… Did you like your sandwich?”

He furrowed his brow and laughed, amused by how quickly you wondered if he had eaten his sandwich. “Loved it,” he said. “Loved everythin’ you made… And I loved the note, too. And I love you.”

“I love you too, you big jerk,” you said. “And I’m only going easy on you because it’s Father’s Day, otherwise you’d be sleeping on the couch.”

He nodded seriously. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight if ya want,” he said, misunderstanding your joke. “I deserve it.”

Your eyes widened as you broke out into a snort so loud it made him flinch. “Daryl! I’m kidding. I’m not that mad at you, Jesus.”

You caught him off guard once again when you threw your arms around him, kissing his cheek before nuzzling your head in the crook of his neck. He could only sigh in relief, and kiss your shoulder as he buried his face there. 

“Is there any more food?” you asked, voice muffled against his shirt. “I’m starving.”

“Plenty,” he said with a smile. “Why don’t ya join us at the pond? The girls are playin’ frisbee. Aaron won’t stop askin’ me to get your ass out there.”

“Oh, so you don’t want me out there?”

He shook his head and narrowed his eyes in mock annoyance. “I want ya next to me every wakin’ minute, woman.”

You spent the rest of that afternoon watching the children toss the frisbee for Dog to catch, until the sun went down and Robin’s little legs couldn’t carry her anymore. 

Daryl didn’t go to bed that night the same way he did every Father’s Day before that—he didn’t try to understand the reasons why his father hurt him, he didn’t replay the memories in his head until he fell into a restless sleep. Instead, he smiled to himself, holding you close as he thought of the family he made himself, with you and everyone else around him. 

There was a time when fatherhood and family seemed so far out of reach for him, but now he was home, exactly where he needed to be. 

~

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[fe-semi-decent-scenarios]

How do the BL students cope with missing their s/o? (like they're on a mission or something and won't be back for a long time) Bonus points for including how they react to seeing them again lol. Congrats on the big 100 btw

[Thank you! This is a little late but I was amazed to see so many people reading these posts.I’m pretty proud of this one.I wrote this as a ‘first time they’re apart’ kind of scenario. Hope it is to your liking! :3]

Dimitri: 

Karma really does bite, and boy does it do so hard

More often than not it is Dimitri leaving you behind for missions. Being the leader of the Lions meant that he was stationed at almost every important battle. Sometimes you’d join, and others the professor would decide to have someone else take up arms. No biggie, you know? He never complained since it guaranteed your safety.  

He didn’t even think of the possibility of a role reversal. One where you’d be sent out while he’s left behind. Up until now he was always by your side, but Manuela knew his limits better than anyone. She insisted he take the month off to rest. 

Once again, no biggie. He’d much rather be productive but with some convincing he easily gave in. Everyone departed for the monthly mission and he decided to invest some of the extra time on his hands into an evening with you 

He was about to search for you, but then memory did it’s job.

“Ah, that’s right. They departed with their battalion this morning...”

Dimitri wasn’t used to the silence of an empty Monestary. Was it always this hollow when the army was deployed? There were some people, yes. However most areas appeared almost lifeless. 

It brought up some unpleasant memories to say the least. Ones of a dusk castle, strangers on every corner, empty dinner tables, and cold nights spent staring up from his balcony. 

The time he spends without Dedue glued to his side is full of reflection. Once he’s trained, eaten, studied up, etc. He’ll stroll around the monastery and think of what his life has become 

How fragile the peace is. How much longer will it last?  

He wanted to talk with someone. The silence was deafening and he wished for a distraction before the voices made their appearance. 

They did.

He wished for you to come home. Despite the voices screaming that he had no right to long for your comfort, the desire still remained.  

 Was it the same for you when he’d depart? This...lonely? 

He hoped not. 

Since when had Dimitri become assimilated to the daily nonsense that was his life? 

Dedue had caught on to his highness’ feelings instantly. Dimitri was more reminiscent than usual, and often his walks would take him to your room. He wouldn’t enter, just look at the door as if expecting it to open. He wasn’t one to talk of the past as it made him uncomfortable, but sometimes Dedue would catch him smiling at nothing. It was a welcome change to have happy memories. 

When you come home it’s as if Dimitri has a new aura. Well, maybe not entirely but he has a more solemn look in his eyes when they meet yours. He spends the first day being caught up on politics with the Professor and Seteth, but for many nights beyond the return he seeks your company 

He wants to hear your voice. The one he craved for when the silence became intolerable 

“I’ve returned my beloved, would you care to tell that story from the other night again? I know it has only been one day but I would love to hear it.” 

Dedue: 

Time alone with you was already a rarity, so your complete absence didn’t dieter him as much as one would think. Dedue’s schedule rarely has a slot for free-time, and so the days pass on like seconds 

As long as there is no specific reason to worry then he refrains from doing so. Dedue genuinely believes in your strength and capabilities so he won’t needlessly fret over nothing. He has his own duties to attend to just as you do. 

However, this doesn’t mean he feels nothing on the matter. Others can gossip about him all they want but his nationality doesn’t define his personality. Not that he cares, since his stone exterior hides signs of weakness 

Let’s get this straight: he does miss you. While not in surplus, your time together is precious to him. He notices how your seat is empty during lessons and meetings. He unconsciously checks the training hall’s door during his regime, impatiently waiting for you to pop in and say your daily ‘hello’. He’s painfully aware of the extra pair of gardening gloves in his tool pail. Dedue knows that you are gone and it has an impact. 

He just ignores it. Dedue knows that when duty calls it must come before personal issues. Even if there is no contact between you two, he would rather no letters than one relaying distress 

If his highness asks about his feelings Dedue’s replies are short and curt. He does not wish for any worry or pity. 

One small sign that Dedue is off-put is that he becomes forgetful. It’s something only those who know him well can pick up on. For example: he won’t bring any writing utensils to a meeting. To a stranger this is a common mishap that happens to everyone. Only people who know Dedue well will see that someone as responsible as him wouldn’t forget something so minute 

Another is the short sighs he lets out. Nothing drawn out or dramatic, just quick puffs of air through the nose- kind of like a huff. They’re very difficult to catch and are a habit when he feels impatient or restless 

The day you come home isn’t a large extravaganza. Prince Dimitri accompanies him to greet the returning troops, but it doesn’t take a wise man to see that he mainly came for moral support. You were his friend as well, and he also wanted to see Dedue happy. 

When you come into sight Dedue approaches as if it’s a normal day. Your appearance is a bit too worn-down for his liking, and he says so. He asks if the journey went well, and whether it did or not he gives a minuscule smile 

If you return it he’ll pat your head. A welcome home, if you will 

“Come. Let us speak of the time we were apart. I would like to hear of your travels” 

Felix:

Simple solution. Whenever Felix feels as if he’s missing your presence he’ll go find you. 

Oh wait 

He can’t lmao 

It doesn’t hit him how big your role is in his life until you’re forced to be apart. All it took was a few days for Felix to feel like something was missing

At first he’s in denial. What is he, a child? A grown man doesn’t need someone to lean on, or keep him company, or check on him...or to give him encouragement......make him laugh....listen to his problems............okay. Maybe he does. 

At the beginning he seems put together but gradually as the days go on Felix becomes socially intolerant. The only person he wants to talk with is you, and you’re not there. Anyone else can buzz off or they’re getting snapped at

No one says anything either. Sometimes you can’t when the only solution is so far away 

Felix works extra hard when you’re gone. No one’s there to force much needed breaks onto him. From morning till dusk he’ll train and only stop for meals.

It’s his distraction. Every time that familiar pang shows up the training dummy gets another slice 

What’s happened to him? He was never so dependent on another person. Yeah, he has people that he cares about but their presence was never a necessity in his life 

The pain only intensifies as he thinks of what you’re doing, the dangers you’re facing, other (men/women) making you smile-

Oh....Oh no. Dear god he’s in love que the dummy’s head being sliced off

He’s waiting in your room on the day you get back. You’ll walk in to see him reading at your desk, only for the book to snap shut when you open the door 

A bit roughly he’ll pull you in for a hug. Not too tight, if you wanted to escape it you could

“Look. I’ll only say this once so you better listen...don’t leave for that long ever again. If you have to then I’m going with. No arguments”        

Ashe:

He’s fine. It’s okay. Ten days in and life goes on, you know? Today he played with some of the stray cats in the monastery like he normally would. The only off part was that he forgot to bring fish treats, normally you’d do that. 

Then he ordered some sweet buns for dessert after dinner; it was his usual order on your rare dates. Those days you’d snatch one but this time they were all his

He had them in the garden with some mint tea and watched the sun set. The last time he did that you decided to braid his hair while he told bad puns about his patchy facial hair fiasco. This time he viewed in tranquil silence 

Later in the evening he practiced archery to unwind. Lately Caspar agreed to be his training partner with you gone. He’d collect the arrows shot and help reposition the targets. You would normally do the same and in turn Ashe would wake up extra early to help you in the morning. 

At night he curled up in bed with “Loog and the Maiden of Wind,” picking up from where he left off. It was easy since you had given him a copy with a built-in cloth bookmark for his birthday. He loves it to pieces. 

Please come home When his eyes began to feel heavy he tucked it under his pillow for the day. 

Under the covers he shifted to get comfortable, and just like every night he ended up cuddling one of his pillows 

How much longer 

He closed his eyes 

....

..........

What was taking so long? The professor never mentioned that the journey would take weeks? There haven’t been letters either...

Where are you? What are you doing? Do you miss him? Are you eating properly? Are you sleeping right? He should have asked Seteth to let him accompany you. Are you on your way home? Should he go ask? No, it’s late. Asking now would be a bother-

 He misses you so much. No amount of time spent absorbing himself in different hobbies makes the discomfort in his chest go away. Everything reminds him of you. 

When you come home he’s front and center at the gate. The professor had taken pity on the boy (courtesy of Flayn’s plea) and arranged his schedule to be free all day. He spent it chatting with gatekeeper until troops appeared in the distance 

The moment you’re in sight he’s skipping down the stairs and greets you with the warmest embrace. The second you pull back he’s peppering kisses on your cheeks. 

“You’re back! I’ve missed you so much I can’t even begin to explain. Let’s go eat dinner and you can tell me all about the trip” 

Sylvain:

Is it weird that with you gone Sylvain actually begins to be a productive human being?

He spends the newfound spare time at the stables with the horses, or helping with chores around the monastery. Very rarely is he found goofing off 

Weird. Most would expect him to let loose considering how you have him on a ‘ball and chain,’ as he puts it 

So???? How come he chooses now to be responsible. 

Simple. He only acts rebellious to get a rise out of you

Just kidding lol. Only partially

While he does get a free show out of your nagging, it isn’t the reason he behaves like that. Neither why he’s suddenly ‘turned over a new leaf’

Sylvain highly respects you. Not only do you work hard but you’re also one of the most genuine people he knows. He’ll never say it to your face but before he loved you Sylvain looked to you as a role model. He never could have imagined that someone with such an authentic set of emotions would become his partner 

He also puts you through hell with all the trouble he gets in. Anyone else would have ended the relationship by now with so many FALSE rumors of adultery on his end. Yet you never gave up on him.  

In short, you’ve stood by him through thick and thin. From daily mess ups to the more deeper problems. You’ve been a major pillar that he leans on.

So that’s what he’s going to be for you. While you’re away he’s going to pick up the slack and make sure there’re no messes waiting for you to come home to 

Just him and maybe a few snide jokes. You know, a couple of dramatic whines about all the trouble he went to in making sure your room stayed clean 

Sometimes it gets difficult to turn down the invites from his peers, but he holds strong. The change is so drastic that Byleth even jokes about sending you away more often. 

He takes it with a grain of salt. They’d never exploit their students like that and he knows it 

When you arrive home he’s waiting patiently in your room. In one arm there’s a blanket and in the other a feather duster c’mon he has to make this believable

“Well there’s the (man/woman) of the hour. Do you realize the horrors that I’ve endured these past weeks? I cleaned this room EVERY DAY. You owe me big time!”  

Sylvain demands that for all the worry, strife, and hard labor you put him through; he deserves an afternoon nap with his partner. Will you let him slack off?

Annette: 

Busy, busy, busy!!!

She has so many chores to get done, books to read, people to talk to, and songs to sing 

She hated to say goodbye, but eventually you’ll come home. This isn’t like before. You’re not like him. 

Annette trusts you

She loves you 

While you’re gone she’ll think of all the things you can do together when you get back. What’s a better way to use the time, right? 

She 100% plans to blackmail you into treating her for lunch. How could you leave her behind to watch over everyone by herself? So cruel...

There are mild worries that fill her heart. Thoughts on your health for one. Whether you’re skilled in faith or not it doesn’t matter to her. 

She kind of wishes that the professor scheduled her to fight as well. However, things were better this way.

Annette will make sure you have somewhere wonderful to return to 

She even writes a small ‘welcome home’ jingle! Anything to bring out your smile 

People will occasionally ask how she’s holding up. After all, if Annette doesn’t worry about herself then of course others will do it for her. 

And yeah. Sometimes it does get rough. She’s human and naturally her partner means the world to her. Who the hell would be okay with sending their loved one away? 

It’s just that if she isn’t optimistic than who will be. Who’s going to give you encouragement when you need it most? Isn’t that what being a couple is about? To have faith and believe in each other? 

That’s why she’s okay. She’ll sing those fear demons away and take comfort in knowing you’ll come home with everyone else

And when you do she’s there with a few of your favorite flowers. She’ll congratulate you on a job well done whether the battle was a win or lose, and literally force you into her dorm to talk the hours away.

“Welcome home! I had plenty of time on my hands while you were away so I wrote a small song...i-if it’s okay then can I sing it for you? I promise it’s not about tasty cakes this time haha!” 

Mercedes:

The daily church hymn lifts her spirits. Mercedes’ devout faith is what supports her during moments of weakness 

You’ve probably guessed this, but every day you’re in her prayers. 

Not that you weren’t before, but now she spends a little more time mulling over possibilities of danger. Some extra blessings couldn’t hurt either 

She does find her thoughts trailing over to you often as well. Not anything negative but instead the happier memories. Saying goodbye was a rough blow when realization hit that your return date wasn’t definite 

Alas, the goddess will protect you. Mercedes steels herself to be patient and invest her energy into more productive things 

Mercedes is sort of like the big sister of all her friends. The doting type. Without you around she has all this pent up affection, and the lions get the blunt end of it

They’re an outlet that she uses to distract herself from not having you around. Not that they necessarily mind it (maybe Felix but he’ll get over it)

The time she’d spend with you is used to bake for the monastery children, or help with chores. She uses it wisely and also works on some of her own hobbies. 

You may or may not find some well-stitched embroidery on your socks. She goes all out and even offers to help mend Dimitri’s battle-worn cape. That thing needed a literal miracle to return to it’s former glory 

Life isn’t much different aside from your lack of presence. With each day she finds herself looking forward to your return, and occasionally she’ll inquire with the professor about it. Mercedes is known for her patience, and it truly is a virtue in many cases. Definitely in this one. 

When note of your future return arrives she can’t help but smile. If allowed she’ll ask to read the letter of notification herself and will do so with incredible focus. She’ll clutch one hand to her chest in relief before giving it back and leaving to return to her duties 

and so it goes until your return. She might not be able to come meet you at the gate, but at first sighting she’ll engulf you in an embrace. 

After a once-over for any injuries, she’ll insist that you have tea together. Hell, Mercedes would be happy if you two could just chat together on the nearest bench. There’s so much to talk of and now you two have all the time in the world 

“It’s so nice to see you again! Oh my...it feels like forever since I have seen you smile. I almost forgot how contagious is is haha” 

Ingrid: 

If it was up to Ingrid than she would be positioned right at your side. You two work well as a duo both on and off of the field. The army would benefit from your skills being magnified as a team 

She also wouldn’t have to deal with this ungodly sense of dread in the pit of her stomach. Don’t misunderstand- Ingrid isn’t the protective type. She trusts in your capabilities both as a fighter and person. It’s only that being away for so long is a rarity, and she needs time to adjust. 

She’d just have to trust in the other people stationed at your side to do what she can’t  

If she knows any of them personally then Ingrid 100% approaches to ask that they watch your back 

That takes care of any worry, but not of the crack in her daily life 

Ingrid has much on her shoulders. Her family, Fargeus’ future, her friends, what food’s being served in the dining hall, if it tastes good or not, the church, the ‘flame emperor’, and you of course.

She’s also the type of person who likes uniformity: a schedule. You’re a part of that and being so far disrupts it. She’s afraid that her personal emotions will tap into her ability to fulfill her duties  

Everyone else assures her otherwise. Ingrid is known for always giving 110% so a while of just 100% is no big deal. She is allowed to be human 

She’s allowed to miss you. Her friends assure her of it 

She’s allowed to worry. There’s no need to sear shut her fears. After losing Glenn...well, it’s understandable. 

She’s allowed to ask for news updates. The professor has encouraged this. 

She’s allowed to go in your room if she needs alone time. You said so before leaving. 

However, Ingrid doesn’t allow herself those comforts until days after your departure. When you said goodbye it unsettled her stomach in more ways than one. It took some time to sort through her emotions while still maintaining her responsibilities

It took everything for Ingrid to move on from the past, and this experience set in a sense of gratitude for all that she’s been given. It also was an opportunity for her to reminisce over what she has lost, and still has to do. 

Needless to say, when you return Ingrid has gained a newfound confidence and comfort in not having a set schedule for life. Everything has always felt as if it needed to be rushed, but meeting you wasn’t something she had planned nor sped into. Spending some time to focus on her own personal goals aside from the ones preset for her before birth aided in Ingrid coming to terms with that. 

“Hello. It’s been so long that I hardly recognize you! What? It’s a joke!...Yes, I know how to tell jokes- hold on this is supposed to be a heartfelt reunion so don’t ruin it!”