#tend to just look very blank and stilted most of the time

[beatcroc]

idle thoughts on the smaller clones

and drawing them incorrectly bc i dont care ❤

the way the clones spawn infinitely offscreen in the war level is the same thing as fp's duplication thing in his fight, it's just that his version is WAY toned down. in both cases the clone duplicates are like fully separate, technically autonomous Guys that the original has no control over, so for the war clones that means they're just kind of blindly making infinite guys. In fake pep's case, either his duplication ability got severely nerfed after pizzahead saw what a huge problem that was gonna be, or fp is just smart enough to make the duplicates super weak so they fall apart after a few seconds.

the ones seen ingame are only the 'latest and greatest', as it were. all the clones before fp had just been about trying to make a Stable Alive Thing, so there wasn't much focus on sentience, or durability, or really anything else. most of the ones before those ingame couldn't survive, and the ones that did got eaten by the newer, more evolutionarily "fit" generations. CONTEXT: awhile back @unexpectedbrickattack had been talking about earlier gens of clones being closer to real biological life, being Actually grown from cells or embryos or what have you, but pizzahead gave up on that pretty fast because things going very bad and wrong with actual flesh and blood and that whole complex mess is, um, a hell of a lot worse than just having to clean up some nonspecific Gunk. anyway. it wasn't the intent for them to wind up 90% weird gunk beings, but as creating artificial life goes the less things that can go wrong the better, so gradually more and more of their organs and systems were simplified and/or replaced entirely by all-purpose self-sustaining gunk.

they're largely mindless and very much feral but i wouldn't really call them evil; the biggest problem is really just that they don't have a fear of people or, like, anything else. they're no more destructive than any wild animal, it's just that they have a much higher rate of, uh, Incidents because there's nothing stopping them from wandering everywhere they shouldn't be or just going up to someone and going ham. the Can be cute sometimes but they're also unpredictable and don't have much consistent logic to be trained otherwise so trying to interact with one will most likely just get you bitten and/or mauled

i do however believe so hard in all the clones being violently territorial with eachother, and fake pep is actually a lot more hostile to them now. not that he hasn't always hated them, but back in the labs there was just a ton of them everywhere so it was a 'pick your battles' thing and he'd only go after them if they were in the way or bothering him directly. now that they're not an omnipresent nuisance AND he's got a place to definitively call his own? it's kill on sight. It's like 80% territorial instinct but there's a note of 'do NOT fuck this up for me' in there as well. they Are still out there somewhere postgame, but it's not really relevant for my purposes bc they're way the fuck off wherever that warzone is, and the chances of any finding their way to peppino's pizzeria or anywhere else the cast may interact with them is Highly Unlikely.

[whenisitenoughtrees]

47. “That tickles!” And either moceit or royality please?

i will take literally any opportunity to write soft mociet so

Title: sugar, butter, flour

Word Count: 2,769

Content Warnings: none, I think

(fic masterpost)

Baking with Janus is interesting.

It’s become somewhat of a ritual, over the past few years, to bake with his family. He’s dragged Logan out of his room on more than one occasion to help with more technical recipes, the ones that depend entirely on precise measurements and proper stirring methods and timings. Roman, on the other hand, prefers the more decorative aspects, likes to bomb cookies and cakes with sprinkles and smother them in icing, or to craft sculptures out of fondant or chocolate. He wonders if Remus is the same; he intends to find out, sometime, as soon as he works up the courage to invite him.

And Patton remembers very well the first time he asked Virgil to come help him. He started with a simple recipe, chocolate cupcakes, but from the way Virgil’s face slid into shock, from the warbling, shaky tone of his voice as he asked Patton if he really meant it, really wanted him there, he would have thought that he was offering Virgil the world. And he’d felt awful, then, for rejecting Virgil for so long, and vowed that he would never have to feel so alone again, never have to question the motives behind something so simple as baking.

He’s not sure what to expect from Janus, the first time he broaches the topic.

It seems like the right thing to do. Thomas has accepted him now, or at least, is on the way there, and Patton is working on that too, is working to blur the lines of his black-and-white thinking into something greyer. And being accepted means being part of the family, and being part of the family means being included in activities, and that means baking, and if anyone had asked Patton a few months ago if he would be excited to ask Janus to bake with him, he wouldn’t have believed them at all.

But he is excited. And nervous, because he’s not sure that he’ll even be interested. Somehow, he has a hard time picturing Janus in a kitchen, because Janus is always so immaculately groomed and kitchens get so messy. He tries to imagine Janus with egg on his gloves or flour on his shirt, and he can’t quite manage it.

He asks, though. Because he wants to bake with Janus. Wants Janus to bake with him.

And Janus says yes.

He does it with a curiously blank face, the only visible emotion a slight flicker in his eyes, and Patton has no idea what he is thinking at all, but he accepts, and allows Patton to lead him to the kitchen, and then, they make cookies. Simple, chocolate chip cookies.

It’s weird, at first. Awkward, and strained, and it becomes very clear very quickly that Janus has never baked anything in his life, and that only adds to the weirdness, because Patton has to tell him what to do most of the time. But he catches on quickly, and by the time they’re making the third batch, he seems to have the motions down, and they settle into a more comfortable companionship. Their conversation, too, changes, moving from the short and stilted talk of before to something that flows more naturally, and Patton finds himself relaxing. He hopes Janus is, too. He really can’t tell.

They make the cookies, and they all turn out well, but not too long after they come out of the oven, Janus excuses himself. His face is still unreadable, and Patton has no idea whether he actually had fun or not, and he’s not sure that he’s ready yet to ask him to stay longer, not sure he could stand receiving rejection. There is something forming between them, some new relationship, but it is so fragile and new that he doesn’t want to risk breaking it.

But as Janus leaves the kitchen, he calls after him.

“Would you want to do this again, sometime?” he asks, and Janus looks at him for a long moment before replying.

“I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed,” he says, and by now, Patton is better at sifting out his truths from his lies, and he can recognize which this is.

And then, Janus is gone, capelet flapping out behind him. Patton watches him go, and feels as if he’s won a victory.

A few weeks later, they do it again.

They follow the same pattern: Patton asks Janus to bake, Janus agrees without displaying any indication as to whether he actually wants to or not, and they slowly warm up to each other as the cookies turn a soft golden brown. And this time, because he is better prepared, Patton notices a few things.

The first is that Janus keeps looking at him, keeps stealing quick, subtle glances whenever he thinks he isn’t looking. And at first, Patton doesn’t think very much of it, except that those glances start to remind him a little bit of Virgil. Because he remembers the first few times he baked with Virgil, remembers how cautious he was, how quiet, how he seemed to be trying to make himself smaller, as if he thought that Patton would kick him out if he so much as put a foot wrong, or that he would shout if Virgil messed up a measurement or made too much of a mess. And the way Janus is acting isn’t precisely like that, but the similarities are too striking to ignore. There is a hesitance in his movements, and in the way he watches Patton out of the corner of his eye, as if he’s trying to ensure that he’s not doing anything wrong.

The fact that he feels like he needs to do that makes Patton’s heart ache, but he’s sure that if he tries to approach the topic at all, Janus will staunchly deny it. So he leaves it be for now, and hopes that he can demonstrate through his actions that the caution isn’t necessary.

The second thing he notices is far more fun, and it’s this: Janus bakes like he does.

One of the worst kept secrets in the mindscape is that Patton is not very good in the kitchen, much to his chagrin. He knows it, everyone knows it, Thomas probably knows it. He tends to take recipes as guidelines rather than as set instructions, and he gets distracted easily, leaving one thing to burn or boil over while he focuses on another. He does his best work while there is someone else with him to keep him on track.

He’s cooked or baked with everyone else enough to know their strong suits. Logan is all about precision and numbers, while Roman focuses on style and flair, and Virgil just tries to make sure that everything is sanitary and no one burns themselves or cuts a finger.

Janus, though, is remarkably like him.

He eyeballs measurements like Patton does, disregarding the recipe entirely when he thinks something else might work better, and he, too, is prone to distraction, perfectly willing to let Patton tug him in a new direction while the previous work sits forgotten, only to curse up a storm when something starts spilling or smoking.

Really, he’s no better at this than Patton is.

That becomes extremely clear by the third time they bake together. They are still doing cookies, though Patton thinks it might be time to try something else soon. Cupcakes, maybe, or a whole cake. But for now, they stand there, staring at the first batch, straight out of the oven.

“Well, those look… good,” Janus says, not even trying to hide his doubt.

Patton frowns at the cookies. Something about them is off, something about their color and size just slightly different from the usual. He shrugs, picking one up and breaking it in half, handing part of it to Janus, who regards it suspiciously.

“Won’t know what’s wrong until we try it,” he says, and Janus lifts an eyebrow.

“Won’t do much good to know what’s wrong if we poison ourselves,” he says, but lifts the cookie to his lips anyway.

They take a bite at the same time. Patton feels his face twist, and Janus stops chewing as quickly as he started, his eyes blowing wide. They stare at each other for a moment, and Patton shudders, forcing himself to swallow. Janus, on the other hand, elects to grab a paper towel and delicately spit out the bite he took, tossing it and the rest of the cookie in the garbage can.

“That,” Janus proclaims, “was the most delightful thing I have ever eaten. And I have had Remus attempt to cook for me.”

Patton winces, turning to inspect the ingredients, still laid out on the counter. They have another three batches’ worth of dough, but they won’t be able to use it, not if his hunch is correct and they’ve used—

“Salt instead of sugar,” he says dolefully. “How did we both miss that?”

Janus makes a strangled sound. And then, he laughs, short and surprised, and by the time Patton turns to look, he is already composing himself.

“Clearly, our ingenuity in the kitchen knows no bounds,” he says, a slight smile still playing about his lips. “I can take these to Remus. I’m sure he’d love them.”

Patton agrees, mind not lingering too long on the Remus thing, because the word our rings in his head over and over again. Our ingenuity. Proof that Janus does want to be here, that he considers this to be an activity that they do together, rather than something that Patton drags him into. And his chest fills with warmth, warmth and something that feels like sparkles and rainbows, and he can’t help but beam.

Janus looks a bit taken aback, but he returns the smile, if shakily.

And, well. After that, there is no way that Patton is going to let Janus go. They graduate from cookies to cupcakes to cakes, and then to more complicated things, different types of pastries and creams and things that would probably work better if they had Logan there to help them, because only about one in three products actually tastes anything like it’s supposed to, or is edible at all. But it’s not the end product that’s the point, it’s the time they spend together, muddling their way through a complicated set of instructions, or giving up on that and winging it, turning the kitchen into something more approaching a disaster zone, a mess covering every surface.

And gradually, Janus seems to grow more comfortable. Allows himself to smile, and even to laugh, and every time Patton teases such a reaction out of him, he feels warm and bubbly all over. Slowly, somewhere between the meringues and the ganaches, they fall into a friendship, and Patton is elated.

And that friendship gives him courage to do things he never would have dared to do before, even if he wanted to.

“Here, you’ve got a little something,” he says, and before Janus can react, he wipes a bit of flour onto his nose.

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him, isn’t sure why he’s doing this. But the flour was there, and so was Janus’ face, and the desire to see what Janus would do was too strong to resist.

Janus freezes, his tongue flicking out. It tastes the air a few times, and then curls up to brush the tip of his nose, and immediately, his expression crashes into one of utter betrayal. His face scrunches up, and Patton can’t hold back his giggles.

“Really?” Janus says. “Well, as it turns out, you also have a little something—”

And he flicks flour at Patton in return.

From there, it is war, of course, and the baking itself is all but forgotten, the ingredients for their cake batter sitting out on the counter, gradually being coated with a fine layer of flour as it gets tossed back and forth between them. Patton has never seen Janus look so undignified, with white powder dusting his hair and all over his clothes, a delighted grin on his face as he pelts Patton with all the flour he can get his hands on, as well as the occasional glob of batter.

“Stop it, stop,” Patton manages, between breaths and fits of laughter. “That tickles!”

“Does it?” Janus says, and backs Patton up against the counter. With one delicate swipe of his hand, he brushes a thumb down Patton’s nose, covering it in flour. He resists the urge to sneeze. “Too bad. Vengeance is sweet.”

“You’re sweeter,” Patton says, the words spilling out of his mouth without permission, and oh.

Janus’ eyes go wide. Patton is suddenly very aware of the position they’re in, of how close Janus is to him, of how his hand is still hovering next to his face. And Janus must realize it, too, because there is a blush rising on the right side of his face, pink blooming on his skin.

But he doesn’t step back. And that’s good, because Patton finds that he doesn’t want him to.

“I—” Janus says, for once at a loss for words. “What?”

“I mean that,” Patton says. “I mean, it just kind of slipped out, but I meant it. You’re really sweet, and nice, and I really like to spend time with you.”

Janus’ hand shakes where it hangs in the air. Patton wishes he would close the gap that lies between them, bring it just a few inches closer and touch his face again.

“I,” he says, “I suppose I—”

“Oh my god,” someone says, and Janus springs away from Patton as though he’s been burned, and Patton does his level best not to feel disappointed. Virgil is standing in the entryway to the kitchen, eyes flickering back and forth between the two of them. The expression on his face is something approaching horror, though Patton doesn’t know what they’ve done to deserve that reaction. “What are you doing?”

Inexplicably, Patton feels himself blush. “Baking,” he says, and his voice comes out high and squeaky.

“Building a shelf,” Janus offers, completely deadpan. Patton can’t help but laugh a bit at that, still riding the adrenaline of moments before, and somehow, that doesn’t seem to settle Virgil down at all. He rocks back and forth on his heels, still looking between the two of them. His mouth works for a moment, but he says nothing, and Patton is just a bit concerned.

“Um,” he says, and steps forward so he’s not leaning against the counter. “Can I get you something, kiddo?”

Virgil shakes his head, and begins to backpedal out of the kitchen. “Uh, no, no, I’ll, um, I’ll grab something later, and um. Go. I’m gonna go. You guys um. Carry on, or whatever.”

“So glad to have your permission,” Janus drawls, but Virgil is already gone, all but dashing away, and Patton thinks he hears him muttering under his breath, thinks he catches the phrase “like walking in on my parents,” which just makes him blush harder as he risks a glance over at Janus.

Who is looking back at him, his lips lifted in a way that can only be called fond.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then, once again, Patton finds himself laughing, because he loves this. Flour and batter all over them, all over the kitchen, and there is something buzzing in the air, something that smells like possibility, and Patton feels warm all over just looking at him, looking at Janus, messy and ruffled and more human and beautiful than he has ever seen him, with flour streaked across his face and batter on his gloves. He is so glad that Janus is willing to do this, is willing to open up, to suffer a bit of indignity, to trust him just a little bit more.

“Shall we finish this cake?” Janus asks, and it sort of feels like he’s asking something else.

Patton glances around the kitchen, at the mess they’ve made, and grins. “Yeah, I think we should,” he says, and they do.

And when the cake is finished, it’s overdone, and it hasn’t risen as much as it’s supposed to. But they take it out of the oven together, and their hands brush against each other and linger at the contact. Its scent fills the air, a strong vanilla, and it’s lopsided and imperfect but still good, and Patton thinks, yes. Vanilla and possibility, and Janus’ smile, and he’s certain they’ll be baking together for a long time to come.

General Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii @severelylackinginquality @aceawkwardunicorn @gayerplease @elizabutgayer @dwbh888 @thatoneloudowl @sanderssides-angst @gayboopnoodle @wildfire5157 @ldavmp4 @a-ghostlight-for-roman

[everamazingfe]

A Close Shave

Fic Summary: After being picked up by the Urania and brought back to the Hephaestus station, Communications Officer Doug Eiffel tries to come to terms with his new look. It doesn’t go well. Luckily, Jacobi comes along to save the day. 

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Words in this fic: 2082 Pairings: Doug Eiffel/Daniel Jacobi Warnings for this fic: Brief mentions of abuse

Notes: I got into Wolf 359 at the start of this year, and after relistening to it recently I decided to start writing some fics. I was pretty nervous about posting this, but I couldn't keep it in my drafts forever, so here it is! There’s also a link to this fic over on A O 3 as the source of this post! Click it to go read it over there, or you can search up the title or ‘everamazingfe’ on the site.

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There was something about him, Eiffel had decided within the first few seconds of seeing him for the first time. His face was mostly blank unless he had some sly comment to say, some sarcastic remark, and then that stony expression was replaced by something cockier, more smug. Sometimes there was a flash of softness to it, usually when Maxwell was speaking. But even when his face was at its blankest, there was a mischievous gleam in those bright green eyes of his.

Eiffel had never really noticed anyone’s eyes before. He didn’t know Minkowski’s eye color, or Lovelace’s for that matter. Hell, Eiffel didn’t even know if he knew his own eye color at this point, he avoided looking in mirrors at all costs. But for some reason, he’d noticed Jacobi’s. Not only had he noticed it, but he had committed it to memory as well. 

For a moment, he was convinced he could picture them clearly as he stared out the window above his comms panel, making eye contact with them in the reflection of the glass. Somehow, he was able to picture his face with perfect clarity too, despite only seeing it a handful of times while he was in sound mind. 

“Feel good to be home?” The Jacobi that Eiffel thought he was picturing in his mind so clearly spoke, startling him out of his trance and making him jump because it wasn’t his imagination, it was the real deal. It made sense, he’d never had a very visual imagination anyway, but there was always hope for a change of mind. “Wow, I didn’t think I was all that scary, Officer Eiffel.”

“You’re not,” he grumbled with a huff of indignation, grabbing the edge of his station and pulling himself back to it, hooking his knees beneath it to keep himself there. “I just… Got lost in thought.”

“You? Capable of thought? Now that’s something that wasn’t included in your file.” There it was, that stupid sly grin that Jacobi always had when he thought he was being oh-so-clever. Usually, he was. But that joke had become played out within the first month on the station.

Eiffel responded with mock laughter, trying to ignore the way that comment made an invisible knife twist in his chest. After all he’d done, no one thought he was good at anything. What a surprise. But he didn’t have time to unpack all of that right then. “Get some new material, I’ve heard it all before,” he drawled, hoping he looked as bored as he sounded. “I’m a slacker, I’m an idiot, I’m a motormouth. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Your shoe’s untied.” 

Maybe there was some truth to one of those three things, because like the idiot he was, Eiffel had that brief moment of panic everyone had when someone told them that their shoe was untied, or their fly was down, or there was something on their shirt. And because of that panic, he looked down. It had completely slipped his mind that he hadn’t even worn shoes in the two (Three? Did those hundred days hurtling through space count? He didn’t know.) years he had been on the Hephaestus. “Oh, goddammit!” He groaned as he stared down at his socked feet in dismay, trying to tune out the cackling laughter Jacobi let out behind him that sent him halfway across the room. 

“You’re also gullible, apparently!” He let himself continue his path across the room so he could push off the back wall, still in a fit of giggles as he sailed back to the console. “You actually fell for it! I can’t believe it! I’ve never gotten anyone with that before.” Jacobi’s grin was bigger than it had ever been, and he wiped the tears from his eyes before they wreaked havoc on the station’s internal systems. Maxwell was too smart to fall for a simple trick like that, and Kepler… Well, Kepler didn’t like being pranked. 

Eiffel grumbled something incoherently, waiting patiently for Jacobi to get over himself before he spoke again. “Was there a real reason you came down here?”

“No, not really. Kepler’s giving Minkowski an orientation for her new role and then he needed to discuss… something with Hilbert, I don’t even wanna know. And Ala- Maxwell’s busy with Hera. So, I was bored.”

“What about Lovelace?”

“Dunno. Didn’t ask. Didn’t care.”

“Right… So you came to interrupt my very important work?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky you.” Jacobi made himself comfortable, lounging in the free-floating bliss that was zero-g as Eiffel pretended to look busy, though his eyes were fixed on the reflection of the man in the glass. The bright light of Wolf 359 backlit him beautifully, and the color in the star seemed to desaturate everything else in the reflection, except for those damn eyes. 

Eiffel let out a sigh, bringing a hand up to run it through his hair, his fingers brushing through the empty space where his long curls used to be. He let out a frustrated growl, moving his hand up to his scalp. The little hair that was left was scraggly and damaged as hell. It was coarse and patchy, and it scratched his hand uncomfortably when he ran his hand over it. “Actually. I have an idea of something we can do.” He turned around to look at the real Jacobi, who arched an eyebrow in silent encouragement for him to go on. “Come with me.”

He’d had his head shaved a handful of times, and it was usually under duress. The first time was as a punishment for getting gum stuck in it, even though he hadn’t been the one to put gum there, and it would’ve been much easier to just cut the chunk out rather than shave his whole head. The second time had been when he’d joined the military. This would make number three, but this time it was necessary, despite the fact that his goal had really been to never cut his hair again. All that length had meant a lot to him, it meant that he had control over something in his life, finally, but the cryofreeze had, apparently, had other plans for it.

Additionally, most of the shaving kits, particularly their razors, had been dismantled for Minkowski’s crusade against Blessie. God only knew where all of those had ended up, or if they were still even on the station, but he knew there was one that was still safely tucked away. 

“Wow, Eiffel. I thought you would’ve liked to wine and dine your dates before bringing them home. You always struck me as more of a gentleman than that.”

“Shut up.” He rooted around in his locker, letting various pieces of uniform and whatever else had been shoved in there float freely around them as he did so. Most of it was contraband that he should’ve been more careful about getting seen, but he was too focused. Once he found the kit, he let out a soft, ‘a ha!’ And underhand tossed it to Jacobi. “You’re shaving my head.”

For once, Jacobi didn’t have some sort of sarcastic remark to make in response. He was just confused. “Sorry?”

“I can’t… I can’t stand it being like this. I can’t. And it’ll never grow back right with the ends this damaged, and I don’t really feel like cutting myself a thousand times in the process. So you’re doing it for me.” He tried to make his voice sound commanding, authoritative, but instead he just sounded desperate, irritated, upset. His hair meant so much to him, but he could stand to be without it for a little bit. He’d done it before, he could do it again. What he couldn’t stand was the sorry excuse for hair that he’d been left with. 

“You don’t think I’d use the razor to kill you? It’d be the perfect opportunity.”

“If you wanted to kill me, you could’ve done it back on the Urania when I was half dead.” 

“You hadn’t annoyed me as much back then.”

“I mean, if you really want to, I guess you can, but… I’d really just like my head shaved, please.”

A dramatic sigh filled the silence, and then: “Ugh, fine. But you owe me.”

That was good enough for Eiffel, and he trailed along behind Jacobi to the Hephaestus’ bathroom. Gravity was a little different in there, as in it was actually present in order to make showering and other general acts of hygiene (that Eiffel didn’t really partake in) a little easier. So he was able to sit on the counter and stare their reflections down as Jacobi stood behind him, setting the kit beside him on the counter. 

Jacobi wasn’t a friend, not by a longshot. In Minkowski’s book, he was part of ‘the enemy.’ But they’d spent a decent amount of time together after he’d been picked up by the Urania, and even a little bit of time before that over the comms. Someone had to keep in touch with him and keep up-to-date on his coordinates so the ship could get a lock on his location, and Kepler had felt like that work was beneath the highly intellectual minds of himself and Maxwell, so it had fallen to Jacobi. And Eiffel hadn’t minded, because beneath all the smart remarks, the guy was alright to talk to. A little stilted, maybe, but that wasn’t anything he couldn’t work with. It was better on the Urania. Easier, at least, because Jacobi’s body language did a lot of the talking for him. Once again, helping Eiffel was deemed grunt work, so Jacobi had been the one stuck tending to his wounds, helping him get around when he was too weak to even keep his eyes open, and adjust to eating again after not doing it for a hundred days (though with all of the substitutes for rations Hilbert dared to call food, one could argue it had been even longer since he’d really eaten). 

Long story short, Eiffel liked Jacobi to some degree. The guy was alright in his book, and he was sure the feeling was mutual, because he could’ve easily said no, or done a hackjob of it, or killed him. But instead, he took his time and made sure that he didn’t miss any spots, his other hand resting gently on Eiffel’s head to keep it steady despite all the fidgeting. 

After the first pass, Eiffel moved to get off the counter, to turn around and thank Jacobi, but a firm hand on his shoulder pushed him back down. 

“I gotta go again, make sure I didn’t miss a spot. It looked awful before, but it’ll look even worse if there’s just a tiny patch with a few hairs left.”

Eiffel furrowed his eyebrows together, but nodded and got comfortable again. As comfortable as he could, at least. His ass was already numb and the feeling was starting to spread down to his legs, but hopefully the second pass would go quicker. 

And it did, kind of. Jacobi didn’t need to clean the hair from the razor as often because there was barely any left, but he still took that same slow and gentle care as he had the first time. When he was done, he wiped off the leftover shaving cream with a nearby towel, smiling genuinely as Eiffel lifted a hand to feel over his scalp. “Well? How does it feel?”

“It feels great,” he answered earnestly, laughing in relief. He didn’t hate the way his reflection looked anymore, and now he could actually believe everyone when they told him to pull it together because it would grow back eventually. Hopefully this made the process easier. His eyes drifted to Jacobi’s in the mirror, mirroring that same smile. “Thank you... I really do owe you.”

“Yeah, you do.” The genuine smile faded to his usual cocky grin, and Eiffel threw the towel at him. It hit him square in the face, but it didn’t wipe away that look. “But… You’re welcome.” He offered him a hand to help him off the counter, steadying him with a chuckle when he nearly lost his balance. “Gravity that hard on you, Doug?”

“No! It’s just… That counter was not very comfortable to sit for that long on. And yeah, I guess gravity’s pretty hard to adjust to too.” 

“Well then we’d better get you back to the lazy embrace of zero-g.”

[its-a-humanriot]

Common Language, pt. II

Charon realises very quickly that he doesn’t understand his new employer very well.

In the first instance, this is very literal.

(pt. I) / (pt. II)

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The two of them head out scavenging initially, hoping to replenish some of his employer’s lost caps. Their interactions remain stilted. She is clearly unused to having a travelling companion - much less one who she has command over - and is clearly avoiding using that ability as much as she can, wincing if she forgets to word her sentences carefully. Somehow, this only serves to make Charon more uneasy – at least with direct orders he knows what to expect from it. The rapid derailing of their first interaction means that he doesn’t even really know why she had spent all those caps on his contract in the first place.

His confusion at her only increases as they spend more time together over the course of the day. She has taken to speaking the same way she did after his outburst, slightly slower and obviously selecting her words more carefully. His initial reaction is resentment - that he is being patronised or pandered to somehow, that since he lost his composure she is walking on eggshells trying to preserve his feelings. The fact she saw him in such a state at all makes him uncomfortable beyond measure, never mind the fact that it happened less than an hour after their first proper meeting.

However, this conclusion is rapidly cast aside when (on many occasions) she slips up - she rapidly becomes less comprehensible as she falls into her natural speech patterns. On seeing his blank expression, she has to backtrack and rephrase or repeat herself more slowly, usually accompanied with a deep sigh and a furrowed brow followed by an apology. Her frustration only ever appeared to be directed towards herself, along with a kind of embarrassment at her difficulty in expressing herself. A couple hours after setting out she makes a comment about needing to ‘hit the jacks’ as they head into a house to loot. When she turns to see him looking back at her with confusion, instead of re-wording her sentence she just averts her eyes, clears her throat, and mutters “be right back” before darting up the stairs and into one of the rooms. He almost starts up the stairs after her until he hears the sound of water on porcelain and the situation becomes painfully clear, and he does a rapid about-turn to start his search for valuables on the far side of the ground floor.

It also does not take long for Charon to notice his new employer’s hoarding tendencies. This in itself is not unusual. Most wastelanders kept an eye out of any scrap of resources they could lay their hands on - you tended to live longer that way. Otherwise, useful odds and ends picked up could be sold on for caps, and some of the more daring wasteland folk earned a living by sneaking under the noses of super mutants and feral ghouls to obtain more valuable items. Charon considers this as the young woman pokes at the swaying figurine of a woman in a grass skirt on a wrecked bus dashboard, smiling to herself as it appears to dance, and tucks it into a side pouch of her pack.

No, the strangeness is not that she hoards or even how much, but what she takes. She clearly has at least some capability of evaluating what goods are worth taking – prioritising high-value low-weight items, only going for the heavier pieces when they are really worth it (and after he has insisted that yes, he can carry a few more fission batteries despite her reluctance to use him as a pack brahmin) But for every carton of cigarettes or sensor module she picks up she scoops a handful of screws into a pocket and thread nuts onto a string like jewellery to carry with her. A few carefully selected tin cans that aren’t too bent are filled with old buttons and beads, padded out with scraps of printed pre-war fabric to stop the clattering noise from drawing too much unwanted attention. Even once today her own spent bullet casings got swept up off the floor, bundled into a rag and tied into a neat little parcel before tucking it away.

 “Charon, what chow do you want?”

He pauses in counting his ammunition in the spot by the fireplace. The house they have selected for their camp tonight still has an intact chimney. As long as they keep the fire small it shouldn’t draw too much attention, and they get the luxury of cooking their food indoors while getting to stay warm through the night. When he looks up towards the young woman, she is waving food containers at him. With a small amount of effort, his expression remains blank.

“I will eat whatever is available.” Previous employers have never paused to ask such trivial questions of him. His impartial answer earns a little furrow in his employer’s brow, but her disposition is otherwise cheerful.

“Well, there’s both o’ these, plus all the other stuff we salvaged today. What would you prefer?”

“I have no preference.”

She looks oddly disappointed, like she wasn’t just asking about food options, but doesn’t press him further. Charon looks between the containers in her hands – a box of Blanco mac and cheese, a tin of Cram, and what looks like a few squirrel-on-a-stick skewers wrapped in pieces of old newspaper. He thinks about how long it has been since he had fresh, hot food and not whatever scraps Ahzrukhal let him scrape off a plate or whatever leftovers Carol would smuggle to him. He looks back down at his pile of bullets and keeps counting.

“I have no preference. You should eat the squirrel before it goes bad.” Charon says placatingly. He hears a small, terse sigh from his employer’s direction, and then she sits down by the fire. But when he looks at her out of the corner of his eye (and he is so used to watching his employers, constantly gauging moods like he’s listening to a ticking Geiger counter) she just unwraps the squirrel kebabs and props them in front of the grate of the fireplace to heat up, then unboxes the mac and cheese and places the foil tray directly on the smouldering coals.

“Then we’ll share.” This time she catches him looking at her, and returns the look with a small smile before she turns away to start cleaning her rifle. If she notices that he is still looking at her after that, she doesn’t let on.

If he has to turn the kebabs a few times to stop them getting too crispy while she is distracted, it’s of no consequence. He doesn’t quite save the mac and cheese, which gets a little blackened around the edges before he snatches it off the fire, scorching his fingertips. Divided between the two of them in front of the fire over a slightly awkward silence, it is still the best meal he has had in a long time.

 His employer insists on taking first watch despite his protestations, saying that she has something to work on while the fire is still alight, and he grumbles to himself as he begrudgingly lays down to rest. The combined powers of his training and the soothing noises of ammunition being counted lulls him to sleep quickly.

His sleep is not peaceful – his episode from earlier that day bleeds into his dreams and he wakes up flat on his back and tense as a compressed spring and lost in time, eyes wide open and watching and listening and waiting for the scientists to release him from the sim pod, for Ahzrukhal to curse him out of bed, for a mother whose face he can no longer recall, for someone –

 No one comes. The strange swimming lights and shadows slowly resolve into the peeling patches on the dilapidated ceiling in the dregs of the firelight and a dim glow of electric light. The only noises are a rustle of paper, faint clinks of metal on metal, a sigh and the mumbling of a woman’s voice. His new employer, the kid – what was her name? He forces his shaking hands into fists, and sits up.

 His employer – Billie, he remembers now - is sitting by the fireplace as she was when he went to sleep, but with a hooded homemade lantern sat on top of some kind of scheme that she is pouring over as she tinkers with what appears to be something like a crossbow. Muttering words under her breath with enough vehemence that they can only be cursing, she measures the flight groove against a syringe then a dart, before dropping both in annoyance and scrubbing her fingers through her mass of dark curly hair. At this point she finally seems to notice him, and the pursed look of frustrated concentration on her face drops.

“Agh – sorry. Did I wake you?” Her recently mussed curls only served to make her look even more startled. Charon finds his jaw still clenched after his nightmare, and it takes a moment to loosen it enough to speak.

“No.” At least she doesn’t seem to have noticed anything strange about while he was sleeping. “You should rest. I will keep watch.” She frowns, and checks her Pip-Boy.

“But it’s only been a few hours-”

“I require less rest than most. I will keep watch the rest of the night.”

She looks unconvinced, but packs away her schemes and lantern without further protest and curls up on the mattress, and it is not long before her breaths lengthen as she drifts into sleep.

 The next few hours pass without incident – Charon finishes re-counting his ammunition and counts their supplies to keep his hands and his mind busy – bottles of water, packaged food, stimpaks. They are well enough provisioned for now, and should be well able to make it to Rivet City as his employer had indicated without running short as long as they don’t run into too much trouble. They had chosen a house for tonight as far as they could manage from a supermutant camp, and the nearest passing footsteps don’t seem to come closer than the end of the street. He sits in the dim light of the fire’s embers, and waits.

The young woman mutters in her sleep, curling in on herself. Though it is obscured by her speech patterns and the nonsense of sleep-talk, some of it sounds like names. All of it sounds distressed. He pauses, waiting to see if she will wake while he traces one, two holes in the bottom of his boot, but eventually she settles, nuzzling her head down under the edge of the one thin blanket she had pulled down from the upstairs bedroom. He has not counted another among their packs – once they get to Rivet City he may need to suggest that they acquire the essentials of a proper bedroll. It will be much easier for them to stay alive out in the open wasteland without the risk of hypothermia, especially if they don’t get the luxury of having an intact roof and walls around them.

Sometime after her breaths even out again in slumber, Charon finally runs out of things to keep his hands busy. The last of the embers in the grate have died, and daybreak is still an hour or so away. He hesitates, then lays down on the bare floor an arm’s length or so from the mattress and he counts his breaths, his heartbeats as he watches the pale morning light reveal the patterns of the tattered ceiling.

[chews-erotically]

Waxing Gibbous 

Pairing: Ezra + femNurse! Reader

Rating: Hard M / 18+ ONLY

Warnings: Angst/violence/gore/blood/mentions of prostitution/SMUT(eventual)/veryinaccuratesurgicalprocedure

     Honestly words have been fermenting in my brain for many moons. I am new to this, so please be gentle.  I have written before, however never for a fandom. Special thank you to @yespolkadotkitty and @rzrcst for their support and encouragement, it truly means the world to me.

Summary: You are a nurse on the Green moon contracted to care for a group of prospectors. An act of violence forces you to flee your camp. Ezra finds you.

Words: 2376

 PART ONE

    The first time Ezra fell, it was with the Saters. You’d been hunched in a cordoned-off section of tent, dust motes waxing and waning against the haze of thick, dank air. At least you could breathe, a small mercy it was to remove your helmets and sit unfettered in the musty inner folds of the makeshift barracks.

    The Sater stank. When he sneered at you, his grey lips parted to reveal the jagged tombstones of his teeth. When you had first sat down and dispelled with the perfunctory greetings, choking down the offering of what always reminded you of unsweetened Turkish coffee mixed with engine oil, his eyes made no attempt to hide the way they had raked over you as if you were some shiny toy. Or a bag of meat. You were under no delusions when it came to the fact that you, by nature of being female, were going to be ogled. Still, it left you no less disgusted as you fought to keep your face impassive while his eyes honed in on your chest.

    Ezra sat beside you on the narrow bench, hunched forward with forearms balanced on knees that were spread to allow for his head to clear the sunken canvas ceiling. His expression was equally neutral, the only hint of tension showing in the tight bunch of muscle at his jaw. He knew as well as you that if the sater did not accept the barter, things would turn dark.

    Ezra had been here longer than you. Stranded with no transport after the crew he’d arrived with turned on each other over dig locations and payload disbursement. The pod they’d arrived in had been burned, irreparably damaged and left no more than a husk in the Green due to the short-sighted fury and bullheaded ire of his hired compatriots. In the fracas, he’d sustained an injury to his right arm from a rogue thrower shot. In retrospect it could have been much worse, but the spores of mold that made the air so toxic had worked its way into his flesh the same way selfishness and suspicion had seeded the demise of his partners.

    You were hired as a nurse to tend to your own hired prospecting crew, lured in with promises of adventure and treasures beyond your wildest dreams. You had known there had to be a catch, you were not so naive to believe that consequence could elude you, but you had signed the contract anyway hoping for more than the dreary clinic you’d worked in for the past five years. You were alone, you were lonely, you had no family. Your few friends had steadily drifted away from you as they met their own partners, started their own families. You were left to the ether. So you signed almost without thought when the recruiter came, signed before you had time to think it through, because you were aware that if you thought too much you’d talk yourself out of it. You knew all too well how adept you were at talking yourself out of things.

    So, you’d arrived on the Green and things had proceeded as planned, uneventful for the most part. The others on the crew were respectful, if a bit distant. Nothing untoward had happened until a contractor by the name of Jorin began to take a particular interest in you. At first you’d been able to politely deflect his advances. Showing up in your tent unannounced, he feigned all manner of illness and injury to get your attention. Over time he became more aggressive, invading your space until you had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not welcome. It was not until he’d followed you back to your cot and tried to push you down that you’d snapped. You hadn’t meant to kill him, but the scalpel you had hidden in your fist had found its way to his carotid artery nonetheless. So you left, and you were blank and in shock and covered in someone else’s blood when Ezra found you.

    He’d stood, imposing and straight-backed, hand on hip while his head followed your shambling approach. Your adrenaline was waning, and you shuffled forth on trembling legs, hands held aloft in supplication. When you reached his clearing in the midst of dense vegetation you noted his mouth moving at light-speed, the hand on his hip twitching toward the thrower he had slung across his back. As you got even closer you noticed his eyes were wide. You were not on the same transmission channel so you could not hear him. Your hands gestured as if underwater, left hand tapping your transceiver while your right held up three trembling fingers. When Ezra understood he switched the channel and immediately his animated drawl was filling your helmet.

    “.....cannot fathom how you are standing in my sights looking like you’ve been baptised by Lady Bathory herself, alone? Please do tell this lonely old prospector how in Kevva’s name above you’ve found yourself in such a state of affairs?”

    You noticed immediately that he did not seem at all frightened or wary of your appearance, just confused, and….excited? You gazed up into the visor through a constellation of blood spatter and freed your tongue from its bone-dry cavern, swallowing thickly.

    “I didn’t mean to kill him. He tried to, to…..he came after me.”

    Ezra stepped forward in what seemed a conspiratory move. You froze. Taking note, he’d immediately stepped back, but his dark eyes fastened to yours with an intensity that made you feel as though he could see through you into your very essence, every shameful childhood memory, every flaw and triumph as readable as prose on paper.

    “Intention rarely informs the realities of snuffing out the flame of mortality. Between intention and action there lay an endless array of variables, something I know as well as my own name. In all my time on the Green the one thing that continues to ring true is that people here take. If you have nothing to offer, they will find something to take.” 

    He straightened before continuing, “Given that you are appreciably female I can imagine what it is he believed himself entitled to. You have none of that to fear from me, little stranger. I am but one lost soul amongst this verdant hellscape.”

    You were still processing the events of the past several hours, and it took you some time to accustom your ears to the man’s mellifluous cadence. The people in your previous company had been stilted, blunt, mostly monosyllabic. This man before you spoke as if convinced his words would alight and manifest whatever sacred force or unimagined color the universe deemed fit to spew forth. It was incongruous. You considered your next words carefully before you spoke.

    “Do you have a dwelling? A tent? I hate to impose, but this is my only suit and I’d like to get as much blood out of it as I can.”

    That was how you’d become acquainted with Ezra. You’d exchanged names as you walked to his tent, and all the while Ezra pontificated. The tent was modest, two cots arranged across from one another. Equipment stacked along one canvas wall, while texts and notebooks spread across a folding table toward the front entrance. Ezra explained where the water source was located as you both disconnected your helmets and stripped your suits. The blood splashed across yours had dried to a dull rust. Almost as if it could be something other than blood. Almost. 

    You’d set the suit to soak in cold water and truly noticed the man in front of you for the first time. He was tall and broad-shouldered, thick locks jutting chaotically from the dome of his head and curling around the lobes of his ears. A shock of blond colored the seam of his hairline. His brow was lined with years of tension and unrest. Wide, dark eyes below pronounced brows. A prominent aquiline nose. His mouth, still moving. Always moving, as if he were trying to get every thought he had out of his head before the hourglass ran out on him.

    Your eyes were next drawn to a dirty bandage circling his arm. You’d been so lost in your head over the strange turn of events that you did not notice the barely perceptible wince as he inventoried what appeared to be dried ration packets.

    “What happened? To your arm, I mean?”

    Ezra sighed deeply before answering. “Merely a flesh wound from an errant thrower blast while my crew and I were in the midst of parting ways. It was a most unsavory affair, I’m afraid. I don’t believe the weasel wielding the staff even meant to shoot me.”

    You stepped closer, eyeing the torn, worried cloth. “You have to be careful. The spores in the air will seep into everything, especially an open wound. Your bandage is filthy. Do you mind if I take a look?”

    “You have experience with dressing wounds?”

    “I’m a nurse.”

    You were wholly unprepared for the brilliant smile that split his face. Suddenly you could see the younger, roguish man that he had undoubtedly once been. You were suddenly overwhelmed, you could not understand how the heart in your chest fluttered as desperately as a bird beating its wings against the cage of your ribs. You felt close to panic as you realized that you were reacting this way to a man you did not know. 

    Careful.

    “Kevva above, I must have done something right in a past life as I’ve done nothing in this one to deserve such a fortuitous gift! A nurse! An angel of mercy, a dove of benevolence!”

    You felt heat rush to your face, and you cursed your feeble emotions as you turned quickly away from him. Please, ignore my abject idiocy. 

    “Med kit?”

    “Ah, of course. My apologies, Dove, I forget myself.”

    You pointedly ignored the unprompted endearment as any further contemplation on this new development would lead to literal hysteria. What the fuck is wrong with me?

    Ezra sat at the table near the entrance, sweeping the array of notebooks and papers to the side. You pulled up a crate once taking the med kit and unwrapped the soiled bandaging. You understood how awkward it had to be to dress a wound with one hand, and so you were able to forgive the haphazard application. He hissed and winced again as you revealed a very red, open and angry wound bed assaulting the meat of his right bicep. Black had begun to settle in around the ragged edges. It did not look good. Your gut sank as you noticed the purplish pucker of skin surrounding a crater that oozed and tunneled, purulent drainage saturating the underlying gauze. 

    The mold had done a spectacular job of decaying what would have normally been a straight forward traumatic thrower wound. You were shocked that Ezra was not screaming in pain.

    You kept your face studiously blank as you set out supplies: a vial of Ancef, sterile saline, bandaging, gauze, antimicrobial foam, hydrogen peroxide, a basin, and the scalpel you’d kept clutched in your fist as you’d fled. There was an injectable narcotic preloaded, you offered this to Ezra and he shook his head, his eyes still and worried. He knew it was bad, and he was scared. A wave of melancholy slammed into you and without thinking, you reached out and laid your fingers gently on his wrist.

    “Hey.” He met your eyes, and they were old. Ancient, and filled with what was akin to an existential weariness. You had to dig the toe of your boot into your calf to keep your eyes from filling with tears. You cleared your throat. It did not sound like a noise you’d make. You wondered who you were, really, before speaking.

    “I’m going to do the best that I can. It won’t be pretty. Your wound is badly infected. The black bits are necrotic, and if I don’t debride your wound it will spread. I’m going to try my hardest to save your arm. This is going to hurt, so I really think you should take the injection.”

    Ezra’s solemn gaze swung to fasten on yours. After a pause of internal debate, he simply nodded. You filled the basin with hydrogen peroxide and placed the scalpel in. You picked up the preloaded syringe and sterile gauze and quickly discharged the narcotic serum into Ezra’s left deltoid. His eyes soon took on a haze of detachment, pupils constricting to pinpoints.

    You picked up the scalpel and got to work, and Ezra finally screamed.

    He kept his arm impressively still while sweat cut rivulets down the planes of his face. His jaw clenched so tightly you feared his teeth would crack and splinter- you’d finally and wordlessly paused your work to place a length of spare leather strapping between his teeth, which he clamped onto like a feral dog.

    You worked quickly and wordlessly, cutting ribbons of spoiled flesh from the blessedly granulating bed of tissue and muscle beneath. Your mind worked in circular prayer, asking forgiveness from the universe for killing, for hurting. Ezra’s flesh was a sacred scroll and you were inscribing your texts upon it, begging for deliverance. It was not lost on you that the same scalpel you’d used to snuff one life was carving death out of another.

    When the deed was done, you reconstituted the Ancef and injected it into the meat of his buttock. You did it quickly, too wrung out and disturbed to feel impure. There was nothing prurient about what had just happened, nothing sexy in his agony. For all of its intimacy it was brutal and ugly and traumatic. At that moment you were inextricably bound to one another.

[dawnwave16]

dad Bruce Wayne only Marinette doesn't know till she has been shipped off to him thanks to lila's lies. So she has to hide the fact she us ladybug and the new guardion while the bat family have to find the fact they are the bat family Mean while Jason has started a betting pool on when the newest member of the family joins the bat family

Sorry, this has taken so long! While I read a lot of Maribat I’m not very familiar with how they are in canon so I’m not 100% sure if I got this right! I also kinda ran out of insperation near the end so if it feels rushed that’s why. :)

Story:

A bug amoung the bats.

To the staff of the plane, the girl sitting in the window seat just in front of the right wing was quiet and withdrawn.  To her family, she was untrustworthy and a risk to their livelihood.  To those who she used to think of as friends, she was a backstabber and a liar who hid her bullying tendencies behind an innocent face.

The truth was she was none of those things.  Her name was Marinette Dupain-Cheng and what she was, was beyond angry.  

She had arrived home after the battle with Miracle Queen only to find her bags sitting for her by the door. Her parents had given her two hours to box up everything she deemed worthy of being sent to her new home as well as any trinkets she might want to take with her in her hand luggage before they had handed her a bus pass, a one-way plane ticket, a letter to her new guardians and told her they could no longer risk having her under their roof so they were sending her to Gotham to be with a family there that could hopefully get her back onto the ‘right path’.

A soft sigh escaped Marinette as she stared unseeingly out the small window.  Slowly a tear rolled down her cheek before she angrily swiped it away.  As if she didn’t have enough to deal with, she thought angrily.  Now she would have to hide the fact that she was Ladybug as well as the newly christened High Guardian of the Miraculous from people she didn’t know.  Who knew how well that would go.  

Another tear escaped her eyes as she thought about how she had been betrayed.  Looking back, she wished she had told Adrien that Lila had threatened her in the bathroom that day.  Or that she hadn’t blindly believed him when he’d said that she would out herself if they took the high road.  She wished she hadn’t tried to deal with everything by herself instead of telling her parents before Lila had gotten to them.  But most of all she wished that her trust in adults hadn’t been completely destroyed by it all.

Now she was alone and heading to a country she had limited knowledge of, where they spoke a language she wasn’t confident in speaking (although she understood more than she could say) and to a city that had more villains than Paris.

By the time her plane landed in Gotham airport, Marinette had a new mask in place.  She refused to let herself be hurt again and if that meant that she had to hide her true nature, so be it.  From now on, the world would see the ice queen she needed to be even if she wasn’t sure how to be one yet. The seatbelt sign flickered off as the captain announced the time and weather conditions before wishing them well as they disembarked.  Marinette took her time gathering all her things and making sure she had everything she might need, to hand.  

The letter from her parents sat in the front pocket of her bag like lead.  The miracle box was in the main compartment of said bag next to a blank sketchbook and a few odds and ends.  She had been too upset to design during the flight. 

Reluctantly, Marinette disembarked the plane and retrieved her bags from baggage claim.  Once she had everything she scanned the waiting crowd for whoever was meant to be fetching her.  Spotting her name on a card being held by a distinguished older gentleman she slowly made her way over to him, trying not to drag her feet despite waiting to.

“Sorry to keep you waiting sir.  I am Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” Marinette introduced herself in stilted high-school english, emotions locked behind a blank mask that would make an assassin proud.

“Oh God, it’s another Demon Spawn,” the man’s companion muttered.  She flicked her eyes over him.  Where the man holding the card was wearing a formal suit and looked neat and representable, the one who had just spoken looked like a biker.  A scuffed brown leather jacket hung open over a black muscle t-shirt.  Ratty jeans held up by an equally scuffed belt covered his legs.  The bottom of said jeans were tucked into well worn combat boots while a white steak in his hair added to the ‘dangerous’ vibe rolling off of him.

Marinette returned her attention to the older gentleman.

“My name is Alfred Pennyworth, Miss Dupain-Cheng.  Welcome to Gotham.  Please ignore Jason, he tends to act before he thinks.” His voice was cultured, Marinette noticed even as she nodded.  When he indicated that she was to follow him, she tightened her grip on her bag  and the luggage trolley and did so silently. 

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Jason watched his new sibling closely.  Her face was guarded but her body language screamed that she had been hurt and badly so.  Her stiff posture reminded him of Damian despite her being closer to Tim’s age.  The strange thing was that as far as Jason could see the stiffness seemed to be more of a defence mechanism rather than her true personality.  He sighed, what was it with his family always attracting those that were damaged to the point where they hid?  And why was it that both of Bruce’s biological children were the worst damaged?  Did the universe hate Bruce that much?

Although Jason didn’t know it, Alfred was thinking along the same lines.  

The trip to the mansion passed in relative silence as Marinette pulled out a cell phone and quickly started messaging all of the people that had requested commissions to explain that their orders would be delayed.  Her parents didn’t know about this phone, nor did they know about the fact that Marinette was a very successful designer with an exclusive customer base. They didn’t even know about Edna Mode mentoring her whenever the designer for the heroes had time. They thought she was still trying to get a foot in the door of the industry.  It didn’t help Lila had claimed Marinette was trying to use Adrien as a way to get to his father either.

By the time the trio reached Wayne Manor she had caught up completely.  She had also managed to further freak Jason out with how quiet she was.  As far as he knew teenaged girls were ever this quiet even when they were on their phones.  From what he remembered, girls talked non-stop no matter what.  Well most girls, Cass seemed to be the exception and now, so did Marinette.

The meeting with the rest of the family was just as icily polite as the one she had given at the airport.  All she did was hand an envelope to Bruce before saying she was tired and retreating to the room Alfred obligingly led her to.  Jason turned his attention to Bruce, who had made a strangled sound.

“B?”

“She doesn’t know…” was the choked reply.

“What?” Dick queried in confusion.

“Marinette.  She doesn’t know she’s my daughter.  Sabine never told her.”

“Holy…” Jason breathed while Damian froze.  

Damian had been willing to hate her just because Marinette had a better claim on Bruce due to being older than him but how could he hate her now?  She didn’t know she was Bruce’s daughter at all!

* * * * * * * * 

Over the next three months the bat family discovered very little about Marinette.  She hadn’t reacted as they had expected to the news that she was Bruce’s daughter at all.  Instead of bouncing off the ceiling in excitement she had become even more withdrawn, appearing only for meals and to attend school as was required. 

All of the boys had tried to get closer to her but had been rebuffed which had just added to their frustration too.  Eventually Tim had turned to his hacking skills and what he had found had left him in a cold fury.

“Tim?” Dick asked cautiously.

“Is everyone here?” Tim’s voice was noticeably trembling as he spoke.

“Yes,” Bruce grunted.  He was just as frustrated as his sons.

“Spill already, Replacement,” Jason snorted.

“Right, well apparently our sister wasn’t always this cold.  Judging from the records I’ve  been able to get my hands on she used to be a virtual ball of sunshine.  She was class president, she helped at the bakery, did charity work and bent over backwards from all those she considered to be her friends.  I’m not sure what changed though.  It looks like it was almost overnight that all her ‘friends’ started targeting her over social media, she was expelled but that got repealed fairly quickly, and suddenly she was the class parier.  It doesn’t make sense.”  Tim sighed as he ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

There was silence for a while before Damian growled and stalked out of the room.  Dick shared a look with the others before running after him.

“What are you planning?”

“Just to get some answers, Greyson.”

The two soon found themselves at the door that led to Marinette’s room and Damian raised his hand to knock.  A sound made him pause, it was almost like a…

“No way, did she just laugh?” Dick breathed.  Soon both boys had their ears pressed against the door.

“Look, Uncle J, I get you want to send Fang after the little bitch but that would just give him indigestion.” Marinette was saying which made the two eve’s droppers eyes widen.  Uncle J? Fang? And did she really just swear?

“Yeah, I know you are angry but really what more could be done?  I tried exposing her lies.  I tried warning the class.  Heck I even tried taking the high road but in the end she won.  I’m now in Gotham and none of those that I trusted to support me are here.  I never thought Tom and Sabine would fall for her lies!  They know I have multiple sketch books and that one of them is inspiration only.  They know the books are colour coded.  So why would they even think I’d copy someone else’s ideas!”  Marinette’s voice was raw with pain and defeat as she spoke which stunned the boys. 

There was a pause as Marinette listened to whoever was on the other end of the call then they heard a loud sigh.

“Do what you feel is best Uncle J.  I just don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive them.  Tom and Sabine raised me yet they still turned on me and sent me away.  I grew up with most of the people in my class yet they still believed that I could bully someone. They turned on me so quickly I almost got whiplash from it.  If that’s the thanks I get for trying to protect them, for trying to make sure they don’t fail to reach their dreams, then I wash my hands of them.  Doesn’t stop it from hurting though.”

Dick and Damian shared a look.  Marinette was chatting away in French but thanks to them learning it they were still able to understand everything.  Slowly they straightened up and made their way back to the batcave to report what they had heard.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  

Marinette closed her eyes as she thought about the last three months.  Bruce had enrolled her in Gotham Academy and she was working as hard as she always did to make sure her grades were as high as possible.  She was pretty sure the whole school thought she was a total snob what with her ice cold attitude to most things but she didn’t care.  The only ones she showed her true self to these days were Edna, Jagged and the clients she had amassed before leaving France, the Kwami’s and her online Boyfriend Roy. 

She had met Roy by chance after attending a masked ball with Edna almost a year after she had started being mentored by the pint sized designer. Roy had tried to wriggle out of having to attend any future balls by behaving badly but Marinette had derailed his plan when she had simply grabbed his ear and told him to either quit his behaviour or she’d deal with him. He had tried to fight back but had found himself hogtied in a measuring tape. Once he had calmed down and Marinette had repaired the rips in his blazer the two had discovered they had a fair bit in common and they hadn’t stopped talking since.

When Jagged had called her to check on her she had decided to give him the full, unedited story. While he hadn’t been impressed he understood where she was coming from. Why should she have to keep fighting to help others when they wouldn’t do the same for her? Marinette flopped backwards on her bed as she thought about everything she’d learned. Bruce being her father had been a shock but it did explain why she had blue eyes. She didn’t care though. The family the man had built showed her he cared about family more than wealth so why hadn’t she known about him beforehand? Why had her mother sent her to him as a punishment? 

A knock at the door had her sitting up and making herself look presentable in a hurry.

“Come in.”

“Marinette? Can we talk for a bit?” Bruce asked her cautiously.

“Sure.” Marinette kept her mask of cold, indifference in place as she replied. “What can I help you with?”

“I know coming here and finding out I am your father was a shock but I was wondering if you could tell me about what happened for you to be sent here in the first place? I will understand if you don’t want to but I want you to know I’m here for you if you do.” Bruce said carefully. Marinette looked over Bruce’s shoulder and saw Tikki and Wayzz nodding incouringly at her. The kwami’s didn’t like how closed off Marinette had forced herself to be but had understood.

“Will I have to change again if I do tell you?” 

“Not change per say, maybe just drop the mask around the family a bit. As much as you are comfortable with anyway.”

Marinette studied Bruce for a moment before making up her mind. She’d tell him about the school issues but there was no way he’d be finding out she was Ladybug anytime soon. Secret identities and all that cam first. 

[lwjstiletto]

wangxian au where lwj is a popular hand model and wwx is an independent jewellery maker [Part 3]

[Part 1] [Part 2]

wwx shuts himself in his workshop for a month straight, with lwj being his only visitor. everything he makes looks beautiful on lwj but it’s somehow not enough, not quite /deserving/ of lwj yet.

when he tells lwj this, he only gets a slight downturn of his lips in return.

“you have fine craftsmanship.” lwj says, turning his hand so that the lights bounce off the crystal encrusted hand chain. “i have never seen anything like it before.”

wwx watches him in stunned silence. lwj tends to drop these really sincere, heartfelt compliments that both embarass him and motivate him to show lwj he can do even better. another reason for his stunned silence is how ethereal lwj looks in jewellery

wwx wants to cover him in it. a nice jade pendant that hangs just above his bellybutton; a hairpiece that weaves flowers between the silky black strands of his hair; a thick banded crystal choker that sits around his throat just so; an anklet with teardrop pearls perhaps

but for now, he has to work up to making the hand jewellery suitable. the rest can wait

—•—

the next time lwj visits, he looks like he’s one blink away from sleeping where he stands.

“lan zhan,” wwx says, because they have somehow progressed to calling each other by their infromal names, “are you okay?”

“mn.” lwj says, then almost collapses mid-blink. in true rom-com fashion, wwx catches him with one hand around his waist and the other on his arm. he would tease lwj about it but this isn’t the time.

“i’m sorry.” lwj tries to straighten up.

“come on, you need to sleep.” wwx says, using his hold on lwj’s waist to guide him towards his bedroom.

“no sleep.” lwj says, planting his feet into the ground much like jin ling does when he wants to be stubborn.

“lan zhan,” wwx cajoles with his practiced baby voice, “come on. you’re tired. just nap for one hour.”

lwj glares at him, “sleep later, work now.”

wwx bends down and puts a hand under lwj’s knees, scooping him up before he can react.

lwj’s sleepy eyes widen, “wei ying!”

“if you’re gonna act like a child,” wwx says walking towards the bedroom, “then expect me to treat you like one.”

internally, wwx is panicking. he is definitely crossing some boundaries here. however, wwx considers lwj a friend and his friend looks like he hasn’t slept for a week. sometimes extreme measures are necessary, jc has taught him that.

lwj twitches in his arms when he reaches his bedroom door.

“you can put me down now.” he says, his voice weak.

wwx ignores him and kicks his door open, gently placing lwj on the bed once he reaches it.

“go to sleep.” he says, pulling the duvet over him, “if you dare come out before the hour is up, i can and will carry you back.”

lwj looks like he wants to protest but he seems to lose the fight with exhaustion and drifts off the sleep before wwx’s eyes. wwx quickly exits the bedroom and closes the door behind himself. lwj. is. in. his. bed. sleeping... he’s sleeping. because he’s tired. and wwx’s friend.

“jiang cheng, lan zhan is in my bed.” he says into his phone once he has shut himself in his workshop.

“xichen’s brother? why? did you kidnap him? tell me you didn’t wei wuxian. xichen will kill you.” jc says.

“ok first of all, he’s here for work.” wwx realises that between working and sleeping he has forgotten to inform anyone about this. “and he was tired. he looked so sleepy and cute, what could i do?”

“you... was he at least... coherent? it was consensual right?” jc asks

“what?!” wwx screeches, standing up in indignation. “jiang cheng oh my god. we- he’s TAKING A NAP!”

“oh thank god.” jc sighs, “wait how do you know lan wangji?”

“ah,” wwx scratches his nose, “long story short, remember that pretty guy from uni? yeah lan zhan and him, same guy.”

“you-“ jc sighs deeply, “i’ve been hearing you wax poetic about lan wangji’s hands?! how will i ever look xichen in the eyes after knowing that you probably- eugh i hate you.”

“ok first of all, it’s not a fetish-“

jc hangs up on him.

this leaves wwx with too much free time to think and that’s never a good thing. so he starts looking around for something to do. this is how his eyes fall on lwj’s gloves lying on the table beside the door. lwj has developed a habit of discarding them as soon as he comes in

and like a magnet, wwx feels drawn to them. it must be annoying for lwj to wear them all the time, but he never complains. wwx, however, has no such qualms and detests them with vigor

today, it’s the white leather gloves. wwx picks one up and examines it. it’s soft to the touch, worn out to smoothness. an idea strikes him and he tosses the glove back as he reaches for his sketchbook. he thinks he has finally got it.

—•—

when lwj wakes, there is light coming through the curtains. he doesn’t remember the last time he had such a comfortable, dreamless sleep. an unfamiliar but pleasant scent surrounds him, safe, warm.

lwj bolts up in bed, remembering exactly where he is. he looks at his phone. it’s six, ok that’s fine. wait... 6AM. lwj throws the covers off and looks around, then back at his phone as if that’s going to change something.

he spent the night at wwx’s place. speaking of, where did wwx sleep then? he ventures outside and sees nobody in the living area. sure enough, wwx is passed out in his workshop, cheek flat on his workbench.

lwj sighs.

“wei ying.” he prods his shoulder gently, “wake up.”

wwx groans and shakes him off, “go away.”

after a few more pokes lwj rules it a lost cause and decides to make tea for himself and coffee for wwx. thankfully, he doesn’t have work until 3pm so he has plenty of time to waste puttering around wwx’s sparce kitchen.

after finding only hot sauce in the top cupboards (one labelled ‘burning hot’ with flames on the cover which makes him cringe away) he finally finds coffee. no tea. it’ll have to do, he thinks.

the smell of coffee near his nose does a better job at waking wwx up. he reaches blindly for the cup before he even blinks his eyes open. ridiculous.

lwj, in the most dignified way possible, sits on the purple beanbag and waits as wwx’s brain reboots with every sip of coffee.

“lan zhan?” wwx asks.

“i have the same question.” lwj says, “why am i still here?”

“too philosophical for this early in the morning. what time even is it?” wwx looks at the wall clock and groans, “why are you awake?”

lwj gives him a blank look, “i was promised a nap.”

“yeah, yeah.” wwx brushes him off, “i’m happy you slept well, you look much better than before.”

lwj feels his ears burn and his heart rate quicken.

wwx has an ease to his words and actions that makes lwj agreeable to existing in his space without wanting to revert back to professionalism. he fears that one day he’ll become so comfortable that he wouldn’t want to leave

“come here.” wwx beacons.

once lwj is bent over his shoulder, he shows him the rough sketches he has been working on all night apparently.

“are those..”

“inspired by the bane of my existence, none other than your gloves!” wwx says proudly.

“why do you hate the gloves?” lwj asks, curious.

wwx gives him a complicated look, “because they’re fabric. how old and boring. wouldn’t you rather be tangled in crystal chains that you can’t wear or remove without help?”

lwj lets him dodge the question, then gives the designs a closer look. “they’re very interesting.”

“it’s just a rough sketch.” wwx refuses to look at him, “i’ll refine the details and start working on it by tomorrow.”

“mn.” lwj says.

—•—

“da-ge tried to beat up su she again.” nhs informs him when he gets to his office a few hours later.

“again?” lwj asks.

“he bumped into him at the lobby. again.” nhs sighs.

“i will speak to him.” lwj says.

“what? no these stalkers just get worse-“

“i meant nie mingjue.” lwj clarifies.

“it should be fine. i’ve banned him from office premises now and i’m working on filing a restraining order against him.” nhs says, “i tried to explain this to da-ge but you know his temper. actually maybe you should talk to him. he might listen to you.”

lwj nods, “i will call him after my shoot.”

—•—

nhs must have mentioned it to nmj because he’s there to pick lwj up after his shoot. it’s late, almost past eleven, and the parking lot is half empty.

lwj gets a text from wwx just before he gets in the car.

wei ying: garnet or emerald?

lwj replies: i’m no expert at this

wei ying: lan zhannnn humour me

lwj: ruby

wei ying: i will fossilise you in one. lan zhannnn be serious

“you look much more at ease.” nmj comments.

lwj realises that he is.

“you don’t need to bother with su she anymore. huaisang has it under control.” lwj says.

nmj gives him a skeptical look.

“i trust him.” lwj emphasises.

“i was told you had previous acquaintance with that man.” nmj says.

lwj sighs, “he was in my cello class.”

“you play the cello?” nmj asks.

“not anymore.” lwj answers.

nmj doesn’t ask further.

they sit in uncomfortable silence until nmj asks where he should drop lwj off. what comes out of his mouth are the directions to wwx’s place. his excuse: he needs to know what a garnet gem is before making a decision.

“i will trust you and huaisang to handle this.” nmj says when they come to a stop, “be well.”

lwj nods, then opens the car door.

“wangji.” nmj’s hand grabs his elbow gently.

lwj turns to him.

“i’d like for us to be friends.” nmj says. it sounds stilted, amended.

lwj frowns, “i already consider you one.”

nmj nods and lets go of his hand. with the hint of a smile he says, “goodnight wangji.”

lwj looks at nmj drive away then turns to face wwx’s apartment building. now that he’s here, his excuse sounds feeble. he takes a deep breath, he’s already here. might as well.

wwx opens his apartment door and stares at lwj like he has seen a ghost. “lan zhan?”

“i don’t know what garnet looks like.” lwj says.

wwx grins at him, then grabs his forearm, dragging him into his workshop. there, on a mannequin hand, is the half finished skeleton of what looks like wwx’s design coming to life. he holds up a red and a green stone. he points to the red one, “this is a garnet.”

“it looks like a ruby.” lwj says

wwx looks like he goes through the seven stages of grief before he says, in a strangled voice, “how could you? you’re– you’re messing with me again, aren’t you?”

lwj gives him an innocent look. he can feel the tension in his shoulders bleed out.

“it’s coming together.” wwx says when he notices lwj looking at his unfinished project. “come here, let me see if you can have mobility with it on.”

lwj removes his gloves and stretches his hand towards wwx. wwx gently manoeuvring delicate silver chains around his hand isn’t something new, but it feels different in the middle of the night. more intimate. lwj discards that word with a flick of his hair

it’s not usual for him to leave it unpinned, but he has spent the day lying on a carpet with his hands stretched upwards, balancing a small perfume bottle between his fingers. coming out of it with a few strands out of place is a minor inconvenience.

“tada!” wwx says, drawing lwj’s attention to his right hand which is now tangled in a complicated-looking array of chains from the tips of his fingers down to his wrist. it’s stunning even in its incomplete form.

“it’s beautiful.” lwj says, low as the silent night.

“it’s barely anything right now!” wwx protests but his cheeks are red, “come on, try to move your fingers.”

lwj does, slowly as to not break the delicate structure in case it does lack mobility. it moves with him, like still water disturbed, pressing coldness onto his skin when he closes his fist.

there is no bite, in fact it barely feels any different from wearing light cotton gloves. he thinks he understands wwx’s vision better now. he opens his fist again, one finger at a time, watching how the chains loosen and hang lower on his wrist.

he’s so fascinated by it that he’s surprised to see wwx standing in front of him when he looks up. his eyes are fixed on lwj, unwavering and shameless in their focus, dark with what lwj would presume was desire if he didn’t know better.

“ah it doesn’t need adjustments for now then!” wwx says, snapping out of it. “it looks great on you! i’m sure your girlfriend will like it when it’s finished too!”

“i’m gay.” lwj deadpans.

“oh.” wwx says, choked. “your... boyfriend then?”

“wei ying i...” think of you as a safe haven in my hectic life? find your rambling amusing? think you’re extremely talented and deserve success? have a teeny tiny crush on you? what is lwj supposed to say? each of those sound worse than the one before

at the end he decides to settle for the worst possible answer, “i don’t have time for a boyfriend.”

he does! well, not really. but he would make time if it was wwx... or something! sometimes lwj wants to punch a wall, break a finger, quit his job as a consequence and live in a secluded mountain in the east for the rest of his days. this is one of those moments.

wwx nods in understanding. lwj would prefer if he /didn’t/ understand and demanded to be lwj’s boyfriend to prove him wrong. ‘i’ll make you have time for a boyfriend’ is what lwj imagines him saying.

instead wwx offers him tea.

“it’s too late for coffee.” he shrugs when lwj mumbles a surprised ‘tea?’

before lwj can ask why he suddenly has tea in his house when he didn’t just yesterday, wwx is already gone.

they sit around wwx’s small breakfast table. as they sip their tea- high quality tea nonetheless- wwx begins to talk.

“this project is going more smoothly than i expected. i already have a couple designs in my mind. i’d say it’d take maybe a month or so if i substitue my sleep enough with coffee.” wwx says.

“do not strain yourself.” lwj replies.

“rich coming from you.” wwx’s lip quirks, “you passed out on me yesterday. oh what could have caused that? i don’t think it was sleep deprivation and overworking because you’d never do that.”

it feels like lwj is being scolded.

“wei ying-“

“lan zhan, are you alright?” wwx asks sincerely, “i know you said that you weren’t hurt back then when i saw your bruises, but we weren’t friends back then. you were in pain when i met you at wen ning’s parlour. -

- wen qing was oddly iffy about telling jiang cheng about you even though she knows that he’s friends with your brother. you looked so afraid when you thought i was stalking you, which, technically my fault but still. i’m sorry for bringing this up but i’m worried about you. i want to help you, with whatever it is.”

lwj sits in silence for a few moments, flabbergasted. it seems like this is genuinely bothering wwx, and maybe it has for a while now.

“wei ying.” lwj starts, trying to mentally arrange it all in chronological order. “i think there has been a slight misunderstanding. i did not persue conventional modelling because i did not want to be in the public eye.

however, my identity was exposed about a month ago. it made me unnecessarily paranoid which is why wen qing was careful about my information, and i was in turn careful about my surroundings.”

“who the hell-“

“it does not matter now.” lwj says calmingly. he doesn’t need another person trying to beat su she up.

wwx fumes silently as lwj continues.

“at wen ning’s parlour i was actually in quite a bit of pain.” lwj says. wwx opens his mouth but lwj cuts him off. “yes, it was due to overwork, and yesterday can be attributed to the same cause. but it does not happen as often as you’re thinking, i promise.”

wwx mulls this over. “ok fine. don’t think i didn’t notice you skipped over the bruises though. they can’t be from overwork so either someone did that to you or-“

“it is..” lwj says, forcing the words out, “as you thought that day.”

he wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but he doesn’t want wwx to have any misconceptions. and well, if he sacrifices his own peace of mind for wwx, it is most likely worth it in the end.

“you mean...” wwx swallows, “you–“

seeing him struggle so much with the words makes it easier for lwj to blurt them out somehow.

“i like restraints, yes.”

this does not bring an end to the conversation, instead making wwx stutter through even worse versions of it.

“you like– to be tied up– oh my god.” he says, “you- that’s what you meant right? handcuffs, ropes all that- like bdsm? is that what–“

“wei ying. please.” lwj says.

“oh of course. here.” wwx grabs both his wrists with one hand.

lwj stares at him. wwx stares back. what the hell.

...

“oh,” wwx draws back like has been burned, “oh my god i don’t know why i did that. i’m so sorry!”

“wei ying it’s okay.” lwj tries but wwx has now put his face in his hands and does not seem to hear him above his mumbling variations of ‘oh my god’ and ‘i’m so sorry’.

lwj lets him go on for a while before he can’t take it anymore. he puts a gentle hand on wwx’s shoulder. this seems to have the desired effect, both shutting wwx up and making him look up at lwj.

“wei ying, it’s okay.” he repeats.

“no it’s not! what was i even thinking? it’s not okay for me to do that! out of nowhere! god, i must have made you so uncomfortable–“

“i don’t mind.” lwj says.

“how can you not? you should fire me!”

“you are my employer.”

“that’s even worse!”

lwj sighs. wwx seems to be transforming into a puddle of shame right before him. he has to put an end to this or wwx will overthink himself into an early grave. no amount of consoling seems to work though. lwj sighs, it is time for drastic measures.

“i lied.” lwj says. he quickly continues before wwx can officially begin his pity party, “i do have time for a boyfriend.”

“what.” wwx says, drawn out of his stupor with the sudden shift in topic.

“i have time... if it’s you.” lwj says and then immediately wants to adapt wwx’s head in hands coping mechanism. “now we are even.”

wwx seems to be dissecting his sentence to make sense of it. “oh. OH.”

“i should go home.” lwj rises from his chair. just as he is turning away, wwx grabs his wrist and pulls him so he’s face-to-face with him.

“lan zhan,” wwx says, his eyes fond, “you’re so.. ugh!”

lwj frowns. ugh. he’s ugh.

“lan zhan!” wwx takes lwj’s face between his palms and grins at him, “do you know i’ve been crushing on you since that day at the university?”

“you have?” lwj asks.

“you really didn’t know?” wwx asks, “lan zhan, lan zhan, do you think a professional jeweller needs weekly fitting appointments?”

“you don’t?” lwj feels just a little stupid.

“not really? i could have made adjustments after i finished everything.”

“you like me?” lwj asks. for some reason it hadn’t occurred to him that his crush could be reciprocated.

“yes!” wwx shifts from one foot to another eagerly, “can i hug you now?”

lwj nods and is drawn into wwx’s arms. wwx presses his nose into the space between lwj’s neck and shoulder. lwj holds his shoulders, glad that he can hide his red face in wwx’s hoodie

wwx sighs, his breath tickles on lwj’s skin.

“will you stay with me tonight?” and when lwj is silent for two seconds,

“not like that! it’s innocent! like a sleepover! i won’t tie you up i promise– lan zhan please shut me up i beg you–“

lwj draws back, simply places a gentle kiss on wwx’s lips and says, “don’t ever shut up.”

The End!

as for any loose ends:

- lwj manages to gain his anonymity back

- su she manages not to get beaten up by wwx or nmj but does get a restraining order

- wwx completes his collection and it’s a success! the best part is that he is holding the hand that started it all!

This fic has a nsfw one-shot on ao3 if any of you want to read it :)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/25827673

[doomonfilm]

Memories : Top 15 Films of 2020

If 2020 taught movie fans anything, it was that we shouldn’t take things for granted.  On the dollars and cents side of things, movie theaters were already facing an uphill battle to stay sustainable, but the “shelter-in-place” practice of March and beyond decimated box office returns, with many theaters yet to reopen (if they will open at all).  In terms of famous names and faces, the list of those who passed away featured numerous icons : Kobe Bryant, Kirk Douglas, Max von Sydow, Honor Blackman, Carl Reiner, Ennio Morricone, John Saxon, Wilford Brimley, Chadwick Boseman, Sean Connery, Tiny Lister Jr., Adolfo ‘Shabba Doo’ Quinones and many more transitioned to the great beyond.  Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, Shudder and a number of other streaming services saw themselves step into the forefront of the entertainment provider realm, with Warner Brothers and a handful of other studios making announcements that they will be following suit for at least 2021, if not for good.

With all of this uncertainty and chaos, however, the year 2020 was a surprisingly strong one, in my opinion, when it came to cinematic output... so much so, in fact, that aside from a number of Honorable Mentions, my list of top films was expanded to 15 in order to accommodate all of my choices.  For anyone who has checked out my lists from previous years, you will know that I did not see every film released this year, but I did make my best effort to cover as wide a range of films as possible.  Enjoy the list, and be sure to support film in whatever medium you are able to moving forward so that it can thrive.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

The 40-Year-Old Version (dir. Radha Blank) A nice little personal film that spoke to my hip-hop sensibility, as well as that ever-present awareness of the inevitability of age, and how it can skew our perspective in regards to our achievements.

Ava (dir. Tate Taylor) This isn’t the action film that’s going to reinvent the wheel, but if you look at action films like wheels, this is a quality wheel.  Outside of Common, I couldn’t really find much to shoot down... this will definitely be one I consider the next time I have company and we’re looking for something fun to check out.

Bill & Ted Face The Music (dir. Dean Parisot) I honestly would have been satisfied with just two films in this franchise, but surprisingly, a third entry was created that didn’t ruin my overall enjoyment of the previous two films.  Keanu Reeves and Alex Winter jumped in without missing a beat, a healthy dose of familiar faces popped back up, and the new cast additions weren’t too jarring... it’s nice to know that a pair of my favorite childhood films are officially now part of a trilogy.

Borat Subsequent Moviefilm: Delivery of Prodigious Bribe to American Regime for Make Benefit Once Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan (dir. Jason Woliner) This was possibly the most surprising release of 2020... outside of a couple of news blips that Sacha Baron Cohen made during production, not a lot about this film was leaked prior to its release.  For such a dated character and a seemingly outdated style of humor, Borat once again exposed the simplest parts of society in an incredibly insightful (albeit cringey as all get-out) manner.

Guns Akimbo (dir. Jason Lei Howden) One of the most fun films of 2020.  Somewhere, the creative minds behind Nerve are wishing that they’d made this film instead. 

Henrietta and Her Dismal Display of Affection (dir. Jeffrey Garcia) Jeffrey Garcia is the homie, and I’ve had the pleasure of being in a number of his short films, so when he announced his intentions to write and shoot a feature film in 2020, I was completely on-board.  Miraculously, he was able to film the movie while the world was being ravaged by COVID-19, and though I cannot publicly announce details yet, this film has definitely already met (and likely succeeded) his expectations.

The Midnight Sky (dir. George Clooney) With each film that George Clooney directs, I realize more and more than he is an old soul trapped in a body idolized by the new school of film.  That being said, it’s nice to know that there are directors out there willing to embrace patient, silent and contemplative moments while simultaneously withholding from force-feeding viewers exposition.  

Tenet (dir. Christopher Nolan) This was possibly the most anticipated release of the year, considering it was the king of the IMAX release crowd in its pre-release promotion.  After a small delay due to COVID-19, it was one of the first films released in hopes of testing the movie-going waters during what was sure to be a diminished period of time, which probably hurt its numbers.  Too many, the film was confusing, and the nit-picking was fierce from the criticism contingency, but in all honesty, this was pretty impressive Nolan fare... certainly a good second movie in a Nolan double feature.

The Trial of the Chicago 7 (dir. Aaron Sorkin) I cannot tell a lie... I was hugely impressed with how Sorkin managed to reel his personality and voice back in order to let this well-known, controversial moment in time present itself.  Sorkin has a tendency to be the star of his films, be it when he is in the writer or director role, but for this film, he managed to focus the best parts of his skillset into a highly respectful, educational and inspiring tale that fit the tumultuous summer we endured.

VHYes (dir. Jack Henry Robbins) I remember seeing this trailer as 2019 was coming to a close, and it was a film high on my list of desired viewing.  Then 2020 reared its ugly, stupid head and many releases disappeared into obscurity or found themselves delayed.  Luckily, this one slipped through the cracks and found a home in the streaming world, which in all honesty, suited its presentation very well.  One of the most delightfully weird films of the year, hands down. 

Vivarium (dir. Lorcan Finnegan) Of all the films cut from my Top 15 list, this was the toughest cut to make.  I went into the film totally blind (with Jesse Eisenberg and my respect for his acting chops being the sole selling point), but this film really hit a lot of my buttons... it’s trippy as can be, there is a character that is freakishly unique and wholly unnerving, and the production design leaves a lasting impression.  Don’t let the Honorable Mention designation fool you... this one is a winner.  

Wonder Woman 1984 (dir. Patty Jenkins) The Christmas gift that the masses collectively decided that they did not want.  Much like Ava, there is one glaring aspect of this film that I could have done without, but otherwise, I found this to be an enjoyable film.  Gal Gadot was made for this role, while Kristen Wiig and Pedro Pascal stepped up to the plate and impressed.  If you’re looking to be blown away, the Wonder Woman franchise isn’t the smartest place to go, but if you’re looking for entertainment, there’s plenty of it here.   

THE TOP 15 FILMS OF 2020

15. Mignonnes (dir. Maïmouna Doucouré) This one started off the year with plenty of controversy.  What was an award-winning tale about womanhood and the difficulties surrounding coming of age in an ever-changing and evolving world quickly devolved into a campaign to ban the film (and Netflix).  Many people overlooked the film as a cautionary tale about what access to the Internet and the sexually-charged nature in which women are portrayed can do to developing girls, instead choosing to accuse the film of being fodder for malicious types seeking to exploit the sexualizing of young women.  More than anything, in my opinion, Mignonnes served as an example of our outrage-fueled culture and the way it tends to skew our perspective and/or our ability to take art at face value.

14. His House (dir. Remi Weekes) As I’ve mentioned many times over the past week or so on this blog, horror films were one of the few genres that found a benefit from the film industry’s transition to streaming services for primary access to film.  While a number of traditional horror films received notice, His House took the opportunity to not only make a pure horror film, but one that spoke on racism and the conditions that asylum-seekers and refugees face.  The film is well-acted, the production value is high quality, and it’s paced beautifully... while not the highest film on this list, it is certainly one I will encourage others to see as time goes by.

13. All Day and a Night (dir. Joe Robert Cole) When human nature reared its ugly head during COVID-19 in the form of numerous race-related killings, multitudes of businesses quickly adopted the Black Lives Matter mantra, with film distributors and streaming services taking advantage of the moment to produce and release content relevant to cultural and social awareness.  Netflix was no different, and of the many films they released in the wake of the harrowing events, All Day and a Night is the one that feels the most sincere and honest in its approach and presentation.  The streets of Oakland are presented with a vast array of characters, each with complex backgrounds and states of mind, all of which helps the viewer understand the pressure many minorities live with and process on a daily basis.

12. She Dies Tomorrow (dir. Amy Seimetz) Execution is king, even when applied to the simplest of premises, and She Dies Tomorrow is a shining example of this.  In a very John Cassavetes move, director Amy Seimetz took her payment from her appearance in Pet Sematary and used it to fund a personal project that more than likely would have been ignored by studio heads.  The result is a hypnotic, entrancing and haunting film where stillness and anticipation play antagonist, while we as viewers feel the need to transpose ourselves into the protagonists we are presented due to their stilted but emotional performances.  Hopefully this one finds some notoriety in the cult classic realm as the years pass.

11. The Vast of Night (dir. Andrew Patterson) For a debut film, The Vast of Night handles itself with a surprising amount of confidence in its vision.  The immersion is nearly instant as we are first placed in the premise of a TV show, and then a 1950′s town, but once the actors and camera get going, it’s up to us as viewers to strap in for the ride.  The story is deeply intriguing, the performances are strong enough to carry a very dialogue heavy movie, and the final act is chilling in its reveals.  I will be surprised if this one finds its way to a Best Original Screenplay nomination due to it being a debut film from a relatively unknown writer/director, but if it manages to get the nomination it will certainly be a well-deserved one.

10. Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (dir. Cathy Yan) The movie that broke the list.  If someone would have told me in 2019 that a film directly connected to Suicide Squad would be anywhere on a Top Films list I curated, I would have laughed dead in their face, and yet, here we are.  It’s like every good idea that was poorly executed in Suicide Squad found new life in Birds of Prey, which makes the film not only an entertaining watch, but a satisfying one.  Not only is Margot Robbie perfect in this film (as well as given a break on the exploitative costuming), but Mary Elizabeth Winstead arguably takes a stab at stealing the show with her performance.  Don’t let the DCEU association fool you... Birds of Prey is the real deal.    

9. Never Rarely Sometimes Always (dir. Eliza Hittman) Probably the most contemplative film on the entire list, and impressive in its nature for sure.  To my knowledge, the cast is made up of mostly unknowns (unless I’m sleeping on actors and actresses, which has been known to happen), and as a result, a tough slice of life to swallow is presented in an extremely grounded nature.  Sidney Flanigan gives a powerful performance, hopefully the first of many.

8. Possessor [Uncut] (dir. Brandon Cronenberg) Easily the most “what the f-ck” film on this list, and certainly one worthy of the Cronenberg name.  Andrea Riseborough has been on my radar since Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) and Mandy, and seeing her in a lead role confirms her talent.  I’m a sucker for science-fiction films that don’t rely on digital effects and elaborate set pieces, and Possessor rings both of those bells with a vengeance.  I watched the uncut version, which has a couple of extremely brutal sequences that will unnerve even the most hardened viewer, but these sequences only serve to drive home the lost nature of Tasya, our protagonist.  This one isn’t for everyone, but for those who can stomach a bit off graphicness and process a narrative that doesn’t spoon-feed you answers, this one is a must see.

7. Da 5 Bloods (dir. Spike Lee) Spike Lee has always been a huge influence on me as both an aspiring filmmaker and a fan of the medium, but I’d be lying if I told you that his last decade was a memorable one.  Outside of BlacKkKlansman, Lee has found himself falling short of his vision more often than not, but Da 5 Bloods is a tonal and stylistic bullseye.  Fans of Lee will dig it, fans of Vietnam films will dig it, and anyone who had an inkling of respect or admiration for Chadwick Boseman will be moved.  If Lee continues to make films as good as this one, he may find an entirely new generation of fans as a result.

6. Soul (dir. Pete Docter) As mentioned at the top of this list, people love to try and sink films due to their own personal agendas, and Soul found itself in the crosshairs prior to its late 2020 release.  Many people were upset that a minority character would not only spend most of the movie as a blue blob, but would also seemingly serve as a tool for another character’s “salvation”.  That being said, once Soul dropped, anybody with common sense dropped those stances and realized that Pixar had not only made a stunningly beautiful film, but one that likely spoke to adults more than children.  Plain and simple, Soul is a bonafide instant classic.

5. Kajillionaire (dir. Miranda July) If Evan Rachel Wood doesn’t win an Oscar for her performance in Kajillionaire (or at least garner a nomination), Hollywood needs to collectively have their head checked.  Every year worth its salt has a weird, quirky but loveable film, and Miranda July more than succeeded in making one for 2020.  The humor, both physical and dialogue-based, is on point, and the bittersweet nature of the story is gut-wrenching as the film progresses.  This one was probably the biggest surprise for 2020 in terms of prior awareness versus post-watch admiration.

4. Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (dir. George C. Wolfe) The final film of Chadwick Boseman’s short but prolific career is one that allowed him to exist in the wake of his reality, making his performance powerful and (seemingly) cathartic.  He is surrounded by supreme talent on all sides, as there are no weak performances in this film, and despite it essentially being a play shot for film, it feels far from limited, contained or constrained.  Not only does it speak on larger issues of the commodification of Black pain and talent, but it may serve as a vehicle for a posthumous Oscar for Boseman.

3. The Devil All The Time (dir. Antonio Campos) This was the first Netflix original that made me really and truly respect them as a film distributor.  The list of talent for The Devil All The Time is truly impressive, and Tom Holland knocked his lead role out of the park.  Robert Pattinson is great as always, and the way that the story winds back into itself keeps you locked in and connected until the credits roll.  For something that came out so many months ago, it’s respectable that it was able to hold such a high position on a list that was as fluid as any I’ve ever put together.

2. Mank (dir. David Fincher) For a time, this was the hands down film of the year on my list.  Gary Oldman has basically become a “can do no wrong” actor, and his performance was amplified by David Fincher’s ability to emulate the look, sound and feel of a bygone Hollywood era.  On top of this, the built in intrigue that comes with handling anything remotely connected to Orson Welles is present, making Mank almost feel like a companion piece to the prolific film that is Citizen Kane.  If The Devil All The Time was a victory for Netflix, then Mank was the win that put them into a true spot as contenders in the future of film distribution. 

1. I'm Thinking of Ending Things (dir. Charlie Kaufman) Where does one even begin with Charlie Kaufman?  Time and again, he proves to be one of the most truly unique voices to gain fame.  For I’m Thinking of Ending Things, Kaufman seemingly returns to his foundation of odd, offbeat love stories, only to take us on a journey of truly mind-bending and psyche-warping proportions.  Of all the movies on this list, this is the one that almost demands repeat viewings, as one must have an idea of the entire journey before they can understand the individual aspects laid out.  If dialogue isn’t your thing, then this one may not hold you, but that would be a shame, as this beautiful mystery stands head and shoulders above the rest of 2020′s stellar output.

[dezitogram]

Which is your favorite hypnotic device? a) a gold pendant; b) a colorful crystal; c) two deep blue eyes; d) a swirly spiral; e) a pocket watch; or f) a frying pan

 *gasp* my first ask! And it’s anonymous! What a mystery!

OK, fair warning, I will probably end up using some tranciful language here. Nothing explicitly inducing, but if you slip really easily, or for some reason are reading this in an important meeting (good job you!) then maybe you shouldn’t read too closely...

Especially if you have a great visual imagination. Seriously.

Because, as careful readers would discern, I am firmly grounded in realism, I’d say my true favorite hypnotic device is a string of attention-subsuming, mind-enthralling, bliss-inducing, imagination-igniting words that tend to take your brain and bamboozle it into a blank and brilliantly blithe bundle of hypnotized feelings. Those tend to be my favorite milieu.

WINK

But I’m well aware that that wasn’t the question, dear “Anonymous” so I’ll do you one (six?) better and rate the options in countdown format.

6) FRYING PAN

Head injuries are serious business. Do not do them unless you have a very good reason.

5) POCKET WATCH

Somehow, even though in a way hypnosis relies on this sort of thing for its very lifeblood, this seems like the most hackneyed and stilted way of proclaiming yourself a hypnotist. “Why won’t you gaze upon my outdated technology!” Tropey in a fun way sometimes, I guess, but there are things that do literally the exact same motion that don’t conjure visions of pencil mustaches. To wit...

4) GOLD PENDANT

Mostly the same reservations as the pocket watch above, but at least a gold pendant is something that you could conceivably have on your person. I have been known to wear jewelry from time to time after all...

3) COLORFUL CRYSTAL

This is where I start to get interested. RREEAALL interested. At this point we get less swingy and more stationary-yet-sparkly which is just fascinating to think about, pun intended, how the light gets split into a vast array of shimmery scintillating bits that all want to distract you from... whatever you were thinking about before, right? Maybe it would be easier to try and look towards the center, where all that dazzling light comes from...

2) SWIRLY SPIRAL

Oh so we’re looking towards the center now? Maybe feeling dazzled and dazed and distracted? Well with a really good spiral you can let yourself feel drawn and drowsy just from letting your gaze linger anywhere near the middle for a few moments. And the next thing you know...

it really does become easier to do the natural thing of slipping into the middle and finding yourself easily and automatically fascinated by the swirly spinning image we’re both imagining right now.

That’s right

And that leads us to

1) TWO DEEP BLUE EYES

Quite fascinated and happily drawn into the idea already, it really wouldn’t be fair if I just

started to

forget why you’re even reading

instead of just enjoying

that’s right

Something about the eyes that is just so easy to find compelling... their way of focusing that depth of connection from one soul to another while maintaining that singular point, where your focus is just so narrowed onto something so incredibly compelling and enthralling...

Thanks for reading through my goofy ruminations. If anyone needs it, now is the time to easily and gently let yourself rise back up into awareness, returning to the room around you as all your sensations and thoughts return to normal and you smile a big smile right now.

<3

[theshapeshifter100]

Guess What? I’m Not a Robot Ch10

Summary: While Megan goes to campus, Paul deals with his newfound emotions. Then decides that it would be a great idea to go outside!

Chapter Warnings: Emotional turmoil. Strong language near the end

Word Count: 2,207

09.15AM Saturday 30th October 2038

Paul had continued re-organising the cupboards once Megan had left. He re-organised them twice, and the fridge about three times before he stopped.

What else needed doing? The washing and drying had been done while Megan got dressed. There were usually snack wrappers at her desk, plus there was the blood in the bathroom from last night. Actually, he should just blitz the entire bathroom, just to make sure.

He looked in, remembering that it some of it had gotten onto tile, while the rest was still in the shower stall. He grabbed some surface cleaner to start with and got to work.

He worked faster than any human probably could, determined to get rid of any trace of blood. The still discarded razor blade had been thrown into the trash with extreme prejudice. Once the bathroom was so clean it looked like no one had lived there Paul left the room to find something else to do.

Once he activated the Roomba he surveyed the small apartment. Yes there still snack wrappers, those went in the trash. Did the trash cans need emptying? Probably.

He ended up emptying the bathroom and kitchen trash as well. Once back up he fluffed the cushions on the couch and turned to consider the kitchen. Should he mop the floor? He and Megan had gotten a mop the other day and made immediate use of it. It didn’t need doing again so soon.

What about laundry? He turned to the laundry basket outside of Megan’s room. There was a single shirt, some underwear and a pair of socks. Hardly worth the effort.

His eyes travelled to the door to Megan’s bedroom. Maybe there was more laundry in there.

He strode over, thoughts whirring. Megan never let him in here, who knew how bad it was. It could take him all day!

His hand suddenly paused over the door knob. Megan never let him in here.

Well, she’d never said that. She’d only said she’d prefer it if he didn’t go in there. He could ignore that, and even if that was an order, it hardly mattered now.

His hand gripped on the door knob, but made no effort to turn it. What was wrong with him? What was stopping him from going in there? Nothing, nothing was!

His grip on the door knob increased alarmingly, threatening to crush it as his LED began to flash red. There was nothing stopping him! He didn’t even have to obey orders anymore because he was deviant...

He was deviant.

Any anger or aggression that had him in its grips drained away, leaving him to lean his head against the door. He was deviant, and he couldn’t go back. Did he even want to go back to how he was?

He didn’t know. All he knew was that he didn’t want to think about it, but right now that was all he could do.

With a groan he let out of the door knob and took a step back. It wasn’t an order, actually, it had never been an order now that he thought about it. Human’s bedrooms were a private place, where they were at their most vulnerable.

He began to walk away, but was suddenly gripped with a strange sensation. It took him a minute or so to identify it as curiosity. He wasn’t to go in her room, and suddenly he desperately wanted to know what was in there.

He let out a restrained cry of frustration. He couldn’t win!

He remembered the trick that Megan had taught him that morning, and began tapping a rhythm against his leg, a little slower than a human heartbeat.

He started to calm down, LED going from red, to yellow, to blue.

He took another step back, then turned to sit on the couch. He had no idea when Megan was going to be back, so he couldn’t start lunch, well, not a hot lunch. He could still make a sandwich.

He shook his head. It had only just turned ten, and all he was doing was trying to distract himself.

He was a deviant. Had been for over 12 hours and he still couldn’t face it.

If he had deviated from his program, then there was nothing holding him here. He could go out, do whatever he wanted, right?

Nope. His processor was still going, and his memory banks informed him that it was illegal for androids to be in public without obvious identification. Not to mention, since he was technically defective/malfunctioning, he could be taken back to CyberLife for resetting. Or to be shut down.

The thought made his lower abdomen feel very uncomfortable. He didn’t want to be shut down.

So, he should stay, for now. Here he was safe, and Megan was hardly a terrible person to live with, in fact she’d been rather understanding about the whole thing. He might not have been so lucky if the Beckwith’s had given him to someone else. Although, maybe he wouldn’t have gone deviant if he had?

Paul shook his head and ran a hand down his face, very human gestures. There was no point thinking about what could have happened. He needed to deal with now, and right now, he thought that he might go mad staying in this apartment until Megan got back.

He sighed to himself as he thought. There were several options. Follow Megan’s earlier advice and go find a hat and sweatshirt, but that meant going into Megan’s room. The other option was to go out as he was, but he’d need to give himself an errand to do, or at least look like he had a purpose.

He also wouldn’t be able to show any emotion. Maybe that would be okay, a return to normality for a little while.

Nodding to himself he stood up, thinking for a minute about what errand he could run. Nothing big.

His eyes drifted to the bookshelf, maybe a new book? Books weren’t all that easy to come by these days, most people preferring electronic readers and tablets. It was enough of a task that it could take him a while.

He scanned the titles of the books, finding the common themes between them. They were mostly older children’s or teenage fiction, although specifically with minimal romance in the story. An unusual and even harder to find choice. Perfect.

He stood up fluidly and left the apartment, making sure to keep his face as neutral as possible. He paused before leaving, should he call Megan? She’d want to know.

A sudden, oddly electric feeling sparked in his belly. He didn’t have to tell her. There was a certain, giddiness, to that. He didn’t have to tell her.

He had to take a few minutes to calm himself down, resetting his face. He couldn’t afford to act like this in public.

As he walked he let his eyes wander. It wasn’t that busy, given the time of day. Most of the people out and about were androids running errands or doing public service jobs. Raking up leaves by the side of the road, fixing some damage in the road. Some were carrying packages, heck, in the distance he could see a school group being led by a couple of androids.

He ended up having walk past them, and it took everything he had not to stare. Children, about elementary school, none of them wearing the face most of their elders did. The face of scorn and disinterest. Instead they were chattering excitedly amongst themselves, some a little stilted and odd, as being raised by and around androids tended to cause.

He had to make himself keep walking, and walk at a measured, even pace. Inside, he started to feel, light. He was, happy? Maybe? Contented? Something about seeing unadulterated excitement made him feel light, and, warm?

He couldn’t stop his LED going yellow as he ran a quick diagnostic. His internal temperature had not changed, and yet, he felt warm, right where his Thirium regulator was.

He managed to hold it together, despite the urge to smile. At some point he needed to find some human clothes that fit him, just so he could freely express what he felt.

He kept walking, passing more androids and the occasional human. As he got closer to the retail centre of the city, he couldn’t help but slow down. It took a second for him to pick up the pace again.

First was the CyberLife main store, as well as other stores selling androids or had androids in the window. Something in his abdomen churned at the sight of blank faced androids staring at nothing, waiting to be sold.

Keep walking. He told himself. Keep walking.

He wandered through the mall and exited out the other side. No luck there, so he continued through the retail sector.

Finally, he found a small store tucked away in the shadow a large chain. A second hand book store. Perfect.

He strode straight towards it, and his sensors only just clocked the human walking towards him before they walked straight into him.

“And, where are you going?” the human asked, and Paul took the time to analyse them. Male, short, stocky, blonde hair, brown eyes. Nothing special, but he could be hiding anything under the thick coat he was wearing.

“Inside the second hand book store,” Paul’s voice fell into a neutral tone, but not easily. His sensors were telling him that this man was a potential threat, and it was hard to keep his voice even.

“What does an android want to go in there for? It’s not like you read.”

“I was ordered to find a book with specific requirements,” Paul lied.

“You were ordered, were you?” the human was getting closer, face almost right in Paul’s. “Well, follow this one. Fuck off!”

Paul’s LED went yellow as he frantically tried to figure out what to do. He wanted to leave, he just wanted to get out of there, but would that be odd? This man was not his ‘owner’, so would the old him, the non deviant him, have listened to him?

Yes. He ended up deciding. There were probably other books stores in the city. He didn’t have to go into this specific one.

LED blue, and keeping himself as calm and neutral as possible, he turned on his heel, and walked away.

“Hah!” the human called after him. “See, you fucking prick, that’s what you androids should be doing! Fucking off!”

Something bounced off of the back of his head and Paul stumbled slightly, taken off balance. There was no damage done, but Paul felt something odd, hot, in his chest. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to run at that man and punch him so hard his skull caved him.

His fist clenched against his instructions and he wanted nothing else at that moment than to attack.

“Oh, have I pissed off the little robot? Come on then rustbucket! Hit me!”

The confrontation was drawing a small crowd, and Paul could feel other emotions creeping in. He was still angry, but fear and uncertainty were appearing. He couldn’t attack, he was outnumbered. He couldn’t run, it would be obvious that he was a deviant then.

His LED was flashing red, he could tell, he needed to calm down or he was deep shit.

In his head he played a song that sometimes appeared on Megan’s playlist when she was working. He didn’t transmit it, just played it for himself to drown out the shouting human and his own conflicting emotions.

The crowd was getting larger as the human shouted louder and threw more items at Paul. The book store owner came and started shouting as well, telling off the other human for causing such a fuss. As attention was turned to the two of them Paul began to walk away.

Before he could collect his thoughts his LED flickered. Megan was calling.

“Hello Megan,” he tried to sound as calm and monotone as possible. He mostly succeeded, but his voice shook a little at ‘Megan’.

“Oh thank God,” Megan exhaled in relief. “Where the hell are you? I was worried sick!”

“I’m in Detroit city centre,” he informed, and there was a pause from Megan’s end.

“What are you doing there? I thought you didn’t have any plans to go out.”

“I’ll tell you when I get back,” Paul lowered his voice.

“Okay. Are you alright?”

“...No, not really,” Paul mumbled.

“Oh, okay. Come back in your own time, yeah?”

Paul felt something burn in his chest, but, it was different burn to the one by the bookshop. He blinked a few times, although he wasn’t entirely sure why.

“I will catch the bus,” Paul assured, seeing the one he needed driving towards its stop.

“Okay, see you soon.”

Paul terminated the call, since androids weren’t really known for goodbyes over the phone, and walked to the stop. He stood in the android section, trying to ignore his emotions. He needed to pretend for now. He could let it out when he made it back to Megan’s apartment.

This whole trip had been a terrible idea.

A/N

Most of what I have to say will be covered in other options, other than that, it's Paul dealing with his new emotions, and not doing too badly here. This one also has a lot of cross chapter and chapter change potential here. I think I will have to make a proper flowchart at some point just to cover it because text can only do so much. Other Options Flowchart

CROSS CHAPTER RESULTS-Had Paul been in Megan's room previously he would have gone in to clean, and get some clothes. He would have pretended to be human, which would have led to a very different chapter.

Other errands-Food shopping. Cleaning supplies shopping (both would lead to less violent confrontations)

Don't obey the irate human (would lead to a more peaceful resolution as he would shelter in the shop)

Attack the human (either arrested or having to be cautious going back to Megan's apartment)

Tag list! @septicart-appreciation @nightmarejim

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Hey there. I notice I have a massively bad writing habit. My sentences tend to start with the subject at the very beginning, meaning the POV character or a pronoun tends to start 90% percent of my sentences. (Ex. "He glanced outside. He had things to do today"). I want to break this bad habit, but can't find any info to help me! Think you guys can help?

Good news! You’re not alone! In fact, there are whole guides out there that teachers use to try to help their students kick this exact habit. (This one is very useful if you feel like you don’t have a great grip on the different ways a sentence CAN be structured, although it will also make you feel like you are taking a 9th grade standardized test.) It’s not as generative as a creative person like me prefers, but it does get me thinking very concretely about what makes a sentence, why I’m choosing the structures I’m choosing, and how I might change that).

Unfortunately, that is my first advice. Some people have a natural feel for sentence rhythm and don’t need to know all the technicalities in order to structure a gorgeous, varied paragraph, but the rest of us tend to benefit from sitting down and doing sentence diagrams.

After you’ve done that, my next big recommendation is this: set your paragraph aside. Stick it in your desk drawer, hide it under your pillow, give it to your cat, minimize the window, whatever you have to do to not be looking at it. Open up a new blank page. Write the paragraph again, from memory. Now that you have gotten the ideas down once, I’ll bet you anything that your sentences come out more natural and less stilted.

If that’s not working for you, you can try what they’ve done over at OWL at Purdue (a great resource for all kinds of technical writing help, by the way) and just write a single sentence in as many ways as possible. Try ten on the first sentence you practice with. See if you can work your way up to being able to spit out 15 or 20. Most of these are gonna be bad, as you can see by the examples on OWL. This exercise is not about writing good sentences necessarily, it’s about figuring out every single way you can possible say a thing so that you get familiar with the huge variety of options open to you. When you’ve done this a few times (and also given yourself a rest), see if the paragraph rewrite trick goes any better.

[haleruby]

Slipping Through Your Fingers (2)

Characters/Pairings: established Mal/Evie, eventual Mal/Evie/Reader (Quim), Reader & the Rotten Four (especially Reader & Carlos once we get in the flashback).

This part is Rotten Four interaction, you with Malvie, and then briefly you with Carlos.

Summary: Evie’s idea to design a dress for the newcomer is met with differing reactions from her friends. The actual consultation ends in a way no one could anticipate least of all Carlos...Poor pup.

Word Count: 4.2k

Notes: I am using a sideblog that is empty and not tagging bc this is only for your eyes, so no need to reblog/like, etc.

I promise it gets smoother once I can use ‘Shadow’ as the placeholder for you (instead of brunette, other girl, guest, etc.) alongside the pov sections of the Rotten Four in the flashback. The writing is still older so…Let me know if it’s too much like sandpaper, lol. I have other fics.

There are some things in this chapter that hint at what is to come in the flashback section. They may raise some questions too.

- - - - -

"You're so gonna regret this," Jay states it matter of factly. Another beaker is added to the steadily growing tower of glass so it is about as tall as the graduated cylinder Evie keeps adding to. Dark brown eyes that are almost black flick away from his handiwork to observe the counter top for more improvised building blocks. "Like, let's be honest, it sounds kinky." "Jay," Carlos admonishes. "Dude, what? It does sound weird." A test tube is moved out of reach from a tan hand, earning said hand ruffling bleached blond curls with black roots in retaliation for the interception. "Ugh, stop it," Carlos complains without any real bite. The test tube is handed to Evie, before Carlos turns his attention to his boyfriend. "We can't judge a situation we don't know anything about; it would not be fair. Evie said she seems sad." "I didn't say it wasn't bad," he corrects. A momentary seriousness displaces the ever-present, easy grin that was used to charm marks to make stealing easier and can serve as armor that hides his real feelings. "But how is she going to help? It sounds like they have a deal. Maybe the money, status, or protection makes it worth being his, so why mess it up?" Adding highly concentrated acid to the concoction she is brewing takes a steady hand to not over or under administer it. The boys' back and forth is starting to distract Evie. "He calls her pet-" "Kinky..." "-and treats her like property." The murmured comment is ignored, though a warning look is directed at the broad shouldered guy, who would cut an imposing figure to most, but now Jay raises his hands up in surrender. "I don't know why--I had to do something, it just didn't feel right..." "A lot of things aren't right." The firm statement cuts through the room as the fourth member of their group enters in through the double doors. Purple hair and mostly violet and green attire stands out against the white, gray, or stainless surfaces of the chemistry lab and compliments pale skin. Her stride is self-assured and commanding, even if she is the shortest of them, because knowing how to force others to fall in line due to her mere presence is something she honed on the Isle. Calculating green eyes cursorily assess the slight tension among them, before settling on Evie in question. "What did you get yourself into, E?" Mal asks with authority, though those close to her would be able to detect the concern there too. "M," she greets her with a smile to buy a bit of time. Talking this over with the more empathic Carlos was the plan, but Jay tagged along and now Mal is also present. Normally, she would not mind some alone time with their unspoken leader, who also happens to be her girlfriend, but not when she is scheming and plotting mode to fix something that has not even been explained yet. "I decided to make something for someone in exchange for information about Auradon royalty. I really just wanted to talk to the girl because-" How does she say this...? Evie keeps speaking, taking a quick breath. "I don't know how to explain it. This man--Sir Alistair is so creepy and I can't imagine having to listen to him all the time. His commands and whatever else he orders her to do. He interrupted my meeting with Ben, and then was about to leave but I didn't get to actually talk with the girl, so I offered to make something. He turned it into me making a dress for her instead, which is what I technically wanted..." Evie trails off, finishing the ramble. She is unsure if that explained enough or anything at all, still working through her own thoughts hampered her ability to convey them to others. "So, it's a pity dress?" Mal deduces. "No," Evie disagrees immediately.

A fine eyebrow raises at the steel underlying that tone, not expecting it. Evie seems more worked up about this than she would expect given how the acid is now hurriedly being put away, rather than being measured with the usual engrossed focus given to her projects. It is worrying. "As tragic as that sounds, you are already an advisor to Ben about the Isle, so why help?" Mal wonders. "You are busy with that, classes, your designs. I don't want you pushing yourself..."  "She knows about arrangements and alliances." This bit of information secures everyone's interest. They were brought together through an alliance, an admittedly unconventional one, but friendship is not a common word thrown around on the Isle, let alone a common concept. Sliding her safety glasses up and off of her head, Evie fixes her girlfriend with a meaningful look that silently requests that Mal listens rather than immediately dissuade out of concern. "When she first saw me she looked afraid-" A blue painted finger nail levels at Jay, who is about to make a wise crack from the set to his lips, "-not like how people looked at us on our first day or how some of the older royals still look at us. This was different. It was not a judgment thing, but almost as if she was ashamed and frightened at the same time, before she just went blank-" A quick snap of her fingers emphasizes this, "-like that. It was different, and I need to know why..." Mal observes Evie carefully, but nothing is said. "I can tell you why. Because you are the daughter of-" Carlos nudges Jay to stop his words, nodding at the look on Evie's face that is edging on somber. "Do you think she is from the Isle?" "You saw how big a deal us coming over was." A welcome event, news coverage, and even a navy carpet was rolled out in an odd mix of tentative hope held by a few and the sensational aspect of it held by the majority. They were a spectacle and a main event. "I don't think so. Or at least I think we would have known if we were not the first VKs coming to the mainland," Evie offers her reasoning on the suggestion. "He could have bought her?" Jay hurries to explain when the two look at him questionably. He didn't mean it like that. "Not that that's right, obviously. But I imagine creating the barrier and stuff took a lot of coin, favors, and magic. If he is a 'Sir' or whatever, he could have had some pull." "I doubt the barrier would be lowered for someone to go window shopping for kids," she comments with a bit of disgust, because the suggestion reminds her of something that still aches after all this time. Special exceptions can always be made. Mal uncrosses her arms, settling on a lab stool on Evie's side of the counter so she is close to her. "You know they would only do it in an extreme circumstance. Anyway, if you want to talk to her that is fine. I will be with you too."  "Mal, I-" "We don't know what she is capable of Auradonian or not, so I don't want you alone," she interjects firmly. Reaching for the hand that grips the edge of the laminate countertop softens the interruption; this does come from a place or care, even if she is not always the best at expressing it. "This is not Lonnie or Jane. We don't know this person, E." "Mal is right," Jay agrees. "Maybe we should also be there?" "No," Mal denies him. Jay pouts. "More people could make her uncomfortable..." Evie appreciates Carlos' support, considering Jay tag teamed with Mal as usual on tactics, since the two tend to agree on a more proactive, aggressive approach than the more moderate, measured ones of their other halves. Her focus turns to her girlfriend. "Just promise me you will play nice tonight-" A squeeze is given to their joined hands to preempt any quip or retort, "-since she is very, very quiet. If I have any hope of learning more, I need that shell to open, not close further." "I will be as sweet as cotton candy," Mal assures with some sarcasm, though there is sincerity in her expression. "You won't even notice I'm there."

- - - -

Most would probably hardly notice she is there... There should be the sounds of two sets of steps mounting the stairs to climb up to the level that holds the girl's dorm rooms, but only one distinctive clack is heard against the hardwood. Using her peripheral vision fails as does glancing to the side. The brunette remains just behind her almost in a blind spot, though Evie does not feel threatened. Slowing her steps was mirrored too. Jay would admire these skills that would speak to thievery or going about undetected on the Isle, but it seems like the goal is to go unnoticed--to take up as little space as possible--to disappear into the background, if not needed. It makes Evie feel sad... "-the grand fireplace can be used to roast marshmallows too, so it's great for s’mores," she continues speaking, though there has been no response aside from the initial stilted nod of greeting. Evie continues the abridged tour of the dormitory hall to fill in the quiet, but also to acknowledge her presence by addressing her without expecting anything in return. The long game will need to be played. "And here is my room, where all the design magic happens," she says it with a touch of drama. A golden key is pulled out and inserted into the lock after a single warning knock is given. Entering first occurs, she knows that waiting to let the brunette do so will lead to an impasse with them standing in the hallway all night. Evie spots Mal on her bed, sketchbook in hand, and phone off to the side. That is a relatively nonthreatening position. "This is my roommate." A hand gestures to the purple haired girl, who gives a lazy wave too intent on whatever she is shading to look up in a proper greeting. There is a difference between being rude and being inviting, but at least Mal tried... The brunette lingers on the threshold as if realizing once she crosses it the point of exit will be sealed completely. "Please come in and we can get started," Evie patiently requests.  That gets her moving again, so the door can be shut, though the motion is short lived. (Y/E/C) eyes are trained on Mal so intently that the gaze can only be described as utterly piercing; there is nothing subdued or subtle about it. Her movements always seem rigid, but now it is like she is locking herself in place or holding herself back. Her arms are pulled behind her with one hand securing the wrist of the other just below the small of her back in a form of an at-ease military position that lacks any ease. Lips remain set in that horizontal line that does not convey much of anything, but something that may be confusion causes a slight crinkle to form between her brows. If only she was a little closer, Evie could attempt to parse out her expression better. Evie realizes she is staring at the brunette staring at Mal, but makes no effort to stop it. This is the opposite of their first interaction; it's like she is transfixed, rather than trying to retreat inwards. "Didn't your parents teach you about staring?" The quip is delivered without Mal even glancing up, but when she does everything shifts.

It would be similar to violent magnetic repulsion as soon as green eyes deviate from the sketchbook, (Y/E/C) instantaneously flick away to study the floor. Evie can see the  tension she would like to think she somewhat alleviated snap back as the brunette's neck bows ever so slightly, trying to fully correct the previous direction of her gaze. The grip on her wrist also tightens up to what must be painful; it is like a full body, silent chastisement. Reaching out to prevent her from further retracting inwards crosses Evie's mind, but they are not that close... "Don't mind her personality. That is just Mal," she jokes to try and salvage the situation. Evie steps forward, past their two beds, and the small kitchenette and into her makeshift sewing area, hoping the brunette will trail behind her as usual and be away from Mal's scrutiny. "We will be over here anyways." A chair is pulled out, before she hovers, planning to assume her usual comfy seat at the drawing desk once the other is occupied. "You minded it enough to date me..." Mal snarks, though there is the start of a pout to her lips. "So, not the time..." Evie admonishes; this is not one of their friends or classmates, but more of a client, who she also wants to learn more about. Bantering with her girlfriend can occur later on. Unless maybe Mal is trying to ease things...? Somehow the brunette looks more uncomfortable now as she passes the bed without a spare glance at Mal, sitting in the chair, but not allowing her back to rest against the cushion. She sits ramrod straight like she is ready to stand up and leave as soon as possible. There was the slightest frown that is now gone with that neutrality back in full force. Making eye contact is near impossible for Evie to achieve when the pin cushion is being observed like it holds the secrets to the universe.  Is she homophobic or just dislikes the topic...? "I thought your girlfriend would always be an important part of your time?" Mal presses. Now, Mal is just being difficult on purpose, likely because the discomfort from their guest was also picked up on. "M," she warns. "What?" The question is asked with affected innocence. Closing the sketchbook with a snap, Mal throws her legs over the bed, almost rising to join them, but remains on the edge of the mattress at the disapproval from Evie. The way she was looked at earlier bothers her. The intensity felt familiar; it was like she was back on the Isle: young, on edge, and simpering with the need to prove herself to her mother, but that there was something bigger and greater watching over her until she could get that far. The intensity didn't make her feel small, but seen too deeply. Mal failed to grasp why that was since the other girl folded rather than entertain a proper stare off. Her magic roils under her skin as if her veins funnel viscous magma throughout her system, not lifeblood; this feeling usually signals the need for her eyes to switch to a verdant emerald. She does not feel threatened, just that something is wrong, which makes her want to push to figure out why. "I bet she agrees with what I said. How about this: if you agree, don't say anything at all and if you don't agree, say something?" Mal goads, trying to force a reaction besides the stiff quiet. ... No reply is given. "See?" The triumph of being right seems bitter, because she did not want to be right, Mal wanted answers. Evie is moving past annoyance to disappointment in how her girlfriend is behaving, but it goes beyond what she suspected the reason was for the comments. She can feel a faint charge to the air that translates into a unique warmth skating across her skin that most would not notice; however, she knows it is a sign that Mal's magic is becoming more active from their time together, but why is that? A questioning look of concern goes ignored. Green eyes are now assessing the brunette just as searchingly, though the view is only of her profile since the pin cushion is still the sole object of focus. What is going on?

"Can we reschedule, please, Evie?" The tone of voice used is soft and gentle, it is only meant for the one across from her to hear. A folded piece of paper is slid across the surface of the desk, coming to a stop just before the blue haired girl, who still seems to be processing she is being spoken to. "My measurements have not changed, nor the typical expectations he has for a dress," she explains efficiently. "You don't have any preferences or ideas...?" Evie asks reflexively, surprised she is being addressed. "At all?" "No." A wry, sad smile gives the barest of curves to those lips for a second, and Evie feels something within her fracture just a bit. That was a stupid question. Scrambling to recover—to adapt—to say something that will get her to stay longer yields nothing, except a hand covers the one that rests on the paper. She does not know what to do or how to help just that she needs to. The skin beneath her palm is cold, bordering on an unnatural chill that is not off-putting, but definitely unique, just like how Mal's hands tend to hold a warmth to them. Fingers flatten themselves as if trying to become one with the surface of the desk; however, the brunette does not pull away, though she did tense up.  "Fairest of them all or the sweetest?" The question is posed rhetorically with underlying sincerity. "But don't trouble yourself with this." She is actually talking, full sentences and clauses talking, to her after she has rambled and prattled on about the architecture, her classes, and favored design styles on the walk from the visitor's center to the dorm halls. This is what she wanted, though the message is not what she anticipated at all. Was she so transparent about wanting to help? "Why not?" Evie almost whispers back the question. . . . (Y/E/C) eyes actually seem to be taking her in this time, probing in a gentle yet intense way. This is unlike people admiring or judging her beauty, instead it is much deeper as if something lost now has the possibility of being found. It feels as if she is being assessed to decide if more can be said--if she deserves trust--if it is safe. That dark emotion lurks again, but it is overshadowed by conflict that soon eclipses everything else, leading to the brunette sliding her gaze to the side. Feeling the fingers slip out from under her own causes a feeling of loss that gnaws after the perceived sense of progress. Evie very nearly tightens her grip to prevent it; however, choice is already a luxury, so she will not take her's now. "Goodnight, Evie." An end point. The goodbye was not delivered curtly or dismissively; there was a finality that seems to pin Evie to her chair as the other girl rises to leave. Mal looks between the two, feeling just as stricken about her leaving even though making sense of the low tones of the conversation was difficult. What the fuck? The emotions confuse her immensely. Arms cross tightly around herself in a firm hold as if trying to provide some structure to her thoughts that do not need to be burdened with these sudden, inexplicable feelings. "What is your name?" There is no reply, not even a glance, as her bed is passed, not that she really expected either after the jeer she made at the silence.

They both feel frozen for a moment. The door closing shut near soundlessly aside from the faintest of clicks snaps them out of it. "What was that?" "Yeah, what was-" A hand lashes out to the side to punctuate the question, "-that?" Evie stands abruptly. Her warm brown eyes that border on a golden hue seem darker with anger like a honeycomb that should be harvested, though there is a lack of sweetness. There is no excuse for what happened. "I asked you to be nice, because this is important to me, and instead you antagonize her? Knowing that her situation is probably horrible?" "I was trying. She started it...?" The words sound weak to her own ears, forcing her to stifle a sigh. "Evie, I didn't mean for it to escalate, but I just felt—I don't know-" Teeth sink into her bottom lip for a second, though self-editing around her girlfriend is rare compared to engaging in it around everyone else to keep her   not to be trifled with reputation intact. "...Things? And reacted, ok?" Mal offers a hand tentatively, trying to show some contrition now that her magic has somewhat calmed.

Evie pauses, but relents and takes the offered hand. "I'm sorry..." - - - - -

"I'm so, so sorry!" A string of apologies leave him profusely. Playing keep away indoors and outdoors is something Fairy Godmother specifically told them not to. Jay took one of the sprockets he needs for something he is working on and challenged him to a game. He was barreling down a hallway barely in pursuit of the swift thief, but instead of taking the corner he slammed directly into someone. He usually has to use hints left by Jay or the sound of his laughs to find him anyway. He definitely lost the little chance he had at winning... Carlos is actually on top of the person as in half laying on them, since they caught him partially. This is awkward... He bowled them right over. He is lithe compared to Jay and shorter, but the momentum from sprinting through the long halls probably packed a wallop. Hurriedly sliding off of the--Wait, the person is a girl. Carlos creates more distance between them, before he actually looks more closely at the figure in black, who is sitting up slowly after having landed harshly on the marble floors. Dark brown hair is styled differently in a way that gives a better view of her face; it's sharper now and more defined. While his own frame was wiry from the shortage of food on the Isle, he knows that losing some baby fat in the face is common in teen years and happened to him too. She is still just as beautiful as he remembers. Her skin is a little paler than he recalls; maybe she does not go outside as much? There is faint purple blooming under her eyes that alludes to tiredness more so than eye shadow, but it would not be that noticeable from a distance. It's those eyes that seals it. Just like the ocean, there was always something anchoring in those depths when he looked into them. He knows Mal and Evie were closer to her, but he feels like he could stare into her eyes for ages because she always took care to look at him a certain way. He needed that care after some of the incidents that befell him on the Isle. It made him feel whole, not broken. Not a something, but someone who was worth having around. She rarely showed herself in this form, except when he needed her most. The uncanny ability to know when that was to offer comfort in the form of a soft gaze and innocent, gentle touches (a hug, a hand hold, steadying his hands with her own) soothed him when he was younger. He blinks, bringing his knuckles to his head to tap it. No, this is real, not a dream.

Now, it is like the sea is in flux during a violent storm. There is nothing grounding in the turbulent, almost tortured (Y/E/C) depths that are so unlike what he remembers, but at the same time are oddly nostalgic. She appears utterly conflicted, unsure what to do or where to look. What happened? It is as if seeing her is a grave offense, like Carlos wounded her from his mere presence. His stomach turns with a sickly feeling due to how he is being regarded, since his knee jerk reaction would be to give a hug and never let go again. They already lost her once. Shame suffuses her; it is an emotion he knows all too well from growing up with Cruella. Her gaze averts to floor; shoulders slump under a weight he can't comprehend; legs are drawn so her knees are just under her chin as if taking up less space will fix things. Arms wrap around her legs tightly to ward off attempts at prying; and finally her face is hidden in a last ditch, irrational effort to make it all go away. He feels his breath leave him at the sight, knowing this position is one he adopted frequently on the Isle.

It feels wrong to see his former silent protector like this now. "...Shadow?"

[life-observed]

7 Reasons Why the 'Authentic' Travel Experience Is a Myth

One reason people travel is to have an "authentic experience." They envision traveling to a foreign country and living, eating, and doing the things locals do. I have exchanged emails with people ready to set out on a long adventure who see themselves living with tribespeople in the African bush or in Southeast Asian villages.

Most likely, they are in for a disappointment.

The problem stems from the expectations people have before they go. When I was in Samoa, I was talking to a woman from New Zealand who had been driving around the islands. She sounded disappointed and a little bit upset that Samoans had television sets. She lamented the destruction of the Samoan lifestyle and blamed it on Western countries. She then went into a rant about how wonderful it was being able to live a self-sufficient life in a village.

I pointed out the inconvenient fact that Samoa is not in fact self-sufficient in food. No Pacific country is. The most popular foods are instant noodles and corned beef. The biggest part of the Samoan economy is income sent home from Samoans living abroad. The current population of Samoa would be almost impossible to sustain by methods used in the 19th century.

She got upset and ended the conversation.

She had an idea of what Samoa was, and more importantly, what she thought Samoa should be. Her Samoa was closer to the Samoa of the 19th century or the Samoa of Margaret Mead. She was denied her authentic cultural experience because Samoans (how dare they!) were watching TV and using electricity. Samoans just weren't Samoan enough for her. Even though she would never state it as such and would bristle at the accusation, she wanted Samoa to be a cultural zoo where she could go and look at the locals doing their cultural thing.

The problem of course wasn't with Samoa. It was with the woman. She suffered from several fallacies that infect many travelers.

These beliefs include:

The myth of the noble savage

Steven Pinker explained this idea in great detail in his seminal book The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature. The belief holds that before the arrival of Western civilization, people everywhere lived in harmony with each other and with nature. This is far from the truth. If anything, even despite the horrific wars of the 20th century, humanity has become more peaceful over time. Early humans were warlike and did their damnedest to harness nature, which was the biggest threat to their survival. They just didn't have the tools to do the damage we can. Sun Tzu didn't write The Art of War as a thought experiment. It has been estimated that prior to the rise of civilization and agriculture, 60 percent of males in some regions could expect to die from the hands of another person through warfare, murder, or execution. Mass burning of land was a common way to flush out animals. People in developing countries are neither innocents nor scoundrels. They are just like anyone else.

Applying different standards to other cultures

When an ethnic restaurant opens up in a Western country, that's diversity. When a Western restaurant opens up in a non-Western country, that's cultural imperialism. If diversity is good for us, why isn't it good for others? Preservation of culture is considered an asset when practiced by other countries, but a liability when practiced at home. There are more Chinese restaurants in the U.S. than McDonald's, Burger Kings, Wendy's, and KFCs ... COMBINED. I don't think anyone is worried about a Chinese cultural takeover of America. A few McDonald's and Starbucks overseas is hardly an invasion. Author Rachel Laudan noted the response by one of her Mexican friends who was criticized for serving Italian food: "Why can't we eat spaghetti, too?"

Confusing modernization and Westernization

Through the power of guns, germs, and steel, the first part of the world to modernize was Europe and North America. As other countries modernize, many people confuse this technological advancement with becoming more Western. In the above example, Samoans have TV, but they mostly still live in traditional fales and have strong village and family ties. Japan is a fully modern country, yet it is most definitely not Western. Technology isn't culture. While there are some groups that resist technological change, the vast majority of humanity has quickly grabbed at any innovation that will make life easier. The classic modern example is cell phones, which have found their way to some of the poorest and remotest places on Earth.

A static view of history

If you take a very long view of human history, it can be thought of as nothing but a flow of people, ideas, and cultures. Empires rise and fall. Religions come and go. Trade routes open and ideas and technologies are exchanged. The clothing, dances, and music of a country can really be considered fashions and fads of a particular era as much as pillars of particular cultures. The design of the Ming Dynasty in China was different than that of the Chin. When you hear the traditional music of a people, that music may only go back a few hundred years, if even that far. The arrival of Buddhism in Southeast Asia dates back to about the time of the Protestant Reformation in Europe. Prior to that, Hinduism was dominant. When you visit a monastery in Thailand, you are not seeing something that has been there from time immemorial--you are viewing something that didn't exist only a few hundred years ago. Expecting everyone you meet in a country to be wearing traditional dress is like expecting everyone in the United States to be wearing stovepipe hats and bonnets.

Taking photos too literally

Ever see a photo of a thatched bungalow on stilts over the water in a turquoise lagoon? It makes for a great photo and many people fantasize about staying in an over water bungalow. They are a marketing gimmick. Water bungalows are not authentic in the slightest. They were created several decades ago as a way to attract tourists. What the photo doesn't show you is that you very well might be sleeping over mud when the tide goes out (with the corresponding dead fish smell), or that the bungalows probably have killed all marine life below them because they block sunlight. I have spoken in the past of travel porn. What you have to keep in mind is that just like porn, what you see is often fake. Don't get your heart set on it.

White Man's Burden

You will be hard pressed to find anyone who would explicitly say there is a "White Man's Burden" in the 21st century, but you can find tons of people, from Jeffrey Sachs to Bono, who think that with the correct policy, plan, or organization, "we" Westerners can solve the problems of Africa and other poor parts of the world. The emotional desire to do something in the face of extreme poverty is understandable, but you'd be hard pressed to find any examples in history of a people rising out of poverty on the basis of the aid from another country. Go listen to the African speakers at the TED Africa conference. They don't want pity or for us to solve their problems. They understand they must solve these problems on their own terms, in their own way. I am not saying you shouldn't volunteer when you travel, but you should be realistic about what can be achieved and don't look upon the people you are helping as objects of pity.

The Traveler Quantum Effect

One tenet of quantum physics is that the simple act of observing an event will alter the outcome of the event. Traveling is no different. When we have a guest over at our house we tend to clean up, dress nice, and be on our best behavior. One thing any true "authentic" experience would have is the lack of tourists taking part. The very act of being somewhere means that you are changing the environment and removes the possibility of having a true authentic experience.

Conclusion

The world is what it is, and you have to explore it on its terms, not yours. No matter what you expect to see when you visit a new place, the reality you will find will be different. You are traveling in the 21st century, not the 19th. Do not expect people to be caricatures or stereotypes of something you have in mind. View the people you meet as neither cultural superiors nor objects of pity. Moreover, whatever you think is authentic was developed without your having experienced it.

Change your expectations and you'll find that every experience is authentic to itself.

[vanderlinde-moved]

a bitter truth (parts 7 & 8)

Jyn and Cassian, plus what happens after their recovery. 

part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six

read both chapters on ao3!

“I wanted to thank you,” the dark-haired woman says, sliding into the free chair next to Jyn’s bed. For someone who’s not officially a part of the Rebellion (yet, a small voice says in the back of her mind, not yet), she’s been getting an awful lot of visitors the past few weeks. “You’re the reason Kes–my husband–managed to get off the Star Destroyer.”

This must be Shara, then, the pilot that Kes had been talking about to try to keep her awake. She vaguely remembers a woman next to Kes when they had landed on Hoth, but couldn’t quite make out who it had been. Shara’s gratitude, though, is something she doesn’t deserve. “I can’t say I did much to help him.”

Shara shrugs. “You helped get him off that ship, so as far as I’m concerned you did quite a bit.” She pauses, then sticks out her hand to shake. “I’m Lieutenant Shara Bey. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Jyn Erso,” she responds, shaking the other woman’s hand. “Likewise.”

(and just like that, they’re friends. she can’t help but marvel at how easy that was.)

Shara leans forward, her elbows balanced on her knees. “Listen. How are you doing? And cut the ‘I’m fine’ bullshit. Be straight with me, Erso.”

It’s the straightforwardness of that statement that knocks Jyn speechless for half a second. “I’ve been better,” Jyn admits, “but I’ll be off of antibiotics tomorrow and I finished physical therapy this morning. The medics say I’ll be out of here in a couple of days.”

“Yeah, but how are you doing?” Shara stresses. “I don’t kriffing care what the medics say. I want to hear it from you.”

Jyn mulls over that for a couple of seconds, then says with a self-deprecating smile, “I’ve been better.”

She’s lost Saw and her father, run a suicide mission on Scarif, then had gotten captured, tortured, and broken out of prison. This had all happened in the span of a couple weeks, everything back to back without any rest. She’s barely had time to catch her breath in between. Sure, her body’s mostly healed, but what about her mind?

(she hasn’t had time to grieve properly. at least locked in wobani, time was all she had.)

Shara must see something in her face that forces a change of subject, because the other woman says abruptly, “How would you like to get out of here?”

Jyn raises a brow. It’s tempting, but unlikely. “I’ve tried every way I could think of to get out of here. If you’ve got any other ideas, let’s hear them.”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about them,” Shara waves her off, then leans in conspiratorially, “you just haven’t had the right partner in crime yet. Cassian would never put you in harm by breaking you out early–though he’s never had any problems doing that himself, mind you–and Kes is…he’s not subtle enough. So that’s where I come in.”

“All right,” Jyn says, nodding along. It’s true–Cassian hadn’t wanted her to leave when she had asked him to smuggle her out, and all of Kes’s plans involved big distractions that were bound to get the both of them caught. Hell, even if Shara’s plan doesn’t work, at least it gives her something to do. “Let’s do this.”

(at this point, she’ll do anything to stop thinking so much. it’s dangerous for her to be left alone with her thoughts for so long.)

“Can you get yourself out of bed?” Shara asks quietly. At Jyn’s nod, the other woman grins. “Okay. I’m going to go get a wheelchair.”

“A wheel–”

“You want to get out of here or not, Erso?”

“…Fine.”

Shara leaves, tugging the curtains around Jyn’s bed back into place as she goes. Jyn wastes no time in getting herself out of bed. She pulls the blankets off of her legs and turns herself. Her body is sore, though not as much as she thought it would be. Turns out the Rebellion hadn’t spared any expense on getting her healed. A hero’s privilege, she assumes, though what she’s done hasn’t been very heroic.

There’s an IV sticking out of the crook of her elbow, but she hesitates slightly before she pulls it out. The small bead of blood stands out on the paleness of her skin and she stares at it like in a trace. It’s a marvel, really, that she can even bleed anymore. With so much blood staining her hands red, it’s quite odd to see it anywhere else.

“You ready to go?”

Shara’s voice snaps her out of her thoughts. Jyn brushes away the blood with her thumb and turns to the other woman. “Of course I’m kriffing ready.”

(they make it out of the medbay for about ten minutes before they’re tracked down by an angry team of nurses, but jyn doesn’t give a fuck about the inevitable consequences. for ten minutes, the weight on her shoulders hadn’t been so heavy.

back in the medbay, figuratively chained to her bed, it feels as burdensome as ever.)

Sometimes, when he’s alone and his darker thoughts get the best of him, it feels as if he’s still Scarif’s only survivor.

Cassian hates himself every time he thinks it, but it’s true. He barely sees Jyn, despite trying to visit her in medical at least once a day. Their talks are stilted, awkward, and even with his  training in keeping up the most difficult of conversations (can’t afford to run out of ideas when talking to an Imperial officer), he finds himself excusing himself after a couple of minutes, or retreating behind a data pad so he won’t have to look her in the eye.

He doesn’t want to treat visiting her like a chore, but he doesn’t want to stop seeing her. He thinks–he hopes–she feels the same, but her face is always as carefully blank as his is. Just as he thinks he’s going to figure her out, something changes and he’s forced to start over on page one again.

He has to remind himself that he barely knows her. She’s been on her own for the past seven years and doesn’t trust easily. It’ll take time for them to learn to trust each other–”trust goes both ways”–but he doesn’t know if either of them have the time.

It’s a known truth that in the Rebel Alliance, you have to live each day as if it’s your last. A hard life, but a necessary one. He wishes that it didn’t have to be this way, wishes that he wasn’t Cassian Andor and she wasn’t Jyn Erso, and they were just two people who happened to meet in the middle of a war.

(but would he even have it any other way? despite all of the pain and suffering the two of them have gone through in this universe, he’s cassian and she’s jyn and they’re going to get through this together.

they have to.)

Cassian’s already sitting at a table when she arrives to the mess hall. She sneaks a glance at the chrono on the wall and lets out a sigh of relief. She’s only five minutes late, which isn’t unusual for her. Cassian’s the type to be right on time, and as she limps her way over to the table, she wonders how long he’s been sitting there alone for.

“Sorry I’m late,” she greets him, though both of them know she isn’t feeling very apologetic at all. Cassian only smiles, getting up from his seat to help her into the one across from him. She protests, taking a step back, “Cass, you don’t have to get up. I’m fine.”

After all, both of them have leg injuries. She shouldn’t be the priority, especially when he had been released from the medbay only about two weeks before her.

“Jyn,” he says softly, settling into back into his seat. His eyes flash with something she doesn’t think she wants to understand. “Just let me help you, okay?”

(it almost seem as if he’s paying penance for the time she spent locked up.)

She doesn’t say anything to that, instead choosing to grab the cup of caf in front of her. She raises it in a salute. “Here’s to finally being free of the medbay.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he responds, tapping his styrofoam cup against hers lightly before throwing it back like a shot.

Jyn does the same, but can’t finish all of it in one gulp. The caf is absolutely disgusting, but it’s hardly the worst she’s ever had. Still, she makes her opinion known. “You’d think the Rebellion would have better caf than this.”

“Whatever gets the job done,” Cassian responds wryly. “When there’s a war going on, good caf tends to be at the bottom of any priority list.”

Jyn chugs the rest of it, relishing the way it burns down her throat and settles warmly in her stomach. When she’s done, both her and Cassian fiddle with their empty cups absently, neither wanting to break the silence.

(she wonders how it got like this. she wonders if it’s always been like this.)

She cracks first. It makes sense–she’s not the spy. She’s sure that Cassian has been trained to sit through long silences like this. “I have to make my decision today. If I’m staying or not.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she replies, staring down at the cup in her hands. For some reason, she doesn’t want to look him in the eye. “I was thinking I was going to go after this, actually.”

She glances up. Cassian is looking at her, eyes strangely warm as he offers, “I’ll walk you there?”

“That’d be nice.”

They fall into a silence again. It’s awkward, and Jyn fidgets uncomfortably in her seat. Just as she opens her mouth to say something else, Cassian cuts her off. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“What would you do, in my place?” she counters, because she hasn’t. She’s no friend of the Empire but the Rebellion killed her father. She hadn’t done the mission on Scarif for anything except to avenge her papa and complete his final wishes.

Cassian smiles wryly, reaching out to cover her hands with his own. She flinches at the sudden contact, but doesn’t move away. She avoids his eyes, instead staring down at their joined hands. Her hands are scarred and calloused, with broken nails and bloody knuckles, but his hands are relatively unmarked, with only a couple scars here and there. She can feel the callouses on his palms, but they’re different, softer. They appear wholly intact compared to her broken ones.

(maybe she’s not just comparing hands anymore.)

“That’s not my choice to make.”

She knows exactly what he would choose. After all, he’s sitting across from her in a captain’s jacket right now. There’s no questioning that Cassian would have accepted seconds after Mothma had proposed it to him.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Cassian’s eyes widen slightly at the question. He opens his mouth, then closes, then opens it again to say, “I don’t want to influence your decision. If you’re going to stay, it should be because you believe in the cause, not because someone–not because I’m here.”

That’s not the answer she wants to hear and he knows it. If he had told her that he does, that he wants her to stay, regardless of what he truly believes, she would have her decision already.

They’re the only two left alive. Doesn’t it make sense that she wants to stay by his side?

She’s a capable fighter and both of them know it. At the very least, she would be an asset to the Rebellion. He knows what it would take to recruit her and he’s never minded lying in the past. So what’s his deal now?

Maybe he doesn’t want to treat her like a regular recruit. Maybe she’s different. Maybe he’s thinking of her as a person, with her own feelings and emotions, instead of as an ability, or as a fighter, or as just another soldier.

(she ignores the thought. she doesn’t want special treatment or anything like that.

she just wants him.)

“Aren’t you a recruiter?” she shoots back. His answer stings, but she doesn’t want him to know it. “You’re supposed to be good at this stuff, yeah?”

“Jyn, you know this is different,” he runs a hand through his hair. “You’re different.”

(but why does it make her so uncomfortable to know that maybe, just maybe he feels the same way? )

She takes her hands out from underneath his and settles them in her lap. Like earlier, she can barely look him in the eye. “Let’s get going,” she says woodenly. “Wouldn’t want to keep Mothma waiting.”

“Mothma’s not going to mind if you take a few extra minutes to decide.”

He’s right–Mothma wouldn’t care. And it’s not like she knows what she’s going to do anyway. But sitting here, talking around the issue and neither of them having enough courage to say what they want to say, is something she doesn’t think she can do for much longer.

She stands up, wobbles a bit on her unsteady ankle. Cassian rises immediately to steady to her, but she bats his hands away and grips her chair instead. “I’m fine, Cass. Really.”

“You’re not–”

“Captain Andor?”

Cassian swears softly and turns away from her to face the recruit. “Yes?”

“Draven’s requested your immediate presence in his office, sir.”

The girl salutes, then leaves the two of them in peace. Jyn locks her jaw and looks away from him. “You should go,” she says.

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” he replies softly. “Hey, Jyn, look at me.” He places a gentle hand on her cheek and turns her head to meet his gaze. She doesn’t resist. “I’ll be right back and we can walk together to meet Mothma, okay?”

“You don’t have to come back for me,” she insists, even though she knows it’s futile. He’s not one to leave her behind–he hadn’t on Jedha or Eadu, and he had her back after the Council meeting. “Just–just go. It’s fine.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. “I don’t have to. But I want to, okay? Just…” he looks around for a second, lets his hand fall from her cheek. She misses its warmth against her skin; Hoth is so, so cold. “Stay here. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, max. I promise I’ll be back.”

“Okay,” she nods, once, twice, maybe more than necessary. She doesn’t want to know what kind of emotions flash on her face as she speaks. “Okay. I’ll be here.”

He smiles at that as she sinks back into her chair, holding her empty cup of caf for lack of anything better to do with her hands. He leaves then, turning on his heel and leaving her alone in the mess hall.

So Jyn waits. What else is she supposed to do?

The walk to Draven’s office in a practice in self-restraint. The entire time, all he wants to do is turn around and go back to Jyn, despite having a direct order from his superior officer. He had seen the uncertainty in her eyes during their conversation and as much as he wanted to sway her decision, it’s something that she has to decide on her own. He respects her too much to try and manipulate her into joining.

(but he cares for her too much for her to try to stay out of it completely.)

Stars, he wishes she had the kind of drive he does for the Rebellion. Even if they couldn’t be together, he would at the very least be able to see her sometimes, and make sure she’s safe. He’s not saying that Jyn can’t take care of herself, because he knows that she can. He’s seen her in action and she doesn’t need anyone, least of all him, to protect her.

It’s for him. He’ll feel better if he knows that she’s with the Rebellion instead of on her own.

He knocks twice on Draven’s door then takes a step back, hands clasped behind his back in the perfect soldier’s parade rest. When Draven opens the door, he snaps into a crisp salute, despite the pain that jolts through his back at the sudden action. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“At ease, Captain Andor,” Draven replies, stepping aside for Cassian to enter in his office. As Cassian moves to take a seat across from Draven’s desk, Draven sinks in the chair on the other side. “I’ve read the briefing about your latest mission.”

“Yes, sir,” he nods. “It was a success, despite some small difficulties. Nothing Private Halos and I couldn’t handle though, sir. We got the data out with only minor injuries and I turned it into Command on our return, then reported to medical.” Although you already know that, considering I placed it in your hand when we landed.

“Hmm. Yes,” Draven muses, then leans forward. He props his elbows up on his knees when he speaks. “How is your leg, Captain?”

“It’s fine, sir,” Cassian lies smoothly, resisting the urge to shift in his chair. Truth is, it’s aching right now. “The medics tell me it’s healing nicely.”

“Despite what the medics say, I think it’s clear that you’re not ready to go out into the field yet. I can see that it still pains you.”

Cassian frowns, furrowing his brow. There’s no point in trying to hide it, not from an experienced spy sitting across from him. “Sir?”

“Your comments on Private Halos were very insightful,” Draven continues, seemingly unaware of Cassian’s confusion, but he knows it’s simply a tactic of Draven’s. The change of subject is effortless. “Care to elaborate, Captain?”

“Private Halos is good in the field, sir,” Cassian says slowly, uncertain as to where this conversation is going. “She’s efficient and thorough, even when compromised. She’s an Imperial defector, but now that that’s out in the open, it’s no longer should be an issue. I believe that a long term undercover mission would be best for her. She’s better at blending in plain sight than sneaking around. A change in identity would also make it more difficult in being recognized again, sir.”

Draven nods, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll keep your thoughts in mind, Captain.”

It’s silent for a couple of minutes. Draven thumbs through something on a data pad, ignoring the way how Cassian watches him. Cassian knows that he’s the one who has to make the first move, so he says, “Is that all, sir?”

“Nobody lives very long in this line of work, Captain,” he replies after a beat. “You know this. I’m long past my time and you’re one of my best agents.”

Cassian takes a breath, then releases it slowly. He thinks he now knows where this is going. “Sir–”

“With your injuries, it’s unlikely that you’ll be cleared for anything other than basic field work. And yet, I’ve seen what you given to the Rebellion. You’re not going to let a couple of broken bones keep you down, hmm? How would you feel about a promotion, Captain?”

“Force–that’s Jyn Erso, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Pretty sure that Captain Andor was the only one who came back from Scarif alive.”

“No, Tav saw her brought in her a couple of weeks ago on a stretcher. She was with Sergeant Dameron, I think. That’s got to be her.”

“Were you even there when she gave her speech to the Council?”

“No, but–”

“It’s not her. Tav is always making up stories to impress you. Remember when she claimed she had been scratched by a wampa but had actually been cut while she was trying to fix her shuttle?”

“I mean, yeah, but I’m pretty sure that’s Erso sitting over there. Wait, you think Tav’s trying to impress me? Do you think she likes me?”

“Don’t be an idiot–of course she does! And the whole Erso thing doesn’t matter, anyway. She looks pissed and we have to go to training.”

“You think she heard us?”

“It’s not even her. Stop worrying, Ami. If we have to run extra laps because you made us late, I’m going to kill you.”

All of his thoughts rush out of his head when Cassian breathes out, letting his eyes flutter shut for a second. He doesn’t focus on Jyn, or on his injuries, or on how bloody cold Hoth is. The only thing running through his brain is Draven’s words.

There’s a part of his mind that knows it will be close to impossible to go back into the field, but he’s disappointed to hear it nonetheless. He’s spent the better part of the past twenty years doing field work and a future not being able to do that doesn’t sound like one he’s interested in.

But if he has no other choice–

“You’re promoting me?” he says hoarsely. “For what?”

Draven doesn’t even comment on his lack of formalities. “You’re an exceptional soldier, Cassian. Minus a few exceptions, you’ve always followed orders. If anyone deserves a promotion, it’s you.”

That doesn’t answer his question. Letting out a shaky laugh, Cassian runs his fingers through his hair. “Right–I–”

“You don’t need to decide now, Cassian,” Draven interrupts smoothly, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “Just get back to me before the end of the day.”

There really isn’t a choice, is there? If he can’t go out in the field anymore, then why would he force himself to sit around and do paperwork for the rest of his life? At least when working with Draven he’ll have input in field missions instead.

(it’s the best option he has right now. they both know it. and they both know what he’s going to decide.)

“No, I want it,” he replies after a beat, then adds belatedly, “sir.”

“Congratulations on your promotion, Major Andor,” Draven replies, a small smile creeping over his face. “It will be announced officially tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” Cassian says, standing up from his chair. Draven holds out a hand to stop him. Cassian furrows his brow, “Sir, I have–”

He has to get back to Jyn. He made a promise to walk her to Mothma’s, and he’s not going to break it.

“Just a few more things, Major,” Draven says, and Cassian sits, albeit with guilt churning in his gut. “It won’t take long.”

He could, very easily, ignore Draven’s orders and go to Jyn. But he’s already gone rogue once and now that he’s been promoted–well, the Rebellion has to come first.

(it always does.)

He only hopes that Jyn can forgive him for being a little late.

Jyn waits.

She waits, and waits, and waits.

She watches recruits come and go, tracking their progress lazily as she eavesdrops on their conversations, resisting the urge to get up and smack sense into some of them.

The Rebellion isn’t a game, she wants to tell them. Good people have fought and died for the cause. This is not an opportunity to become a hero–it isn’t glorious to be a soldier.

(she knows that first hand.)

So she waits, fists clenched around her coffee cup, and tries not to draw attention to herself.

Cassian doesn’t come back.

She watches the chrono on the wall, watches how the hours tick by, and tries to make excuses for Cassian. Maybe he got caught up by Draven. Maybe there’s an urgent matter he needs to attend to. But as she sits there, alone, she finds it harder and harder to be patient.

Cassian doesn’t show up. He leaves her sitting alone in the middle of the mess, to be ridiculed like some animal in a cage–

No. It’s fine. She’s fine.

Why is she so upset? She shouldn’t be upset. It’s not really that big of a deal. The Rebellion comes first. It always does. And she understands that, she really does, it’s just–

Force, she’s really, really kriffing sick of being the second choice.

Whatever. It’s her own fault, really, for believing that maybe, just maybe, she could be the priority. It’s such a silly little thing, walking her to Mothma’s office, but he had promised and he’s not here and she’s alone. It’s not like Cassian left her all alone in a cave with a blaster and a pack of rations and told her he’d be back when it’s safe. He didn’t abandon her like Saw had but it stings all the same.

(she’s quickly learning that the only person who’ll put her first is herself.)

She knows for a fact that a small promise can turn into something much larger. Galen’s promise–”whatever I do, I do it to protect you”–had turned into him abandoning her for fifteen years only to die in her arms. Saw’s promise–”I will always protected you, my child”–had turned into him leaving her alone in a bunker after eight years of being her foster father.

Cassian’s promise–“I’ll walk you there?”–is going to turn into what, exactly? She doesn’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out.

As she pushes herself up from the table, she doesn’t know why her eyes are watering. She dashes away the tears with the back of her hand angrily and clenches her jaw so hard it creaks. It’s fine. She’s fine. She shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up for some silly little walk.

(stars, when did she get so weak? is it the waiting that bothers her, or the fact that she’s getting closer and closer to cassian she can’t help but push him away?)

So Jyn does what she does best when she feels like this, caged in and powerless. She runs.

The walk to Mothma’s office is brief. When she nearly barrels down the door, the Senator only raises an eyebrow and beckons her in, as if she had been expecting her. “Ah, Miss Erso. Come in.”

“Senator,” Jyn acknowledges, then cuts to the chase. She’s never been one for simple pleasantries. The decision is easy now that it feels as if a vice is gripping her heart. “I’ve made my decision. I want out. You promised at the beginning of this that if I did what you asked, my name would be cleared and I’d have a ride out of here, yeah? I’m leaving.”

“Are you quite sure?” Mothma leans forward, looking slightly alarmed. It’s clear that the senator had expected her to stay. Still, Jyn grits her teeth and turns her head, not wanting to meet Mothma’s eyes. “You’re a capable fighter, Jyn. The Rebellion would benefit from having you on our side.”

“I’m not friend of the Empire’s,” Jyn replies evenly, jerking her chin upwards, “but the Rebellion has done nothing for me or my family. This–” she shakes her head. “This is not something I want to be apart of.”

Her father’s face as he dies flashes in her mind. She clenches her fists and tries not to remember the pain in his eyes. That had been the Rebellion’s fault.

(even cassian had almost killed him.)

Jyn thinks she sees a flash of disappointment in Mothma’s eyes, but the other woman nods nonetheless. “Very well. You’ll have your ship. I’ll make preparations for the morning.”

“No,” Jyn argues. “I want to leave now. I don’t care where I go or who I fly with, I just need to leave.” Her voice cracks on the last note. She swallows, trying to regain her composure.

Mothma raises her brows. For a moment, Jyn thinks she’s going to deny her, but then she says, “General Solo is flying out tonight to Coruscant. I can tell him to expect company, if you’d like?”

“That’s fine,” Jyn bites out. She turns on her heel, pauses with a “thank you” on her lips, but she doesn’t say it. The Alliance doesn’t deserve her thanks. They never have and they never will.

She nods to herself once, then raises her chin high. With as much dignity as she can muster up, she limps out of Mothma’s office and heads to the hangar bay.

Han Solo is waiting for her in the hangar bay. Jyn doesn’t know exactly what he looks like, but the wookie and the piece of shit ship–that she had last seen Lando Calrissian piloting–behind him only confirm her assumptions.

He swaggers up to her, hands in his pockets, and makes no move hiding how he looks her up and down. She crosses her arms over her chest defensively. “You must be Erso,” he says finally, meeting her gaze. “And you’re late.”

“Wasn’t aware I was supposed to meet you at a certain time,” she replies hotly, puffing out her chest to make herself look taller.

“Hmph,” is all he replies. “I was supposed to leave ten minutes ago. You’re holding me back, kid.”

“If you have an issue, take it up with Mothma,” she mutters, pushing Solo aside so she can get to his ship. He snags her wrist with his arm and forces her to spin around. “What now?”

“You’re a lot shorter than I imagined,” he muses, tugging her closer to him. She rips her arm out of his grip with a snarl, but he only holds his hands up with a grin. “How’d someone your size manage to steal the Death Star plans?”

She takes a step toward him, waves her finger in his face, which makes him smirk. “Your ego’s just as large as I imagined, Solo,” she snaps, poking him in the chest. With that, she spins on her heel and turns away, and he doesn’t stop her.

“Don’t go messing with any of my things, kid!” he hollers after her, and Jyn makes a note to steal the first bottle of booze she comes across. If Solo’s going to act like this the entire trip, there’s no way in hell she’s going to make it through sober.

There hadn’t been a need for her to go back to her temporary room before coming to the hangar bay. She doesn’t have anything that belongs to her right now–the clothes on her back are Rebellion issued and her kyber crystal is long gone, taken by Krennic when he had captured her. Just thinking about his creeping fascination with her family leaves a sick feeling in her stomach.

(when she sees him again, she is going to rip him apart, limb by kriffing limb.)

The wookie growls at her when she approaches the ship and extends a hand. Solo is hot on her heels, opening his mouth to presumably translate, but Jyn cuts him off and says, “I’m Jyn Erso. Nice to meet you.”

Solo looks gobsmacked, jaw dropping while Chewbacca lets out a celebratory roar, clapping her on the back with a little more force than necessary. “You can understand him?”

“Some,” she admits, speaking over her shoulder as she walks up the ramp to the Falcon. She doesn’t remember exactly where she learned it. There had been a wookie she had smuggled with for a time on the Outer Rim, so she suspects she had learned a little from her. “Live on your own long enough you start to pick up a few things. And close your mouth, Solo, or you’ll catch flies.”

The interior of the Falcon is considerably nicer than the outside, but that doesn’t improve her opinion of the ship. It’s a means to an end, not her home for the next couple of years. Once Solo drops her off, she’ll be free of the Alliance.

(and cassian. she ignores the way that makes her stomach drop.)

“Well, go make yourself comfortable,” Solo says with his hands on his hips and following her through the cargo bay as if he’s unsure what to do with her. She wonders just how many missions he’s flown with someone other than Chewbacca. “Chewie and I have to finish the preflight checks and then we’re out of here.”

He pauses in the doorway to the cockpit, then says, “Just what kind of business do you have in Coruscant, kid?”

“Nothing important,” she replies evenly, sinking onto a bench in the corner of the cargo bay. She stretches out of her throbbing ankle in front of her. “Don’t you have a ship to fly, Solo?”

“It’s ‘sir,’ actually,” he says offhandedly, leaning up against a wall. “Pretty sure I outrank you, Erso.”

She leans her head up against the wall and closes her eyes, the picture of indifference despite the churning in her gut. “Does it matter? I’m not a part of this kriffing Rebellion.”

Solo snorts and turns away. Once she hears his footsteps leave the room, she cracks open an eye to make sure she’s alone, then leans forward and rests her heavy head in her hands.

Is this the right decision?

Perhaps she had been too hasty. Maybe she could stay one more night, let Cassian explain and convince her to stay, to seduce her to both the cause and–

A sharp stab of pain lances through her ankle when she tries to stand, grounding her thoughts back into reality. There’s no place for her in the Rebellion, not after what they’ve done to her and her family, and there’s no love for daughters of Imperial scientists in the Alliance. There’s nothing for her on Hoth–there’s no one here for her on Hoth.

(but does she really believe that?)

Krennic had said that Vader had wanted to interrogate her himself, so she can only assume that the Star Destroyer she escaped from had continued on to Coruscant after she escaped. It’s likely that Krennic’s been punished for her absence, but if she’s lucky, he’s high-ranking enough that Vader would have let him live despite the mistake.

If she’s lucky, then she’ll finally have her revenge.

It’s a small chance, at best. She knows what Vader does to those who’ve failed him, but if he’s alive, she’ll stop at nothing to kill him herself. Her parents deserve to be avenged. Krennic deserves to die. She clenches her hands into fists, nails biting into her palms.

If she dies too, so be it.

(she hopes they won’t tell cassian, when she’s gone. she hopes they’ll save him the pain.)

After that, she doesn’t know what she’ll do. Becoming Liana or Tanith or Kestrel again isn’t an option, and Jyn Erso is bound to have just as many enemies as her other aliases do. She’ll have to start over and make a new life for herself. Maybe she’ll take up smuggling again, or head towards Takodana to see if Maz and any other of the Partisans had survived. If she can manage to survive, it seems as if her possibilities are endless.

(except, of course, staying and fighting with the rebellion.)

It should comfort her, knowing that she can do practically anything. But for some reason, for some kriffing reason, it feels as if there’s a blade been driven oh so slowly right through her heart.

Draven keeps him longer than Cassian wants, but there’s nothing he can do unless he wants to go against his superior officer. He’s gone rogue once already, and Draven’s warned him of the consequences if he does it again. If he’s to break the rules, it’s going to for a damn good reason.

(he’d break the rules to save jyn in a heartbeat.)

As soon as Draven dismisses him, he’s headed back toward the mess hall to find Jyn. A quick glance at a nearby chrono tells him that he’s desperately late, so he hastens his stride despite his aching leg. But when he gets to their table, Jyn is gone.

“Stars,” he hisses out, running his fingers through his hair. He glances about the mess, before walking out. She must have gone to Mothma’s without him–Force, he remembers the look on her face when they had talked and he can only assume the worst–

Maybe he can beat her there and try to convince her otherwise. But even as he starts to hurry, he knows that even with her ankle, Jyn’s still much faster than he is in this condition. It’s possible he can catch her on her way out. If he can, he can escort her to her rooms or–or he can escort her to the hangar bay. Either way, he’s going to walk her somewhere.

(this is all in the situation that he finds her before she leaves. if she’s leaving.

he thinks that maybe she will.)

“Major Andor–”

“Not now, your Highness,” he blurts out, still moving forward despite the hand wrapped around his arm. He barely looks in her direction despite her higher status. “I have to be somewhere right away–”

“You’re looking for Jyn Erso,” she says, eyes blazing. It’s not a fact.

He stops, turns to face her. “How–”

“I can tell,” she replies offhandedly, waving a hand absently in his direction. “I’ve seen you look at her the same way Luke looks at Wedge.”

Interesting. He files away that development, then asks cautiously, “So you and Han–”

She shoots him a look so deadly he shuts his mouth immediately, then starts pulling him in the other direction. Cassian doesn’t resist, just picks up his pace. “Han was complaining that he had an extra passenger on his flight to Coruscant on Mothma’s orders. Some war hero, he said,” Leia rolls her eyes, tugging him forward again. “That scruffy nerfherder wouldn’t know a war hero if one slapped him in the face!”

“Your Highness,” he tries, pulling his arm out of her grip gently. He thinks he knows where this is going. “If you know something about Jyn…”

“Point is, she’s in the hangar bay right now,” she replies. “So let’s get a move on before the Falcon takes off, hmm?”

Cassian shoots her a sideways look, mouth tugging upwards in amusement. He didn’t realize just how much he missed this, bickering and all. And despite the time constraint, he can’t help but quip as they hurry down the hallway, “You do realize that my leg isn’t exactly, ah, up to Alliance standards right now, yes?”

“Please,” she scowls. “If there’s anyone you’d break your leg running to, it’s Jyn Erso.”

“I’d break my leg for you, your Highness,” he offers with a slight chuckle, but she just pushes him forward into the hangar bay with exaggerated exasperation.

“Go,” she urges, and he needs no further motivation to jog out toward the Falcon. “I’ll distract Han while you talk to Jyn.” By distract, Cassian knows she means start an argument, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it’s going to end up in what’s likely to be an explosive fight.

“Jyn!” he calls out, not caring who hears him. She’s not outside the ship, so he goes up the ramp to look for her on the inside. That’s where he finds her–sitting in the cargo bay with her head in one hand, and a bottle of rum dangling from her fingers in the other.

“Solo, I swear–” she looks up, glaring, then falters. Her eyes widen in shock, and her mouth opens and then closes, then opens again to say incredulously, “Cassian? What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t walk you to Mothma’s,” he says, taking a step closer. Jyn shoots up to her feet, so he holds his hands up and stops, approaching her as if she were a wounded animal. She certainly looks like one, hands balled up into fists, jaw clenched and looking away from him, dark bags underneath her eyes. He stops, looks around the ship and then nods, once. “You’re leaving.”

She bites her lip, still not looking at him. He can still see the uncertainty in her eyes. “I–I’m sorry,” she blurts out, meeting his gaze. “I should have–”

He shakes his head. “No, Jyn, you don’t have to apologize. It was your decision to make.” A decision that leaves his gut sinking, but her decision nonetheless. “I just…I wanted to say goodbye.” He flounders, takes a step back towards the ramp. “Before you, ah, left. That’s all.”

The sounds of the princess and Solo arguing can be heard even inside the Falcon, but neither of them pay it any mind. “Goodbye,” she manages, jerking her chin upwards as if to make herself look bigger. If Cassian’s vision isn’t mistaken, there’s something shining in her eyes. “Goodbye, Cassian.”

“Right,” he says back, though takes a step forward despite his words. This is all he came to do, and yet he can’t seem to make himself leave the Falcon. Instead, he searches for words, for the right thing to say to her, but only manages to repeat himself. “Right.”

(why the hell can’t he say what he really wants to tell her?)

“You should go,” she says softly, eyes trained on the floor. “Wouldn’t want to miss any important Rebellion business, yeah?”

He can’t hear Solo and Leia anymore, and he has a sinking suspicion that Han is going to walk up the ramp any second, so Cassian panics, blurting out, “Or you could stay.”

Jyn freezes, her head snapping up and her eyes finding his. She looks alarmed, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. “What?”

“Just for the night,” he amends quickly, holding up his hands once again. “You don’t have to, but–”

“Cassian…” she pauses, bites her lip. Uncertainty flashes in her eyes. “I…”

“If you still want to leave, I’ll fly you out myself tomorrow,” he promises, even though he knows Draven will never allow it. Still–it’s for Jyn. One last act of rebellion, right?

“Okay,” she says, nodding too quickly for it to look natural. Her easy acceptance startles him, though it shouldn’t have, not with the way she’s been acting. “Just for the night.”

“You can stay in my room,” he offers quietly, still not wanting to scare her off. She looks uncertain, but still takes a step forward. “I don’t have any roommates, and–I have my own ‘fresher. Officer perks.”

“Say no more,” she says, smiling hesitantly. He wonders when she’s last taken a hot shower, especially one with real water. “I’m in.”

“All right,” Cassian replies, for lack of anything else to say. There’s something to be said about an Intelligence officer who can barely talk to another soldier without fumbling. “Let’s get going, then.”

(though, if he’s being honest, jyn’s not just another soldier.)

As they walk out of the cargo bay together, Solo walks up the ramp, hands jammed in his pockets and whistling. He pauses when he sees them, head snapping first to Jyn and then to him. “So you’re leaving, kid?” he demands, whirling back on her. “After you’ve made me late and everything?”

Cassian opens his mouth to retort, but Jyn’s got it covered. “Thanks for the rum, Solo,” she calls over her shoulder instead, still walking forward and holding the bottle above her head like a trophy. As Solo splutters something unintelligible behind them, she turns to the wookie and says, “See you around, Chewie.”

The wookie roars back, but Cassian can’t understand him. As they make their way out of the hangar bay, he makes a mental note to learn Shyriiwook.

Jyn perches on his bed uncomfortably, while he leans up against the desk across from her. She doesn’t hide the way she looks him over–the hunched shoulders and bruised eyes make her wonder when he slept last. She folds farther inward on herself, realizing that some of this strain, some of the weight on his shoulders is because of her.

The bottle she’d stolen from Solo hangs from her hands. She looks at it absently, then sets it gingerly on the floor next to the bed. For some reason, she really doesn’t feel like drinking anymore.

His room is cleared of personal effects, though she hadn’t expected any. It’s clean and organized, almost sterile. It looks as if it has barely been lived in, making her wonder just how much Cassian uses it. There’s a door in the corner which must lead to the ‘fresher he promised, and a small desk pushed up against the wall across from the bed. The desk is covered in both data pads and paper files, but they’re stacked in neat, meticulous piles. Besides the bed, desk, and chair, the only other thing in the room is a pair of crutches, propped up on the wall near the door. In the time she’s spent on Echo Base, she hasn’t seen him use them once. Numbly, she realizes they’re probably from his post-Scarif recovery.

(if they had been together, if they had healed together, things between them probably would be a lot different right now.)

“I’m sorry,” he says bleakly, running his hand through his hair. “I broke my promise. I kept you waiting and I should have come sooner. It’s just–”

Jyn shakes her head, wrapping her arms across her stomach protectively. There’s a sudden, phantom pain from the vibroblade scar on her stomach. “I get it. The Rebellion comes first to you. It always has, and it always will.”

“Don’t, Jyn,” he mutters, taking a step closer to her. She sees the anguish flashing in his eyes, and guilty, she turns away. “Don’t go there.”

“Why not?” she snaps, narrowing her eyes. “It’s the truth. We both know it.”

“I’ve given my whole life to the Rebellion!” he grits out, voice rising on each note. She thinks this is the closest he’s ever gotten to yelling in front of her. “There is nothing left for me other than this. The Rebellion comes first–it comes first because it’s all I have.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way! Cassian, you have me. You’ll always have me, I just–I–”

She just what? Decided to abandon him? Stars, it’s always about her, isn’t it? She forgets, sometimes, that the world doesn’t revolve around her. She takes and takes and takes because she’s so used to receiving nothing that she doesn’t know what to do when she takes too much.

Cassian’s kindness, for example.

(maybe she deserves to be abandoned.)

“You tried to leave, Jyn,” he says bitterly, throwing up his hands. “If I hadn’t made it to the hangar bay in time, you’d be in hyperspace right now. And I’m not trying to convince you to stay–that’s a decision you have to make. But don’t say that I have you when that’s clearly not the truth.”

It couldn’t be closer to the truth.

“Cass,” she cuts in, voice heavy, “don’t. Don’t please. You–” she breaks off, clenches her fists in her lap. She wants to punch something; her fingers flex unconsciously. “Force, the two of us–we’re really something, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, albeit it shakily. It breaks the mood from earlier, and he joins her on the bed. They don’t touch, but the small amount of empty space between them is charged with a tension she doesn’t want to identify. “Yeah, we really are.”

“I tried to leave,” she starts, choking on her words, “because I was afraid. Cassian–what I feel for you–” she exhales, unable to put it into words. “It scares me because it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way.”

Cassian fills in the blanks so she doesn’t have to, his voice devoid of any emotion. “So when I was late, you left me before I could leave you.”

“I’m sorry,” she breathes out. “It’s such a small thing, being late, but I used it as an excuse. You hadn’t done anything, but running is all I know how to do.” Her voice cracks, but she continues. She owes him this. “I was afraid and I ran at…at the first sign you–”

He puts her out of her misery then, drawing her closer to him by wrapping an arm around her shoulder. She leans into his embrace, wiping tears out of her eyes with the back of her free hand. “Promises like that…promises saying you’re here and that you’ll never leave me–Saw, and my father…”

“Jyn,” he says softly, pulling her in tighter. His thumb strokes small circles into her arm. “I can’t promise I’ll never leave you. There’s too many variables, especially in my line of work,” he sighs heavily, rubbing his forehead with his free hand.

“I don’t expect you to,” she’s quick to interrupt. That’s not the point of this, to drag empty promises out of him. All she wants is to explain. “Cassian–”

“Shhh,” he shushes her, though not unkindly. “But I can promise that I won’t leave you if I have a choice. I’d go against orders to come back for you, I’d…” he smiles at a joke only between the two of them, “I’d go rogue again for you. I’m with you, remember?”

“I can’t ask you to promise that,” she whispers, bowing her head. If he promises that, then he’ll break it. Despite all of the times he’s come for her, it’s just what she knows–broken promises, abandonment, living a life where the only one person she can trust is herself.

(it’s a sad way to live, but at least she’s alive. but she doesn’t think she wants to live that way anymore.)

“Then trust me,” he says simply, reaching over to tilt her chin up and meet his eyes. “Trust me when I say that I’ll always do my best to come back for you.”

“Trust goes both ways,” she murmurs, nodding in agreement. The last time she had said those words to him, it had been under considerably different circumstances. “I can do that,” she replies softly, then adds, “And trust me not to run. If you stay–I’m not going to leave.”

“I trust you,” he replies, in the same tone of voice. “And I–I don’t do this, normally. I’ve never done it with anyone.” He laughs self-consciously, turning his head to hide the flush creeping up his cheeks. “But I’d like to try. With you. I don’t think I could–the way I feel about you, Jyn, I can’t lose you.”

Her heart flips in her chest. She blinks, then gapes at him slightly. Despite the obvious signs she’s been ignoring, it’s almost relieving to hear him say it out loud.

“I’d like that,” she says softly. He turns his face back towards her, smiling softly, then presses a small kiss to the top of her head. “I don’t normally do this either. You know, getting close to other people.” She shifts closer to him, ignore her impulse to distance herself. “But I’d like to try it with you too.”

(she’s never done anything more than a quick fuck in an alleyway. it should scare her, the thought of loving someone and potentially losing them, but it doesn’t. instead, the anxiety that’s been filling her gut ever since she got here suddenly evaporates.)

This almost reminds her the time she had tried to build some sort of puzzle with her father. She’s never been the most patient, and that had been apparent in her inability to finish the puzzle in one sitting. When she had come back to it, a lot of the pieces had been missing, leaving gaping holes in what was supposed to be a complete image.

What she’s feeling now–it’s as if Cassian’s one of those lost pieces. She’s not completely fixed, there’s still holes and missing parts, but something inside of her has been filled through both her confession and her admission of her feelings.

She thinks she’s finally beginning to heal.

“Does that mean you’re going to stay tonight?” Cassian says softly, hesitantly, looking at her as if she’s about to run. His grip around her shoulder tightens ever so slightly, as if the strength in his arms alone can keep her next to him.

“I think I’ll stick around,” she responds, going for an offhanded reply, but they both hear what goes unspoken: I think I’ll be staying tonight and every other night after that, if you’ll have me.

Cassian buries his face in her neck as soon as she speaks, pulling her into a hug. He smells faintly of blaster residue and sandalwood. “I’ve missed you, Jyn,” he whispers into her skin, lips brushing her neck faintly. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Her fingers bunch in the back of his parka, twining around the fabric. “Me too,” she replies, her voice cracking. There’s tears in her eyes but it doesn’t matter, not when Cassian can’t see her face. “I’ve missed being home.”

He lets out a ragged breath and tries to curl tighter against her. To both of them, it seems, home isn’t a place.

It’s a person.

[julia-cross]

WHO: Julia Cross and Lex Stovall @lexstovall

WHAT: Lex brings Julia the news that they might be sisters

WHEN: Friday morning, 7/5

Lex

The day before had been nothing short of stressful, with the attack on Julia, the discussions it had sparked, and the anger it had incited in some of her peers. It seemed that it’d affected her more than she cared to admit publicly, and ever the moderate, thought that she could have a civil conversation. That was quickly proven wrong, so she’d retreated, to let things sort themselves out, and had halted the conversation with the lawyer. Hoping to have a relaxing night while the rest of the city celebrated with a dangerous combination of fireworks and alcohol, she settled in and was interrupted by a call from an unknown number. The exchange didn’t last very long and left Lex reeling with a pit settling into her stomach. With that news in the back of mind, she strode through the hall of the hospital to get to Julia’s room, relieved to find her sitting up and at least somewhat awake. Sucking in a sharp breath, she went to sit in the chair provided for visitors, setting her purse by her feet. There was going to be no easy way to do this, especially with Julia’s own comments in response to hers the previous night. She stayed silent for a moment, just taking it in, and looking over the damage that was visible. “I can’t stay long.”

Julia

The night was long, an in and out of morphine, pain, nurses visiting and Olivia's fussing. Julia had settled eventually but it wasn't easy and certainly didn't stop her unrest from seeping into her thoughts and her sleep, the image of Freddie James's face, of Cain and his hands on her throat and the rage in his eyes. She'd stirred somewhere between terror and guilt since the attack, buried in Olivia's comfort and the kind concerns of her friends that she'd answered with as much apathy as was manageable -- although it wasn't much. Being apathetic at times like this was nearly impossible despite her best efforts. Julia half expected and half didn't expect to blink open weary eyes to find Lex coming into her room. Their friendship was often tenuous at best, argumentative, and yet drawn to concern for some reason Julia didn't really understand. As though they were two sides of a matched coin, able to entirely understand one another and then entirely not at the same time. A small smile tugged at one corner of her mouth, "course not," she shrugged. "But I'm glad you came."

Lex

Lex returned the small smile with one of her own, but her hands were still clasped tightly and nervously in her lap. If she let herself give in to the roiling anxiety in her stomach, she knew her leg would shake or she’d rub at the leather strap of her purse and wouldn’t be able to stop. She had to rein in her thoughts, and make sure to think before she spoke. This wouldn’t be a good time to flub her words or stutter, like she was so prone to doing in person when things got too heated or her brain wanted to move faster than her mouth could form the words. Sucking in a breath, she let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “You know me. Busy bee.” She flinched at the attempt at humor and shook her head. That wasn’t why she was here, it wasn’t a cordial visit. Though she was concerned and wanting to check in, there was still the thing just beneath the surface, stirring until she unleashed it and gave it a voice. But that wasn’t the only thing-- their entire relationship was so delicate that literally anything could break it beyond repair. “I wanted to check in. See how the recovery was going. The usual things.”

Julia

There was something tense in Lex's posture, in the way she talked, something that Julia had noticed before as well, like there was something wrong. But she didn't want to ask again. Julia knew things had gotten tense, knew that even what she and Lex could say to each other was sometimes had to navigate. The one good bit of news was that Olivia had stepped out for a little while, otherwise Julia wasn't sure this visit would be going as cordial as she and Lex would both like. Julia fought with everyone, but there was something about Lex, about the way she'd come to her house, the way they'd talked about books, that made Julia not want to. "It's fine. They said they'll let me have a milkshake today which really changes the game. Guess they were .. worried about abdominal trauma. Olivia's stayed here most of the time, Amira's being Amira. It's as good as it can be. How are you?"

Lex

The nonchalant tone that Julia used made her roll her eyes. Back to normal, she supposed. But she couldn’t help the smile that pulled at her lips and the chuckle that rumbled in the back of her throat. “That would make sense. Doctors do tend to know what’s going on.” Lex tapped her own nose, her smile coming a little easier as she spoke. It was easier to pretend it was nothing, it seemed. “That sounds about right for the both of them. They seem to come to your rescue, though I would appreciate they were able to dial back their aggression towards me--- even if I do understand why.” She took in another deep breath through her nose and pushed some of her hair out of her face, just to have something to do with her hands that wasn’t white-knuckling her chair. “Well, that’s a question and a half. Let’s go with physically fine, for the moment.” She let that linger between them for a beat, then continued. “I got a call from your grandparents last night.”

Julia

"If we're being honest, it's all a little unexpected on my end too. Sometimes I want to tell them they have the wrong guy, you know? But I guess it's good they're in my corner. If it wasn't for Amira, I'd still be in prison. She's spent years tying to convince people to listen to her about me. I think it's just habit now. She's smart though, like you." Julia knew they didn't agree on many things, and she got the feeling Lex and Amira didn't either. But it wasn't uncommon, for people to not get it, for people in power with privilege to not see how it was stacked in their favor. She had no plans to argue her and Lex's difference in opinions into the floor. Julia shifted in her bed, adjusting her IVs for the ten thousandth time but her eyes shot up at the next words out of Lex's mouth. "My --  what? Why?" Her grandparents were not involved, not ever. They'd send one birthday card when she was in prison and contacted Amira about her being able to stay in their New Eden house for the time being. "How did they even get your number?"

Lex

“Yes, it is always good to have someone in your corner. It helps.” But Lex did raise an eyebrow as she spoke about Amira, staring at her phone as if Julia could sense the texts between them from just a few hours before. She sucked her teeth, and chose not to continue on towards that topic of Olivia and Amira. It would only lead towards tension and an upset to the balance they’ve created. But it seemed that would be the case regardless of what she said. Lex almost laughed, but reigned herself in and just pursed her lips. “My work number is public knowledge. All someone has to do is call the hospital to get my extension or look up neurosurgeons in New Eden. In any case, I was asked if I could keep an eye on you, considering your.. predicament.” She closed her eyes and tried to slow down and resorted to talking in her more stilted, professional tone she might use to deliver bad news to a patient.

Julia

"Yeah, and Olivia's the bossiest person I know so it's an aded bonus." Julia shrugged. It probably wasn't best to get into talking about any of this again. Lex would wind up warning her about what she should and shouldn't do with her. Julia would wind up opening her big mouth to say they'd already slept together. She put it away, concentrated on playing with her IV a little more, and then the edge of the blankets. "Are you serious?" Julia almost felt a little comforted, like maybe they cared after all, but she tried not to let her eyes light up too much at the thought. "That doesn't make sense. They wouldn't have cared if Covington fried me."

Lex

Lex almost felt bad when she saw the slight bit of emotion on her face, and there was more to say. She had to pick her words carefully here. Make sure that she let out just the right amount of information so as to not upturn her world. Like hers had been. Rubbing her hands against her thighs, she nodded. “Very serious. They-- Well, they-- I..” She took a deep breath to settle herself, frustrated at her tongue not cooperating as it should. After a moment, she continued. “I asked them that. Yes, I asked them why they couldn’t. Considering they’re your blood and all and should, and I.. they. They.” Another deep breath and Lex rubbed at the bridge of her nose, eyebrows knitting together. When she spoke again it was deliberate and stilted, almost emotionless so as to get the words out. “I was informed.. that we are also family. There was a brief threat to my reputation as a doctor, and that I should be invested in the things you do.”

Julia

"Well, that's where you're wrong," Julia mumbled under her breath. But she didn't keep going. Her grandparents were powerful dominants who had money and respect and cared a lot about their family name. They'd not been pleased when their daughter fell in love with a switch, especially not a nearly homeless one with an anger streak almost ten years her junior, and especially not when she'd gotten pregnant wth his child. "Wait -- what? hold on. Someone give me some more of those liquids so I can do a spit take." The joke came out before her mind could catch up with anything else, but Julia's eyes were wide and fixed on Lex. "What does that even mean?"

Lex

When Lex finally looked back up, Julia’s attempt at humor wasn’t met with any smile or laugh, only a blank face. Her jaw worked back and forth. “I had the same reaction. We.. we didn’t talk for very long. And as I said, it was vaguely threatening and less of a casual conversation to let someone know something.” Her posture was now slouched, looking almost as if she wanted to curl in on herself and disappear. Funny how those feelings never go away with age. “They also weren’t very thorough in their explanation, and there was a sense of.. that I should be involved or contacted or what have you because we shared a mother. And as such, am directly related to them.”

Julia

Julia's mind was already swarming with questions, about what this could mean, why it was happening, what they wanted Lex to do, why they'd have threatened her reputation at all or what that meant. Her eyes glanced nervously out at the hallway, like something was suddenly changing, like this made things different, even if it didn't. "So they think .. you should be concerned about my ... predicament that you should be concerned about your reputation?" She said it slow like she doesn't understand but it makes total sense. Julia nodded. "Sounds like them." A pause passed before she shook her head and looked back at Lex. "You have a mother. I have a mother. They're not the same mother, Lex. That doesn't make sense."

Lex

There was really no way to explain it better, so when Julia parroted her own words back at her, Lex couldn’t help the flinch. “As in.. not protect you, but make sure you stay out of trouble and not plaster your face all over the news. Which, we both know this was not your fault.” She gestured to Julia, laying in the bed. “It doesn’t make sense. I’m not sure I fully believe it myself. But according to them, they are. My only reaction is to obviously have some sort of testing done to prove it. But only if you want.”

Julia

All Julia could do is roll her eyes and shake her head. Not at Lex but at her grandparents, at the world they lived in. "Little late," she laughed mirthlessly. "They're always afraid I'm going to damage their reputation. I don't have their name. I have my dad's and frankly neither do you. So they can butt out. There's nothing I'd love more than to not have my face plastered all over the news but --" Julia stopped herself. This wasn't going to help, pent up rage and hurt feelings about her grandparents wasn't the real issue here. "Sure." she answered slowly, sinking back down a little from her brief burst of frustration. "If you want, I think that's fine. It's fine right? Safe and everything?"

Lex

She let her speak, trying to listen while letting it wash over her. There was nothing she could do about it, nothing she could do about her grandparents or the blood in her veins. She was caught up in this just as much as anyone else. But Lex still didn’t understand how it was for Julia. Just as Julia wouldn’t understand just how bad Lex’s home life had been. Some things, now, she supposed could be explained. Like how angry her “mother” had been with her all the time. The way she’d been yanked and slapped and kicked and.. She took in a shaky breath. “It’s safe. It’s just a DNA test. Nearly the same as getting your mark. I’ll schedule the appointment.” In her mind, there was nothing left to say, but everything left to think about-- so she picked her purse up and crossed the room to say goodbye. After some awkward hesitation, she leaned over to kiss Julia’s forehead. “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Julia

Julia nodded, trusting Lex's decision on the matter to the best of her ability. Now that the option was there, she wanted an answer, wanted to know for sure. Because if Lex was her sister, things were different. If Lex was her sister she wasn't alone, at least not entirely. Julia had to try not to think about the tiny bit of hope that sprung up in her chest at the thought. "Sure," she nodded, trying to keep that feeling down, trying to not let it show through on her face. "Tomorrow."