#the way Blanche speaks in both versions is so annoying but you get used to it

[howdidigetsowrong]

Just watched two versions of the streetcar name desire. Both the 1951 movie and the 2014 National Theater run. Jesus fuuuuck.

[pastrydragon]

Accent, speech pattern and Voice headcanons for the Gotham Rogues.

Riddler

In casual settings, Eddie has a slight New Jersey accent and cusses with the frequency you would expect from that.

He almost always has perfect grammar and has a very impressive vocabulary.

But there are some situations where "Fuck" just does not have a suitable replacement.

When he's going against Batman, The Riddler adopts a more trans Atlantic accent since it goes with his gameshow aesthetic.

Also since a LOT of his schemes are publicly televised he doesn't want to cuss on camera or forget to project his voice.

So adopting a different accent helps his brain remember how to act on camera so he can always appear classy.

Edward's voice is a bit more high and nasally than average, but not to an annoying degree. It's not particularly unique either. So if he remembers so change his voice slightly then he can make a phone call to anywhere and they won't recognize him.

Emotional variations include his accent getting thicker when he's angry or exhausted.

Scarecrow

John has a very rural Georgian accent.

Scarecrow: The Master Of Fear has a rather dramatic way of speaking due to his love of classic literature and poetry.

His years in academia have also left him with a very intellectual and scientific vocabulary.

John speaks with a kind of intensity and eloquence that you'd expect on a stage rather than at the front of a classroom.

A smooth baritone only enhances the effect.

Had he not been a professor, he would have made a killing as a raidio star or television narrator.

John only breaks out Southernisms when he's embarrassed. "Well I never!" "Why I outta-" he also stammers when embarrassed. otherwise his speech patterns don't have noticeable emotional variation except the ones he puts there.

Mad Hatter

Jervis has a strong Bristol accent. Which is an English accent that strongly pronounces R's and tends to slap an L at the end of words that should end in a vowel.

The classic example is Opera'l instead of Opera.

His voice is naturally high and soft, often making him sound much more indulgent toward others than he's actually feeling.

Although he does quote the Alice books often, he does not quote longer passages exactly unless he's having an episode.

The rest of the time he'll change them to fit what's happening or merely reference them.

If he's feeling particularly lucid and cheery, you may not even hear mention of the books at all.

Stress will cause longer more accurate quotes and chip at his lucidity along the way.

His only other emotional variation comes out when he's feeling flirtatious.

Jervis's voice tends to get more breathy and cooing around people he likes. He also goes harder on his R's giving some words a purr like sound.

Harley Quinn

We all know and love our girl Harley's Brooklyn accent.

Honestly I can't make an improvement on the BTAS version so scroll down.

Poison Ivy

Pam has a Virginian accent. It's the kind of southern bell accent you'd associate with Blanche Devereux.

Pair that with a voice like a lounge singer and everything that comes out of her mouth sounds sexy.

Even when she doesn't want it to.

It's actually pretty annoying for her.

Unlike John she uses plenty of southernisms such as "I Reckon" "Over yonder" and of course the venom filled "Bless your heart."

Catwomen

The Miami accent is strong on this women, and it tells you exactly why she moved to Gotham.

You can't wear all black leather in the kind of weather Florida's got.

Miami heat isn't sweet to everyone.

Being a second generation Cuban immigrant, she speaks Spanish fluently and while she speaks both it and English seamlessly she has run into one glitch.

She will occasionally forget whether a turn of phrase was originally English or Spanish.

She called John a dancing skeleton once and no one has let it die. From Esqueleto rumbero- Literally: Dancing skeleton, Meaning: Very thin.

Her actual voice is a pretty standard alto. Like Ed, as long as she disguises her accent she can basically call wherever without being recognized.

Another rogue that hits their R's harder while flirting. But it's less a seductive purr and more an "Oh, I'm being HUNTED" kind of sound to hear.

Bane

Bane is directly from Venezuela and has the accent to match.

His English is phenomenal for someone who's only been speaking it a few years but it's not always perfect.

Whenever he doesn't know or forgets the word for something he'll describe it using other words until the other person figures it out for him.

For example, this interaction between him and Riddler: "I need the office knives." "... I'm sorry, what?" "The office knives, with the holes in the handle." "Hmmm, is the answer perhaps scissors?" "YES! I need the scissors!"

Edward is the grand champion of figuring out what Bane is saying if Catwomen or Music Meister isn't there to translate the word from Spanish.

Bane has a naturally loud and deep voice which can make him sound aggressive even when he's not trying to be. His size doesn't help.

But really he's a very calm and levelheaded person.

If he's actually angry, you'll know it from how quiet deliberate his speech becomes.

A quiet Bane is a dangerous Bane.

Joker

New York accent.

Drops occasional NY phrases but doesn’t mention anything culturally significant to New York unless someone else brings it up.

He doesn't remember what part of New York he's from but if asked he'll say Coney Island.

His jealousy over Eddie growing up in Wildwood is real.

Harley swears up and down he's from Staten Island and anyone familiar with the different New York accents would agree with her.

Joker has a pretty distinct reedy voice that all gothamites will recognize as soon as they hear it.

It gets even higher on the rare occasion he's scared or nervous.

Music Meister

SoCal (Southern California) accent.

This accent is also called Valley Girl.

He's originally from San Diego and spent his early twenties in LA so the accent is thick and locked in.

He moved to the east coast to attempt a Broadway career before turning to villainy and kind of regrets not moving back west first.

He's the first person to complain about cold weather and bad Mexican food when the chance pops up.

But he's gotten too fond of the other rogues to seriously consider leaving.

Even if the Scarecrow keeps smacking him with a newspaper every time he misuses the word "literally".

He automatically starts singing his words when he becomes frightened or incredibly nervous. Which made sense until he revealed he did that even before he got his powers.

Odd.

Killer Croc

Waylon has a thick cajun accent, that along with a naturally growly bass voice can make it difficult for others to understand him.

He prefers speaking French to English and will go out of his way to talk to people he thinks might speak his preferred language.

Jervis, Edward, Victor Fries and Joker speak with him in French when in a one on one conversation. 

Yes Joker speaks French, no he doesn’t remember why or how. He honestly didn’t even know he could until he met Waylon. 

Waylon is incredibly charming and personable once you figure out what he's saying, he's definitely the most well liked rogue among his peers next to Harley.

Emotional variants include getting even more growly when angry and speaking completely in French when distracted.

Penguin

A lot of people say he has an English accent, he doesn’t, never say this in front of him.

The man is WELSH, and he has ruined people’s lives over having his accent confused on particularly difficult days.

He takes great pride in his heritage and being accused of being “English” of all things is one of the quickest ways to sour his mood.

No offense to Mr. Tetch of course, it's the principle of the thing really.

He rarely speaks Welsh these days unless visiting extended family.

He does use the proverb “Deuparth gwaith yw ei ddechrau”(Two-thirds of work is starting), mostly to himself but he’ll use the proverb with others when appropriate.

Emotional variants include his voice getting squawk like when scared. He also laughs like a mad pelican.

Clayface

I forget who came up with this originally and I'm kicking myself for not remembering but I've adopted the head canon that Clayface was an "aging" K-pop/drama star that was on tour in the states when his manager coerced him into trying an experimental cosmetic treatment that turned him into Clayface.

So Clay has a very strong Korean accent and probably speaks the worst English out of all the rogues.

It's passable but he understandably just wasn't expecting to need it this much.

Despite his difficulties he still somehow gains control over the majority of his conversations and seems to exude likability.

He's trained for years to make his voice as soothing and pleasant as possible and he's not going to let being a mud monster ruin his hard work.

Until something triggers his traumatic memories and sends him into a frothing rage full of bubbling curses or a depressive meltdown where he becomes a pile of blubbering goo.

He's totally incomprehensible when he's having either kind of breakdown even to other Korean speakers, honestly HE doesn't even really know what he's saying.

Many of the rogues have hired him to put his acting skills to use in various schemes and Clayface is amazed at all the new voices he can do.

He's also been Music Meister's backup vocalist for a few of his schemes so you know he's legitimately good.

Bookworm

He has a rather general east coast accent.

Until he gets angry and starts cursing in Portuguese.

You'd never guess because he's an ashy fucker and his skin never sees the sun since he spends all his time reading inside, but the guy is mainly indigenous Brazilian.

You might be able to get a clue from his facial features if he wasn't wearing the world's thickest glasses and a hat.

He has near permanent "Library voice" so people often struggle to hear him above everything else that might be going on.

His voice is surprisingly sonorous and captivating when he can be well heard.

Since Arkham doesn't often get new books, fresh literature was fought over until Joker suggested "AudioBookworm" which is just Bookworm reading the new book aloud for everyone.

Until his little used voice gives out a bit at which point Scarecrow or Mad Hatter will step in until the end of the chapter.

Mr. Freeze

Victor has a moderate Icelandic accent.

Riddler and Joker have a competition going to see how many lines from Skyrim they can trick him into saying.

Victor figured it out immediately but plays dumb to this day in order to fuck with them.

He said "Hey, you. You're finally awake." to Edward after he woke up from a nap in the rec room once and Victor will treasure the face that nerd made forever.

Victor has a bit of a "resting bitch voice" he always sounds annoyed.

Unless he's talking to Nora, then he just sounds like a simp.

Not really a voice head canon but he gets hiccups very easily from laughing.

BONUS Nora

Nora is from Belarus so she often got mistaken for having a Russian accent.

But unlike Oswald she rarely cares enough to correct people much less get angry over it.

Nora speaks with great confidence and authority, even when she doesn't necessarily have either.

Her voice definitely broadcasts "Don't even fucking THINK about arguing with me."

The personality and accent get her the nickname "Ice queen" wherever she works.

Which is very unfair, she's a kind and compassionate women!

She's just also right and she should say it.

Nora's voice becomes utterly saccharine around Victor, they're absolutely obnoxious to listen to together.

[stubbornjerk]

Why people keep telling you to block them if you support Pholo (Penumbra Edition)

Or: why jitterbug-juno really deactivated

I love when people categorize this as fandom wank. Really makes you feel like you’re putting the onus on either side of the conversation.

I’m making this post not because I want to stir up spoiled milk, but because I want it out there that this wasn’t a purity culture war.

The TL;DR version of this is that fans of color tried to tell Rab (prev. jitterbug-juno) not to post her Omegaverse (or A/B/O) fic. And instead of taking the L, she posted it on Ao3 and deactivated.

But, if you want context, well, buckle in. CW for mentions of racism and transphobia.

What did jitterbug-juno do?

Before I get into this I do want it out there that I will not be linking Rab’s fic, but I will show you this screenshot of the summary of it.

[ID: It is a screenshot of a fic, “As You Are” by Pholo.

Summary: Peter can hide his scent glands behind cologne; makeup; concealer pads. He can quash his heats with suppressants. He can divert the urge to nest and fawn.

But he can’t feign another gender’s subvocals. He lacks the anatomical capacity. Mag taught him to distract from his silence with fast, flashy words. For longer heists he relies on social convention. Traumatic mutism is uncommon, but remarked upon by enough war vets and soap operas to be widely recognized. Peter’s marks assume he’s been harmed long before they assume he’s a closeted omega. It would take quite the backwater brute to ask why he doesn’t murmur or chuff or growl.

On the 'Blanche there are the usual furtive glances. Juno makes clear to Peter that should he ever want “to talk about what happened,” he’ll be there to listen. The gesture annoys Peter more than comforts him.

‘Nothing happened,’ he wants to scream. ‘There’s nothing to talk about!’

There are 14 comments, 85 kudos, and 11 bookmarks /end]

You decide what you’re doing with that information, but honestly, I’d rather you don’t give it anymore engagement than it deserves.

There was a period earlier this June (yes, even though it’s only the 10th, at time of writing) when Rab was posting snippets of the aforementioned fic on her blog and tagging it appropriately, putting it in the attention of pretty much the entire Penumbra fandom.

What’s Omegaverse or a/b/o and why is everyone so against Rab for it

If you know what Omegaverse is, I don’t have to tell you why it’s controversial. If you don’t know what Omegaverse is, well, Fanlore said it best:

a kink trope wherein some or all people have defined biological roles based on a hierarchical system, with the terms originating from animal behaviour research. There may be werewolf, knotting, or other animalistic elements involved, or the characters may be otherwise purely human.

The term is generally written with slashes (a/b/o). Many fans, particularly ones from Australia and New Zealand, are uncomfortable seeing the term without slashes because it is also an Australian slur for aboriginal people.

I won’t get into the history or the heaps and tons of other discourses (mostly about fictional male pregnancy, homophobia, transphobia, sexual assault, etc.)  that go on within that. We’re here specifically on Rab v. Penumbra fans of color and we’re staying there.

Anyone who’s been in Penumbra enough to realize that everyone draws the Junoverse characters in a certain way knows that a) Juno is black, b) Nureyev is Asian, and c) as a fan you have to be aware of what you’re subjecting or saying about either of them because of the political repercussions that come with it.

And despite that, Rab proceeded to write Peter Nureyev, a gender nonconforming gay Asian male character that is widely headcanon’d as trans, into a fic using a kink trope that relies heavily on animal behavior.

Unlike most people new to fandom, Rab is aware of what Omegaverse is and is very much white. She is (and if she isn’t, should be) aware of the racist undertones that writing him in would get.

I couldn’t get a screenshot of what snippets Rab was sending out into the ether, seeing as a majority of my friends would rather not have seen any at all (I have all of the usual tags blocked so I wouldn’t have seen it either way), but needless to say, Rab got attention for it. Both positive and negative.

Anne (@hopeless-eccentric) even posted a satirical fic, in the odds that Rab was just writing this thing to be “the first” to write Omegaverse fic in the Penumbra tags.

But, I’m assuming more than one fan of color came into Rab’s inbox and messaged her about it, but someone I know (who would like to remain anonymous) was gracious enough to take a screenshot before he sent his in and let me use it for this post:

[ID: A message to jitterbug-juno about to be sent by a sender whose name is censored with a black bar. His messages says:

“as someone who is a person of color i think the nature of the fic you are writing right now is extremely racist and attributing animal characteristics to lgbt people of color is not at all appropriate, especially when you are someone who is white. i have to ask you to not publish this fic and to reflect as to why you would want to write this in the first place, these tropes are extremely harmful and”

There are 33 characters left to write into the message. /end]

I can’t speak for whoever else sent asks about the fic she was writing. If anyone was actually not-so-gentle with her, well, minorities don’t really owe it to you to be gentle about what they can tell is bigotry-tinged behavior.

But, the message was clear: this is different from your garden variety, lily white straight male character m/m kink fantasy. This is an actual queer Asian character that a lot of queer Asian people feel attached do. Do not post the fic.

What happened next: the beginning of the end

The next morning, I woke up to most of my friends being frustrated by this post on Rab’s account:

[ID: Dated 5 June, a post by jitterbug-juno:

“Gonna leave the fandom for a while. Wishing you all well.”

The tags say the following: not sure if i’ll be back, thank you so much to everybody who’s read my fics, and who’s sent asks or engaged with my art or any of that, you’re amazing and I’m sending love /end]

That... was not what fans of color wanted, but it was definitely an action they took. Some celebrated, as they were very much wary of Rab for having caused much of the same category of drama in fandoms like Voltron: Legendary Defenders and Warrior Cats. This also meant that she was probably not going to post the fic either.

Some, myself included, were relatively pissed, as they’d wanted even just the measly bit of accountability. An apology or an acknowledgement of having been called out in private and that they’ll take time to consider why. But instead we got Rab leaving in the face of fans of color telling her not to post her Omegaverse fic.

Well. The next day...

[ID: Dated 6 June. A post by jitterbug-juno titled, “Well... that was short-lived”

“I gave the situation a lot of thought yesterday. The reaction to my omegaverse previews made me figure I should leave the fandom. It seemed like the safest option.

But you know what?

Hell.

I don’t want to leave. The fic discusses the tropes of omegaverse and I spoke to several POC on Twitter, and I’m going to post it with plenty of tags so people can avoid it if they wish. I’m not going to be chased out of this space.

Thank you to everyone who sent messages yesterday. I shouldn’t have made that post about leaving. It was really reactionary. I’m okay and I appreciate your support so much.

(bolded on the post) To those who are angry and uncomfortable with me: Please block me. If you’re going to talk about this fic on Tumblr and Twitter– and this may sound odd– PLEASE NAME ME as Jitterbug-juno or Pholo. Don’t vague me. That way people who don’t want to see this discourse can add my name to their block lists.“ /end]

That certainly was short-lived, she wasn’t kidding.

This got a lot of outrage. Again, the fic is up on Ao3 and she has not taken it down. A lot of POC were pissed and I didn’t see a single fan of color actively support what she was doing, at least, not in my friend group. Everyone started making those posts to block them if you liked the fic or Rab’s content in general, in accordance to what Rab wanted.

Perseus (@mraudiodrama) noticed/pointed out that Rab deleted the part where she said she spoke to several POC about releasing her fic, as well as the part where she said she refused to be chased out of the fandom. This was an incredibly pointed detail to edit out, according to some.

[ID: A screenshot of jitterbug-juno's last post taken 11:00PM. Much of it is the same except the following bolded words are removed: "The fic discusses the tropes of omegaverse and I spoke to several POC on Twitter, and I’m going to post it with plenty of tags so people can avoid it if they wish. I’m not going to be chased out of this space." /end]

That same day, Rab deleted her blog. I actually caught this one on tape, believe it or not.

[ID: A screen recording taken at 12:01 PM of someone scrolling down jitterbug-juno's account. The posts and asks about Omegaverse and her post about leaving and coming back are conspicuously absent. /end]

Initially, I thought she deleted all mentions of it. I wanted to see firsthand if the rumors about her deleting portions of it were true. If she added things where she was saying that she wanted to write it because she was autistic and wanted Nureyev to be autistic too, regardless of the numerous QPOC telling her not to do it.

Instead, it turned out, she deleted her blog.

And now, we're here. The fic is still up. Her blog is down. Rab's public Twitter account @nataclinn is quiet about this. Her @cushfuddled Twitter account is on private after her run-in with the Warrior Cats fandom, according to a friend. And her Tumblr @cushfuddled account has nothing but memes.

Again, I didn't make this post to stir up drama. I wasn't even obsessively making this post as a call-out because she isn't in the fandom anymore. I just want it out there that this isn't a purity culture thing that got out of hand in a fandom as niche as Penumbra. This was a case of someone being called out and failing to acknowledge it before running away. And I want all that out of the way before I say:

If you are on Rab's side of this debacle, I, a queer person of color, want nothing to do with you either.

[companionjones]

Santa Claus Is Going To High School With Ethan and Y/n

Fandoms: StarKid, Black Friday, Santa Claus Is Going To High School

Pairings: Ethan Green x Reader, Chris Kringle x Reader

Summary: In the beginning, you were just a loner in high school who had a huge crush on one Ethan Green. You’re a big fan of escapism, and a certain kids movie brings you lots of serotonin. The teenage version of Santa Claus is more attractive than one might think. What happens when you and Ethan get sucked into the kids movie you’ve grown to love, and Chris Kringle starts vying for your attention? Will Ethan actually get jealous?

Warnings: This is long, cursing, speaking of cursed, I AM SO SORRY I MADE THIS

*******

    Ethan Green would have rather been at home, smoking weed. Instead, he was at Lakeside Mall with some kid he was babysitting. He took the job because he needed the money for his jalopy that was in the shop. He didn’t mind the kid all that much. The boy, a nine-year-old named Tim, was nice enough. The only problem was that Tim wanted to see a very annoying-looking kids movie in theaters called Santa Claus Is Going To High School.

    “Thirty bucks for two tickets? Are you kiddin’?” Ethan griped as he stood outside of the Cineplex. “Fine. But I want a refund if the kid doesn’t like the movie.”

    The half-asleep cashier responded detachedly, “We don’t do refunds here, sir.”

    Ethan groaned, “Yeah, whatever,” and pulled the kid inside.

    In Theater 4, the previews were still playing. All the seats were empty save for one. Ethan recognized the girl in it. He knew her from the hallways at school. It was you.

    Silently, you were thankful no one else was in the theater with you. That way, you couldn’t be judged as a teenager seeing a kids movie...for the fifth time. Yes, you were kind of obsessed with Santa Claus Is Going To High School. So what? That was your business, no one else’s. Or, at least, it was until--

    “What the hell are you doing, seeing this movie alone?” Ethan Green, the last person in Hatchetfield you wanted to sit next to you in that moment, decided to take a seat.

    At a loss for words, you were trying too hard to think of something to say. “Ethan! I...Um...I--”

    He chucked, “Relax. I’m not gonna make fun of you or anything. Just because something isn’t my style, that doesn’t mean you can’t like it.”

    Completely in shock that someone your age wasn’t going to judge you, you just gaped at him.

    Ethan didn’t notice. “Plus, it kinda rocks that you’re here. I thought I was gonna have to watch this movie with just Tiny Tim here. But it doesn’t seem so bad now with you at my side.”

    You cursed yourself for giggling. It was always like that with Ethan. You two would get paired together on a school project or something, and he would casually flirt with you like it was nothing. You would fall for it, you two would get really close, then the project would be turned in. After that, whenever you would go up to Ethan in the halls, it would be like the two of you had never spoken before. You hated it, especially after you developed a huge crush on him.

    And it was all starting again.

    When the movie began, you watched out the corner of your eye as Ethan fought to stay awake. He lasted ten minutes into the movie. Honestly, you were exhausted, too. You were just getting out of a double shift of waiting on tables. You thought you could get through the movie before crashing at home. You fell asleep not three seconds after the leather-clad boy.

    Ethan was woken up by a school bell ringing. He found himself sitting in a desk. Disoriented, he looked to his right to find you staring at him in alarm.

    “What the hell...” Ethan was able to mumble before the teacher called out to him and you to not be late for your next classes.

    He and you stumbled out into the hallway.

    Once out there, you whispered to Ethan in distress, “We’re in the movie. We’re in the fucking movie!”

    “No. Fuck. No,” Ethan adamantly disagreed, “We’re dreaming. This is impossible. This can’t be real--” Ethan immediately went to help you up when you ran into one of the other students.

    The boy you ran into beat Ethan to it, however.

    “Oh my god...” you voiced, completely in shock, as the stranger helped you to your feet.

    Right in front of you, holding your hand was the reason you came back to watch the kids movie over and over again. There was your #1 comfort character, your biggest crush since Ethan.

    He smiled warmly at you. “Hi there. Sorry about bumping into you...Say, you must be new here. What’s your name? I’m Chris Kringle.”

    “I know,” you blurted. Upon seeing Chris’ slight confusion, you backtracked, “I mean...You’re all people talk about around here. You must be the most popular kid in school, and you’re almost as new as I am.”

    Chris responded charmingly, “Well, that just means that you have a chance at becoming just as popular as I am, and probably even more so because you seem like you’re at the top of the nice list.”

    You felt your moth fall open and cheeks heat up from the flattery.

    Ethan cleared his throat in an attempt to get Chris’ attention off of you. He didn’t particularly like that Chris Kringle thought it was appropriate to be that friendly with you upon only just meeting you. Chris was also yet to let go of your hand.

    He didn’t let go when Ethan got his attention, either.

    Ethan had also gotten your attention. “Um, I’m Y/n, and this is my friend, Ethan. This is our, uh, first day.”

    “Oh, well you two probably need some friends around here, huh? You’re both welcome to come sledding with us. We’re heading off now,” Chris cheerfully invited.

    Ethan answered, “Uh, we actually have something--”

    “We’d love to!” you interrupted.

    Chris beamed, “Great! Let’s go! Oh, and don’t worry, people always bring extra sleds.”

    “What the hell are you thinking, Y/n?” chastised Ethan. “If this isn’t a dream, which I don’t think it is anymore, ‘cause you seem pretty self aware to me, then we gotta figure a way outta here!”

    “I don’t think we can get out of this until the plot of the movie plays out to the end, which is this Friday at the championship game against South Heights. I think all we can do is wait it out.”

    Ethan blanched, “Friday?! But I left Tim alone in that theater!”

    “Haven’t you ever seen a movie like this?” you questioned, “Jumanji? Teen Beach Movie? I’m almost positive no time will have passed once we get out of this.”

    “So what? You just want to go sledding with Chris Kringle until the game on Friday?” Ethan questioned.

    Lamely, you answered, “...Yes.”

    Ethan was rendered defeated by your hopeful eyes. He huffed out, “Fine.”

    Happiness overtook your face. “Thank you!” you celebrated.

    Ethan avoided your gaze due to how adorable he thought that was. Then, a new idea caused him to smirk, “Wait, how do you know how the movie’s going to play out?”

    “I...might’ve seen the movie more than once,” you explained. It was your turn to avoid your friend’s gaze. “...Four times, not including this one.”

    Ethan’s eyebrows shot up, “Four times?! Why the hell do you like this movie that much?” Just then, he followed your gaze to Chris Kringle. It clicked in his head. “Oh...”

    Your gaze dropped to the ground. You bit your lip, embarrassed.

    Both you and Ethan followed Chis to a large hill where a bunch of students had gathered to go sledding. You were able to borrow two extra sleds from a couple of students. After the first few trips down the hell, you and Ethan finally got used to the fact that the two of you were sledding in a Christmas movie with Santa Claus. Or maybe, you two had finally given into the insanity.

    You were standing at the top of the hill, waiting your turn with Chris when he asked you, “So, what’s the deal with you and Ethan?”

    “Me and Ethan?” You were shocked that someone besides yourself could see you and the Green boy like that. “Oh, no. We’re just friends.”

    Chris wondered, “Is there a chance at something more?”

    “Definitely not. Sorry. I guess I fucked up my Christmas wish, huh Santa?” Fuck. You did not mean to say that.

    Kringle panicked, “Wait, you know I’m Santa?!”

    “I, uh--Yes. I do, but you didn’t tell me, so Father Christmas’ spell is still intact. Tell Jingle and Jangle that before they freak out.”

    “YOU CAN SEE MY ELVES TOO?!”

    “NO! No, I can’t!” you assured, trying not to stress out Chris anymore.

    He furrowed his brow, still breathing heavy. “Then, how’d you know I’m...”

    “I...just got that vibe from you?” you lied, cringing because you couldn’t think of a better explanation than that.

    Somehow, Chris bought that, but he still had another question. “Then, how’d you know about Jingle and Jangle?”

    “Well, I see you talking to them all the time.” That actually wasn’t that much of a lie. Chris was pretty bad at talking his elves on the downlow all throughout the movie.

    Chris bit his lip. “Oh. Um, you won’t tell anyone about my secret, will you?”

    He had stepped closer, and your heart had sped up in response. You gazed into his eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “Of course I won’t, Chris.”

    “Are you two going to actually sled, or just stand up here talking?” Ethan asked as he approached you and Chris.

    Chris, oblivious to the pissed off look on Ethan’s face, laughed and answered, “Sled.” He hopped on his sled and flew down the hill.

    “What the hell was that for?” You angrily questioned Ethan.

    He played dumb. “What are you talking about?”

    “Interrupting us like that? We were...in the middle of something, Ethan.” You were glad you stopped yourself from saying ‘We were having a moment.’ That would’ve been embarrassing.

    Green argued, “Didn’t you say the plot of the movie’s supposed to play out?”

    “Yeah. So what?”

    He wondered, “Doesn’t Chris have a love interest somewhere?”

    “Her name is Noelle,” you answered.

    Ethan sighed, “Of course it is...Y/n,” he got your attention again. “Are you sure you want to get in the way of that?”

    Your mouth slammed shut and your jaw clenched.

    Chris got you to turn to him by shouting your name from the bottom of the hill. He motioned you to join him.

    Glancing between him and Ethan, you chose to ignore the latter for the moment. You sledded down the hill.

    You successfully steered clear of the leather-clad boy for the rest of the time you spent sledding.

    That annoyed Ethan, but he knew you couldn’t avoid him forever.

    When everybody headed back home late that night, you and Ethan didn’t have a home to return to. The two of you decided to head back to Northville High. You and Ethan got lucky. The window to the staff lounge was open. The two of you slid in, and the school was yours.

    “Okay, so we have to find a place that we can sleep in where nobody will accidentally find us tomorrow...” you thought out loud.

    Ethan was still hung up on your conversation earlier. “Are we not going to talk about--”

    “Can we just worry about where we’re sleeping tonight?” you urged.

    Ethan sighed, knowing that talking about it was also something you couldn’t avoid forever.

    Eventually, you and Ethan found the boiler room. Ethan agreed with you that it was secluded enough that no one would catch you. The two of you got lucky again when you found that there were enough sweaters and blankets in lost-and-found for makeshift beds.

    At one point, you asked Ethan, “You cold?”

    He was shivering. Ethan was probably the least prepared clothing-wise to spend hours sledding on a hill. He was feeling the effects of that then. Not that he’d ever tell you. “N-no. I’m g-g-g-good.”

    “Yeah, right.” You rolled your eyes before waling over to the boiler and turning it on.

    Ethan’s cheeks tinged in pink. “T-thanks.”

    “No problem, Ethan.” You approached your bed again and covered yourself in blankets. “You know, you’ve always had issues with asking for help.”

    “How the hell do you know that?” Ethan didn’t mean for that to sound as mean as it did.

    That didn’t seem to affect you though. “The school projects we worked on together,” you explained, “I always had to find all these covert ways to help you out ‘cause you wouldn’t let me do it directly.” A faint smile was playing at your lips, like you were remembering those things fondly.

    Ethan never noticed how much you’d helped him. He didn’t like to admit it, but he had a really tough time in school. As he thought about it, however, Ethan realized that when he did projects with you, the material he was learning didn’t seem as difficult as it normally was. You made things easier for Ethan to understand. That was really nice of you, he thought. He felt bad for never thanking you before for all you did. “...Thanks for turning on the boiler...” Ethan tried. He figured it was a start.

    “Any time, Green,” you smiled before turning away from him and settling into bed.

    The next morning, you and Ethan snuck into the halls when school started. Chris quickly found the both of you. He’d brought you both pumpkin spice hot chocolate.

    “Oh, wow,” you commented when Chris handed you the beverage. You were truly surprised and flattered. “Thank you so much, Chris! This is so nice!”

    He brushed it off. “It’s really no problem. I got them from the cafeteria. We’ve got pumpkin spice for days here at Northville High.”

    You actually giggled at that. Then, you promptly got lost in Chris’ eyes again. You would’ve been embarrassed if you were even paying attention.

    Well, apparently Ethan was. He scoffed, causing you to look at him, and he grumbled, “I guess I should leave you two to it. I...gotta get to class.” He practically stomped off.

    Your eyes followed Ethan as he went. You wondered what in the world was wrong with him.

    Chris got your notice again when he asked, “So, what’s your first period class? I’ll walk you to it.”

    “Um...what’s your first period class?” you asked quickly.

    He shrugged, “Statistics--”

    “No way! Me too!” you lied. “Let’s go,” you suggested before he could become suspicious.

    “So tonight, everyone figured we’d go ice skating. You wanna join us?” he offered, “Ethan can come too if he’d like.”

    “Uh...thanks! We’d love to go,” you smiled, cursing yourself in the back of your head for speaking for Ethan again. You bit your lip, knowing what you had to ask. You weren’t exactly looking forward to knowing the answer. “Is Noelle going to be there?”

    He furrowed his brow. “You know Noelle?”

    “Um, yeah,” you lied, “I’ve seen her...in the halls.”

    He believed it. “Oh.”

    “She’s um...pretty. Isn’t she?” You hated that you were talking up someone else to your crush, but you also knew that Chris was destined to end up with her.

    Chris’ eyes widened in slight realization. “Oh. I didn’t know you swung that way. Do you...like guys?”

    Huh. Santa’s an ally.

    “Um...” Shyly, you nodded. You felt your cheeks thinking about the implications of his question.

    He just smiled. “Good!”

    You spent the whole day following Chris to his classes. It was a dream. Chris kept freezing your desk with his powers and doodling little snowflakes and Christmas trees on it. It reminded you of Jack Frost in Rise of the Guardians. It was really cute too. The teacher had to tell you to quiet down several times because you were giggling too much.

    At the end of the school day, you ran into Ethan again.

    He’d spent the day mostly in the boiler room. He figured that he was spending enough time in regular school. He wasn’t about to spend more time in a fictional one.

    When he saw you again, and you awkwardly brought up that you had signed both you and him up to go ice skating, he said, “Whatever,” which meant he’d go. The main reason he agreed was because he preferred anything over the blank cement walls of the boiler room.

    He just didn’t consider one thing.

    “Ethan, do you know how to skate?” you wondered, skating over to the boy hugging the wall.

    “Psh, of course I do,” he lied shakily, tightening his grip on the solid, non-slippery surface. “I just, uh...like it better over here.”

    You laughed. “Come here.” You took his hand.

    Ethan panicked. “Whoa, whoa. What’re you doing?”

    “Relax. I’m not gonna let go of you,” you assured. “Just one foot after the other, like this.”

    Slowly, you started leading him around the rink.

    For a little while, Ethan felt like he was actually getting it. One bad step though, and he started to freak out again. “Whoa, whoa!” he shouted.

    “It’s alright, it’s alright!” you tried to say, but it was too late. You stayed true to your word, though. You didn’t let go of Ethan. You went down with him.

    He was mostly scared of the act of falling down, so after that part was over, he was mostly concerned with the pain in his backside.

    Ethan looked over to you to complain that you had let him fall, but he found you losing yourself in laughter. He forgot what he was going to say. Watching you, Ethan felt his heart speed up and a smile growing on his lips. Soon, both of you were laughing your asses off.

    Eventually, you and Ethan had gotten your shit together enough to stand up. The two of you went over to customer services at the rink to get ice packs for your fresh bruises.

    “Sorry, I guess I should’ve told you that I...uh...” Ethan trailed off.

    You finished for him, “You’ve never been ice skating before in your life?”

    “Yeah...” Ethan smiled because you started laughing again.

    “It’s fine,” you shrugged off. “I guess I should’ve asked you if you knew how to skate before volunteering you for something against your will...again.”

    Ethan was about to say he didn’t mind. He was about to say that the past couple days with you had been the most fun he’d had in a long time.

    But then, Chris approached the two of you. “There you guys are! I’ve been looking all over for you! Y/n, I was wondering if you’d like to skate, um...with me for a bit.”

    “Oh! Um...”

    There it was. Chris was going to come along, yet again, and sweep you off your feet. You were going to say yes to Santa Creep, and Ethan would be left alone for the rest of the--

    “Ethan and I are actually gonna head back home,” you replied to Chris, interrupting Ethan’s thoughts. “We’ve been skating for a while, and we’re both pretty tired. I’ll see you tomorrow though, okay?”

    Chris seemed a little disappointed by your words. Ethan tried not to become too happy from the look on Kringle’s face.

    “Oh...okay,” Chris replied, “I’ll see you tomorrow...”

    Back in the boiler room, Ethan was still stuck on what had occurred at the ice skating rink. “You know...you didn’t have to come back with me...”

    “Hmm?” You turned to Ethan and furrowed your brow.

    He went on, “You didn’t have to come back with me ‘cause I don’t know how to skate. I coulda come back by myself. You could’ve kept having fun at the rink...with Chris.” Ethan had to physically push those last two words out.

    “Nah, I didn’t really feel like it,” you answered with a shrug. “I’m probably not going to be skating for a while with these new bruises you gave me,” you teased, but your voice grew softer. “Plus, I wanted to spend more time with you.”

    Ethan’s heart stopped. He looked away from you in an attempt to hide the growing blush on his cheeks.

    “Goodnight, Ethan,” you bid before turning over in your makeshift bed, and laying down to rest.

    Ethan’s last thoughts as he fell asleep that night was how the four concrete walls of the boiler room didn’t seem that lifeless with you there.

    The following day was Friday. For the students of Northville High, it was the last day ‘til Winter Break, and the championship basketball game was that night. For you and Ethan, it was the last day of the movie. Santa Claus Is Going To High School was supposed to end after the big game against South Heights.

    You and Ethan ran into Chris in the cafeteria during breakfast. He had more pumpkin spice hot chocolate for the both of you. “Hey guys! I forgot to tell you last night, but since it’s the last day of school, there’s caroling in the halls today. Students who join don’t have to go to classes. Do you guys wanna carol with me?”

    To prevent yourself from immediately responding “Yes!” you bit your lip. You looked to Ethan. You didn’t want to speak for him again.

    He glanced to you, and it looked like he was about to reject the offer, but then he thought about it for a second. “You said it gets us out of classes?” Ethan asked.

    Chris nodded.

    Ethan sighed, “Yeah...okay.”

    A smile broke out across your face. You couldn’t help but hug Ethan. “This is going to be so fun!” You felt Ethan’s body stiffen, and to it to mean that he thought it was weird that you were hugging him. You quickly separated from him.

    You dismissed the pink painting his cheeks as you seeing things.

    The actual singing part of caroling was pretty boring. The group of students you were with would just stop at random places in the hallway for a song or two. People in nearby classrooms would come out to watch you guys and get a little time off from class.

    What made caroling so much fun though were Chris and Ethan. Between stops, the three of you would mess around in an effort to make each other laugh. Well, while you were trying to make both Ethan and Chris laugh, it had turned into a bit of competition between the two of them to get you to laugh. Personally, you didn’t notice any malice between the two of them, but you were too busy laughing to notice much anyway.

    Throughout the day, everyone held their own books that had in them all the carols everyone was singing. Chris stole your book, and you had to go through the whole song and dance (no pun intended) of trying to get it back. Chris easily dodged you every time you went for the book.

    At one point, you tripped over your feet while going for your book. Chris caught you before you fell, and for a second he just gazed at you with wide eyes. Then, something insane happened.

    Chris Kringle kissed you. The boy, the fictional character you’d had a crush on since his movie came out, liked you enough to actually kiss you. You were frozen to your spot.

    Kringle must’ve taken that as a negative reaction. He parted from you.

    “Y/n...”

    You heard a shocked voice behind you before you could say a word to Chris. You turned around and saw Ethan’s highly concerned face.

    Suddenly, the bell rang. It was signaling the end of the school day. The sound made you jump.

    “...I...I have to go, Y/n,” Chris told you. “Coach said he wants us in the gym as soon as the bell rings.”

    You were reminded of the championship basketball game. “Right. Go,” you encouraged.

    “Come to the game later. We can talk there,” he offered.

    “Okay,” you nodded.

    Chris left. You and Ethan were suddenly alone in the hallway.

    Ethan stated, “I can’t believe he just kissed you.”

    “I can’t believe he just kissed me either.” You exhaled for probably the first time since Chris’ lips were on yours. You couldn’t stop a small smile from forming.

    “You don’t want to kiss him again, do you?”

    The question made your smile vanish. You avoided Ethan’s gaze.

    “Y/n, you can’t want any of that. None of this is even real!”

    Your face started burning from embarrassment and anger, but you fought back anyway. “So what?” you shouted. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen?”

    Ethan clearly hadn’t expected your voice to raise as well.

    “Dammit, Ethan,” you really didn’t care anymore, “I’ve liked you for such a long time, but you never noticed me! The only reason you sat next to me in the theater was because I was the only person there. You had no other option. But Chris, he had all the options! And he chose me! Do you have any idea how that feels?”

    You had shocked Ethan into silence.

    “Look, I’m going to the gym to watch Chris practice. Come, don’t come, I don’t care.” It was true. You didn’t care. At that point, you didn’t care that the movie was supposed to play out a certain way. You left Ethan alone in the hallway and headed toward the gymnasium.

    It took Ethan about a minute to even move. So many thoughts were running though his head. He was right to be mad at you, right? The movie had to end a certain way, or else you and him ran the chance of never going home. But then, there was the revelation that you had just unloaded on Ethan. You liked him? Like, liked him, liked him? The more he thought about it, the more obvious your crush became to him, and worse he felt about how he treated you in the past.

    Ethan also started to realize that, maybe he liked you like that, too. Maybe he wasn’t just worried about the movie’s plot. Maybe he was so concerned about Chris’ behavior around you because he was jealous.

    And that brought Ethan back to how he had acted around you in the past. Had he really been so bad? Yes. He’d been so concerned about his bad boy image that he pushed you aside whenever the two of you were around other students. He couldn’t imagine doing that after all you two had gone through in that movie. Ethan didn’t want to be away from you at all anymore, and that included right in that moment as well.

    Ethan knew he was going to have to admit a lot of things to you to get a chance at getting you back. He only hoped it wasn’t too late. He glanced up at a clock in the hallway and realized he only had ten minutes ‘til the game started.

    Meanwhile, you were looking at the same time on a clock in a hallway outside the gym.

    “Y/n.” Chris came jogging up to you. “Thank you so much for meeting me here.”

    “Uh...Hey, Chris,” you swallowed, dread filling you. You’d had some time to think since your argument with Ethan. You were still very angry with the leather-clad boy, and you still cared about Chris a lot, but Ethan was right about one thing. The movie needed to play out a certain way. You had no choice but to get out of the way of that.

    Chris noticed your unease. “Are you alright, Y/n?”

    You took a deep breath, preparing to let Chris down easy. “Um, we need to talk, Chris--”

    “Wait,” he interrupted you, “I know what you’re going to say. Y/n, I’m sorry I kissed you. It was pretty naughty of me to get in the way of the movie.”

    You blinked. Completely disregarding that ‘naughty’ line, you asked, “How’d you know that?”

    At that, he just smiled, “I’m Santa Claus, remember? It’s also how I know it was your Christmas wish to start dating Ethan.”

    “Wait, you’ve known this whole time that we’re in a movie? Why didn’t you tell me?”

    He chuckled, seemingly embarrassed. “I was trying not to mess up the plot. Stay in character, you know? I guess I really fucked that up, kissing you.”

    “Wow, I never thought I’d hear Chris Kringle curse,” you laughed.

    “You just came out of no where, Y/n. Quite literally. I had no idea I’d...like you this much when I brought you here.”

    Eyes nearly popping out of your head, you almost yelled, “You brought us here?!”

    There was an echo. It was Ethan, who had just arrived on the scene. “Why the hell would you do that?” he frantically asked.

    Chris just smirked, “You two will find out soon enough.”

    The buzzer in the gym sounded, signaling the game was going to start soon.

    Chris turned to you. “Y/n, I want you to hang onto my jacket for me.” He handed you his letterman. “Don’t worry about the plot of the movie, I’ll take care of it. I’m...really going to miss you, Y/n. Ethan, you got very lucky with this gift. Be very nice to them.”

    He kissed you on the cheek and ran off before you could say something in return. You absentmindedly put on Chris’ letterman and turned to Ethan. Your plan was to try and explain away Chris’ leading last words to Ethan, but before you could:

    “I really like you, Y/n,” Ethan blurted.

    Your words got caught in your throat.

    Ethan quickly continued, “I’ve only really noticed how I feel in the past couple days in this movie, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t liked you for a long time. I’m sorry for acting like such an asshole. I really don’t know how you continued to be nice to me after all that...”

    He continued to ramble on, but some twinkling above your head caught your eye. You smiled when you looked up and saw it. “Hey, Ethan?”

    Your voice immediately shut him up as he gazed at you.

    “Look up,” you quietly prompted.

    Hanging above the two of you was a beautiful little mistletoe.

    “I...uh...” Ethan swallowed. “Does this mean you’ll forgive me?”

    You smirked, “Well, I guess that depends on whether or not you’re a good kisser.”

    Ethan’s face broke out in a grin as well. He hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you close enough where your heads barely had to move at all to kiss.

    You were woken up in the movie theater by the kid Ethan was babysitting—Tim, as Ethan had called him—cheering because Chris Kringle had successfully used the ‘Santa Swap’ to win the championship game against South Heights. At least, you thought Ethan had called him Tim. Did Ethan only say that while you and him were trapped in the movie? Was any of that real at all?

    Dread filled you when you started to think that Ethan had never actually kissed you, it had been a dream. That dread doubled when you realized that you had fallen asleep on Ethan’s shoulder.

    You slowly started to raise your head because you had a feeling that Ethan had fallen asleep too, and you thought maybe you could save yourself some embarrassment.

    However, as soon as he could, and at the same time Chris kissed Noelle in the movie, Ethan kissed you too. “I just had the most amazing dream,” he whispered to you once you parted.

    Several thoughts raced through your head. Was it a dream? Is it possible for two people to have the same dream? Yet, you quickly realized that it didn’t matter because Ethan had just kissed you. He liked you! You finally got your Christmas wish.

    As you and Ethan walked out of the theater hand-in-hand, Ethan asked Tim, “So, nothing seemed weird about that movie, kid?”

    Tim shrugged it off. “Nope.”

    “Huh,” Ethan turned to you, you guessed probably to ask you how much you remembered, but Ethan gasped when he saw what you were wearing. “Holy shit.”

    Following Ethan’s eyeline, you spotted what had freaked him out so much. “Holy shit,” you repeated.

    You were still wearing Chris’ letterman.

*******

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it! I would also really appreciate a comment, if you have the time. If you would like to read more, I have more fics over on my page. You should check it out. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you! <3 <3 <3

[jinmukangwrites]

Hey jin could maybe do a continuation of don't remember. It makes my heart hurt. Love your writing!

So... This ended up long... I'll add a keep reading once I'm home. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this. Who knows, might end up making another chapter because I forgot how much I like this AU.

Song: I Found by Amber Run. I just. I'm making myself cry folks.

(Don't) Remember

-o-o-o-o-

(Don't) Break

-o-o-o-o-

Without of doubt, Zelda's favorite place in the entire realm of Hyrule is Kakariko Village. It's the only place where she can truly be herself. She steps within the boundaries and instantly, the diadem on her head is just a fashion statement. The ragtag soldiers traveling with her are just people, friends perhaps. She no longer has the task of rebuilding a government or excavating the castle or organizing towns and roads to be rebuilt.

She's just Zelda.

Just Zelda.

And it's a relief that takes the weight of a Lynel from her shoulders.

Impa is there to welcome her, even in her old age Zelda has no end to her respect for the woman. Paya always greets her with a warm hug and the various people and warriors in the village invite her for dinner or even offer her the spare bedrooms in their houses so she doesn't have to spend money at the inn—even though she has already been promised a free stay from Ollie, the innkeeper, whenever she so needed to.

This time, she decides to spend her stay with Paya while the soldiers traveling with her all get warm, soft beds at the inn, and she decides to let Koko cook dinner for her. She can honestly say that she's only had food as good as Koko's once before, but he doesn't often cook for her anymore.

Especially since he's off on some strange adventure that she has no true knowledge of.

And she can't help but feel a pang of anger and jealousy over that. Here's she's spent one hundred years holding back a demon just to immediately be thrown right back into royalty and business and chaos, while he gets to ditch the moment adventure calls for him.

And she shouldn't feel that way. But it's hard not to when he was supposed to be her best friend. He was supposed to be there with her and never leave her again. She was supposed to finally have someone to lean on, someone to trust, someone to—dare she say it—love?

But no. Link decided that he doesn't want to remember. And therefore, he doesn't want to remember her. His offer to rekindle friendship with her is honerable, but it still feels like whenever she's in his company he's a stranger. Nothing like the boy she knew.

Or maybe that's too harsh. She doesn't know. One things for sure though, this new version of him is just as familiar to her as the one who was simply her annoying Knight.

Which means not at all.

Because, while his offer to make friendship is honerable, that's all it is.

Honor.

A sense of duty.

There's not a whole lot of actual desire, and that hurts more than most anything.

However, she will not think about him now. He's off doing who knows what and she's here, sitting at a picnic table having a lovely conversation with Paya while Koko eagerly cooks something that certainly smells delicious. Cottla is there too, on occasion. She'll pop in and ask if dinner is ready yet and when answered no she'll go find something in the village to entertain herself for a little while longer.

Their father is set to join them in a little bit. Impa might even be strong enough to leave the house and join them on this fine evening. If not, Zelda will make sure to section off portions for her.

"-and then I looked up, and the cucco was right on top of the inn!" Paya exclaims, currently in the middle of a fascinating tale of hunting down ten rebellious cuccos.

Zelda laughs, bringing her hand to her mouth and resisting a snort. "How ever did you get it down?"

Paya sighs in exasperation, but a smile still graces her lips. "Well, it took a little work but-"

"Hey!" A voice squeals and both Zelda and Paya look up to see Cottla sprinting towards them with a toothy smile on her face that's about the size of a sliced of melon. "He's back! I just saw him! He's back and he brought others!"

"Who's back?" Koko asks, pausing her stirring in the cooking pot. She doesn't get an answer nor a chance to resume because Cottla grabs her sisters arms and begins to tug her away from her work. "Hey!"

"I just saw him! He just entered the village!" Cottla yells happily, dragging her sister away. Paya let's out a small laugh and stands up, looking curious and Zelda joins her after smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt.

"He's back he's back he's baaack!"

Then, a group of men fall into sight across the village. It's a rather large group, and Zelda's curiosity only spikes as they approach ever closer.

Then, Cottla yells out happily a name she wasn't expecting.

"LINK!"

Nine heads turn towards the child, yet only one approaches her, a tunic of blue on his chest and a cloak around his shoulders, long blonde hair bulled up into braids.

Paya stops in her tracks with a squeak, instantly blushing, while Zelda stops for a very different reason. She can almost feel herself pail as a familiar face bends down to embrace the two children who practically attempted to tackle him.

"You're back!" Koko says excitingly, and Link laughs in a way he hasn't in Zelda's company in a very long time. Her heart squeezes. In anger? In jealousy? She's not sure.

Link looks up from the embrace and finally he notices her. She can tell because that's the moment the smile falls from his face and his skin loses color with a blanch.

Which does nothing for Zelda's mood. She quickly finds the squeezing in her heart is, in fact, anger.

He clears his throat and jumps to his feet, leaving Cottla to grab at his tunic as he makes a point to ignore her now. One of the strangers with him, a tall man with shaggy, dirty brown hair and gray facial markings gives him a curious look and Link gives a nervous smile.

"I'm, uh, going to get us some beds at the inn-" he says, and then he's practically sprinting away.

Zelda is almost tempted to run towards him and beat him to a pulp, but it seems the newcomers' have noticed her presence as well. The oldest of the bunch walks towards her, an apologetic look on his face. Paya eeps when he ends up right in front of them.

"We're sorry to barge in like this," he says, "but we're simply passing the night and resupplying. What direction would the shops be in?"

"Who are you?" Zelda demands, and admittedly it's a bit harsher than what she intended. Not very princess-like of her. It startles the man and he takes a step back. Paya gives Zelda a look like she's insane but Zelda is too furious to care at the moment. Link had been off, galavanting around with a strange group of men and she wants nothing more in the entire world than to know why.

For the first time in a long time, she's furious. And of course, it's over Link of all people.

"We're heroes!" Someone pipes up and Zelda looks past the apparent leader's shoulder to see a small kid in a Hyrule-blue tunic similar to the ones all the Champions' have worn, except there's the pattern of a lobster around the collar instead of a sword or Triforce.

"Heroes," Zelda says, the word tasting bland in her mouth.

"Listen lady," another says and she glares coldly at him. He's glaring right back at her, arms folded across his red garbed chest, the pink in his hair didn't match his obviously prickly personality at all. "We're just passing through, there's no need to be hostile."

Paya gasps, this time not because of her out of control hormones and nervousness, but out of sheer shock at the way Zelda has just been addressed. Zelda is quite shocked as well, no one has ever spoken to her like that before... except...

They must not know who she is, and she's happy to show them.

"You would be wise to watch your tongue," Zelda says coolly. She lifts her chin and takes a threatening step forward. He doesn't seem to regret his words, but she knows he will in just a second. "You're talking to Zelda, Princess of Hyrule. I demand to know your intentions and your identities, less you wish to anger me more?"

The red garbed one's eyes widen more than what she had thought was possible on a human being. She holds back her smirk. There it is.

"Zelda?!" One of the others squawk. A taller one who wears a scarf.

"Princess-" the eldest says, a wobble to his voice, as if he's ashamed for the man in front of her.

Good. They should all feel ashamed. She holds up her hand, silencing him, and normally she loathes the power she has over people, but Link's stupid face flashes in her mind and her seething anger only grows. "I want him to answer me. What are you doing here, and why is Link with you?"

"Has... Has Wild- Link not told you?" The red one asks, his voice noticeably softer and higher.

She narrows her eyes and is about to perhaps... she doesn't know, throw hands or something, but she's stopped when a familiar voice calls her name.

"Princess Zelda!" A harsh tone shouts and Zelda snaps her head to the side to see none other than Impa clutching to the guard rails of her home, looking like she might crumble at any moment.

Impa's health has been deteriorating, and the way her arms are shaking with effort fills Zelda with an intense fear.

"Grandmother!" Paya calls out, forgetting everything going on at the ground level of Kakariko. She rushes up the stairs but Impa ignores her.

"You know not of who you are speaking to," Impa says, her body trembling but her voice strong. Zelda can feel an intense blush work it's way to her cheeks but it fades when a sudden realization washes over her.

"You know who they are," she breathes, the red clothed boy's words slamming into her. Has Link not told you?

He hasn't told Zelda a single thing, but he's told Impa. She can tell as Impa's wrinkled face softens that it's true.

"Please," Impa says, as Paya gently supports Impa and begins to guide her back inside, "come inside, all of you, so we can talk in privacy."

No, Zelda almost wants to demand, no, explain here and now.

But then she looks around her and sees various Kakariko residents and guards looking at them with curiosity. The blush returns to her face and she swallows with the realization that all of them have seen the entire thing. Ashamed, yet forcing herself not to show it, she begins the climb up the stairs, eight strangers following slowly behind her.

-o-o-o-o-

Link. Their names are Link. All of them. From the child, to the eldest, they're all Link. Not just in name, but also in spirit.

Zelda has heard of past heroes. Past princesses. Link's and Zelda's and Ganon's. One does not grow up in the royal family of Hyrule and not know the legends. Not know the people that she might have to potentially live up to.

And that's all she can think of as she looks at each of these... heroes in front of her. Which one is it? Which one fought Calamity Ganon ten thousand years ago? Wich one had a better Zelda than what she could ever be? Which one... Which one was her Link forced to an equal with?

The one called the Hero of Time explains their situation. Explains of merging timelines and powerful, black blooded monsters popping up where they shouldn't. Recognition washes over Zelda with each passing word. Black blooded creatures, monsters stronger than what they should be, she's seen it happen a few times here and there around Hyrule, and it's only getting more frequent.

The Hero of Time continues to explain, every so often a detail is added in by the Hero of Twilight or the Hero of Warriors while all the other heroes sit and watch the exchange. Watch her.

And she wonders why it isn't the Hero of the Wild explaining this all to her. Why isn't Link here telling her this.

When the Hero of Time finishes, Zelda doesn't stick around much longer. She doesn't even look at the Hero of Legend as she leaves the room, her chest feeling like someone's stuffed metal into her cavity. She's embarrassed. Ashamed. How could she have fallen back into old securities and make such a fool of herself? She's a princess for crying out loud. She should be wise. Her hand goes to the back of her hand, where an invisible force burns. Courageous. Powerful too.

She should be smart. She should be confident. She should be a leader.

The full Triforce lives within her. She has gotten to know it well during her imprisonment.

This insecure, jumping to conclusions Zelda that she is right now shouldn't exist. She should have died with Link one hundred years ago. Zelda lost the right to feel anything other than confidence and poise the moment his last breath left his lips, the moment his body went limp in her arms.

Alas. She finds herself in front of the inn, head spinning.

This Link may not be her Link exactly, but she can't help it. She needs to see him. She needs to hear everything from him.

She needs to know why he's brushed her off. Why he's betrayed her like this.

She feels like a love sick teen, and something at the back of her head whispers that she is, but she ignores it because she's been through too much to call herself a teen either. Let alone love sick. She doesn't love him.

Not like that.

Ollie is at the front desk, smiling to himself, until she enters the room. He looks up and his smile falls, opening into a soft 'o' of surprise. She hates that look. She doesn't like that look. Can't they just welcome her like a normal human being?

"Princess!" Ollie stammers, wringing his hands in front of him. "C-can I help you?"

"Where is Link," she asks, and it's physically taxing to keep her voice steady.

Ollie rambles off the list of room numbers that Link had purchased and she thanks him as she begins to make her way to those rooms. Luckily, they're all next to each other, so she must only search one at a time.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, he's in the first room, placing his stuff down in a chest provided by the inn for temporary storage.

"There you are," she says, and Link nearly jumps high enough to whack his head on the low ceiling. He spins around, like he had expected a guardian to be standing behind him instead of his fr- instead of his princess.

"Zelda," he breathes, cheeks reddening and eyes comically wide. "You're not... You're not supposed to be here."

Zelda grinds her teeth. "I apologise, I forgot that you were the only one aloud to disappear at a drop of a dime and go wherever you want to."

It should feel glad with the shame that fills his face, but it just makes the aching in her chest worse. "Zelda-"

"I'd ask where you were, but your friends did that for you."

"I'm so-"

"I'd ask if they're trustworthy," she continues, "but Impa did that for you too."

Link falls silent, looking at the ground like he'd wish it would swallow him up.

"So I have one question to ask you," she says, "why didn't you tell me?"

Silence. A stretch of it. She's almost afraid he won't answer, but he takes a deep breath like the air is the most weighted thing in the world. "I didn't wish to worry you," he says.

There he goes again. Speaking like she's above him. Speaking like he hadn't meant everything to her before his one hundred years slumber. Speaking like she's his boss, and not his best friend. "Well, you did a shoddy job at that. What is your problem, Link?" She demands, stepping forward, and he won't meet her eyes. "What is it about me that you cannot stand? You told Impa, but made no mention of this to me. You simply said you were going and then you were nowhere to be found. You dumped rebuilding a kingdom onto me. You dumped everything onto me. Nothing but a single goodbye to show how little you care."

"It's not that," Link says, practically scrambling with his words. He still won't look her in the eyes. Why won't he look her in the eyes? "I promise it's not that-"

"Enlighten me, then, Wild. If that's your preferred name now."

He flinches and it breaks her heart. He flinches at it reminds her of his soft voice and touch as they sat side by side all those years ago and he told her why he preferred to be silent. He flinches and she remembers that that boy is dead.

It shouldn't be like this. It shouldn't. They should be happy. He should remember her. They should be back to what they were before, laughing at dumb jokes until their sides got stitches. They should be back to her trying to shove a frog or beetle in his mouth to test the effect. They should be back to him showing her the best places to pet a horse. They should be back to quiet, secret talks around a fire where the title of Princess and Knight didn't exist, nothing but their intertwined hands and the possibility of maybe leaning towards each other and... and the possibility of maybe something more.

Not this. Not this brick wall that she sees before her. One that he built.

He must hate her. Why else would he choose not to remember her? This is all her fault anyway.

If only she had learned her powers quicker. None of the others... no one would have had to die.

"Zelda," Link says, and she blinks, eyes suddenly a little clearer than what they had been before. She hadn't noticed tears. Of course she's crying. Just her luck, isn't it? "Zelda, I promise... it's not that... it's just..." He swallows and she doesn't dare speak. "It... It hurts. Remembering. It hurts."

"You said you wanted to be by my side, even without those memories," she says, insists, and he winces. "You said. You promised."

"I know," he says back, his voice trembling, "I know. It just hurt too much and- and I-"

"You what?"

"I remembered how I died," he whispers, voice horrifyingly soft.

Fear enters her bloodstream. His voice, the way he said that, makes her think that he didn't remember how he died before he left. This was recent.

He isn't supposed to know how he died. Not until he remembers everything else.

He wasn't supposed to know, and she blinks more liquid from her eyes and she realizes that he's doing the same.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She asks. "Why did you run away, and leave me with a bunch of strangers who insist you're one of them? I would have listened. I would have-"

"I couldn't... It was so fresh and I'm still reeling and I- you're so brave, and so wise, and so... so everything that I just... I couldn't face you."

Silence. Then she breathes, but if feels like she's shattering.

"You couldn't face me?" Her chest hurts. Her head is light. She almost stumbles back to seek support from a wall or something else behind her that are more reliable than her legs. "You don't have to face me, Link. You never have to face me. I'm not Calamity Ganon."

Her voice sounds broken, even to her, and he suddenly looks close to panicking.

Finally, he's looking at her in the eyes, but it's for all the wrong reasons.

"No, no that's not what I meant," he takes a step towards her, voice sounding almost desperate, but she shakes her head, turning away. "Zelda! Zelda please-"

"Good luck on your adventures, Wild. I hope you find yourself."

She shuts the door behind her, and she can just barely hear him slam a fist onto the closed door with an agonized cry as she quickly retreats, wiping under her eyes and feeling the complete opposite of wise.

What are they doing? They've worked so hard just to fall like this? She realizes that he still has never told her the exact reasons of why he trusted Impa more than her, but right now it doesn't matter.

It's the words in-between the lines that speak loudest, isn't it?

She makes her way up the stairs into Impa's house and walks as quickly as she can past the eight faces belonging to people who must be disgusted with her. She walks to the guest room Paya normally has dusted and waiting for her arrival, shuts the door behind her, and leans back against it.

Her legs finally give out and she sinks to the ground, trying to blink the blurriness away, but it comes as quickly as it goes now.

Oh Link, where has she gone wrong?

[bountybossier]

Disaster Bies | Kaden & Nic

Set during Fool’s Gold PotW. Just a couple of haunted French hunters being French hunters. Making friends, being angry in French.

with: @chasseurdeloup

It didn’t do well to try and sleep. If the ghost thought that lullabies were going to help, they had another fucking thing coming. It wasn’t soothing, it didn’t soften his hard edges. It made Nicodemus angry. Angry for not knowing who she was and feeling like shit for it. The only reasonable, rational response, was to grab a gun, grab knives, and head into the woods. He was out of whiskey and apparently, out of his fucking mind. Ghosts, being honest about feelings, having feelings. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t quiet or careful about his trek through the woods. Twigs snapped, boots stomped. He wanted a fight. He wanted something to quiet the goddamn singing. She was quiet, but she was behind him, still with that sad look on her face. Still looking at him like she knew him or knew some version of him. He couldn’t see himself in her face, but he also didn’t look hard. Didn’t want to see what it might show. His scattered senses forced him to stop as he clenched his fists. Something was close. Something big. “Stop it,” he muttered out, head turned so he could look over his shoulder. He surprised even himself by not swearing at her. “Don’t do that here, you’ll scare ‘em away.”

If what the frat hunter said about somnivores was right, it was in Kaden’s best interest not to sleep. Insomnia or some shit could help him see the trails of any potential dream demons. It couldn’t hurt. And he couldn’t stay in his fucking room with his mother hanging out in the corner. Knives in hand, guns packed and loaded, he went out to the woods. There had to be something to kill out there. He was sure she would follow him but he had to go out and hunt something anyway. Maybe something loud. That’d be great. Then he wouldn’t have to hear her yelling out his mistakes like some sort of fucked up sports coach. “You could try to be a little quieter, you know. Gain some advantage,” she said in French, almost as if on cue. 

He sighed. “Maybe I don’t want an advantage, maman,” he grumbled back in English. Even though she had been the one to teach him English growing up, her preference was clear as day and he knew talking back in her second language would annoy her even more. “Why are you so insistent on doing anything but what we taught you to d--” the ghost started, but Kaden held up his hand. “Shush,” he told her. She started to talk again but he glared and did it again. He heard something off in the distance. A voice. “Stop…. Don’t” was about all he made out. He turned from the ghost and started heading towards the sound. Wasn’t hard to track, whoever he was, he wasn’t exactly silent or graceful. “Hey,” Kaden called out. “What the hell are you doing out here this late?” And then he saw the weapons and he had a hunch. He knew a hunter when he saw one. Still, question stood. Maybe there was something better worth hunting not too far. And maybe he could steal the task.

She stood to his right, long hair draped over her shoulder as she peered at him. “Chut, petit bébé,” she hummed. Nicodemus’s grip tightened on his knife and he rounded on her, wild-eyed. “Stop it. You can do it there, I don’t give a shit, but shut up out here,” he said, rage keeping his voice above a whisper yet below a yell. “Keep quiet.” He wasn’t moving, yet branches snapped and made their way toward him. Someone was talking. He could make that out over the bloodrush in his ears. The ghost, as intangible as it was, became an afterthought as he stared through her. He was already defensive, tightly wound, and that demeanor didn’t change when the other man entered through the tree line. Nicodemus stepped to the side because the ghost refused to move and narrowed his eyes. Knives, guns. Just as equally of a pissed off expression. More likely to be another hunter than anything else. That realization did nothing to relax him. The last thing he wanted was another set of eyes on him. Over the last few days, it occurred to him how much he hated being looked at. Analyzed. It was easier to meet the man’s eyes than it was to meet his own. “Huntin’, what the hell does it look like?” Ragged as it was, it was all the answer he gave as he straightened out his posture, fingers flexing and relaxing around the handle of his hunting knife. Something struck against the taught yet jumbled piano wire of his senses and he shifted on his heels. He couldn’t quite tell what it was, but it wasn’t the stranger across from him. His mother finally stepped aside, floated past to stand behind him as he looked at the other hunter. “The fuck are you doin’?”

Kaden rolled his eyes. “Oh wow, never would have figured that out. Hunting what exactly?” There was no way anyone wandering the White Crest woods at night was looking for moose, he could figure that much. Had to be something supernatural. He could only hope it was something worth killing and not another fucking chickcharney. “Huntin’, what the hell does it look like?” he said, mimicking the other man’s voice and accent in a mocking tone. His mother’s voice cut through before he could ask anything else. “Don’t be rude, he might be helpful. Honestly, you could use a hand if you keep hunting the way you have been. Reckless, sloppy.” Kaden rolled his shoulders down to his back, like a cat bristling up. “I don’t need help,” he muttered through his teeth in French, his hand clenching into a fist. It was hard to imagine that all but a week ago, if someone had told him he’d get to spend more time with his mother, Kaden would have wanted nothing more. Just to hear her voice again. But this, this was fucked. He knew Blanche had seen her before but this couldn’t be her, could it? There was no way. This was some sick twisted version of her, had to be. “Look, I was going to hunt out here, you can go that way. I’ll go this way,” he told the other hunter, gesturing in opposite directions as he talked. “We shouldn’t have to deal wi--” His voice caught in his throat as he heard something. Something big. Those were large, heavy footsteps. Putain.

“These woods got your fuckin’ name on it, chief?” Nicodemus bit back. His fingers stopped their restless motions around the knife handle as he cocked his head, indignance settling his jaw into a hard line. The last thing he wanted was a goddamn conversation, let alone a pissing contest. But he hadn’t planned on backing down. His nostrils flared as he shook his head, tongue pressed against the inside of his bottom lip. “Huntin’ whatever needs huntin’, I ain’t bein’ quiet.” Nicodemus didn’t hear it, but something had the other man on edge just as much as he was. The fact that both their fists were clenched and looked about ready to swing on something had his head cocked to the side. 

“Help? Who the fuck said I was helpin’ you?” Nicodemus said, his own French sounding rough. His mother’s singing shifted into a low, nameless hum and his eyes cut a sharp, harsh line past his shoulder to look at her. “Cut that shit out.” It came out as a quiet hiss under his breath. Not wanting to keep his eyes off the other hunter, he looked to him again. He snorted. “Oh, we gonna draw us a line? Find a little part of the woods to be Switz--” His voice stopped abruptly as he something thumped closer. Louder. Faster too. Teeth ground hard as he looked to his left and the treeline there. Crack. It grew closer and then, upon shattering the treeline edge, it bellowed. A Bies. And it wasn’t stopping. “Oh fuckin’ shit,” he grunted and immediately began a long string of French and English swears as he shifted on his heels. “Guess we’re doin’ this now. Move!”

Kaden blew a laugh through his nose. “I can fucking tell. Heard you clear across the fucking forest. Whatever you’re hunting is probably long gone by now, good job.” When the other hutner responded in French, his eyebrow shot up. Putain? Were French lessons part of the fucking hunter cirriculum now? Didn’t matter, he didn’t care and didn’t have time for this shit. He wanted to just go and kill something but not before he won this argument.  “I wasn’t talking to y--” Before he could finish his sentence, his mother interrupted, practically gleeful. “Ah, see, he even speaks French, go make friends.” Kaden forgot all pretenses for a moment and shot the ghost a glance before quickly turning away like he wasn’t having a conversation with an invisible person. “Not. Now,” he spat through his teeth as quietly as he could. 

Almost at the same time that the hunter across the way hissed something out in about the same tone. It was quiet, sure, but his hearing was better than most. “Still not talking to you.” He walked closer to the man, knife still ready to be drawn. He was going to tell him where he could shove that line of his when he heard the thump. Merde. Kaden froze in place a moment. He was almost afraid to look. Then again, he did come here for the hunting and not a screaming match. He slowly glanced towards the sound of the thumping. And now the bellowing. Shit. No mistaking that ugly beast, it was a bies. “This is what happens when you’re not quiet!” he shouted as he ran off to the side, hoping to duck behind a log or a rock but there was nothing. So he just crouched down and hoped that was enough as he pulled his gun out from its holster and loaded it up and started shooting in the general direction of the monster. Not that he’d be able to do that for long. He didn’t want to be stationary when those fucking antlers came barreling right at him. He’d say he had a solid three seconds more before that happened.

“If it’s runnin’ away, I don’t want it,” Nicodemus spat, nose scrunched. The other French hunter was either having a crisis or someone was talking to him too. His mother hummed behind him and made a pushing motion with her hands. What the fuck did that mean? What, go play in the fucking woods together? He didn’t know and with a bies crashing toward them, he didn’t have the time to pose the man the question of so, what the fuck’s wrong with you? But he did have time to make a loud sound of annoyance. “You’re the one screamin’ at me, asshole!” Motherfucking bies and motherfucking French stubbornness. Whoever said they were cowards were wrong. They were stubborn bastards with skilled trigger fingers. He dove and tucked himself behind his own tree. 

He had maybe forty-eight shots with him, he figured. Damn it. In his rush to get out, he hadn’t counted. The way the bies was charging, it didn’t make sense to throw his knife. Nicodemus hated to follow the hunter’s lead but he did so, clasping away his knife and grabbing his gun. Racked through everything he knew about bies. The third eye was the biggest problem and he didn’t want to try to look to pin the bies exact position. “Je déteste ce putain d'endroit!” He didn’t look at the bies. Instead, he looked at the other hunter, using his peripheral vision to clock the barreling movement. He pointed and aimed, just to the right as the bies came careening through. At the first bullet, the bies shifted its momentum and hit the tree the other hunter seemed to be at with its backend. Then, it looked at Nicodemus and he whipped his head around. He started to sidestep and fast. “Fuck these fuckin’ woods and this fuckin’ overgrown ass moose!”

The fucking tree Kaden was crouched by got rammed by a bies butt. Putain. He was going to get another shot out if he had the time, but instead, he rolled and launched him away from the cracking tree and the fucking hooves that were flailing directly towards his face. “The fuck are you doing? Could you try to actually fucking hit it? Maybe not to get me killed? Bordel de merde,” he spat at the other hunter after he picked himself up from the roots he planted into. Kaden took a quick look around to assess the situation. Fuck, no time for that. The beast roared and headed straight towards the last noise it heard. Which was Kaden. He cocked his pistol and went to aim at the fucker. He exhaled, time slowing in a way, just for a second, his eyes set straight ahead, shot lined up. He was set to fire, maybe get in something lethal when he heard “Don’t look at the third eye!” coming from his left. His head jerked back to find the voice and his shot went wide. Very wide. Shit. He dove to dodge the antlers headed directly towards him. Stupid. “Fucking hell, I know that!,” he yelled back at the ghost of his mother. “Could you do something over there?!” he asked, turning his head towards the asshole intruding on his hunting grounds while he fumbled to reload his pistol. Fuck, it might be time to pull out the knife if that shit was going to charge again.

Nicodemus’s mother tutted behind him as he moved behind trees. Fuck. The other hunter seemed to be having just as pleasant of a fucking time as he was. “Likewise asshole, but you die, that’s on your ass! Not mine!” It would partially be on Nic’s ass but he didn’t want to talk about that right then and there. It wasn’t like the other times a similar situation had occurred. There wouldn’t be walking away from this. He rolled his eyes as he fired off more rounds at the bies, one grazing the meat of its shoulder and sending its gaze to him. “You’ll lose yourself if you look at it.” His mother said and he raised his arm to block the sight as he turned away. A bad move as a beast with four legs was faster than one with two and it charged. “You ain’t helpin, stop talkin’!” The hunter hissed as he emptied the gun and threw it as the bies crashed towards him. He managed to grip the knife at his thigh. A big monster like that would be difficult to deal with from afar if it kept charging the way it was. “Nicodemus, what are you doin’?” The hunter scoffed and lowered his eyes to look at the bies legs. The legs that would definitely kill him if trampled. “Big game huntin’, the fuck does it look like?” He said to his mother before he yelled out. “Hey, putain! Go for the fuckin’ legs, huh?!” He clenched a fist and drove nails into his palm as he rushed forward, sidestepping in order to prevent a full-on bullrush as he threw a heavy knife into the upper joint of the bies’s left arm. A loud, bestial roar sounded as the creature worked to stop its momentum. How many knives did he have left? Two? Damn it.

“Putain, really?” he shot back, turning to face the other hunter, almost forgetting to switch weapons. Or prepare for the oncoming charge. “Kaden, watch out!” his mother’s ghost snipped at him. “Putain!” he yelled asducked and rolled to avoid the fucking antlers again. Kaden decided to take a chance and go for the knife, clumsily shoving his pistol back in the holster while he could. Hopefully this connard was a decent enough shot not to put a bullet through him while Kaden got in melee range. And if he did, well, he’d just cross his fingers it wasn’t fatal. Wouldn’t be the first bullet he took if that happened. He pulled out Last Chance from its sheath on his thigh and stabbed upwards, hoping to clip some of the beast’s under belly. He maybe fucking scraped it, but barely. The cries and the blood coming from it weren’t nearly bad enough to indicate he’d made a decent enough attempt. Fuck, he didn’t want to admit that shithead was right, it was probably best to go for the legs. Merde. He rolled his eyes a moment before pushing himself up off the ground and throwing himself towards the monster, grabbing onto its flank. He was slipping, barely had a grip, this shit was running like bat out of hell and Kaden was far from a fucking bullrider. Still, he had just enough time to take his knife and slice straight down deep into the soft flesh where its thigh met is side, blood gushing out and tumbling back towards him as he took a fucking hoof to the gut and skid into the dirt and brush on the ground. “Mon petitou, I don’t think that’s what he meant.” his mother told him. “I don’t fucking care,” he wheezed out between trying to catch the breath the beast knocked out of him.

Nicodemus would need a goddamn nap after this. Volatile was what he felt and the more that feeling grew, the more his body ached. It was fine. His bone and muscle were gears and oil that would see him through to the end of the day, then the next one. The other hunter a decent enough cut in, the blood rushing out and coating the forest floor something angry. He twitched at the hoof the hunter took to the gut, glad that it wasn’t him. “Goddamn.” But he didn’t have time to focus on any possible injuries. The main one was cut into the bies and he wanted this done. The beast whined and tried to pivot on its one good back leg. It was still powerful, but not quick like it was before. Nicodemus took both of his remaining knives in hand as the creature charged at the downed hunter. His legs worked hard as he sprinted, then launched himself forward with a grunt and a French swear. His weight didn’t seem to bother the massive bies much, but it sure sounded bothered when the first knife dug into its flesh and the second followed. Using the knives, he climbed his way up and held on for dear fucking life as the creature started to thrash the more he climbed up its tree trunk of a neck. 

“This is fuckin’ bullshit, this is your goddamn fault, yellin’ like an asshole in the goddamn woods for all God and the angels to fuckin’ hear…” He muttered angrily and loudly as the beast’s overworked muscles, veins, and tissue sprayed blood. The bies pitched forward and about sent him tumbling off. Thankfully, the antlers caught him. Right in the fucking side with a sharp potrusion. Alright. Fair enough. He had drawn blood too. He split the side of the bies neck open with his right now when he pulled himself up with blood-slicked hands. When it thrashed again, it launched him closer to his target. That fucking eye. He pulled himself over the barrier of the antlers and punched a hunting knife straight into the bies’s third eye until he felt a pop. With a sigh, he let up and tumbled off the creature as it cried out and skidded against the earth before it skidded into a large collection of trees. Nicodemus landed hard on his shoulder and rolled to his back. “Fucker took my knives…” He lamented, right before he tried to sit up. When he couldn’t, he started to laugh. “You good there, connard? Gonna assume you ain’t dead...”

Kaden crawled his way out of the dirt to see the situation at hand. As he tried to fucking breathe again, he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be a whole lot of help for the moment, but he’d also like to avoid a fucking hoof to the face instead of just the gut. Looked like the other hunter was climbing the bies with his knives like he was scaling a glacier with pick axes. Well that was different, alright. Kaden was pretty shocked that it was effective as it was but looked like with a few extra slashes and a knife to the eye the beast went down. Great. Kaden just wanted to collapse back into the mud for a moment, but decided to push himself up to his knees at least instead. “Not dead, connard,” he wheezed out, his breath slowly starting to fill back into his lungs. “You  can always go dig your fucking knives out, it’s not like it’s going anywhere.” He rubbed his hands together and brushed away some of the dirt that had caked on his palms. “I would say thanks but most of this was your fucking fault.”

Nicodemus shot the other hunter a scathing look and made ready to spit more venom, but his mother was in his ear again. Humming her stupid song and trying to calm him. Whatever she was doing didn’t work on him anymore. If anything, it just served to annoy him further. “Glad to fuckin’ hear it,” he deadpanned as he clawed his fingers into the dirt and forced himself to sit up on slightly trembling arms. Coal dark eyes rolled with a snort. “Uh huh. Like you didn’t wanna start a goddamn pissin’ contest over some goddamn trees,” he said raggedly as he forced himself up further. The wound at his side was weeping blood but not as much. He pressed himself up to his feet and tried to shake it out. Bad idea as his vision swam and nearly pulled him under but remained steady. He could go get his knives, it was true, but he didn’t want to. Not after the other hunter had suggested it. “Yeah? Fine, I’ll say it,” he said bitterly, yet dried of most malice as he looked at the other man and started slowly walking away. “Thanks for takin’ a bies hoof to the fuckin’ gut, asshole. See you around.”

[tia-dreamer]

SoukokuWeek2019 Day 4

Prompts:

Price - Debt and Payment - “Take a good swing at me and everything is even.”

#

Nice, normal mornings weren’t really something that was familiar to the people working at the Armed Detective Agency in Yokohama. So when one such morning rolled around quietly, when suddenly there were no emergencies or extra chores to do and even Dazai was only lazing around on the couch, everyone distrusted it. Immensely. These sort of morning’s always came with too steep a price. In the two hours since the work day started Dazai had caught six people sending prayers to various deities, seen Ranpo case the room, twice, and had been enduring looks from every single person in the office. Even from the Chief! It really wasn’t fair. Dazai had nothing to do with this, and he had, for once, little inclination to stir up trouble.

Though that was suspicious in it’s own right, maybe, so even he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

And drop it did, about fifteen minutes later, when the door to the office was flung open violently, in a way that hinted at a kick more than an enthusiastic push.  Dazai saw a good amount of people relax, from his vantage point, and then blanch. 

He heard the croaked sounds of breaking floor panels and familiar footsteps before he ever caught a glimpse of their surprise visitor. He buried his head more in the couch cushions. No, Chuuya was annoying on the best of days and he didn’t want to get kicked around again for some tiny issue that the Chibi blew out of proportion to compensate his stature. 

“Ah, Nakahara-san?”

Weird, Kunikida sounded perplexed. 

“Heh?! So you all do know me. Wonderful. So where is the Spoiled Brat?”

Dazai hadn’t heard that nickname in years- what-

“Aaaah- What happened, Nakaha-”

“What do you think, de-tec-tives?”

Dazai had a bad feeling about this. But the conclusion his brain was shoving at him sounded disastrous and he really needed to check it, before he started believing it. So he sat up, made his way over to the opening of the visitor booth and turned to look out into the office. 

“Chib-eh?”

Well. Fuck. 

Staring back at him was a tiny - and for once he didn't mean his height, though that of course was a fact as well - version of Nakahara Chuuya. A fifteen year old version, to be exact. Same clothes, but short haired once again, and he couldn't see that one scar on his jaw that Chuuya had gotten at 17. 

“Fuck me, did you let someone stretch out your skeleton, asshole?”

That pulled Dazai out of his stupor. His response was reflexive as always.

“No, I just think Chibi shrank overnight. I didn't know you wanted to compete for the ‘tiniest microbe’ competition so badly you’d get yourself de-aged Chuuya.”

“I just woke up to a stranger poking me with needles and an older version of your little shackle freaking out. I don’t know what happened, okay?”

A huff, but less aggravated and much more indulging than he had heard it in years. Dazai let a smile slip onto his face.

“Well, Chuuya most probably ran afoul of an ability and now I get a flashback to Mini-Chuuya. Maybe I should send them some flowers? Chuuya gets a lot less cute when he grows… or rather, when he ages. You don't really grow, Chibi, even though I tried watering you.”

“Oh fuck off.”

“Wait what?” 

Dazai decided to ignore his coworkers in favour of interacting with a much less jaded version of his ex-partner. Not to mention that Chuuya was actually scared, considering he hadn't risen to half the bait Dazai had slipped into their conversation. It had always been the easiest gauge for his mental state.

And Chuuya must be wondering what the deal was with Dazai at the ADA of all places. Maybe he didn't want to see it right that moment, but he would get the picture soon enough. Dazai didn't want anyone else to see that confrontation. 

 So he went and slung an arm around his ex-partner-turned-child-present-partner, ignoring how Chuuya didn't even try to shrug off the contact, and tried to grin at the whole office, all of whom were staring in shock or horror at the scene. Ah, silver linings, those were a thing people prattled on about sometimes, didn't they?

“Well, I guess Chuuya and I will see if I can’t find a rogue de-aging gifted, so we’ll be going-”

“Dazai-kun.”

Dazai stiffened as Fukuzawa-san stepped into the office proper, looking somewhat more severe that usual. 

“Ah, yes, Chief?”

“Mori-sensei just informed me that their Executive went missing after a run in with a very curious ability user. It seems he is no longer missing, though.”

Dazai felt the startling and unfamiliar urge to shove Chuuya behind him and hide him from view, even as the 15-year-old stepped forward instead, straightening out and jaw stubbornly set as he stared at the man who fought with Mori on even footing. Not that Chuuya actually knew that.

“I didn’t go fucking missing. And who wants to know that anyway, I don’t answer to you.”

Dazai wasn't aware of whatever face he was making, but it was probably a pained one. A cornered Chuuya was never a good thing. Even now, Dazai could hear the floor creak ominously, and Chuuya was tensing like he was readying himself for a fight. This was… less than ideal. 

After a quick moment of contemplation Dazai reached out to pull Chuuya back towards him, hand mostly on his left shoulder, but very deliberately also touching the side of his neck. 

“Down boy.”

“Not a dog, Dazai. Two weeks of no names, remember?”

Oh. That made the age Chuuya had been… well, de-aged to much easier to pinpoint. 

“Ah, it has been seven years for me, Chuuya. But I’ll be nice and refrain anyways, how’s that?”

A kick against his shin, and then Dazai’s face was pulled down a good foot until it was almost level with Chuuya’s.

“Don’t fucking patronize me, shitty mummy. I’ve been in worse situations and you don’t need to fucking coddle me. You never did before.”

He didn’t so much as blink at the rapid change in perspective.

“Ah, but last time we were both irresponsible teenagers. I’m an adult now and you're still tiny.” 

Another kick, hitting the exact same spot with pinpoint accuracy, before Chuuya stepped away and to the side, eyes never leaving the people around them. He smirked. 

“I call bullshit. That one over there is younger than me, and considering she has her own desk and a knife that she’s been grasping at for the last five minutes, I doubt this place is any less of one that employs children.”

The grin turned wolfish as he met Kyoka’s gaze head on. “And I’ve definitely killed more people than her. You're not coddling her. So you can shove your adult responsibilities up your ass.”

Again, both of them ignored the offended gasps and exclamations from their audience. Dazai had to admit they weren’t used to that. He didn’t call them out either, and didn't want to be called out for his own hypocrisy any more than them. But Chuuya had always been blunt and sharp-edged at the same time. 

So a rueful sigh was the only reaction Dazai allowed himself. 

“Very well, Chuuya. But fighting’s still not in the plan right now.”

“Quite right.” Fukuzawa interrupted whatever Chuuya had had to say to that, and gave them both a quelling look. Thankfully Chuuya only glared, uttering a “Tch,” before falling silent and focussing on Fukuzawa-san as well. 

“Nakahara-kun. I will inform Mori-sensei of your whereabouts. Considering your temporal displacement, you might be under considerable stress, so I will negotiate terms with him to have Dazai and you stay together and for the ADA to take on your case to reverse whatever happened to you.” His gaze shifted to Dazai, who felt himself straighten, relief coursing through him. “Dazai-kun, please show Nakahara-kun to our infirmary. We should at least make sure that there is no unexpected strain on him.”

And then the white-haired man turned on his heel to step back into the hallway. 

“Eeeh?” Chuuya fixed another glare at Dazai. “What is he-”

“Chuuya.” 

The redhead narrowed his eyes at the taller man. “Urgh. Fine. I don’t want to stay near an audience anyway.”

That was as much of a concession as Dazai could hope for, not that it meant that Chuuya had surrendered to whatever plan the people around him were making. Dazai knew that with a surety that came from years of being stuck next to Chuuya in these sorts of situations. So he led the way towards the infirmary and Yosano-san, and hoped against hope that it wouldn't blow up in everyone’s faces. After a few steps, a third set of those made themselves known, and both of them turned around, almost simultaneously. The little out-of-synch movements were a stark reminder that this wasn’t his Chuuya- his time’s Chuuya. They came face-to-face with Kunikida, glaring and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“I do not believe leaving you alone with a Mafia execute is a good idea, Dazai-kun. For your safety and ou-” 

Dazai threw a quelling look at his partner. He really didn’t need Kunikida to give Chuuya more information on what the situation was like. It would complicate things immensely and-

“Oh come off it.” Chuuya swatted at Dazai with a hand and shook his head.

“I don't have the full picture but you've obviously left m- the mafia. I’m an executive and that guy is your new partner. And we’ve had run-ins that were less than friendly. I won't be here that long, so I don't much care because for now you’re a somewhat more annoying version of my partner as far as i'm concerned, so don't sweat it, okay?”

Abort. Deflect. 

“Chuuya is really giving his brain a workout today, are you sure you won't drop dead from exertion?”

A quicksilver grin as Chuuya gave him the finger. “You’re the one with no stamina to speak of, spoiled brat. That's the whole reason why you can't call me names, remember? OR are you getting amnesiac in your old age?”

The grin that took over Dazai’s face then was completely involuntary, for the record. And he got a pleased little grin in return as Chuuya noted that yes, Dazai remembered quite well. But then Chuuya’s expression hardened as he looked back to Kunikida. 

“You wanna come, you walk in front of us. You obviously trust Dazai, but I don't trust you at my back, mullet-man. Not even if shitty Dazai does.”

In the face of one person already on the verge of a conniption, and the looming threat of Yosano-sensei, Dazai was actually loath to poke Chuuya by admitting that he had grown his hair out to at least resemble a mullet in the furthest sense as well. 

Instead, he took a few steps, laid a hand on Kunikida’s shoulder and then dragged and pushed him towards the infirmary in front of Chuuya. 

#

Yosano caught one glimpse of the Chi- of Chuuya and slammed the door in Kunikida’s face. Dazai genuinely didn't know who had the funnier reaction: Kunikida, who was squawking something about decorum and basic curtesy, or Chuuya, who stared and then started laughing. Dazai was probably the only human in existence who could see the flash of calculation that made Chuuya’s eyes glow before the redhead, seemingly impulsively, started cackling and jeering about scared old ladies. 

And it was effective. Chuuya knew as well as Dazai did how to coax people into certain reactions. For Dazai, it was a learned skill he used in accord with his observational abilities - he was brilliant at figuring out exactly what to say, but Chuuya got people. And an impertinent teenager calling her old? Yosano-san hauled them all into the room after less than ten seconds of loud taunting.

What followed was a rapid fire check-up that went over surprisingly smoothly, considering that Chuuya didn’t know her and had never taken well to strangers prodding him, and that Yosano-san only ever interacted with him the time he had attacked their hide-out. It was a less than ideal situation for a cordial visit. But the two of them spoke little, and interacted mostly through gestures and nods and really, it almost seemed like they had come to an understanding right under Dazai’s nose without making it apparent in any way. How had they done that?

But then they were done, and Yosano swept out of the room, “to update Fukuzawa-san on the situation”, and Kunikida and Dazai both stared after her. Chuuya apparently hadn’t felt the need to do the same, because he was flopped down on the bed and had pulled out a phone he was holding above his head and by all appearances engrossed in. 

Kunikida fell for it like the utter fool he was. Dazai almost wanted to shake his head, but then again, most people didn't expect a 16 year old to deliberately thump his nose at them or try to aggravate him. And Kunikida would see the child before the 16 year old mafia member and mass-murder weapon just because he was lounging around, playing on a phone and affecting a careless attitude. Chuuya had learned exactly how to take advantage of people’s misconceptions. He’d routinely seen Dazai pull the same move, after all. 

“Are you not the least bit cornered about your situation, young man?”

Moments like these, Dazai could see exactly what the math teacher had been like once upon a time. He had a certain “adult-to-child” demeanour that was, if Dazai was being honest, and he always tried to be so as little as possible, very aggravating.

“‘Course not. The boss can’t stand missing an executive and the mummy misses the older me- I’ll essentially cease to exist as soon as they find whoever did this. And that won’t take long with the port mafia on the job.”

“Do not talk so casually about death!”

Chuuya turned his face towards the blonde man. “Your partner was literally humming that bloody suicide song of his when I arrived.”

“Dazai should never be a standard to which to hold yourself-”

“I fucking know. Get off your high horse, mullet-man. I’m not suicidal, I’m realistic. And I haven’t ever seen that waste of bandages as someone I wanted to be like in any capacity.”

“Aww, Chuuya, you’re hurting my feelings!”

“Fuck off, Dazai, you don’t have feelings that can get hurt.”

It was telling how complacent Dazai had gotten within the ADA when it took honest effort to suppress the minute twitch at that. Kunikida seemed too just get more aggravated.

“Now-”

“Oh please. You may know this version but Dazai is still the same shithead who manipulated my friends into stabbing me in the back and also literally stabbing me just so he could get a minion of his own.”

Blue eyes glared into Dazai’s direction. “Not to mention that he also decided that clumsily flirting with me would be a good idea afterwards because he had no people skills and wanted an obedient little housewife and attack dog in one.”

Kunikida sputtered. Dazai just wasn’t sure what to think of Chuuya airing out their past in front of his current partner. Especially because the blonde started muttering something mostly unintelligible, and the only words Dazai caught were something to do with “straight” and “terrible” and Dazai really didn’t care to know exactly what made Chuuya chuckle at that. He could extrapolate it anyways, thank you very much, especially when Chuuya calmed down and shook his head at the former math teacher.   

“You guys completely fell for his shitty obfuscation didn't you. Figures.” And then a mean little grin spread over his face. 

“I was his first kiss.”

And when Kunikida, predictably (really, Dazai needed to teach his partner something about composure in the face of obvious distractions. Then again, he had never needed to teach that before) lost his calm once more, Dazai was all to aware that Chuuya’s grin was a mirror image to his own. 

Chuuya had picked up a lot just by watching him. And Kunikida’s denials continued, much too Chuuya’s obvious amusement. “Ya’think the guy knew other people he’d get into a five foot radius off? Fuck no.”

And that, apparently, was too much for the blonde’s brain, because it evidently gave up on processing anything it had been occupied with for the last minutes, to instead fixate on Chuuya’s vocabulary.

“Language.”

“Fuck you I lived on the streets for 7 years.”

Dazai now really wanted to laugh at the way Kunikida turned purple, but Kunikida might implode if he did that, so instead he raised an eyebrow at the sixteen-year-old and raised an eyebrow. He was met with a sharp grin. 

“I don’t think most girls will appreciate that sort of language.”

Chuuya’s head turned so quickly towards the blonde again that Dazai almost got whiplash, and the face Chuuya wore was one of utter bewilderment.

“I literally just told you that I own Dazai’s first kiss. I’m fucking gay, what the fuck would I care what some civilian chick thinks about me?”

Dazai still tried, but now he really couldn't hold back his laughter. Oh, that was precious. 

 And that was the scene that Yosano arrived back to: Chuuya glaring incredulously as Kunikida squawked and Dazai laughed at the whole situation. 

#

Chuuya was remarkably quiet and almost… well, not exactly docile but definitely more agreeable than expected as they made their way out of the ADA and as Dazai started herding him towards Dazai’s own flat. He was not going to leave him out of his sight, and he had sensibly decided not to think about the reasons for that. 

The calm lasted until they had turned three corners and Chuuya dragged Dazai along in two consecutive loops, executed to catch any possible tails and really, Dazai fell into step with Chuuya way too easily. It had been a habit before they both turned 18, to shake any tails and trip up Hirotsu when they wanted less supervision. 

It was plain discomfiting. Everything was nostalgic in ways that bothered Dazai. The Mafia had been horrible, and still was. But these weren’t bad memories. Ambivalent mostly, though he couldn't help a certain fondness when it came to the pure life that Chuuya exuded as 16, arrogant and confident and settled into a space that he could fit himself into.  

Seeing him like this, Dazai only just realised how much the PM had broken his partner in the later years. He knew how it had broken himself, but he hadn't been watching closely enough to see the same thing happen to Chuuya. 

Evidently though, it had. 

Just for a moment he wondered how much he himself had contributed to that. But that almost made him want to throw up, so he turned towards the currently 16 year-old to start some other nonsensical discussion and met Chuuya’s own narrow-eyed stare.  

“What is she going to want?”

“Huh?” 

Chuuya levelled a glare at Dazai. “The Doc Lady. You said you trust her with your life, but you also said she is an acquaintance,” Chuuya affected air quotes, “of the boss’s.”

“Chuuya, Yosano-san’s not like that.”

That had come out more placating than Dazai had intended. And Chuuya, understandably, growled at that. 

“Bull. Ane-san said it's... like, Debt and Payment. It's a ‘principle of human interaction.’ And seriously, you know as well as I do that His acquaintances never do shit for free.”

Dazai hummed noncommittally as he steered them around another corner, smoothly avoiding the police outpost on that street. 

“Yosano-Sensei is possibly the person least likely to ever become one of Mori’s typical acquaintances, Chuuya. There is quite a bit of bad blood there, from what I have gathered.”

And incredulous look. 

“What, you haven’t gone snooping and gotten your hands on the whole story? When did you grow a sense of respect for other people’s privacy?”

“Imagine trying to spy on Ane-san, Chuuya.”

That single sentence made both of them wince as they looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes. If he had been a lesser man, Dazai would have shuddered. Spying on Ozaki Kouyou was as good as signing a warrant for eternal torture- not death, but unending, eternal torture. Dazai was not a fan. 

“Fact is, Yosano-Sensei may know Mori, but she is not the type to ask for payment from a 16 year old. Maybe it will be different once you are back… to an older age, but I doubt you will care all that much.”

There was a huff.

“Alright, we’ll see.”

“Aww, doesn’t Chuuya trust me?”

The bristling came as no surprise, even as Dazai made sure to smile extra-irritatingly.

“Not as far as I can throw you, shitty mummy. You know that.”

Dazai shrugged. “Well, you are here.” 

“Because there is nowhere else to go! At least you’re honest with your fucking shady shit.”

The brunette stopped and rolled his eyes. “Of course, Chuuya, but I did mean that you are here- this is my apartment building.” 

Chuuya stared up the clean, if somewhat old high rise and raised an eyebrow. 

“You’ve really moved up in the world, now, haven’t you,” he quipped, voice laced heavily with sarcasm. Dazai very obviously bend down a little to smile at him. “Well, since Chuuya never went up all that much I did have an advantage, didn’t I?”

He got a rude gesture for his trouble and a quick hand snatched the keys and stomped inside.

“Fuck off!”

Dazai trailed after the teenager, smug grin firmly settled on his face until they both were in the elevator and Dazai pressed the button to his floor. It was a quick ride, and then Dazai made a beeline for his door and was overtaken by Chuuya as soon as he had discerned which door Dazai was heading towards. He let them both in. 

The apartment Dazai lived in was the complete opposite of his staff-cleaned room in the Port Mafia. After two years in hiding that had been intentional. Possibly the most deliberate decision he had made during those years. It wasn’t vast or clean-cut, it wasn’t a stylish combo of monotone colours and the lights and window blinds weren’t automated. 

Not to mention that he had to take out his own trash which… he should have done two days ago, judging by the state of his overflowing bin. 

And he knew he had a spare futon somewhere because Yosano had gotten a new one for her place and the old one hadn’t been threadbare yet… he just wasn’t sure where exactly it was. 

Chuuya, evidently completely unbothered by the state of Dazai’s flat, had slipped off his shoes and made his way down the hallway meanwhile to peer into every room until he found the kitchen. And he’d already found the Onigiri Dazai had planned on having for dinner, as well as two cans of canned crab from his emergency stash.

When Dazai entered the room, Chuuya wordlessly shoved the cans at him and proceeded to dog into his Onigiri and Dazai very belatedly remembered that Chuuya had been a bottomless pit during his teenage years. He didn't even know if that had changed. He made a face at the redhead. 

“Were you not planning on eating me out of house and home, Chuuya?”

“Fuck off, I’m hungry, and tired and its not even 6. You don't have shit to cook and I’m not going outside again. You’ll just drag me along into another disaster.”

“I think Chuuya is the disaster out of the two of us.”

Chuuya snorted. 

“Yeah right. That little assassin girl was great at detailing exactly how much shit you get up to while you were talking to that boss of yours.” A click of his tongue and a bite as he watched Dazai sit down opposite him. “Seems to me like you just walk from one shitshow into the next ever since you left the PM.”

Dazai took a very deliberate bite of his crab. 

“Shitshows are universal when you’re around ability users, Chuuya.”

The redhead rolled his eyes at him. 

“Oh fuck off with your evasive bullshit. I already said I don’t care, didn't I? I know exactly what the Port Mafia is like.”

Dazai stared at him for a moment. Maybe this version didn't care, but his partner did. 

It had been overly blatant during both their reunion in the basement and during the Lovecraft debacle. Dazai just hadn’t noticed that he had been stepping on someone’s trust at the same time. Words didn’t matter. And neither did words spoken as Chuuya slumped over in exhaustion. Those were negligible. But that his partner, a version of his partner that didn’t know him half as well too, had chosen to come to him when faced with a situation that could have had multiple available solutions? 

It drove home what Chuuya had already said a few times. He did trust Dazai. Not just in the “we have to work together and you’re my ball and chain and you won’t let me level the city” kind of way, but genuinely trusted him to search him out in a vulnerable situation. 

Dazai swallowed another bite and got up, making a deliberately stupid little wave at Chuuya and made his way out of the room to find the second futon. 

This wasn’t something to think about now, when Chuuya watched him closely enough that he might even be able to decipher Dazai’s thoughts. 

Older Chuuya and his preconceived notions was much easier to lead around the nose. 

He ignored the catty “coward” comment that drifted after him. 

#

Dazai’s phone rang at 3 a.m. that night. 

Chuuya had sat up straight on his futon before Dazai even turned to the side to reach for it, a dark, lanky silhouette in the room that was only illuminated by the sliver of a waxing moon. 

He picked up the phone and accepted the call from a blocked number. And really, at this time, there were very few people that would call him. 

“Dazai-kun.”

“Mori-san!” Dazai chirped, deliberately chipper, as he watched Chuuya tense and straighten. “What seems to be the problem at this hour?”

“I do fear for your intellect, if you cannot deduce it from the situation, Dazai-kun. But very well. We have found the hiding place of the ability user that affected Chuuya-kun, so we would be very happy if you could make your way there post haste.”

“Ah, but it is very early, Mori-san, don’t you think?”

“Fukuzawa-dont has assured me that you will be happy to help and resolve this issue as soon as possible, Dazai-kun.“

Dazai sighed. There was little he could do to stall for time in this. And with the way Chuuya was up and grabbing the day clothes at his side, he knew so as well. 

He suppressed another sigh. “Very well, Mori-san, send me the address and we will make our way there.”

He almost grinned the pause that followed. 

“You might remember Chuuya at 16, Mori-san, I won’t be able to keep him from going without grievous harm to myself and we both know I would rather avoid that.” 

“Very well. See that you don’t dawdle,” came the terse reply, and then the call broke off. Dazai pouted slightly at his phone. Mori could really bet indescribably rude.

And still, he rolled out of bed and made his way towards his wardrobe, pulling out a somewhat darker attire than he regularly wore nowadays. 

When going into an area undoubtedly swarming with Port Mafia goons though, he was very much conscious that this would make it just a little easier for him to blend in and keep the tension at a minimum. Not really necessary normally, but he was walking in there without any sort of back-up this time.

Dazai went into the bathroom after Chuuya came out, completely dressed and hair still wet, but not dripping all over the place like Dazai sometimes left his own. 

And fifteen minutes later they were stepping outside again, heading towards the nearest subway station as some other blocked number send him coordinates. The train ride was filled with a mostly tense silence, with Chuuya obviously caught up in his own thoughts and Dazai trying to puzzle out whom he would have to deal with in the next half hour. Hirotsu was almost a given, but he didn’t know whether Mori would send Akutagawa and Gin-chan just to complicate matters or if he would not, to facilitate a quick and successful mission. 

It was a bit of a toss-up, and as such not something Dazai was particularly happy about. 

When they did get out at their final station, they both noticed the suited men waiting for them at the street corner. Dazai only just caught the undecipherable look that Chuuya send in his direction before they met up with the men and were lead down a few alleyways, only to stop in front of what looked like a shop in the middle of renovations, and one that was awfully quiet.

“Huh, is the show over already?”

A familiar voice reached them from the door. “Dazai-kun, Nakahara-kun. You’ve missed the exciting part.”

Hirotsu-san stepped out a minute later, looking as unruffled as always, even in the face of a way-too-often-seen traitor and a de-aged superior. 

The older man gestured for them to step inside. 

“We’ve already captured the ability user, and Mori-sama was asking for a quick resolution of the matter, so if you would, Dazai-kun?”

Dazai hummed and turned to look at his de-aged partner, feeling his smile turn... weird on his face. 

“Well, Chuuya, that was a very short-term solution to your fear of aging, don’t you think?”

“At least I don’t dress like a grandpa, half the time, you fucking waste of bandages.”

A sharp grin and a shove that did make Dazai stumble, even though he had seen it coming. 

“Now go and resolve this fucking mess, you procatinating disaster.”

“Stop trying to order me around brat, you’Re to tiny to look down on me.” 

But Dazai went and turned around, walking past the row of grunts and Hirotsu to stand in front of the obviously unconscious man. It was a male, most probably over 40, lying in the dirt and obviously at least somewhat post-torture. Dazai couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad for him. He’d attacked Chuuya after all. And speaking of Chuuya-

“Just a minute.“

“Chuuya-kun?”

Hirotsu’s face looked vaguely disapproving as the teenager ran past the goons and right at Dazai, who, really, had expected this. Chuuya would want to get in at least one hit, he’d known that. 

But then, suddenly, Chuuya was right in his face, and Dazai knew that look. It was stubborn and fixated on him and really, it felt nice to be looked at like that. Like someone wanted him. Like someone cared.

It felt a lot less nice when he considered that this was an out-of-his-depth sixteen-year-old who had latched onto him for all the wrong reasons. 

Dazai didn‘t want this Chuuya. He had outgrown this Chuuya when Chuuya himself had outgrown that age. He still liked the boy, loved him, maybe, but in a distant sort of way. Like a memory, perhaps, and definitely not in a way that would make him comfortable kissing a teenager. Especially with all these people around him. 

So he stepped back. And, really, the look the boy gave him was… it hurt Dazai possibly almost as much as it seemed to hurt Chuuya. But this was the right thing to do. The thing Oda would have nodded his head and smiled at him for. 

But Chuuya’s face… Dazai crossed the distance he had put between them himself and hugged the redhead. 

There were… so many things he could have said, but none felt adequate because, in the end, Chuuya had been right. This version of him would cease to exist- would, for lack of a better word, die. And though they both had always been more than familiar with the harsh reality of their own mortality, it still had to be scary. 

So he hugged his younger partner and felt gratified, maybe and slightly humbled, as he felt the smaller male hug him back and bury his pale face in Dazai’s vest. And then Dazai reached back with the other arm to blindly grasp the forearm of Chuuya’s attacker. 

There was a shocked gasp, and a cut-off yell, and something pulsed in Dazai’s arms before the rapidly aging body crumpled to the floor, heavier than Dazai could manage to hold up with one arm. Instead he went down with him, kneeling as he tried to lay Chuuya down gently, head cushioned on his lap. 

Just from the way his jaw was clenched Chuuya was almost certain that Chuuya was living through a condensed amount of growing pains. Of course he wouldn’t scream. Both Dazai and Chuuya had learned very, very early on in their mafia careers that screaming often only made things worse. 

And then Chuuya‘s hair was back at normal length, slightly wet looking and Dazai would bet that Chuuya would take a 30 minute shower the moment he got back to his own home.

Most people would have stayed unconscious after something like this. Chuuya woke up half a minute later, scowl on his face and eyes narrowed. 

“Fuck that was a fucked up trip.” 

“Well, if Chuuya hadn’t decided he wanted to try out the newest de-aging treatment this could have all been avoided, but Chuuya’s brain is possibly too small to think of the consequences.” 

Dazai knew that it wasn’t his best work. Really, he did, but the actually amused snort his partner made was just about worth it. 

He didn’t stop the Chibi from sitting up, didn’t try to help because that would have just resulted in a fist in his face, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet either. 

He should have. Dazai knew he should have, but it just wasn’t something he was willing to do right this second. With a certain amount of absentmindedness he noted that Chuuya didn’t seem to want to stand up just yet either, was resting back on his hands and staring up at the ceiling. 

Dazai managed to do the same thing for one, strangely peaceful moment as well, and then he was caught off guard the second time in the last fifteen minutes as Chuuya, once again, decided to get right into his personal space. 

He was clutching at Dazai’s collar again, the brunette noticed vaguely, as he stared into still narrowed blue eyes. 

It wasn’t the same soft look the sixteen-year-old version had levelled at him. It was harder, more bitter and held a wealth of history but at least it was really Chuuya’s. And so were the words. 

“You don’t get to pull away and deny me after you coddled me this whole day, bastard.”

Chuuya kissed him before he had really processed the words. 

All things considered, it was one of the chaster kisses between them, but Dazai could feel his blood rushing towards his face anyway. They were in public. Hirotsu of all people was standing not 10 meters behind them and the first thing Chuuya did after a day under the influence of a quirk was kiss him? When had he stopped being capable of predicting the Chibi?

Dazai kept sitting on the floor when Chuuya stopped pressing their lips together and stood, barking orders at the Port Mafia members surrounding them. And then he swivelled around to glare at Dazai and point a finger at him as Dazai finally started to stand up. 

“And don’t you fucking vanish! We need to talk about some things. I’ll come by tonight, and don't you try avoiding me. I need to go do fucking paperwork now.“

Dazai stared at the tiny whirlwind that was his partner and sighed. Really, today was already not his day. He had just been planning to hide on the Agency’s sofa for a while. So, really, he didn't feel like having a talk with Chuuya. Those always ended with a bloody nose, even if you could talk and blackmail himself out of everything. The grin he affected was, Dazai admitted to himself, deliberately shady. 

“Ahh, Chibi, how about this: You take a good swing at me and everything is even right now, so you don’t have to come and search me out later.”

To be honest, it was kind of impressive that Chuuya had even heard him over the ruckus the Mafia Goons were making around them. But he evidently did? Because he sent an exasperated glare into Dazai’s direction. 

“Are you fucking… Urgh.” Then he took Dazai’s wrist and dragged him out of the room and down the hall, ignoring Dazai’s questions in favour of looking at doors and finally pulling both of them into something that looked like an office. The door was shut with a kick, and then Chuuya was in Dazai’s personal space, hands coming up to grip at his shirt collar and pulling Dazai down until their foreheads were almost touching.

“Listen to me for once in your goddamn life, Mackerel. What you did was decent. Really, fucking decent, ok? I know, you're on the side of the light and all that blah blah blah. But I didn't expect shit as a 16 year-old. You would have had an easier time not trying to coddle and protect me from your own friends. No one would have blamed you. You wouldn't have done so at any other time. So there's something that actually changed. I didn't think so before, and somehow I think you didn't either. So take this situation as proof, got it?”

Dazai thought back to leaving Chuuya, exhausted from corruption, lying on a battlefield. Thought of a sixteen year old version not even shrugging off his arm, as Chuuya let go of him and stepped back a tiny bit.

Then Dazai felt a punch on his shoulder, much less painful that it could have been and shifted his focus to stare into Chuuya’s eyes. 

“We have more to talk about. I mean what I said. Be home tonight. I’ll hunt you down if you’re not, but you wont like it.” Dazai made a show of pouting. 

“Ah, but who says I like Chuuya near me at any time? You’re annoying, Chibi.”

A snort, utterly amused. Oh. That was… not the intended reaction. 

“Yeah, try selling that to someone who didn’t see you light up when I was talking about our little bets and who didn��t see you shuffle around your whole living space just to keep me near you. You know as well as I do that there are more than enough places that you could have shipped me off to, but you didn’t.”

“That’s because no one knew whether the ability would have adverse effects on your control, so of course it was safer to keep you supervised, Chuuya.”

Dazai was trying - really, really, trying - to extricate himself out of whatever this situation was starting to devolve into. But Chuuya wasn’t rising to his bait, wasn’t even huffing or stomping off, and all of that made Dazai decidedly less certain what he was dealing with now. 

Not that he got another chance to try and get back into familiar waters when Chuuya just grinned at him, and then turned to strut out of the door. 

Dazai let his head fall back to stare at the ceiling once more. He needed to get a grip. And then he needed to figure out exactly what had happened in the last two days and what had changed. 

This was important. But for now he would make his way home and bury himself in his futon. It was too early to deal with such a weird day. 

[darylwillfightnatureforcarol]

Back To The Past Chapter 9

NOTE:

Reminder that from here on, I will be distinguishing between past and future Daryl and Carol by using this format:

Future Daryl will be written as Daryl

Future Carol will be written as Carol

Non bold mentions of their names will refer to their past selves, unless in dialogue, but I think it's pretty easy to discern with the dialogue.

Hope this helps!

On with the story:

Carol’s legs were still wobbly from the journey through time. Eugene could have mentioned it would leave you feeling sick.

She trekked upwards, knowing the quarry camp was in this direction. Her heart was beating fast. She couldn’t believe she was back here again.

As she neared the camp, she heard the click of a gun before she registered the owner of it. Shane was standing there with his gun drawn. He squinted at her. His gun hand wavered.

“Carol?”

“Hello Shane,” she responded flatly.

She didn’t know how she felt about seeing the man again. He had always been kind enough to her but knowing how he turned out later made her view of him murky.

Shane lowered his gun and looked her up and down with wide eyes.

“So, I guess you’re from the future too…” he trailed off, no question to his words.

She allowed a small smirk.

“Yes, I am,” her face settled into neutral again, “Where’s Daryl?”

Shane nodded and indicated with his head.

“This way.”

Carol followed Shane into the camp, getting stares as she passed people. People she had known so many years ago. People that had died.

Shane himself kept sneaking glances at her now and then. It was a little annoying.

She kept her eyes forward, not wanting to look at anyone too closely. She couldn’t afford to break down.

Her breath caught as she finally spotted Daryl.

He was smiling a little as he spoke to someone. That someone, beside him, was her. All frumpy clothes and short hair.

“Dixon!” Shane called out, causing both him and her past self to look up.

She watched Daryl’s eyes widen in surprise. Her younger self blanched in shock at seeing her.

Daryl moved over to her.

“What are you doing here?” he immediately asked as he reached her. He was still sporting a look of shock.

“Not here,” she answered with a pointed look around.

She watched Daryl follow her gaze and see the audience they had, including Younger Carol, who was staring at her future self strangely.

Carol inclined her head and turned to walk into the cover of the trees. Daryl followed her after a beat.

--

Carol came to a stop not far from the camp and turned to face him again.

“What are you doing here?” he tried again.

“Looking for you,” she answered simply.

“How the hell you get here? I still got the damned,” he paused as he cringed at the words he was about to use, “Time machine,” he gritted out.

Carol’s mouth twitched but she didn’t comment about his reluctance to say it.

“I saw you go to Eugene. So, I went there myself and made him tell me where you were. I’ll spare you the details of how painful that was,” she explained with an annoyed look.

Daryl could only imagine the shit she’d have to listen to in order to get to the truth. He’d never understand Eugene Porter. The man just couldn’t speak a simple sentence.

“Finally, he fessed up. Took me a bit to believe him but he showed me a second model he had been working on and did a demonstration for me. Couldn’t argue it then,” she continued with a shrug. Daryl nodded in understanding. He had experienced the same thing. After seeing the change on the sheet of paper, he could deny it no longer.

“He was reluctant, at first, to send me back. He said this model isn’t ready yet for such a long trip. I may or may not have had to threaten violence,” she confessed sheepishly. “I admit I was a little emotional when I found out you had disappeared to God knows where.”

Daryl was still stuck on another thing she had mentioned.

“You made him send you back here not knowing if that thing was going to work?” Daryl interrogated with narrowed eyes. “What woulda happened if you got stuck in the wrong place?”

Carol shook her head at him.

“It doesn’t matter now. I’m here, aren’t I. So, it worked.”

Daryl wanted to push the issue more, feeling upset at her recklessness, but he let it drop.

“He tell you we might not be able to get back?” Daryl asked her instead.

Carol nodded.

“He did.”

Daryl scrutinized her and she didn’t seem to be affected by that news at all.

She cleared her throat before speaking again.

“I talked to you not long after we got back to Alexandria. It was like talking to a mental patient. You had no idea what I was talking about when I brought up what happened in the woods,” Carol started with a knowing look at him. “All you knew was that you were attacked by someone and knocked out. This isn’t the first time you’ve travelled in time, is it?”

Daryl sighed and shook his head.

“Something happened on that mission with the group, didn’t it? Something you wanted to change,” Carol asked.

Daryl nodded, feeling his throat tighten, remembering the original version of events.

Carol watched him with a concerned look.

“Tell me,” she urged.

He sucked in his breath shakily before he started pacing.

“It was Alpha. It’s always fucking Alpha!” Daryl spat. “She showed up like she did when you were there but that time you ran after her.”

Carol was silent as she listened to him and watched him walk back and forth in front of her.

“I ran after you. We all did. It was a trap, though. We all fell into a cave and were trapped there,” Daryl explained, bringing his thumb up to chew on.

“I led you into a trap,” Carol muttered, and he looked at her. She had a look of guilt and self-hatred on her face.

“You didn’t mean to,” Daryl tried reassuring her, even though she didn’t even do it. Not this time around.

“I was thinking it. Before you grabbed me, I was going to run after her,” Carol elaborated with a frown.

“That’s why I grabbed ya. I couldn’t risk it happenin’ again,” Daryl admitted.

“Something else happened, didn’t it?” Carol deduced.

Daryl started pacing again and looked at the ground. He couldn’t look at her while he thought of that.

“We were stuck in that cave for hours. Alpha’s horde was in there, blocking off any exits,” he heard her gasp, but he didn’t look up.

“You had a plan. You said you could create a distraction so we could make it out. I told you no. I thought you listened too,” he broke off as he thought back to the fiery look that had still clouded her eyes. He should have known she hadn’t let the plan from her mind.

“You waited ‘til my back was turned and then ya did it anyway. You fired off your gun and started killing the walkers at your feet. It worked to get a path cleared towards the exit,” Daryl shook his head.

“There was too many of ‘em. Was like I was frozen even though I wanted to run over and grab ya to get the hell out of there. One of them got a grip on your leg and you fell.”

Daryl chanced a look up at her and she was watching him with interest, hanging onto his every word.

“You tried to fight ‘em off, but like I said, there was too many. They… There was so much blood… I couldn’t…” he kept breaking off the words, unable to voice what he had seen. His view was being obscured by tears.

Carol moved over and pulled him into her arms. He buried his head into her neck, the tears coming faster now.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her jacket.

“Shh,” she soothed, reaching her hand up to stroke through his hair. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m sorry too.”

Daryl allowed himself to cry in her arms for a long while.

Carol made no complaints. She just continued to hold him, stoke his hair and murmur comforts into his ear.

When he pulled away from her, he saw that her cheeks were wet too. She had been crying along with him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled awkwardly.

She shook her head. She reached up and wiped at her eyes before she brought her hands to his face and did the same for him.

“Don’t apologize. I think we both needed that,” she replied with a watery smile.

Carol lowered her hands to her side once more.

“Why did you come back here?” she asked soon, her eyes intent on his face.

Daryl looked down at his feet. He gnawed on his lip while he tried to figure out how to answer her.

“Way things have been lately… I’ve tried everything I could think of…” Daryl broke off, not feeling the words were right.

Carol was frowning while she watched him, but she didn’t look upset. She kept silent and let him war with his own mouth.

He huffed out a sigh. “Wanted to fix things for you,” he said finally. He eyed her before continuing, “I wanted to save her this time.”

Carol’s eyes filled with understanding and her tears began anew. She swallowed heavily.

“Sophia,” she stated brokenly.

He nodded in reply, though he knew it wasn’t a question.

Carol sucked in a deep breath and sniffed.

“You know I… I never blamed you for not finding her,” she started, watching him, “You know that right?”

Daryl didn’t reply at first. He avoided her eyes.

“I know you might’a never blamed me, but I still didn’t find her,” he shook his head, guilt eating at him, even so many years later, “I still forced you to have hope.”

Carol made a noise and stepped into his space once more. She grasped his face gently in her hands. She brushed her thumbs over his cheeks.

“That is nothing you should feel guilty about. If you hadn’t been there back then, I wouldn’t have made it.”

Carol ran her eyes over his face, sadness in them.

“She was already lost. We just didn’t know it or want to believe it. But you saved me,” Carol said in a firm voice.

Daryl couldn’t stop the tears from coming all over again. He had harboured his feelings of guilt for a long time. It felt like a weight had lifted to confess this to her.

“Don’t forget that, okay?” she continued, her hands tightening a little on his face. She forced him to meet her eyes.

Daryl had no choice but to nod, unable to speak right now anyway.

Carol stroked her thumb over his cheek again. She leaned closer to him and, lifting onto her toes, pressed a kiss to his brow. The third time she had ever done it.

She pulled away and gave him a tiny smile.

“I told you a long time ago that you did more for Sophia than her father ever did, remember?”

He nodded shakily.

He remembered the day she had popped into the room he had been put in to recover. Her appearance in the room had been strange enough but she had kissed him and spoken those words that held so much gratitude. It had left him feeling confused and he had warred against the pride that wanted to bloom in his chest.

Carol eyed him for a beat before pulling him back into her arms.

He went without protest.

“We’ll save her this time, I promise,” her voice came muffled against his neck.

Daryl huffed a laugh against her.

“Thought I should be sayin’ that to you.”

Carol shook her head against him. He felt the brush of her hair on his face.

“I think we both need to save her, for different reasons.”

Daryl hummed.

He understood.

Back then, it had meant something different to save the lost little girl. He had been trying to save a similar kid who had gotten lost in the woods.

Himself.

Carol pulled away soon, to his dismay. She watched him silently for a moment. There was a question warring in her eyes. He waited her out.

“You’ve seen her?”

Daryl nodded and shifted his weight.

“Talked to her yesterday.”

Carol nodded; her eyes still wet.

“God, I can’t…” she broke off to wipe at her eyes again. “I don’t know what to do or say to her.”

Daryl hummed in understanding.

“She won’t even know me!” Carol sobbed this time and her eyes looked horrified. “I wouldn’t want her to know me.”

Daryl frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a killer Daryl!” she burst out and then covered her mouth with wide eyes.

“So am I!” Daryl retorted with frustration.

Why couldn’t she see that he was no different than her? They had both taken lives and not just for survival.

“It’s not the same,” Carol muttered, shaking her head.

“The hell it ain’t!” he spat, making her flinch. He took a breath to calm himself a little.

“I never told you…No one else probably did either…” Daryl started and stopped.

“Daryl…” Carol tried, trying to touch his arm.

He backed away from her hand and started pacing again.

“You don’t know what I was like after the Sanctuary!” he finally said, keeping his eyes pointed to the ground.

Daryl glanced up at her and she was watching him with a furrowed brow.

“I can imagine you were…” she started.

“No, you can’t!” He cut her off. He stopped pacing and forced himself to face her.

“You think you’re a killer? I was killing people for blinking!” he admitted with emotion thick in his voice.

Carol was watching him with a stricken look.

“That man, in this camp right here, Morales?” Daryl continued pointing a finger in the general direction of the camp. “I killed him. No thought to it at all.”

Carol gasped and he saw the recognition fill her eyes at the mention of the man.

“I’m sure you had…” she breathed.

Daryl cut her off again. She kept trying to justify his actions.

“Don’t say that I had a good reason! I didn’t even give any of them a chance!”

“I killed Lizzie,” Carol said in a tiny voice out of nowhere.

Daryl stared at her in surprise. He watched her shift back and forth in place in front of him. There was a look of deep self-hatred on her face.

“I didn’t give her a choice. She wasn’t bitten. I just killed her,” she continued, her eyes filled with tears and her hands playing with the buttons on her jacket.

Daryl’s own feelings of self-hatred, that had taken hold of him while he recounted the tale of his unhinged behaviour, ebbed as he saw hers unfold before him.

“She killed Mika. Wanted her to come back as a walker. She was going to do the same to Judith,” Carol elaborated with a far-away look. “There was something wrong with her, but there must have been something else we could’ve done…”

Daryl was shocked to say the least. He had known that whatever had happen to her on the road with those girls must have been hard, but he never could have suspected this. He reached out to her to try to pull her to him again, but she backed away.

“I shot her in the back of the head! She was just a little girl, Daryl!” Carol cried; her face full of loathing for herself. Her cheeks were wet.

Daryl ignored her hands trying to push him away this time and pulled her into his arms.

Carol tried to pull herself out of the hold at first but soon slumped and let him hold her. She sobbed openly into his neck.

“You did what you had to do, alright? You protected Judith in the only way you could at the time,” Daryl said to her, talking above the sound of her sobs. Her hands tightened on his vest.

“But…” she tried to protest in a choked voice.

“No. You know deep down that there’s nothing else you could have done.”

“I know but… You should hate me,” she replied finally still sounding broken.

Daryl shook his head.

“I’m never gonna hate you.”

This set her off into a new bout of sobbing and Daryl just held her tighter, rubbing his hand up and down her back, hoping it was offering some comfort.

She pulled back and looked up at him with still wet eyes. She sucked in a deep breath and let it out again. She gave him a weak smile.

“Look at us. We’re a mess,” she observed.

Daryl snorted and chuckled a little.

“Never claimed to be anythin’ else.”

Carol granted him a more genuine smile.

“So, have you seen yourself yet?” she asked, changing the subject.

Daryl hummed an agreement.

“How did that go?” Carol prompted with a raised brow.

“How d’ya think? Thought I was some crazy, long lost brother he didn’t know about. Shane even had me tied to a fucking tree.”

Daryl had to concede to his younger self that it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. He had often wondered if there were more Dixons out there parented by his asshole of a father. It wasn’t like his dad was ever faithful to his ma.

“How did you convince them?”

Daryl cringed as he remembered showing his back. The horror in his younger self’s eyes was stuck in his head. It must be different to see his own scars presented on another body. He had only seen them the best he could in a mirror.

“Showed him my scars,” he told her, avoiding her eyes.

“Sorry you had to do that,” she said softly and when he looked at her, there was sympathy in her eyes. She knew how he felt about his scars better than anyone.

Daryl just shrugged in reply.

“We should head back. You got a place yet?” Carol suggested, while looking around, probably checking to see if anyone had followed them.

“Other me is with the group headed to Atlanta so we can stay in my old tent for now.”

Daryl led the way back towards the camp.

Carol fell into step beside him.

“Merle?” she asked as they walked.

“Yeah,” he replied, “I told him that he’d be gone but he still wanted to go.”

Carol nodded.

They stepped back through the trees into the main camp.

Everyone had mostly dispersed but younger Carol was still where she was before he left. She seemed to have been watching the tree line. When they appeared, her gaze settled on the Carol at his side with a frown.

“You wanna talk to her?” Daryl asked her.

Carol looked at him with a furrowed brow. She glanced at her past self and there was a look of derision there.

“No,” was all she replied before she walked off in the direction of the outer camp.

Daryl watched her go before looking back at her younger self. She gave him a small smile and he returned it the best he could.

He didn’t understand the way Carol was acting about her younger self. He knew it was weird to see yourself, but it was almost like there was hatred on her face when she looked at her.

He shouldered his bow and followed after her.

[dottie-wan-kenobi]

Hey! A bit ago I saw that you were wondering if anyone was interested in a tutorial on dialogue?? And I just wanted to say that I would totally love to learn how to write dialogue/banter like you do, if you’re still interested in creating that tutorial of course

Hi yes of course I’m still interested!! But before I jump in, let me say that this is by no means a be-all-end-all, and this is just what works for me. If it works for other people, that’s great! If it doesn’t, that’s totally valid! Maybe this could be a jumping off point for other pieces of advice, idk. But anyway, let’s gooooo

Okay so I’m gonna be pulling out a bad example of my own writing, and a good example for each point, which is extra but will hopefully show the differences, & I’ll be doing it without putting anyone else down so yeet!

SAY IT OUT LOUD, MAKE SURE IT FLOWS, MAKE SURE IT MAKES SENSE

Another point to this one is, can you imagine real life people saying it? If the answer is no, then you gotta rework it. If the answer is yes, then yay!

Otherwise I’m not really sure how to explain this. Making sure it makes sense is easy enough, and saying it out loud is too, but making sure it flows is different. What I do for this is maybe not the best advice, but I use less periods. Commas, dashes, and ellipses keep it from being choppy. Also, adding words/phrases such as ‘well’, ‘like’, ‘I mean’, ‘uh/um/er/etc’ can help connect sentences/thoughts together in a realistic way.

BAD EXAMPLE:

“Bruce shrugged. “I knew, but didn’t realize, I guess. I’ve known he was young since I first learned about him.”

Clint, who was blanching, said, “he looks like a kid. Or an underage father. Think about what he had to go through as a kid, though."” - posted on July 1st, 2014

Why it’s bad: (Ignoring the horrible blocking dskljflksdf)

It doesn’t flow! Bruce’s line here feels just a little off, probably bc I was trying to put information where it shouldn’t have been (more on that later), but even without the second sentence, it’s still off. Time to reword, then; I’d change it to “I learned about it when I was studying him, but I kinda…forgot.” Idk about yall, but I can see Mark Ruffalo saying this, shrugging sheepishly. This flows a lot better and in my experience, it’s more likely someone would say this instead of “I didn’t realize, I guess”.

Clint’s lines should be combined, and there should be some diction added in. “He looks almost like a kid, or like, an underage father. God, think about what he had to go through!” Way less choppy & has some rhythm to it, instead of sounding like a robot is saying it.

GOOD EXAMPLE:

““Stop texting me weird stuff so late at night.”

“It’s not weird,” Sam denies immediately, “You just don’t appreciate it.”

“Why would I appreciate—” Steve reads carefully off his screen, “—Buzzfeed’s ‘Which Possible Illuminati Member Are You?’ quiz?”

“Because everyone thinks you’re in the Illuminati anyway, so why not see if you get yourself, you know?”

“Okay, but at four am? What were you even doing up that early?”” - posted on March 2nd, 2019

Why it’s good:

This is one of those I suggest reading out loud to understand the flow. Banter, at least in this case, is like slapstick comedy, and it’s gotta go back and forth without going way off course (unless that’s the desired effect!). Steve says something, Sam picks something specific to react to & adds a comment that makes it seem like they’ve maybe had this conversation before, and from there, they pass the rhythm to each other. Going from the second-to-last to the last lines is part of the flow; Sam makes a point that Steve doesn’t want to refute, so he continues it in another way. “Okay, but” is like the hinge connecting one flow to another. I’m just talking in circles now but anYWAY THIS IS BACK AND FORTH.

TRY TO FIT THE CHARACTER

Think specifically about the character, and if it sounds like something they would say or not. That’s kinda hard at times, so just make sure you aren’t having them say things you can definitely NOT imagine them saying. I’m gonna go with Batman because we all know him enough to know what he absolutely would never ever say.

BAD EXAMPLE:

Batman says, “And I was like, ‘oh my god, is this serious? You’re just turning yourself in?’ And he said ‘hell yeah I am!’ and I almost died from the shock!”

Why it’s bad: 

Batman is a character who doesn’t ramble and wouldn’t retell an event like this (by paraphrasing it & recounting exact exchanges). He’s a very stoic person, and this whole thing is more emotionally open and telling than he would be comfortable with. And while this flows, I can’t picture him saying it unless it’s a heavily AU’d version, which is generally not what you want.

GOOD EXAMPLE:

Batman says, “The Joker turned himself in last night. I assume he’s planning something, something big if he’s willing to go to Arkham for it.”

Why it’s good: 

This is a lot more subtle with the emotions, and a lot more monotonous, which is what Batman would probably want to sound like when recounting an event like this. He WANTS to sound like a textbook or police report, which are serious and straight to the point. But he can still add his thoughts into the mix, e.g. “something big…”, which shows how he’s kind of surprised and is thinking about what it means.

YA CAN’T ALWAYS INPUT INFORMATION INTO THE DIALOGUE

Sometimes you really want or need to share some information with the readers, and an easy way to do that is with dialogue, right? Sometimes! This, like everything else, hinges on flow & the realisticness of the words. Some pieces of info need to be conveyed through thoughts or actions, and some of it just shouldn’t be shared, no matter how much you might want to include it.

BAD EXAMPLE:

“Bonnie asked, “so…Original vampire? What does that mean, exactly? If you don’t mind my asking, I mean.”

“It means that my siblings and I were turned into the very first vampires after the death of my youngest brother. Also turned were my father, sister-in-law, and nephew. All vampires in existence come from us.”” - posted on March 6th, 2017

Why it’s bad: 

The OG vampire in question here is Elijah, and while it makes sense for the character to quickly summarize it, it doesn’t flow. He would probably react firstly to Bonnie’s last sentence, then answer more concisely, “It means that my family and I are the first vampires in existence.” Maybe with an additional comment about them being the source of all other vampires, but not much more. Being so specific chops up the rhythm and makes it harder to understand, almost, ‘cause that’s a lot of people to keep in consideration.

GOOD EXAMPLE:

““What are you talking about, Kev?” Cheryl sets her phone down, the picture of fully-invested. “Schools don’t just shut down in one day.”

Kevin flops into the other chair, breathing calmed for the most part. “Apparently they do. Dad told me they arrested a teacher there for selling Jingle Jangle to students, and when they were going through his office they found meth. The basement was being used as a meth lab. The whole thing’s being quarantined and shut down until further notice.”” - posted on August 2nd, 2018

Why it’s good: 

It flows!!! For being secondhand information, it’s clear enough to understand without bombarding readers with extremely specific details. It reads almost like an online article, with enough feeling to make it interesting, while still explaining exactly what’s happened.

DIFFERENT MOODS/DYNAMICS

Something to think about when writing dialogue is what mood your characters are in, and what kind of relationship they have with the character(s) they’re talking to. If person A is in a bad mood and talking to someone they like, they might try to tamp down on the mood in order to be nice. If person B is in a great mood and talking to a stranger, they might be pretty exuberant and friendly. Etc etc. Gonna use Superman as an example (this is extremely cheesy but it shows the difference).

BAD EXAMPLE: (Mood)

Extremely annoyed, Superman tells Lex Luthor, “Lex, you’re crazy! Trying to take over Metropolis with a hair growing scheme is just stupid! I’m leaving!”

He goes on to his date with Lois, now as Clark Kent, and says with a smile, “Sorry I’m fifty-seven minutes late, Lex kept me at work! Anyway, how was your day?”

Why it’s bad: 

Okay I know this is cheesy I’m sorry I wrote this at 2 am last night lkdjflksjdfhskjdfhjashf ANYWAY. Superman goes from talking to Lex, who he doesn’t like and is quite annoyed with, to talking to Lois, who he does like and presumably isn’t annoyed with at all. The problem here is that you usually can’t turn moods off like a switch. Even though Superman likes Lois, he wouldn’t walk into the date perfectly happy. The annoyance from dealing with Lex would stay with him (though it would probably fade the longer the date went on). I think instead of smiling, he would be rolling his eyes a little and complaining like, “I swear, he’s so inconsiderate….”, instead of immediately jumping into “how was your day?”

GOOD EXAMPLE: (Dynamic)

Superman laughs as Robin does a flip off his shoulder. “Good job! Maybe next time we could try it from a little higher up,” he winks.

Robin cheers, “Yes! Thanks, Uncle Clark!”

Superman nods and leaves, finding Batman in the hallway. Seriously, he says, “Batman.”

“Superman.”

“Did you get your report done? They’re due by this afternoon.”

Why it’s good: 

Again with the cheese that’s my bad lmao. This is mostly to show that characters are gonna sound different when speaking to different people. When talking to Robin, who is a child and quite a friendly one at that, Superman is teasing and joking around. Then, when he talks to Batman, who’s a grown man and also his coworker, he’s more serious and to the point. Both situations fit his character but show he’s got different relationships with different people.

IN CONCLUSION, uhhhhh yeah follow these points and hopefully dialogue will come a little easier. Experiment and have fun with it (these aren’t rules, but guidelines!), and if there are any questions I’m happy to clear them up/answer them/whatever lol.

[faveficarchive]

The Secret Histories: Part 3

Shadows of the Living

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Set soon after All the Colors of the World, an old flame wanders back into Mel’s life, and threatens a relationship already wrought with unspoken problems. Janice is sent off to Bavaria to work with the Monuments Men, and Mel isn’t far behind. Will their shaky relationship withstand the test of distance, violence, and ancient obsession?

Life itself is but the shadow of death, and souls departed but the shadows of the living....The sun itself is but the dark simulacrum, and light but the shadow of God.

—Sir Thomas Browne

November, 1945

Fall. He brooded, watching the leaves gently disengage themselves from the trees outside his townhouse window. He loved the season when he was younger, welcoming the crisp air, a renewed feeling of purpose, of vigor. Now, as an old man, he dreaded it—it meant the onslaught of the cold weather that would settle in his bones, and the painful chilblains he would get...and now, recovering from his recent stroke, Anton Frobisher truly felt the season of aging, of death and decay was upon him. He could only groan in response.

"Are you all right?" The voice was gentle, soft. With a Southern accent. Before he could look in her direction, Melinda had laid a hand on his arm.

And here, inside his home, a young woman he loved was about to gently disengage herself from his life. Perhaps not permanently; who could tell? The war was over, they kept reminding themselves, but the world was just as unpredictable, violent, and crazy as ever. With the bombs dropped on Japan only a scant two months ago, he was more than convinced of that fact.

Anton looked at Melinda. Her familiar frown, that serious, intent look that she always wore, except in the presence of Janice Covington, was directed at him. Damn you, Covington, you better not get yourself killed.

He gave a wry smile. "I'm fine," he rumbled in a deep voice, hoping to convince her. She managed a small smile in return. "By God, it feels good to speak again." Slowly, after his stroke, his ability to speak—to formulate sentences—had returned.

"I bet it does."

He eyed the small black suitcase that sat in the corner of his den, near the door. "So you're off, then?"

She nodded, then pushed her sliding glasses up along the ridge of her nose with a long index finger. One of her "nervous scholar tics," as Covington called it. He could still see and hear—quite vividly—the golden-haired woman laughing gently as she teased her tall and sometimes too-serious companion. "I'm...off," she said quietly.

"I shall miss you very much, you know," he said, with David Niven bravado, the fighter pilot going down nobly in his fiery plane.

"Yes, I will miss you too. But I'll be back." Optimistic words, but the chasm of doubt in her voice threatened to swallow them both.

"You will," he said, taking her hand, "and so will Janice."

After the stroke, when he could not speak, he felt as if he had been trapped underwater, under an ice floe, separate from the world, his senses refracted. He could witness everything going on around him, but could neither understand it clearly nor express himself. When he could finally tell Melinda—or rather, show her, via the report—what he had discovered about Catherine Stoller, he felt that he had finally broken through. But it took almost a week before he could tell her of his discovery, and how he had come to it: How he had been more than a little suspicious of Stoller when she showed up at his office; how she seemed to know exactly what she wanted, and how her single-minded intensity sent off alarms in his head. He had called in a favor from a friend in the OSS, and obtained a file on the elusive agent. The war, he thought cynically, had been, for him, nothing more than trading favors to obtain information and get his way.

But that wasn't the worst of it. "They knew," Anton had told her one evening as they sat in his den.

She didn't want to believe it. "What?"

"The OSS knew about her activities. Did you look at the date of the report I showed you?"

"No," Mel had admitted guiltily, knowing she should have noticed such a crucial detail.

"It was written approximately two weeks before she came to my office, looking to 'recruit' you."

Anton saw the change, saw the blue eyes darken, saw the muscles in her jaw ripple. She was greatly mysterious to him at times; as much as he loved her, he saw depths in her that he was afraid of—afraid he could never reach them, or understand them. Only one person seemed capable of that. "How could they?" she whispered.

He carefully continued his discourse. "I don't know exactly what the agency is up to, Melinda. Obviously, they want something from Catherine. They're watching her, hoping that she will lead them to something. What, I have no idea."

"Lead them to something?" She fought her rising panic. Like Janice's dead body? she thought.

"Yes. That's all I can get out of my contacts. Right now their orders are simply to monitor Stoller." He blew on a cup of steaming tea. "Unfortunately, they were simply unaware of her relationship to you—and, now, Janice."

She sat in an overstuffed chair in his study, her longs legs drawn up against her chest, chin on her knees. In such instances she reminded him of the lanky girl she used to be. Despite the girlish pose, her body emanated a strength and grace she was barely aware of. Absentmindedly she bit into the dark wool trousers covering her knee, deep in thought. "Do you think the OSS could use some help in watching Catherine?" she asked softly.

He raised an eyebrow. He admired her determination. "My dear," he replied, placing the cup back on its saucer, "it never hurts to ask."

And that was how she ended up in the halls of the OSS headquarters. pacing, awaiting a meeting with an OSS official. Mel wore her best suit, a somber navy blue wool skirt and jacket with a white blouse, dark stockings, and black heels. Much to her chagrin Janice had always referred to the ensemble as "the librarian outfit." She found it uncanny (and annoying) that both Janice and the archaeologist's former girlfriend, Mary Jane Velasko, had similar reactions to this particular suit.

The rhythmic, ringing echo of her heels against the hard, shiny floor soothed her. When in doubt, pace. Janice always did so when agitated, and perhaps, just perhaps, mimicking the archaeologist's habits would somehow bring her back, and fix everything that went wrong between them. She folded her arms against her chest as she walked, remembering the time just after they had met, when they were in the U.S. Embassy in Athens. Mel had lost her passport, and was nervously awaiting new papers as she paced in a similar cavernous hallway. Melinda the metronome Janice had called her, as her heels had clacked along the marble hallway with stormtrooper precision. It hadn't been that she was really upset about the passport—she knew the officials would find some way to ship home an essentially useless (in their eyes) American woman—but that her feelings for Janice...were moving beyond mere friendship, engendering an intensity that she felt powerless to stop. As she waited that day in the Embassy, she had wondered to herself how it all happened. She had reached no answer then. Three years later, despite all that she had learned about Xena and Gabrielle, she still didn't have one.

***

1942

Well, missy, you wanted some excitement, she thought to herself.

Mel stood in a dusty road devoid of travelers, deep in the agrarian heart of a unknown country, in torn and sweaty clothes, exhausted. To her right, alongside the road, was a motorcycle that refused to operate. And her new friend, Janice Covington, who was rather...attractive in a unique way, was throwing a somewhat butch version of a what was known among Southern ladies as a hissy fit.

The engine of Janice's motorcycle, after a sudden spurt and gasp, died, and they had coasted to a gentle stop along the barren road (thanks to Janice's skill in handling the thing). The fair-haired archaeologist had jumped off the bike and unleashed a barrage of obscenities. Actually, first she threw her fedora on the ground, stomped around it a bit as if she were attempting some bastardized American version of a Mexican hat dance, and angrily kicked at a tire—she missed, and fell down. Then the swearing began in earnest. Mel had not heard such cussing ever since the time she encountered a group of sailors on leave one time during a trip to the French Quarter in New Orleans. (Which had prompted her 12-year-old self to innocently ask her father what a "cocksucker" was. She had been quite pleased at making her verbose father speechless.)

Mel was, on one hand, relieved at the motorcycle's death: She had hated sitting in its sidecar. It was ill-suited for someone of her height, and she had gotten terrible cramps in her calves from being in it for a mere hour, exacerbated by the fact that she'd had Janice's heavy rucksack on her knees as well. But now they were without transportation. And Janice didn't even seem to be remotely close to regaining her senses.

"Janice—" she attempted.

"Motherfucker!" screamed Janice Covington.

Mel blanched. Oh, that's a new one on me. Rather awful sounding. "I know you're upset—" she pressed on.

"Shit!"

"But we have to think about how to get to Athens."

"Goddammit to hell!!"

"I recall there was a farm a couple miles near here. I saw it on the drive down. Perhaps I should walk there and see if I can get us some help."

Mel's calm, reasoning tone finally managed to seep through Janice's fury. The small woman caught her breath, and swallowed. She picked up her hat, and banged the battered, dirty fedora against her knees. "Yes. Melinda. Mel. That would be terrific." She leaned against the defunct motorcycle, panting lightly from the exertion. "I'm sorry about that. I don't usually—well, actually, I do lose my temper on a regular basis—but this was different."

Now that Janice was acting a tad more normal, Mel gingerly approached her. "Why?" she asked gently. "What's bothering you? Other than the fact we're stuck in the middle of nowhere."

Janice chuckled in spite of herself. "I didn't tell you...I guess I didn't know how to tell you...." She took a deep breath. "Jack Kleinman took the scrolls. I don't know if it was by accident or on purpose. But I need to catch that dumb bastard and get them back."

"What?" Mel was surprised at the admission; Jack, while certainly a little on the duplicitous side, did not seem like the type to deliberately do something so blatantly...wrong. But if he did, I think I'll kill him myself. "Oh my, Janice...I'm...sorry. I know it took a lot of work for you to find them."

"I know." Her clear green eyes clouded over in anger. "Son of a bitch. My father spent his whole life looking for those things. And I had them, Mel. I had them." She closed her eyes in an effort not to cry in front of this woman she had just met.

"You did, Janice. And you'll get them back. I'll help you in any way I can."

The words of the Southerner—and the warm hand that touched her forearm—were a tonic. She did not cry. "Thanks," she said wistfully. "Because you know something?"

Mel shook her head.

Those green eyes ensnared her in their gaze. "They belong to you as much as to me."

Mel smiled. And Janice returned the smile. My, what a beautiful smile. And I think we're having a moment! One of those girl-bonding things; yet instead of talking about makeup or clothes, we're talking about...scrolls. Well, you take it however you get it, I suppose. But the Southern scholar's courage gave out and she looked away. "Well! I best get going then!" she declared in her best "go-getter" tone, developed at Miss Evangeline's charm school in Columbia.

"Wait a minute." Janice pulled out a handgun from her leather jacket, and offered it to Mel, handle first. The scholar could not contain her aghast expression. "Go on, take it," Janice, oblivious, encouraged her. "For protection."

"Ah, no, thank you anyway," Mel said politely, as if refusing a plate of pig's feet.

"Come on, now, I'll worry about you if you don't have something." Mel shook her head vigorously, like a wet dog. "Okay, okay, but...be careful, Mel." Tucking the gun back into her waistband, Janice took off the worn jacket and rolled up her sleeves, revealing the subtle musculature of her tanned arms. Mel blinked. Okay. I didn't notice that. I am not noticing that. "I don't think the Krauts have penetrated this deep into the countryside, but you can never know for sure." The archaeologist discarded her hat for a moment and ran a hand through her red-gold hair, just the color of a sunset, Mel thought giddily. She hadn't realized before how lovely Janice's hair was...uh-oh. The archaeologist scrunched up her face in concern as Mel suddenly grew pale. "Is something wrong? You want me to come with you?" she asked.

Yes, come with me, you blonde devil! Let’s drink ouzo and dance barefoot under the sun. I’ll whisper to you how lovely you are.... "N-no, I'm fine. B-but you keep the gun. You need protection too," Mel added. Protection from me, if I keep this up. What is wrong with me?

Janice grinned, and spun the .38 around in her hand, like an outlaw. "Don't worry. Usually I just wave it around, fire off a few shots maybe, and people leave me alone."

"Nazis aren't people, Janice," Mel replied sternly, in her best schoolteacher-spinster mode.

The archaeologist continued to flash her too-dazzling white teeth, as if auditioning for a toothpaste advertisement. "Really?"

"Well, you know what I mean," the Southerner amended stupidly.

As the light hit Janice in all the right places, illuminating the red highlights in her blonde hair, making her green eyes glitter like rare emeralds, and deepening the golden tone of her strong, smooth forearms, Mel felt dizzy. And ditzy. I hate feeling this...unbalanced. So she’s attractive. So what? She turned on her heel and started walking as fast as her long legs would take her. Which was pretty fast.

It was a classic pastoral scene: A young shepherd, tending his flock. Except that the boy, who looked about 16 or 17, was cursing violently in Greek at the immobile animals, who blocked the road. The shepherd, with his curly black hair and huge dark eyes, framed by silky long eyelashes, was very attractive, Mel admitted to herself, and he almost made her forget Janice.

Almost.

Mel came across him about 3 miles away from where she had left Janice. And she was never so glad to see sheep in her life. Her feet ached with blisters, and she had no illusions about how she must have looked to this boy: Torn dirty clothes, limping, and I don't even want to think about my hair. When he first saw her, his mouth formed a wide "O" of surprise. He cried out for protection from God. But then she rapidly began to explain, in Greek, her predicament.

It didn't take much. Her beauty (he saw past the obvious, quite fixable flaws) and her peculiar accent (a mishmash of ancient and modern syntax, superimposed by a Carolinian drawl) charmed him, not to mention the fact that she waved around a wad of cash. He eagerly agreed to drive them to Athens. First he had to borrow his uncle's truck; it would only take a few minutes, he said. "Wait with the sheep," he ordered her, as he ran up a hill and disappeared over its sloping crest.

His departure triggered some distress among members of the flock: There were bleats all around, and one angry ewe kept butting her head against Mel's hip, as if trying to displace her from their simple sheep lives. At one point it succeeded in knocking Mel down. Perhaps it was all some sheep-plot to kill her? She imagined the gossip this would engender among the D.A.R. back home: Did you hear about Melinda Pappas? Stampeded to death by a bunch of sheep in some silly foreign country like Hungary or something! I swear, that girl never did a normal thing in her life, it just makes perfect sense she would meet her maker in such a way.

Almost an hour passed. The sheep began to ignore her. She sat down carefully in the grass nearby, resting her tired feet. When she heard the roar of an engine, she jumped up, started to jog toward the road (insofar as one can jog in heels), and promptly slid into a pile of dung. Luckily the damage was minimal and her stockings took the brunt of it. When the boy pulled up to her in a dark green pickup truck, she was pulling off the smelly stockings as discretely as she could manage. His eyes became riveted on her shapely, bare legs.

She sighed at his interest. "It's like you've never seen a woman's legs before," she muttered in English, then realized he probably hadn't, except maybe a sister or his mother. She tossed the ruined stockings to the side of the road—something for you to remember me by—she thought, glaring at the sheep. He offered her a hand as she climbed in the truck, and they drove off to pick up Janice.

When they arrived on the scene, Janice was sitting on top of the sidecar, smoking a cigar. As they slowed to a halt she leapt off the sidecar, and ran toward the truck. She jumped on the running board and leaned in the open window as the vehicle slowed to a halt. "Mel, you're great!"

"Just lucky," Mel replied, while the boy stared at Janice in amazement. A pretty woman dressed as a man? Americans were just too strange.

"I could just kiss you!" Janice was grinning, revealing those perfect white teeth again. But before Mel could even dream of responding to that, Janice was off the truck, and running back to the motorcycle to get her hat and her bag.

"What did she say?" the boy asked, craning his head to watch Janice gallop down the road.

"Nothing important," Mel replied dreamily, her eyes upon the same prize.

"Ha!" he laughed. "She said 'kiss'. She wants to kiss me, right?" He grinned.

"Why, you're absolutely right. In fact, I should go sit with her and restrain her from making any more advances to you. You know how American women are."

"Yeah, I know! From the movies! So ask her if she wants to sit up front with me!"

Mel shook her head sadly.

"But I like you too!" Again, his eyes drifted down to her legs.

"I think we'll both sit in the back," she replied primly, exiting the truck. With some awkwardness—in order to avoid tearing her skirt even more—she climbed into the bed of the truck. The archaeologist had made herself at home, using the rucksack as a pillow. "What, you're not gonna ride up front?" Janice asked from her lounging position, as she struck a match and lit one of her foul cigars.

"No. I'm getting rather tired of that boy staring at my legs."

Janice laughed. "Don't blame you." The truck started again, and they were on their way, under the canopy of Greek twilight. "Hey," Janice mumbled, wrinkling her nose, "I smell—"

"Don't even say it, Janice Covington. It smells no worse than your cigar."

It was during that trip on the truck that Mel realized that her passport was missing. She immediately knew where it was: trapped in a tomb with the God of War. She dimly recalled the sensation of the slender document slipping out of what she thought was a secure pocket inside her suit. But this happened during the possession of her body by Xena, who was too busy turning somersaults and trying to skewer Ares with a sword in order for her to do anything about it. Sure, Xena defeated the God of War, but she also ruined my outfit, broke my glasses, and lost my passport.

She put off telling Janice of this development. The archaeologist had gotten crabby on the remainder of the drive, as she had time to focus once again on the missing scrolls, and the shock of being a descendent of Gabrielle, "the stupid sidekick." Also, she was starving, but she was "sick of Greek food and dying for a good roast beef sandwich"....

Mel endured these tirades, then timidly asked Janice if she had a place to stay in Athens.

"Uh, no. I had been sleeping on site, you know. Camping. I'm sure I'll find something, though."

"Well, er, um..."

"What, Mel?" Always cuts to the chase. How Yankee-like of her.

"You're, ah, quite welcome to share my hotel room for the evening." Common sense sent out a rather hysterical alarm. Are you absolutely mad? Are you trying to torture yourself by having this woman in close proximity to you? Take it back! I don't care if your stupid Southern manners won't allow you to retract an invitation, take it back!

By this time it was dark out, and she could barely make out Janice's features in the dim starlight. But she thought she caught a gleam of white teeth. "That's really nice of you," Janice replied softly.

"It's my pleasure," she replied. Of course it is, you masochist.

"No, really, I mean, you're so...nice to me! I've been nothing but a pain in the ass all day. Complaining, yelling at you, nearly getting you killed. Then you arrange our ride here, now you're offering me a place for the night.... What did I do to deserve this?"

"Nonsense. You deserve to be treated nicely, just like anyone else. You've had a rather rough day, too, I might add."

"I won't argue with that."

"Then don't," Mel said with surprising firmness. More to quash the objections inside herself than Janice's.

There was no response. Just a soft laugh in the dark.

The hotel was mediocre, but it had been the best Mel could manage on short notice, after she had made the impulsive decision to come to Macedonia. At least, she thought, it was clean, and that was all that really mattered to her.

The little archaeologist flopped right down in the bed with her boots still on. "Ah!" Janice cried with relief. "I could sleep for days." She looked up to see Mel scowling at her feet. "Oh—shoes. Right." She sat up and set to the task of unlacing the boots. After pulling them off and discarding them, she noticed that the tall Southerner was still frowning. "Hey, everything okay? I'm not gonna sleep in the bed, y'know. I just wanted to relax for a few minutes. I can take the floor, if you don't mind sparing a blanket—"

"No!" Mel exclaimed impetuously. "You can sleep in the bed." Did I just say that?

"With...you?" Janice asked innocently, green eyes wide.

"With...me," Mel affirmed, painfully colliding with a table, its sharp edge sinking into her smooth thigh.

"That's, uh, fine by me..." Janice rubbed the back of her neck.

"I'm, ah, g-glad to feel—uh, I m-mean, hear that..."

"You know, you stammer sometimes." Janice lit a cigar and scrutinized her friend.

No kidding, Sherlock Holmes. "Uh, yes, I do sometimes. When I get nervous or upset—"

"Well, what the hell is wrong?" she grunted around the cigar.

"I, oh..." Mel moaned. I'm having dirty thoughts about you! In spite of that disgusting cigar! "I lost my passport."

Janice sat up, concern evident on her lovely face. "Really? Where? Do you know?"

"Yes, I do. It's back on the site. In the tomb," she mumbled grimly.

"Shit, Mel. I'm sorry." Then Janice started to laugh, causing Mel to scowl even more fiercely than she did at shoes on the bed.

"What's so darned funny, Janice?"

"Looks like no one will be using it, except maybe Ares." Her laughter sounded like cascading water. "If he gets out of the tomb, that is. Then he could use it. He could shave his beard, dress in drag, and pass himself off as you—"

Mel felt herself smiling in spite of it all. "I don't think I'm particularly vain, but I'd like to think I'm somewhat better looking as a woman than Ares would be."

"Oh, without a doubt," Janice replied quickly. "But you know how dim those passport officials are."

Mel started to laugh, but it sputtered to a halt once she saw that Janice was beginning to take off her clothes. She peeled off the dirty khaki shirt, revealing a white, sleeveless man's undershirt. The ribbed white fabric gleamed against her tan and outlined her sleek torso; obviously, Janice spent a lot of time in the sun—in a skimpy little undershirt. She could just imagine the reaction this must cause among her on-site workers—this beautiful woman running around in a flimsy, sleeveless shirt. She certainly knew what reaction it was causing in herself—her throat constricted and dry, her whole body a flushed, fiery patch of nerves. Then Janice undid her belt, and her pants dropped to the floor. Her short, muscular legs were tanned as well, at least as far as Mel could see, up to the edge of the baby blue boxer shorts.

"So, tell me...." Janice was saying, snapping her out of her lustful reverie. "What do Southern belles wear to bed? Frilly pink nighties?"

What do...? Mel's mouth hung open in surprise. In her haste to leave home, she had neglected to pack anything to wear for bed. Not that she always wore something to sleep in; sometimes, when it was very hot, she did not wear anything at all (which caused the housekeeper a great deal of confusion when she did the laundry). And usually when it was cold she wore old pajamas that had been her father's. But it wasn't cold here.

No, she gulped, letting herself look at Janice Covington's body once again, it was definitely not cold here. She wished she could erect the Walls of Jericho, just like Claudette Colbert did in It Happened One Night. But that might make her pint-sized Clark Gable unduly suspicious. (After all, why put up the wall if there's no threat?) She realized that Janice was staring at her, awaiting an answer to her facetious question.

"Well," Mel mumbled haughtily, "you'll just have to wait and see." With that, she headed into the bathroom. And collapsed against the door. All right. A slip. I'll just have to wear my slip. She washed up, trying to drag out the process as much as possible, combed her hair, undressed slowly, and threw on a slip from the valise that sat in the corner of the bathroom. Luckily, the delay produced the anticipated result: Janice was sound asleep by the time she crawled into bed. Lord, get me through this night, she prayed as she turned out the light, her body hovering near the edge of the bed.

Gabrielle...

Mel awoke, as if the sudden flitting of the bard's name across her subconscious were an alarm clock. Her sleepy eyes adjusted to a mass of red-gold hair near her face. Very close to her face; in fact, she was practically nuzzling Janice's hair. Her head lifted from the pillow in alarm. Oh my God.

Janice was spooned against her tightly, the archaeologist's firm buttocks pressed into her hips, shoulders against breasts, Mel's arm around her midriff, Janice's hand clutching it, as if she didn't want Mel to move. What on earth...? I'm such a pervert, I can't even trust myself when I sleep!

With the accumulated stealth of a lifetime spent in libraries, she managed to disengage herself from Janice. She did not awaken, and Mel breathed a sigh of relief as she scooted, once again, to the furthest corner of the bed. Then the smaller woman emitted a peeping sound, almost like a mewl, and rolled over, right back into Mel's arms. A tanned arm was flung around her waist, and the exquisite torture didn't stop there: Janice pressed her face against Mel's chest, and within seconds was snoring into her cleavage.

Perhaps this is a sign from God? Mel thought hopefully. No, I couldn't be so lucky. Again, she began the careful practice of extracting herself from Janice. The triumph she felt as she slid away successfully diminished rapidly once she fell out of the bed and onto the floor with a heavy thud and an "oof!"

The noise woke Janice. Who sleepily peered over the bed at her friend, sprawled on the floor in her slip. "Mel? Whaddya doin' down there? You woke me up," she grumped with gentle irritation.

"Uh, nothing, Janice."

"I was taking up too much space, wasn't I? Come back up. I promise I won't push you out again." Janice rolled over to the other side of the bed.

"It's okay, Janice. I'm getting up anyway. I've got to get to the consulate."

"Oh yeah, your passport. Maybe I'll come with you..." And then Janice was asleep again.

Melinda Pappas lay on the scratchy gray rug of the floor, staring up into ceiling cracks, and cursing—in a non-profane, genteel Southern way, of course—whatever fate that was torturing her.

***

London, 1945

And so they went to their separate lives, with some inexplicable, ineffable thread now connecting them. Janice did find Jack ("I didn't hurt him, just smacked him around a little," she had reassured Mel through a crackling, long-distance phone connection) and the scrolls, but—given the war and its consequential dangers to one perpetually in motion as Janice was—she opted to leave the majority of the scrolls with him, believing it to be the safest location for the time being: Who would expect precious, priceless artifacts to be in...New Jersey? But, in time, many of the documents found themselves on their way down South, into the hands of a certain lovestruck translator.

Mel was still smiling wistfully, recalling that first night when she literally slept with Janice, when a heavy wooden door opened and a grim British officer with a crewcut motioned her inside his office. As put off as she was at his severe, soldierly look, she was ever optimistic and believed his gruffness, like Anton's, was all for show.

She was rather wrong.

Major Pendleton (for that was his name) seemed to think she was nothing more than some little American idiot looking for adventure. (Perhaps true three years ago, she thought, but not now.) He was, however, both impressed and perturbed that she knew classified information. She took the blame for that, and said she went through Anton's papers while he was sick. It seemed to assuage him a bit. "I assure you," he reiterated smugly, "we have the situation quite in hand."

If, by the situation, he meant Catherine, she doubted it: "If that is true, why haven't you captured her? What do you want from her?"

He sighed. "You know I can't tell you that."

"I know." It just doesn't hurt to ask. Like Anton said. She frowned. And idea occurred to her, yet she wasn't sure if she could pull it off. "I could help you," she said, hesitantly.

He snorted. "Miss Pappas, how on earth could you help us? Do enlighten me. The fact that you know her and went to university with her is of little use to me."

"It wasn't just that I knew her as a friend. You could say I knew her very...intimately." She let her voice dip into huskiness. She knew how aroused Janice became when she spoke like this, and while it was not her intention to excite this man, she wanted to convey a very certain message to the major about herself, and Catherine. She crossed her long legs for emphasis, and was suddenly glad she opted to wear a skirt instead of pants, when she noticed how his eyes traveled up and down her legs.

He then blinked in confusion as he digested her words, and groped for a meaning that he knew was hidden. "So you were...very good friends?"

"It went beyond friendship." She forced her voice to retain a vaguely sexy tone.

"Beyond...?" he trailed off. She was beginning to think she would have to resort to some crude phrasing a la Covington (I fucked her, Major) when she noticed his eyes narrow and his jaw slacken. "Good Lord. I never would have pegged you for that type."

"That's why she came to me recently, Major." Again, the confused look. She sighed. "She wants to renew our...involvement."

"I see." Actually, he didn't. Weren't women like this usually in prisons, or wearing men's clothing, or something like that?

She moistened her dry lips. "I'm offering myself as bait, Major." Do I need to be any plainer?

His admiration of her legs stopped, and he scrutinized her closely. "Why?"

"I have a friend at Neuschwanstein. Stoller knows this. I think my friend's life is in danger; that Catherine will hurt her in some way, as retaliation against me."

"Because you rejected her?"

"More or less."

"And you have another...'friend'?" He sneered a little, caught between fascination and disgust. "Another woman?" he asked, almost incredulous.

Mel nodded.

"British?"

"American. A WAC."

"You certainly get around, don't you?"

I'll endure your insults all day if I have to. "If that's what you want to think."

He leaned back in his leather chair and idly drummed his fingers. "I never thought this operation would turn into some love triangle amongst inverts." He contemplated the matter further, then stood up and walked around the desk until he was right beside her. "All right. I would like to have your help. But you must remember: This is not about you, nor your...women. We have a mission to do. Play your part, and everything will be fine." His hand strayed and he touched her hair. She did not flinch, but he saw her nostrils flare. He took the warning and withdrew. "You're quite lovely. It's a shame, really."

Yes. It's a shame the world finds me a freak just because I love. Just because I'm flesh and blood. Like you.

She stared at the bottle of bourbon upon the table. The rich amber liquid was pretty to look at. She had never drank bourbon in her life; indeed, in past few years she had drank very little. She recalled having a rum and coke with Jack Kleinman at her hotel in New York almost two years ago, and a glass of champagne at a New Year's party a year before that...She had grown leery of alcohol, since her excessive drinking at Cambridge, even though she attributed the ill effect it had on her more to the problems between her and Catherine, and the latter's self-destructive influence, than to anything else.

And Janice? Janice drank a lot; it was hard not to when much of her social life in the military was spent in pubs and the like. But she knew how to pace herself, and she knew when to stop. Mel had only seen her companion really drunk on one occasion, and that was the evening before she left for Germany.

And tomorrow I go to Germany. I hope I find you there. Alive. She wanted to fly out today, but the briefing with the OSS took longer than she anticipated, and they insisted that she wait until morning, until they organized a transport for her. So tonight I'll drink to you, my love. Perhaps this will help me sleep. And not dream that you're dead. Or lost to me somehow. She took a crystal tumbler from the liquor cabinet and poured a sliver of bourbon in it. She drew a deep breath, as if preparing to run a mile, then grabbed the glass and downed the shot. The bourbon burned a path down her esophagus, and the aftertaste, to her palate, held a tinge of vomit. She groaned in hoarse disgust. How does Janice drink this stuff? I should just stick to champagne. Or Earl Grey, better yet.

There was a knock at the door. Her heart lurched. Could it be... She jumped up, almost knocking over the glass before snaring it with her long hand. ...she's come back... She walked to the door, unconsciously smoothing back her already sleek hair. ...to me? She opened it. It was indeed a woman in uniform, but not Janice. This WAC was slender and dark-haired: A friend of Janice's. Mel had met her once. But she could not recall the woman's name.

"Hiya, Mel!" the woman greeted her.

It was also disconcerting to be called Mel by someone other than Janice. She wasn't sure if she liked that. "Hi," Mel responded meekly. "I'm sorry, but I don't recall your name..."

The woman extended a hand, laughing. Mel took it and was jerked forward by the powerful handshake. "You don't remember? I'm Sally Phillips. How are ya?"

"Ah, yes, you're Janice's friend. I'm fine, thank you—"

"No, you're not. You look like hell, if you don't mind my sayin'." Automatically Mel inspected her immaculate clothes and felt around her bun for stray hair. Did she have something in her teeth? "It's your eyes," Sally supplied. "Bags. Of course, if we all looked as bad as you on your worst day, the world would be a damn sight more attractive, if ya don't mind my sayin' so."

Mel blushed.

"Not that I'm a dyke or anything, but if anyone could make me swing, it'd be you." Sally's eyes bulged in embarrassment and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Then slowly removed it. "Jesus, I haven't even had anything to drink and I'm already acting like an asshole. Better not tell Janice I said that or she'll punch me out."

"She's really not that much of a brute," Mel countered, feeling the need to defend (or defuse) Janice's reputation as a hothead. "So, er, Sally, how can I help you?"

The WAC held up a satchel. "Well, ya see, when Janice got transferred she left behind some stuff. Nothing big. Just some papers, mostly. Before she took off she asked me if I would take 'em over to you."

Mel wanted to weep. If I ever see her again! But instead she said: "Thank you. I'll keep it for her." Sally handed the bag to her. She noticed the WAC eyeing the bottle of bourbon on the table. Oh, confound it all, manners. "Would you like a drink before you go?"

"Love one!" Sally chortled enthusiastically. They walked over to the table and Mel produced a clean glass for her guest.

"Would you do the honors?" Mel asked, nodding at the bottle. The sergeant grinned, and poured generous amounts in both tumblers. "I never figured you for the drinking type, if ya don't mind my saying so."

"I'm not. Just thought I would...you know..." The scholar trailed off lamely. Drink myself into unhappy oblivion before I traipse off after someone who may not be in love with me anymore? And maybe get myself killed? And get her killed as well?

Sally blinked at her. "No, I don't know."

"Never mind," Mel sighed, raising her glass. "Cheers."

A loud clink Then Sally drained the tumbler in two seconds flat. "Damn! That hits the spot." She looked at Mel, who sipped at the bourbon as if it were hemlock-laced tea.

"I guess I was right. You aren't the drinking type. Well, looky, I gotta get back to base. You tell that girl of yours to keep in touch with us, okay? "

"I will," Mel mumbled. With a hearty backslap that left Mel feeling as if she would cough up a lung, the sergeant departed.

She closed the door and stared at the satchel—it was actually a medic's bag—containing Janice's personal items, things that she had carried with her through the war. Mel opened it, all the while feeling a sense of violation—should I be looking at this stuff? Even though she asked Sally to give it to me.... Maybe she found something about the scrolls? Despite everything else, we still have that interest. That bond. Her curiosity won out and she opened the flap. Admit it, you fraud, you wanted to look, she chastised herself.

The first items she pulled out of recesses of the bag were a crushed, half-empty pack of Gauloises and, to Mel's horror and disgust, an old crust of moldy bread, wrapped in wax paper. Both items were promptly flushed down the toilet. After scrubbing her hands vigorously, she returned to the bag. There she found a bunch of loose papers in a book—a French dictionary—wrapped together with twine. And a hair clasp. Mel's hair clasp, one of her favorites: old pearl, faded to whorls of smoky gray and creamy white. She had been wearing it the night they first made love, back in Charlotte. She had never been able to find it afterwards. And this was why. She smiled. Of course. She took it. That thief. That beautiful little thief. The sensation of holding it in her hand brought the moment back to her: They were in her kitchen, with Janice kissing her, mouth warm and sweet and insistent, the tanned hands in her hair, the clasp loosening and that little anal retentive part of her waiting to hear the clasp clatter on the floor, but it didn't, and she didn't know where it went, time felt suspended somehow as she waited to hear the sound, and then her hair was unfurled and Janice was running her hands through it, fingers delicately brushed against her scalp, the tingles along her body which mellowed into a deep throbbing somewhere on their journey down her spine. And then it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered, except what was happening to her: Falling. Falling in love.

It's a wonder we made it to the bedroom that night, she thought. She remembered suggesting it to Janice that they take it upstairs, and to her surprise the little archaeologist had agreed. Naturally, Mel had expected that, as a lover, Janice would be as stubborn as she normally was, as both a friend and professional colleague. It had been pleasing to discover...otherwise. She smiled, and gently pulled on the thread that held together papers—old duty rosters, maps, and, tucked inside the dictionary, a piece of paper, folded in thirds like a letter. It was a letter, she discovered, reading her own name at the top:

September 25, 1944

Dear Melinda,

I don't know why I never call you that. It's a beautiful name.

So we shall see with this letter if I am indeed descended from a bard—if words fall from my cheap pen the way they flowed from Gabrielle's quill. I'll confess here—something I never had the guts (or time) to tell you—that Gabrielle is the real thing. Her words are a thing of beauty. It took your translations to make me see that—my own renderings were flat and sank like a stone. It took you to make me see a lot of things. Maybe someday I'll tell you.

I write this from a hospital unit. I was wounded—a Nazi soldier shot me in the leg. I was lucky and found by GIs before I bled to death on a road near Reims. Believe it or not, this was not the worst part: I saw one of my oldest friends die before my eyes on that day as well. I must have mentioned Dan Blaylock to you, somewhere along the way. I'm sure I did. I hadn't seen him since the war started, until I got to London and found out he was stationed there. Well, he's dead now. I watched him die, and I could do nothing about it.

I think I'm rambling a little. I'm not telling you this so you're sorry for me. I don't know why I'm telling you this, or why I'm even trying to write to you. I can imagine that you probably never want to hear from me again, and I can't say that I blame you. But if you've read this far, maybe you do care, maybe you still feel something for me.

I am sorry I ran away from you the way I did. There was a part of me that wanted so badly to stay in that bed, that room, that house, with you, forever. I was frightened by the power of what I felt. You see, I was already terribly in love with you (that sounds really British—I guess I've spent too much time in London). I should have told you then, instead of running from you like a thief in the night. (And I was a thief too, since I took that thingy that you wore in your hair. It was pretty, and it smelled like you. You know how archaeologists are. We're always after the artifacts. And sometimes we lose sight of the real objective.)

I've been lying around here for almost two goddamn weeks (now that sounds more like me, doesn't it?), and I've had a lot of time to think. I've been transferred to a medic unit in Brittany, because they're planning on shipping me back to London. It's pretty here—well, I think it's pretty, anyway; most of the guys here think it's gray and ugly. The landscape is bare, and the coast is rocky. It has a sparse kind of beauty. This place is run by nuns. Can you believe it? I'm in a fucking convent. Some major breezed through here yesterday and said something about my getting a commendation. For what? I wanted to ask. For watching someone die? It's not the bullets in the leg that bother me, but this whole place. This whole situation. This whole war—I am sick with it.

And what makes it worse is that day by day I miss you more and more. I thought if I broke it off with you and joined the army, I would forget you. I was hoping something would kill me — maybe not a literal death, but that something would kill the part of me that loved you, the part that I thought was weak because I needed you so much. It turns out, now, that this is the best part of me — you're the best part of me. Because this whole thing has been a sham: I can't forget you. If I said that I never want to see you again, if I said that I don't want you, if I said that if I would not surrender my soul to you in second — I'd be lying. Every time.

I love you like crazy. The world, the scrolls, even our ancestors be damned. Sacrilege, isn't it? But my love for you breaks every rule.

J.

After reading it, Mel laid back on the bed for a long time. She felt strangely elated, and curious: A letter never sent. Why? But...she's sending it to me...now. That's why she sent Sally over here with this bag. She wanted me to see it. Didn't she? Again, the old hesitancy. The old doubts. But she closed her eyes, and the questions stilled as she brushed the paper against her lips.

***

I have chased you through the centuries.

Sometimes you eluded me. Sometimes not. Who slit your throat in a brothel, as you lay, sated by sex and lulled by opium? Distracted, were you? Because the whore you chose had golden hair and green eyes, and the moment you laid eyes on her you felt like you knew her forever? That was Constantinople, in the last century. (Strange, how did such an Aryan-looking sex toy end up at the gateway to the Muslim world? She must've been very popular, don't you think?) She, your precious one, could not save you—in fact, she watched you die, and that was most pleasing to me. And you could not save yourself. Even better. But then, who snapped my neck in a Venetian cul-de-sac three hundred years before? You, of course. We've been doing this routine forever, we're doomed to it. I scratch your back, you stab mine...remember?

Something had to give. I hated you for so long that I think I fell in love with you somewhere along the line. We came full circle. Make no mistake, in whatever incarnation, you've always been beautiful. I even thought that when you laid waste to my home—at the beginning of our history. I thought, who is that magnificent stranger, with blue eyes and black hair, with her fancy armor? I remember how your hair flitted across your face—like black smoke, then revealing the clear blue day of your eyes—as you surveyed my ruined village, my dead life. Nonetheless, I wanted to be like you. You looked so strong, I thought nothing could ever hurt you. It was a child's idle wish. But lo and behold, I did become like you, like the ruthless bitch you were at the height of your infamy.

This has long been my secret, something I could not even tell myself: I hated you, but I loved you too. This time...I wanted to love you entirely, completely. I wanted it to be different—in the hopes that it would bring an end to this history of ours. And you did fall in love with me this time, to my astonishment. Would it all end, the hate? The anger? After a while I wasn't sure that I really cared. It felt too good. It was different this time, wasn't it? It felt different for a while.

But nothing really changed. I would wake up in the morning with you in my bed, like a beautiful prize, a gift from the gods, and there were moments when I just wanted to slit your throat and be done with it again. Again. I wanted to kill you with a kiss. I wanted to be your Judas. And when I left you I thought I had ruined you, even for her: The bard. The whore. The archaeologist. Whoever she is this time.

I was stupid. I still am, because I want you back. The compulsion to continue the game usually outweighs my weariness of it all.

Usually.

Do you remember the sacrifice she made for you? It was all so, very, very long ago. But you remember, don't you? As she fell, I saw the way she looked at you. Her descent seemed fast and slow all at once. Or that's the way I remember it. Perhaps that's only because as human beings we have this thing called memory—which works like a camera, that great modern invention. You can play it any way you like. If you choose to dwell on that expression, it goes slow. If you cannot bear the anguish, it goes fast. And when you write it down, when you transcribe it...well, it seems that when we write down these memories, they become a history, somehow, however informal. I've had a lot of years to think about this, you know. So this is our secret history. This is what you are. This is what I am. And then there is the woman—your woman—who always comes between us. And here we are again. And again. We are all just shadows of those who lived before us.

Catherine opened her eyes. The dreams, that voice, those thoughts...again. I want them to stop. I hope they will—once I have done what I planned. I crave peace. Oblivion. The plane had tilted; they were about to land in Berlin, where they would be taken to Bavaria.

Covington was asleep too, or maybe just pretending to be: Her eyes were closed, but her body was erect, tense. But as the plane began its descent in earnest, the sea-green eyes of the WAC were upon her.

"We're here," Catherine announced.

"So I gathered," grunted Janice with a full-body stretch.

"You'll be going straight to the castle. Without me. I'm needed in Munich."

Janice scratched her cheek and pretended indifference. Hurray! "I don't understand why we didn't fly directly to Munich."

"The runway at Munich suffered much damage during the war. They like to avoid having large planes, bombers like these, landing there, until they have rebuilt it." Catherine braced herself in for the landing. "Sergeant Lowry, from Neuschwanstein, will be escorting you there. He should be here to meet us."

Indeed, as they disembarked from the plane, a jeep was pulling up to them. A young American sergeant jumped out and saluted smartly.

"Good day, Sergeant," drawled Catherine in greeting. "Sergeant Lowry, this is Lieutenant Covington."

"Lieutenant!" he barked, knocking off another salute.

Janice jumped. Oh yeah, I'm guess I'm an officer now, I get saluted and shit. "Hiya, kid!" she said, slapping him on the back. He looked rather hurt; he had expected a steely gaze, a terse greeting, and, gosh darn it, a salute. Instead, this woman had the nerve to treat him like an equal.

Catherine was amused by the young man's disappointment; he could not hide it. "Lowry, would you get my bag out of the cargo hold?" The sergeant nodded, then walked away to the back of the plane. "You'll have to forgive Lowry. He's only been in the military for three months. He's never seen anyone blown to bits before, so the glamour of military life has remained intact." Lowry returned with the bag. "Isn't that right, Lowry?"

The young man, returning with the bag, blinked. "Ma'am?"

"Never mind." Catherine picked up her bag, grinning. "All right, to the train station."

"Er, ma'am..."

Catherine sighed the sigh of the impatient, the put-upon. "What is it, Lowry?"

"Colonel Brinton instructed me to avoid the train station, ma'am. He said Werwolf activity on the rails has increased in the past month, and he doesn't want to risk anyone getting injured."

Janice, who had been leaning against the jeep with arms folded during the exchange, echoed, "Werwolf?"

The blonde OSS turned to her. "The Werwolf are Nazi partisan fighters. Guerrillas who specialize in sabotage. And assassination."

"But the war is over. They're fighting a battle already lost."

Catherine laughed. "Not according to the Werwolf." Just as quickly, her laughter receded and she turned back to Lowry, glaring. "And Brinton thinks we'll be safer on the open road? He's a fool. There's more security on a train. More people, more military personnel."

More things that they can sabotage: engines, tracks, wheels... Janice thought.

"Ma'am," Lowry mumbled in reply. Is that all that kid can say? Janice wondered.

"Well, Lieutenant, what do you think?" Catherine asked mildly.

Janice arched an eyebrow. "This is your show, Stoller. I mean, I hate to see the kid get in trouble..." she nodded toward Lowry. The young sergeant squirmed at being called a "kid."

"Yes, we don't want little Lowry to be court-martialed." She sighed. "very well. We'll drive. It won't be as quick as the train."

Lowry frowned. "Ma'am, if you feel more comfortable on the trains, than I suggest we take them."

"Heavens, Lowry, and they call women fickle!" Catherine grinned flirtatiously at the boy. Janice rolled her eyes. "Shall we take the train, Lieutenant?"

"For Christ's sake, let's do something," Janice complained.

Catherine arched an irritated eyebrow at Janice. "The train it is, then." The jeep headed to the Berlin train station. As they drove through the streets, and a none too surprising amount of checkpoints, Janice witnessed the devastation of Berlin. She was, at this point, no stranger to the manifold damages of war. But this...the rubble, the hollow, hungry faces...the sheer amount of the damage alone took it to a new level.

Stoller, she saw, was unusually quiet for a while. They stopped at a corner for a truck to pass in the opposite direction, and witnessed a small gang of youths chasing a middle-aged man down the street. Verräter! Schwein! The screams drifted back to them and Janice watched the activity, craning her neck and turning around in her seat. She was almost tempted to jump out and intercede in the fray, but, as if Stoller could read her mind, the OSS agent laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Leave it, it is not our concern," she commanded crisply. As the pursuant group rounded the corner, Lowry pulled the jeep away. Guiltily, Janice mentally kicked herself for letting herself be forced into passivity.

Catherine observed Janice's baleful look out the window. Interfering little fool. She decided a diversionary tactic was in order. "You've been to Berlin before, Lieutenant Covington."

Janice glared at her suspiciously. "Once, maybe twice."

"Two times, both in 1938, both with your father," Catherine corrected proudly. "Once in July, then three months later, in October. On your second trip you kept company with a certain cabaret singer named Sally Bowles, who, at various times, was thought either to be a Nazi informant or a British intelligence agent." Catherine wanted to laugh at the stunned expression and slackened jaw of Covington. "Despite Miss Bowles's strong preference for those of the opposite sex, it was reported that she did seem...inordinately fond of you."

Jesus Christ, is nothing sacred? wondered Janice. "So you guys have a file on me," she growled.

Catherine chuckled. "We have a file on everybody. Especially you. Surely you knew that your father was suspected of being a Nazi sympathizer, because of his dealings with the Ahnenerbe. And naturally it was assumed you might have similar inclinations."

"He sold a few things to them. That didn't make him a Nazi." Janice paused, recalling the violent rows she'd had with Harry about that; that was why she had tagged along to Berlin in '38, in the hopes of dissuading him from selling some artifacts, most notably a sword that may or may not have belonged to the Warrior Princess. But he was broke—the last of his money was used on her schooling. "Just like your being part German doesn't make you a Nazi...necessarily," she added pointedly.

Catherine raised an eyebrow in surprise. "And did you get hold of a file on me?"

"No. Mel told me, of course." See, I dare to bring up the name of the woman we both love.

"Do you always call her that?"

"Huh?"

"Mel." Catherine repeated emphatically, making a long, horse-face of distaste.

"Yeah. I guess I do."

"Pity. Melinda is a much nicer name, don't you think?"

"It is. But life's too short to waste on extra syllables. So," Janice continued, returning bluntly and inelegantly to the German question, "you are part German?"

"I am," Catherine acknowledged. "I grew up in Berlin. This was my home..." she trailed off. "And it's nothing now. It's ruins." Her voice was as flat and dead as the cityscape they surveyed.

"I'm sorry." Janice meant it.

"You are, aren't you?" The blonde gave her a surprised look. "I don't expect sympathy from you, Covington."

How about a smack in that smug kisser of yours? "We're here, and we have to get along, don't we?"

The OSS agent smirked. They were quiet as jeep rolled along. Janice's fingers drummed against its door. "You'll pardon my asking..."

Catherine laughed. "You want to know what a Berlin-loving German is doing in the OSS. Right?"

Janice nodded.

"My parents were British citizens. When the Nazis came to power, we moved back to London. And when war broke out, I offered my services to OSS. I could speak German, of course, and I knew Berlin like the back of my hand. It would have been stupid of them not to use me."

"Agreed," Janice conceded.

"Yes. It's nice to agree on something, isn't it?"

The Berlin train station was a skeleton of its former elegant self, but nonetheless still functional. Currently it was overrun with military: Soviet, American, and British. Security was tight. Catherine flashed papers at a checkpoint at the station's entrance, and the trio were granted entrance. Janice and Lowry trailed behind Catherine, who strode through the crowd with authority. They reached the edge of the mass, which revealed a long black, battered train sitting on a track, smoke curling from under its wheels.

"Here it is," Catherine said. "I must get us boarding passes. Wait here, or—" she nodded at the almost empty train car, "go sit inside the train. They may let you wait there, since it is cold out. I'll be back in ten minutes." Without waiting for a response, the OSS agent disappeared back into the crowd.

Janice sat on the steps leading up into the train. She lit a cigarette. She did not mind the cold, but soon noticed that Lowry, who was only wearing a thin, summer-issue jacket, was hopping up and down to keep himself warm. She suddenly decided that she liked him: He had a sweet-natured lack of self-consciousness, and seemed more interested in the world, she thought—watching him eagerly scan his surroundings despite his coldness—than in himself. Like Mel, she realized. It's getting pretty sad when even some dopey kid greener than the grass of home remind me of you, Mel. "C'mon, kid," she said, "let's sit inside."

The car was empty, and it made Janice the slightest bit nervous. There was something surreal about an empty train car, she decided. It was quiet, ornate, waiting for possession. Lowry sat down with a happy sigh, warm once again, and she settled in across from him. "Is there no one else on this whole train?" she wondered aloud.

"I dunno, Lieutenant. Do you want me to look around?"

"Maybe," she replied. "Give me a minute." She looked out the window, hoping to see Stoller. While there were many people on the platform, most of them were military, and so it was relatively easy to pick out a tall, black-haired woman, wearing a fur-lined coat, striding purposefully through the station. She sat up. "Mel!" Her hand slammed against the window. Unfortunately, there was no way of opening it. "Damnit!" she snarled.

"Lieutenant...?" Lowry began uneasily.

"I'll be right back!" She bolted from her seat, ran down the aisle, and was gone. From the window he saw her blend into the crowd; it looked like she was following some tall woman.

"Aw geez, Lieutenant!" he cried in dismay, and took off after her. His initial feeling—that Lieutenant Covington was going to be a little bit hard to handle—was turning out to be true.

She ran through the station to catch up with Mel. She even shouted Mel's name a few times, to no avail; the din was too much for even her crass Yankee voice to carry. She bobbed and ducked through the crowd like a boxer, pummeling through them until her prize was in sight. She snagged Mel's arm, and spun her around. "Hey!" she cried joyously, as the blue-eyed beauty stared at her in shock. Mel's hair was down past her shoulders, and she wasn't wearing glasses. Janice assumed that she was having one of those days where she was so preoccupied with something in her head that she forgot to put her glasses on before stepping out into the world (a common occurrence) or she simply misplaced them (ditto).

A huge grin lit up her tall companion's face. They stood smiling at each other for what seemed like forever, until Mel seized her arm and dragged her away from the crowd, into an out-of-order restroom, marked as such in about four different languages. They burst into the dimly lit urinal. The tall woman kicked the door shut with a powerful thrust from a long, limber leg, slammed Janice against a wall, and kissed her savagely.

Janice surrendered into the kiss, putting aside her initial surprise; while Mel could be quite aggressive while making love, she never indulged in anything that bordered on this kind of impropriety in a public space (the lone exception being a frantic kiss-and-grope session in Kew Gardens a few months back), and certainly not with this measure of roughness. Her heart hammered wildly as persistent hands untucked her shirt. Mel pulled back as Janice gasped for air. Then the familiar face broke into a strange, predatory grin—something which made Janice tense with apprehension. Her sense of foreboding was well founded, for the voice which spoke to her possessed not a drawl of the American South, but a British working-class accent: "Hello, love."

"Shit! Meg!" she screamed. The Nobel Prize in Sheer Stupidity? Right here, guys.

"Remember me then, eh?" Meg Edmondson could not wipe the lascivious smile off her face.

"Oh, shit...." Janice buried her face in her hands.

"Here now, you already said that. You're glad to see me, aren't you? You sure did seem glad a minute ago..." The Englishwoman's large, wandering hands stroked Janice's hips.

"What the hell are you doing in Berlin?" Janice spat.

"I'm engaged!" Meg announced proudly. "My fiancé, he's a liaison offer here. I'm visitin' him."

"Fiancé?"

"Yeah. Good bloke. Pots of money, treats me nice...and he's not too bad in the sack," she said wistfully, as if conjuring him out of thin air. But once again she turned her ravenous attentions on Janice. "But he don't kiss as well as you do." Her hands wandered up to Janice's shoulders. "I still remember the first time you kissed me. You almost brought me to my knees. In fact, I reckon I did end on my knees later, didn't I?" She leaned in for another assault on Janice's lips.

"Stop!" Janice shrieked, blocking the woman with her hands, and hating the hysterical edge in her voice. I am not going to do this again. However tempting it may be. "You're engaged!" And such a pertinent detail like this has stopped you...when?

Apparently such minutiae meant little to Meg as well. "So? I ain't married yet, Janice, and I sure ain't dead. And I can prove it to you." She pinned Janice's arms down against her sides and kissed her fully, once again.

A boom filled their ears, shattering glass, rattling buildings, and rumbling through the ground. They stumbled and fell forward, with Janice falling on top of her ardent admirer, who moaned. An explosion outside, Janice's mind registered. She looked down at Meg, who stared back up at her with dazed blue eyes and a rather silly smile. "Are you all right?" she asked the Englishwoman.

"Christ all mighty, they always say that the earth is supposed to move, but this is ridiculous."

The door burst open. "Lieutenant!" It was Lowry, gun drawn. "Are you...injured?" He trailed off lamely at the sight of Janice atop a gorgeous woman.

Janice rolled off of the too-willing Meg. "I'm fine, I'm fine. What the hell happened?"

"A bomb, Lieutenant. On our train," he supplied tersely. She saw the fear and relief in his drawn face.

Our train. She sat there, numb. And how coincidental was that? Plus the fact that Stoller wasn't anywhere near the train. Just what the hell is going on? Or am I being totally paranoid?

"Hey!" Meg said to Janice, breaking her frantic chain of thought. "You're a bloody lieutenant now! Congratulations!"

"Yeah, thanks." The women stood up, Janice dusting herself off, and Meg scowling with dismay at dirt on her very expensive coat. "Come on. We've got to find Stoller," Janice said to Lowry.

The sergeant nodded, and moved through the doorway.

Janice started to follow him, but took a moment to watch Meg fuss with her coat. "You're a lifesaver, you know that?" she said quietly.

"What?" The Englishwoman looked up at her.

"Nothing. I gotta go. See you in the funny papers."

Meg grabbed Janice's hand. "Wait!"

The contact was intoxicating. "Look, I've got to go," Janice repeated nervously. I just have to remind myself...however much you like Mel, you are not her.

"I have a hotel room," the dark-haired woman proclaimed in a low voice. Of course, that accent is so sexy. Jesus, give me a woman with an accent and I'm practically in bed with my legs in the air.

"In case you haven't noticed, a fucking bomb just went off. It's not exactly the time for romance," Janice snapped. But adrenaline was pumping through her, courtesy of the explosion...and she felt like either getting into a fight or getting laid. And while the former was a battle she would certainly lose with this strong, scrappy woman, the latter was one where they would both win...big time.

"All the better. You only live once, my girl." With one long step she was pressed against Janice, a warm, inviting hand on the archaeologist's arm.

"I have orders. I'm going to Bavaria."

Her touch glided along Janice's arm, her voice supremely confident. "You can spare a few hours, can't you?" As if she could smell her impending victory.

Janice knew that she could. It would be all so easy: A nice room. A bottle of wine. A warm bed. A willing woman. A rough pleasure. But somehow it was not enough. Not anymore. "I can't. You know I like you, Meg. You know that. And we could have a hell of a good time together. But I...can't," she repeated.

The Englishwoman, dropping her hand from Janice's arm, seemed more curious than disappointed. "Why?"

"Do you remember...I told you once, that you looked like someone I knew back home?" Meg nodded. "That person...well, I love her more than anything. I've hurt her and screwed her over too many times. I'm not going to do it again." She smiled ruefully. "Even though she may never want to see me ever again."

Meg looked shocked. "Bloody hell, Janice. You've gone all noble on me!"

"It...has nothing to do with being noble...I, uh..." She felt embarrassed, wearing her heart on her sleeve like this. Articulation fled from her mind and her mouth. "Do...do you understand?"

Meg grinned in such a way that it reminded her of Mel. "Oh God, you damned fool. You're in love. And here I thought you were a practical girl, like me." She shook her head, laughing. "All right, all right. I understand. Now get going, and try not to get that pretty head of yours blown off, all right?"

"Yeah." Janice smiled back. "And you...get outta here too. This place is dangerous."

The Englishwoman snorted in disdain. "Whole bloody country is dangerous. Don't worry, love, it would take a lot to kill me."

"Somehow I believe that." She started for the door.

"Janice?"

"Yeah?" The archaeologist paused in the doorway.

"This woman—whoever she is. She's real lucky."

God, a real compliment from Meg! Other than "Hey, you screw pretty well for a girl."

"No," Janice said, smiling. "I'm real lucky." She left the bathroom. Lowry stood right outside, his tense posture somewhere between standing at attention and feeling constipated. His cheeks were reddened with embarrassment.

She sighed. "All right, kid, what did you hear?"

"Nothing that concerns me, Lieutenant."

She stroked her chin thoughtfully, while regarding the smoky train station, which had grown even more chaotic in her brief absence. "That's a good answer, Lowry." She started to walk toward the crowd.

"Thank you, ma'am." Lowry replied with a tiny grin, and fell into step behind her.

A hole had been ripped from the train they had been on. She saw no dead bodies, just dazed patrons, some lying on the ground, some sitting. The cacophony of languages rippled through the air, a Tower of Babel made anew: German, English, even some of the dreaded (to Janice) French. And Russian. Not a lot of blood. Good. But that blast...damn, it was strong. They saw a familiar blonde head approaching them, and she and the sergeant picked up their pace.

A smear of dirt ran across Catherine's forehead, and her wrist was bandaged, although a blot of blood had seeped through the white gauze.

"Christ, Stoller, are you okay?" Janice asked, hands on hips, looking Catherine over.

The OSS agent nodded dismissively. She returned Janice's visual evaluation with one of her own. "I'm fine...just a little, how do you say—knocked up?"

Janice bit the inside of her cheek. "Not quite. Knocked around is the expression."

"Ah, yes. And I see you are both fine. I'm glad you ignored my request to stay near the train — " She turned around to look at the smoky husk of the train. "Otherwise, there is no telling what may have happened to you."

"Do they know where exactly the bomb was?" Janice asked.

"I think it was in the third car."

And we were in the second. "So we might have been dead ducks. 'Cause it was a hell of a blast."

"Yes," Catherine assented, then smiled strangely. "Dead ducks. Americans have such an intriguing way with language." Her eyes met Janice's. Then, just as suddenly, she broke off the inscrutable gaze and looked toward an exit. "Well! I don't know about the both of you, but I have had more than enough excitement for one afternoon. Lowry, get a damned jeep and additional military escort for us. We're driving to Fussen."

The sergeant nodded, saluted, and disappeared. Leaving the two women staring at the wrecked train.

"Who do you think did this?" Janice remarked casually, all the while watching the OSS agent warily.

"The Werwolf, of course. Who else?"

"Why this train? Why here?"

Catherine tucked a strand of loose, curling blond hair around her ear. "You ask that as if you expect me to know."

"It just doesn't make sense to me. Lowry and I seemed to be the only people on that train."

"Are you suggesting that you are a target?" Amusement tickled the OSS agent's voice.

Janice's false laughter rang like a dissonant bell. "Yeah, pretty funny, isn't it? I mean, who would want me dead?"

Catherine's already dark eyes grew even blacker. "Not me," she replied firmly.

Her hands rode on her hips, a skeptical sneer on her face. "Shit, lady, am I really supposed to believe that?"

Catherine's hand flew up to Janice's face so quickly that the archaeologist barely had time to flinch. But instead of the blow that Janice had expected once she saw the fleshy blur, the hand gently cupped her chin. "I would be the first to admit that Melinda would look quite fetching in widow's weeds. But competing with a dead lover is a thousand times harder than a living, flesh and blood rival."

Despite many widely held beliefs to the contrary, Janice Covington was no fool. She could smell the danger in this woman, the violence underneath the cool exterior, waiting to be unleashed, and hence she made no attempt to remove Stoller's hand from her face. But — Janice being Janice — she did not shut up. "All the same, I'm not a great believer in coincidence," she retorted calmly.

Catherine dragged a thumb along the lieutenant's smooth, red lips. Feeling the tremor of disgust, and knowing the thin line between it and desire. I could bring you to your knees, if I wanted to. Everything is so black and white with you, isn't it, Covington? No in-between. No shadows. "Believe what you will. All the same, you are among the living."

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

August 8: Sneak Some Zucchini onto Your Neighbour’s Porch Day

Almost every time, I write something for a specific day, I will, for some reason, finish and upload it late.

This time, it was because, on August 8, I had a LOT of bad luck which swept over to the next few days which is why this chapter is late by three days... >.<

It’s a very silly side story (just look at the name) but, after rembering about the day while looking through my notes, for some reason, I just had to write it down. (And the story fit so unbelievably well into the timeline! I’m still amazed about that.)

Don’t expect much though XD

London, England, United Kingdom – August 1847

 Cloudia didn’t like to stay in the Phantomhive townhouse longer than necessary. There were various reasons for that, and one of them was the fact that while the Phantomhive Manor was located in the middle of the woods with the next centre of human living being a few kilometres away, the townhouse could be found in the middle of London – a vibrating city which grew and grew in inhabitants. Many were fond of the liveliness of the city, politely ignored the Thames’ and the streets’ smell for the radiance – but Cloudia who preferred being all by herself in the library or the anteroom of her chambers, sitting comfortably in an armchair and devouring a book, preferably a good one, London was a place you made sure to leave as quickly as possible as soon as the Season was over.

Of course, Cloudia could still sit in silence and enjoy a book in the townhouse with the doors and the windows shut and barricading her from the loud world outside – if it wasn’t for her neighbours.

The manor didn’t have any immediate neighbour houses, but the townhouse had two: The house on the left belonged to the Dowager Duchess Sophia of Hainault, a nice elderly woman who, nowadays, spent most of her time in the countryside and didn’t even come to London for the Season. The house on the right, however, was the property of Arlington Lincoln, the Viscount of Middalanoware, and his wife, Danielle.

Danielle was two or three years older than Cloudia and much more energetic. She was even much more lively than Constantia and much more annoying than Cloudia’s cousin as her most salient “talent” was to order around servants with that piercing voice of hers and run around hysterically. Her husband, Arlington, was around a decade older than her but definitely not less loud and nerve-wracking. He alone had been a nuisance, but ever since he had married Danielle two years ago, the noise level had drastically increased. Undoubtedly, they were disastrously well made for each other.

Phantomhives had never been religious persons. Cloudia only ever attended the Easter and Christmas masses whenever she found the time. This lack of faith wasn’t connected to the fact that they murdered for a living – after all, there were killers who took lives for their religion just like there were killers who claimed themselves to be religious and murdered people for other reasons or for nothing else than “for the sake or thrill of it.” It was just that if you asked Cloudia that after seeing so much of the world’s dark side that you couldn’t do anything else but doubt the existence of a God.

The Viscount and Viscountess of Middalanoware, however, were devout members of the Anglican Church, and every Sunday, chaos broke out in their house to get ready for the Sunday mass. Unfortunately, they frequented a church whose mass started at eight o’clock in the morning which meant that around six o’clock, sometimes even earlier, Danielle Lincoln’s voice woke up the nearby residents like a vicious cock.

Including Cloudia who couldn’t believe that the walls of the Phantomhive townhouse were known for their “noise attenuation.”

  If this house wasn’t family-owned for decades, I would have sold it ages ago to the next best person willing to live right next to Mr and Mrs Eardrum Piercer. And to their unbelievable and unknown fortune, being the Watchdog wasn’t a carte blanche for murder.

  Cloudia woke up, rolled out of her bed, and grabbed her dark blue dressing gown which she put on and furiously buttoned. On her way out, she quickly checked in the mirror of her dressing table that she didn’t look too horrendous.

  I couldn’t murder Arlington and Danielle – but I could surprise them at their back door and remind them as politely as I managed that they weren’t the only ones living on this street and that they also weren’t the only ones getting ready for church, only the only ones who couldn’t do it in adequate silence.

I massaged my temples. I had returned from my holidays in Wales only yesterday, and today, I had to visit Antonia Rossini’s tailor’s shop because I needed new clothes for Cedric and me for the meeting with the Queen next Saturday. I needed rest, I needed silence – I needed a few more wonderful hours of sleep. And a few annoying Zounderkites at whom I could be passive aggressive.

  Walking down the corridor, Cloudia nearly collided with Cedric who was also wearing his dressing gown over his night clothes, but unlike her, he hadn’t bothered buttoning it or making sure that his hair didn’t give others the impression that he had been involved in a bombing.

Cedric blinked at her through his crooked glasses. “Countess, good that you are awake too – if you weren’t I would have had to question your hearing. Are the neighbours dying? And is that happening regularly?”

Cloudia shook her head and suppressed an unladylike yawn. “Unfortunately, my dear neighbours, Arlington and Danielle Lincoln, aren’t dying. They are only terribly noisy and get nervous and hysteric every Sunday as if it was their first mass although they are members of the church for many years now.”

“How long will this go on?”

“Until around half past seven.”

“I think I’ll return to the Dispatch now and continue sleeping there,” Cedric said, rubbing his eyes. “Good luck with whatever you want to do, Countess.”

He was about to turn around and walk back to his room, most likely to get his possessions, but Cloudia grabbed his arm and pulled him towards her.

“You are going nowhere, Undertaker,” she hissed. “We have to go to a tailor today for the Queen’s drawing room – and you will not leave to sleep somewhere else while I have to endure this nonsense.”

“How cruel, Countess, wanting me to suffer with you.”

“Don’t think of it as cruelty from me but as solidarity from you.”

“I can pass on solidarity – I can’t pass on sleep.”

“Do you think I think differently? That’s exactly why I wanted to pay the Lincolns a visit and tell them to lower their goddamn voices – of course, without putting it like that.”

“I like that, you should definitely say it like that,” Cedric meant. “Then they will be too shocked to speak.”

“I’m telling you – nothing in the world, no matter how shocking, will stop Danielle and Arlington from speaking too loudly in their piercing voices. The shock may make them even more hysterical.”

“How in the world aren’t they already dead?”

“I am asking that myself every time I’m here,” Cloudia replied, starting to walk again and dragging Cedric with her.

“But if nothing can stop them, Countess,” he asked, “can you stop them with only a polite ask?”

“Honestly, I don’t think so,” she said, “but I want to try. What do they say? ‘Suck it and see.’”

Cedric stared at her. “It seems like you really do need more hours of sleep – that was uncharacteristically colloquial for you.”

“I am talking – and when people are talking, they are colloquial. What makes it so wondrous? We aren’t in a novel after all,” Cloudia grumpily told him. “We don’t have to speak in perfect grammatically correct sentences. And we don’t have to use the right, intelligently formulated and intellectually appropriate proverbs or idioms. Sometimes, we can use the colloquial versions of them.”

“You only didn’t use it because it’s about pudding, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

“‘The proof of the pudding is in the eating.’ That’s the nice version of ‘Suck it and see.’ You didn’t want to use it because you didn’t want to mention pudding in front of me, right?”

She blinked at him. “Undertaker, you are being ridiculous.”

Cedric stopped walking and brought Cloudia to a halt too. “I am not. You didn’t want to make me hungry, right?”

“Undertaker…”

“But you’ve failed, Countess. I am hungry now. Do you think it would be eyebrow rising if I go and get Arwyn so that he makes me pudding and that cheesy Glamorgan sausage?”

Cloudia rolled her eyes. “Not that again.”

“They will never guess that I am a Grim Reaper. They will probably think I’m a magician, a witch, a sorcerer, a wizard – and I will say when they chase me to the top of a mountain with their torches and pitchforks: ‘I’m a wizard!’ in some fancy but not fancy fancy accent. And after my proclamation, I will seemingly vanish into thin air and continue eating my pudding and sausage in the Dispatch. Warm, comfortable, with the pleasant knowledge that I won’t have to attend any awkward parties anymore. Well, except the annual ‘Very Awkward Grim Reaper Ball.’ That’s not its official name, but everybody calls it by that name. Or perhaps, it’s only me. I don’t really talk to the other Reapers; I have no clue what goes on in that undead brains of them, and I don’t want to find out because it would be weird and…”

“Undertaker,” Cloudia cut him off. “We came back from Wales just yesterday – and you know how silly our stay there was –, and there’s a fixed amount of nonsense I can tolerate. And this amount is long strained. Also, even though I went to sleep early yesterday, I lack sleep – and you lack it too. Our brains are not working properly; we are talking nonsense, the neighbours are nonsensical… It’s too much. We need to breathe in and out and stop this before it gets out of hand. On a side note: We both know that it would be much more believable if you said you were a jester than a wizard.”

“Today is ‘Sneak Some Zucchini onto Your Neighbour’s Porch Day.’”

She blinked at him, taken by surprise by his contextless statement. “Wait – what?”

Cedric stepped closer to her and bent down to whisper into her ear even though the corridor was empty except for them and even though he had openly talked about being a Grim Reaper only a few minutes ago. “I shouldn’t be telling you that but, in some centuries, August 8 will be known as ‘Sneak Some Zucchini onto Your Neighbour’s Porch Day.’”

“What kind of weird holiday is that?”

“The weirdest.”

“Do people really celebrate this day?”

“Only weird people.”

“And why do they do it?”

“Because it’s fun – it won’t silence the Lincolns, but, at least, it’s a funny, confusing prank.”

“And why did you mention it? Do you want to sneak some zucchini onto the Lincolns’ porch? We are a Watchdog and a Grim Reaper and make up a weird partnership, but we aren’t that weird to sneak zucchini on a porch. What reason is there to leave a fruit most wrongly call a vegetable on the porch of neighbours you don’t like? I have no idea what is wrong with the people in the future, but we are definitely not as weird as that. We aren’t such oddballs, such nutcases, such crackpots.

“If they find out about that, we will get sent straight to one of those awful asylums, and the hysteric laughter of Danielle and Arlington will sound right behind us until the carriage door closes and even all the way to the asylum and for all eternity. To cut my rambling short: This isn’t something we should do. Especially not I. No matter what, we will never sink so low.”

Cedric looked at her, his eyebrows raised, and Cloudia looked back at him, her own brows contracted.

“I will get as much zucchini as I can carry from the pantry,” Cedric said.

“I will make sure that the coast is clear,” Cloudia said. And with no other word, they went to work.

  ***

  “Jester to Blood Queen – the hatchlings have safely landed in the nest, I repeat: Jester to Blood Queen, the hatchlings have…”

“Undertaker, I am standing right next to you.”

Cloudia and Cedric were standing behind some bushes in the front yard, shielded from the passers-by on the road. She had a spyglass in her hand although there was no need of it because the Lincolns’ porch could be seen very well by the naked eye from where they stood. He had a small sack full of zucchini thrown over his shoulder, looking like the oddest Santa Claus.

  I wondered what Armstrong would think if he noticed that all his zucchini supplies had mysteriously vanished – and that, coincidentally, a bunch of zucchinis had appeared on the neighbour’s porch.

  “What is the plan, Countess?” Cedric asked, pushing away the bush branches to look at the neighbouring house. The door was open, and a woman stood in the doorsill, talking loudly to the servants working on the carriage.

“I will go and distract Danielle,” Cloudia said. “It’s early, she is busy but manners are manners, and she would definitely invite me for tea in her parlour. We will go there, and, perhaps, she will take one of the servants working on the carriage with her. It doesn’t really matter if she does or not. What matters is that she is gone and that the servants are far too captivated by their work to notice a fast moving silver-haired man putting zucchini on the porch.” She paused. “Did I really say that?”

“You did,” Cedric said and nodded.

“I am not asleep, and this is nothing more but a fever dream?”

“It isn’t, and if it was, I would be the guard dog of your fever dream – and all the other fever dreams to come and go.”

“The guard dog of the guard dog?”

“The fever guard dog of the guard dog’s fever.”

“Let’s just start.”

“Yes, we should.”

“Then, we can sleep.”

Cedric smiled a young boy’s happy, innocent, but sly smile. “Then, we can sleep.”

  ***

  With grace, Cloudia walked out of the townhouse’s courtyard and to her unpleasant neighbour and hoped that her grace and elegance could cover the fact that she was wearing a dressing gown and her hair was dishevelled.

  Why lie?

I was doomed. If someone who knew me saw me on the street, I was doomed to a life of being ridiculed and being laughed at. The others living here would understand, surely they would. After all, I was definitely not the only one bothered by the Viscount and Viscountess. Passers-by who didn’t live here though wouldn’t get easy on me.

Hell, I was doomed.

But now, I could only smile happily and wave at Danielle as I had already entered her courtyard.

  “Lady Cloudia! How did I get the pleasure?” Danielle Lincoln said, nearly screamed, her eyes widened in surprise.

“My dear Viscountess,” Cloudia said, approaching her. Every time, they stood side by side, she was always amazed how such a petite woman could produce such powerful sounds. “I am sorry if I am disturbing you so early – and even on a Sunday although I know very well that you are readying yourself for church. But can we still talk? It won’t take too long, I assure you.”

“Oh, well… yes, of course, Lady Cloudia,” Danielle replied, a puzzled smile on her lips. “Gisela!”

“You called for me, Viscountess?” spoke a voice from behind Cloudia. She stepped away and positioned herself differently to see an old, little woman with short brown hair and a fringe, glasses, wrinkles, who emitted wickedness and was wearing a housekeeper’s clothes.

“Gisela,” Danielle said, smiling as if she couldn’t sense the woman’s apparent evilness. “Could you prepare tea and cucumber sandwiches for Lady Cloudia and me?”

“Of course, Viscountess,” Gisela replied before she laid her small, vicious eyes on Cloudia. “We shouldn’t tolerate such behaviour,” she said as if Cloudia wasn’t there, and Cloudia had to fight the urge to kick her in the chin. “Arriving, uninvited, unannounced on a busy Sunday morning in such an inappropriate attire. Some people must have been raised in the wild – surely they are those deemed insane and looked away for good.” Gisela wrinkled her nose in disgust before she vanished inside the house.

  I was certain that Agatha and Gisela were blood-related. Perhaps even mother and daughter. I should bring them together as they lived side by side. It would make a dreadful reunion.

  Danielle cleared her throat, smiling, beaming. “Lady Cloudia? Please follow me to the parlour.” She turned around and walked ahead. Cloudia looked if she saw Cedric somewhere but she didn’t catch sight of him and followed Danielle inside.

  ***

  I had never been inside the house of the Viscount and Viscountess of Middalanoware, and to be honest, it could have stayed like that.

You might have guessed that a house inhabited by two lively persons who only ever wore vibrant colours would emit life, but it didn’t, and it was clear that Gisela had been the one who had decorated the house. All was white and bleak and cold. It was just like how I imagined an asylum looked like.

An asylum where I would end up if someone found out about Operation Zucchini.

Or that I had thought of it as such.

  “How is Arlington doing?” Cloudia asked, putting down her teacup after taking a short sip of the flavourless tea. “I would ask you how you are doing, but you are sitting right in front of me looking so lovely and healthy that it wouldn’t make a lot of sense if I did.”

Danielle smiled at her. “He is doing well. We are doing well – and thanks for the compliment, Lady Cloudia. But, in the hope that I don’t sound rude, may I ask what made you come to my house in a dressing gown?”

“Oh, you see, Danielle, I woke up – and, suddenly, a few interesting riddles came to my mind, and I thought ‘Oh, they would be perfect for my riddle loving friend Danielle!’ And because I was too excited for your answers and reactions, I couldn’t help myself but come to your house immediately to ask you the riddles.”

Danielle’s eyes lit up and widened. “Riddles, you say?” she shrieked and nearly pierced Cloudia’s eardrums.

  The Viscountess of Middalanoware wasn’t very intelligent, and she knew that very well, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t be a lover of riddles and mysteries from the bottom of her heart.

  Cloudia smiled. “Nice ones, wonderful ones – ones you’ve hopefully never heard before.”

“Then,” the Viscountess chewed on her lips and pondered for a moment if she could spare a minute or two even though they were in a hurry, “let us start, Lady Cloudia.”

She cleared her throat. “Very well, Danielle, here’s the first one: ‘Of flesh and blood sprung am I ever; but blood in me that find ye never. Many great lords bear me proudly, with sharp knives cutting me loudly. Many I’ve graced right honourably: Rich ones many I’ve humble made; many within their grave I’ve laid!’”

It took Danielle a while to come up with the answer. “A pen!” she yelled, smiling. “The answer to the riddle is a fine, fine pen.”

“That’s right,” Cloudia replied, making the smile on Danielle’s face grow. “Then, to the next one: ‘I’ve seen you where you never was, and where you ne’er will be; and yet you in that very same place May still be seen by me.’”

Danielle giggled. “It’s so easy! It’s a face’s reflection! These riddles aren’t challenging at all, Lady Cloudia.”

“Well, then, let us head to a scenario: We are walking through a park when we see two women talking to an older man while sitting on a bench. I come to a halt and make you stop too as I want to point the women out to you. I tell you, ‘Those women, do you see them? They are like two peas in a pot with not only their faces being one and the same but also their dresses and their hair-does.’ And upon hearing my words, you reply, ‘But, Lady Cloudia, dearest, isn’t it obvious? The two women are nothing but twins.’ And I shake my head. ‘The women, Lisa and Louise Barnes, share a birthday, share a mother and a father but they are certainly not twins.’

“With this scenario in mind, Danielle – what is the explanation?”

The Viscountess seemed to struggle with finding the solution to this riddle – which was fine for Cloudia as she didn’t have to think of another one.

  Of course, as long as Cedric didn’t take too long to leave some zucchinis on a porch.

  And just as if he had heard her thoughts, Cedric appeared on the window opposite from Cloudia and behind the Viscountess of Middalanoware. He danced around like a mad joker, a triumphal smile on her face, and due to her lack of sleep, Cloudia had problems to keep a straight face so that Danielle didn’t notice the man at the window.

“Could it be astrological twins?” Danielle had said before she hit herself softly against the head. “Of course, it can’t be! Silly me! After all, they have the same mother and the same father, right?”

“Yes, they do,” Cloudia replied while Cedric made terrible grimaces.

“But… wait – what if they are adopted?”

“They aren’t adopted.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes – they are of the same blood. And they cannot be astrological twins because, then, they would still be twins which they aren’t.”

Cedric pressed his face against the window, distorting it.

  Hell – had he always been so annoying?

  “Lady Cloudia?”

“Hm?”

“I was asking you if you could tell me the solution now as I am afraid that I don’t have the time to think longer about it.”

“I am sorry, Danielle – I was in thought and…”

Now, Cedric was joggling with a few stones – and failed miserably. The stones rained upon him, and Cloudia nearly started to laugh.

Which made Danielle frown. The frown looked almost obscure on her usually happy, smiling face.

“Is there something behind me?” she asked, turning around, and Cloudia’s heart sunk – but Cedric had vanished before Danielle could glimpse at him. She looked back at Cloudia, still frowning.

“I am sorry,” Cloudia repeated. “A funny memory sneaked onto my mind porch and distracted me. Now, to the solution: You see, Danielle, the riddle explicitly says that Lisa and Louise Barnes aren’t twins, but they are still siblings born on the same day to the same set of parents – but what you forgot to consider is that the riddle doesn’t exclude the possibility of Lisa and Louisa not being the only children of their parents. And they aren’t as they have a sister named Lucy – they are triplets, not twins.”

“Oh, I see!” Danielle clapped her hands together. “What a wonderful riddle! I thank you, Lady Cloudia, and a nice day to you.”

“A nice day to you too, Danielle.”

  ***

  Cloudia had to stop herself from running out of the drawing room and all the way back to the townhouse. Danielle hadn’t brought her to the door as Cloudia had told her that she could do it on her own, having already stolen so much of her precious time she could have spent with church preparations.

She sneaked out of the kitchen door – and walked right into Cedric’s arms, was welcomed by his impish grin. Then, they appeared behind their bush again, waiting for the Lincolns to step out of the door and –

“ARLINGTON,” Danielle cried in piercing confusion so that all the world could hear her, “DO YOU KNOW WHY TWENTY ZUCCHINIS ARE ON OUR PORCH FORMING THE WORD ‘SILENCE’?”

“Twenty-two zucchinis,” Cloudia whispered, smiling. “You need twenty-two zucchinis to form the word…” A chuckle blurting out of her mouth interrupted her. Giggling himself, Cedric took her hand and guided her back to the secret door whose passage behind led to Cloudia’s chambers. They had taken the same way earlier to get out without running into any servants. As soon as the secret door closed behind them, Cloudia’s laughter echoed through the passage – and Cedric didn’t miss this opportunity to laugh with her.

“Did you see her face?” he said in-between ringing laughter. “It was priceless! Priceless!”

They steadied and held onto each other or fell against the walls on their way back to Cloudia’s chambers, and no matter how many steps they had taken – their laughter didn’t run dry.

They tumbled through the secret door and fell down onto the carpet, holding their bellies.

“I cannot believe that we really did that!” Cloudia exclaimed, and Cedric couldn’t speak and only nodded. Then, he reached into his dressing gown’s pocket – and held up a pudding.

“See what I got from the Lincolns’ kitchen.”

“‘The proof of the pudding is in the eating.’”

“Then, let’s proof the pudding and eat it.”

But they made no move to eat it. Instead, they looked at each other and smiled. They didn’t speak; they didn’t stir – they only lay next to each other, the shared laughter from seconds ago still running through their bodies.

  And I cherished this moment – no matter how weird, how odd, how peculiar it was.

Because, apparently, we had left Wales yesterday, but Wales hadn’t left us.

Not for now, at least.

But I knew that as soon as I had woken up for the second time today – I would be the Countess again.

And Wales would be gone for once and for all.

 The third riddle was taken from Sherlock Holmes’ Elementary Puzzles (Carlton Books). The first two riddles can be found here.

Gisela was named after and based on my old German teacher whom I hate with all my heart and soul.