#these specific glasses are too good at getting bent out of shape without me realizing or knowing what to do to get them back into it

[polarfarina]

I was like "honestly I wouldn't be opposed to just getting new glasses with the same prescription" in an attempt to say that we can save money by not getting an eye exam this year for me and my mom (whose insurance I'm on) said "you have high myopia, they won't let you skip an eye exam like that" and I was like Aw. I just want new frames I dont need new prescription I promise....

[septnautical]

Anti’s First Fireball

SD-004 looked around the enclosure he was ushered into with curious eyes. It felt… strangely nostalgic. Like he’d been here before. But, that wasn’t possible. The white suits scientists had told him he was a fresh creation, just now being put into testing enclosures. And yet… the sea dragon felt a heaviness in his chest he didn’t understand, being in here. He swears when he closed his eyes… instead of these prison like walls… he saw bright blue open waters- the sun shining in large rays down on the sand. Colorful swarms of fish and… laughter- laughter and smiles that made SD-004 feel warm inside. But, whenever he thought like that- a piercing pain would spear through his temple. It made it hard to think. He’d been having way too many thoughts like that lately… 

Even then- this enclosure was familiar in a bad way. Thinking about it… he felt a sense of dread and slight fear being put in here. The walls were stark white, almost painful to look at. There was only one window to look through, unlike the tank where he was most days where he was surrounded by glass. The sea dragon anxiously picks at his scales on his arms, wondering why he was brought here. The scientists had been saying he was doing good… better than he had been. The disks lodged on the edge of his ears itched and stung- but they had seemed happy that they were ‘working properly’. Whatever that meant… 

Anti’s muscles bunched up in reaction to the mic in the tank sparking up. Someone was here. He turned back to look at the window to see a scientist smiling tightly at him. Chief Demerci… She was the head scientist in charge of him. He didn’t like her at all… not that there was anything he could do about it. 

“Hello SD-004,” Demerci greeted, “How are you feeling today?” 

The sea dragon’s fins bristled in agitation just listening to her speak. A fire that was dormant until she came back in lit up. The adolescent sea dragon bared his fangs and snarled at the scientist. 

“Don’t waste my time acting like you care. Why am I here?” 

The scientist doesn’t look surprised by his hostility- but she does look disappointed. She tsks, then reaches for a button on her control panel. A shock runs from Anti’s ear attachments and down his spine, making him go rigid and cry out. 

“Anti,” Demerci sighed. The simple mention of that name had him seizing up more as if expecting something else- “Say Goodbye.” 

The phrase has Anti’s eyes drooping- his expression going slack and body held at attention. The scientist looked bored as she addressed the tranced hybrid. 

“Punishment will come when you choose to be aggressive to your superiors, SD-004. You are to address them with respect.” 

Anti hardly blinks as he replies, “Yes, Chief Demerci.” 

“Status report,” Demerci says shortly. The hybrid shifts slightly as a yellow glow comes to his eyes. He talks a bit more robotically, his voice slightly raked with static. 

“Vitals normal. Anxiety levels at a medium. Mild headaches o-o-occurring from memory deletion. Command chip integration at 56%.” 

Demerci makes a tch sound and leans back in her chair. “That would explain the attitude. We’ll have to work on that conditioning after this experiment.” She takes down a couple of notes before addressing the static hybrid again, “Alright, Anti, see you soon.” 

Light comes back into the hybrid’s eyes quickly and he blinks sluggishly back awake, his body relaxing. Demerci studies him smugly. 

“So Anti, how are you feeling?” 

Anti goes stiff again for a second and yellow flashes in his eyes before he deflates and looks away from the scientist, picking at his scales again. 

“F-Fine I guess…” 

Demerci frowns but nods regardless. They can work on that more later. 

The scientist sighed heavily before a small sadistic smile spread across her face. She leaned over her mic and grinned at the tiny sea dragon like a lioness stalking her kill.

“Well I’m happy to hear that SD,”  she cooed with false sweetness, “Because you’ll need to be in ship shape to take on today’s test.” 

Anti’s head jerked up, color draining out of his face. “W-What?” He whispered in fear, backing away from the glass to try to curl up against the wall. He knew what that meant- it usually meant pain… lots and lots of pain.

DeMerci showed no sign of remorse as she smiled cruelly and went to press a finger against another large button on the dashboard in front of her. 

Something creaked loudly from the walls before a large creature emerged. But… it wasn’t just any creature.

It was another hybrid. 

Looming over Anti was a reaper leviathan hybrid with dark skin, covered in red markings and blue scales. It had long flowing red hair. 4 soulless black eyes with gray sclera glared down at the young hybrid as it gnashed its razor sharp teeth. It’s mandibles spring out and aim at the merman. 

Anti stared at this thing in increasing horror. His mind was screaming at him- something about this wasn't right- this was all wrong!! 

Jackie Jackie! Where was Jackie?!

The creature didn’t care for its prey’s fear. It roared so loud it rocked the tank they were in before diving down at Anti like a torpedo. 

Luckily, Anti was quick and he easily dodged. His body seemed to know how to fight this thing- knew of its weaknesses. He watched it prepare to loop around him- trying to attack his back. But. Anti kept in its path, blocking its attempts to maneuver around him. 

“No fair Anti! That’s my big move!” A young voice whined in his ear

The hybrid gets frustrated at not making headway and roars before trying to tackle Anti to the ground with its long claws. Anti dives to the sand though- watching with a smirk as the thing barrels into the tank wall and disorients itself above him.

Demerci watches with a fascinated smile. “Your instincts are benefiting you greatly SD- you are the reaper’s natural predator.” But, then she sighs dramatically while picking up a remote off her desk. “However- I specifically stated you were going to use firepower today-“ 

Without another word- she presses a button. Anti feels his body spark up painfully and he screams and convulses on the floor. The shocking lasts for a couple more torturous seconds before Demerci relents. Anti slumps for the floor and breathes through gritted teeth- trying to push himself back up as the creature prowls back and forth in front of him. 

“Use your fire breath, Anti,” Demerci hisses at the boy. “Or you’ll never be able to protect SE-002… and you don’t want that, right?” 

Anti freezes slightly at that. His eyes spark with yellow orange light and he twitches, claws digging into the sand. 

“No…” he whispers, eyes widening and looking distant. “I will protect SE-002… That’s all I was made for.” 

Demerci smirks, happy to see the brainwashing slowly but surely leaking in. “Then, that hybrid is trying to hurt SE, Anti. Don’t let it succeed. Burn it-“ 

With a wild scream, Anti launches himself from the sand and barrels into the reaper hybrid. They roar at each other, but Anti manages to bang the creature’s head against a rock and drive it to the ground. The thing wiggles and screeches at Anti, trying to get free. 

Anti pants almost feverishly, eyes glitching between yellowish and normal. He digs his claws into the creature's arms and pins it hard against the sand so it’s mandibles can’t bend. Then, he opens up his mouth and tries to summon a fireball. 

It- it doesn’t feel right. His stomach bubbles uncomfortably hot and the feeling travels up through his throat. He gags slightly on the burning feeling- hot bubbles blowing in the hybrid’s face. The hybrid shrinks away slightly, seeming to fear what’s coming for it. 

But it doesn’t come. Anti let’s go of the hybrid to grab his throat, starting to choke on the hot foreign feeling. His scar- it’s irritated and starting to leak hot water which furthers his panic. Worse of all, as the fire starts to escape the young sea dragon is suddenly bombarded by flashes of things he doesn’t understand. 

He’s bent over in the sand while two other hybrids lean over him. They both look at him with concern- a concern that feels genuine and… brotherly. 

Chase? Schneep?

Anti feels a painful pang in his chest as he coughs up hot burning liquid. Nowhere near close to a fireball. He feels hot water coming from his eyes and he reaches up to touch it, startled and confused. 

Then, he curls up gagging and sobbing from the confusing sensations in his head and body. He starts to cry out names he doesn’t know why he knows, but for once- it feels right. 

“C-Chase! H-Henny! Jack!! Help me!!” 

The last thing Anti sees is Demerci’s enraged face before a powerful shock overtakes his body- then everything goes black. 

When the sea dragon next opens up his eyes… he doesn’t recognize where he is. The lighting is eerie and dark- the walls gray and beat up. Anti tires to move only to realize he can’t- his arms and tails are chained up to the walls. He starts to panic- pulling on the chains and trying to catch his claws on them. 

��W-What is this?!” He growls, but his eyes give away his terror, “Let me go! Let me out!” 

“Now Now, Anti…” Demerci’s silky voice purrs over the intercom, but Anti can’t see her. “You’re here so we can help you…” The restraints start to tighten on his wrists, pulling his arms taut. Anti starts to pant feverishly in fear. “I told you today was the day you would shoot fireballs… so we’re gonna give you a little… ‘stimulation’ until you fulfill your full potential.” 

“W-What?! Y-You’re crazy! You can’t do that-!” Anti tries to scream and thrashes as hard as he can. But, then the shocks start to come. Sharp and painful through his restraints- lighting every one of his nerves on fire. The sea dragon hybrid screams bloody murder, trying and failing to break free. 

Demerci watches mercilessly, humming under her breath as she casually cranks up the power. Anti can’t form a single coherent thought- all he knows is awful aching pain. He feels like he’s been stripped down to his very essence. The torture seems never-ending… even during brief pauses, Anti can’t even catch his breath to think. He’s assaulted by echoing commands and threats. They echo throughout the too warm water around him and buzz in his ears. You are a monster. Zap! You were made to be a weapon. 

Zap! 

You will protect SE-002. You will protect the Altera Arms. 

ZAp!

You are a ruthless killer. 

You know no mercy. You listen only to us- Zap Zap ZAP! Let your instincts rule you SD-004. 

Become the fearsome Sea Dragon you were made to be. Serve Altera. As more and more electricity enters his veins, a bubbling flame builds up in his mouth. Bigger and bigger- brighter orange that bubbles like lava. Until finally- Anti shoots his first fireball. And after a few more rounds of shocks in between, he shoots a couple more. No hesitation, automatically as he’s told. Demerci smiles. Their weapon is finally complete. SD-004 paces the length of his tank, back and forth swiftly as he watches the hatch in front of him with hungry yellow-tinted eyes. Finally, the alarm sounds and the hatch opens. The sea dragon hybrid grins and giggles madly in his throat as his opponent barrels through the water towards him. The imperfect warper hybrid tries to pin him down with long blue-tinted claws. SD easily dodges then headbutts them in the stomach, making them fly through the water. He doesn’t give them any room to breathe though as he catches them through their arc then slams them against the rock below them. Laughing madly, Anti sinks claws deep into their arms then drags them down, watching in satisfaction as the ugly thing screams robotically. These ones weren’t nearly as fun as the pure organic ones… but prey was prey. The merman tears into the other hybrid- showing no mercy as he cuts it to ribbons. Deaf to their screams. Ignorant to who they used to remind him of. All that matters is the thrill- the need to hunt. The need to hurt. He was a monster. He was a weapon! The water flows with orange hybrid blood before SD-004 finally backs up- and sends a fireball right on top of the creature. Putting it out of its misery. He giggled and licked the blood off his hand. He looked up to see Demerci smiling down at him, nodding her approval. “Excellent work, SD-004,” She praised, writing something down on her PDA before pressing a button on her dashboard. “Ready for the next round?” SD nodded with a crazed laugh, shaking out his tails and arms, watching the hatch yet again. “Lay it on me Doc~!” --------- Anti awoke with a start, clutching at his chest. His heart was beating too wildly, his skin feeling clammy and hot in the cool water of their cove. That… that was definitely a memory… A memory he desperately wanted to forget. He could still feel the sting of the shocks- the elation of ripping into his prey. He didn’t even care back then that those hybrids were like him and his brothers. He only knew following instincts… following orders. “Anti?”  A soft voice reaches his ears and the sea dragon jumps. Then, he sees Marvin swimming over to him, green hair loose and floating around his head like a halo. His mask hung loose in his hands. He tilted his head at the older brother in concern. “You okay?” Anti finds it hard to find his voice. “...n...nightmare-” He finally croaks out, feeling a shiver go up his spine and down his tails. Marvin hums then settles in the sand next to Anti, tucking his tails under him. He offers the sea dragon a sad smile. “Do you want to talk about it?” The older boy is quick to shake his head. Marvin knits his eyebrows together in concern, “Anti… you can talk to me. I mean… if anyone knows what you went through its-” “Shut up!” Anti suddenly shouts, hitting a fist against the sand. His eyes burn as he glares at Marvin and bares his teeth. “You have no idea what I went through! The shit you went through is nothing compared to me! So stop acting like you get it! You don’t! Now leave me the fuck alone!” The warper’s face falls, his gleaming blue eyes showing his heartbreak. Then, pink flashes in his eyes as he growls back, smacking Anti slightly with his tails in his haste to get up. “Fine! Fuck me for wanting to help your sorry ass!” Marvin cries, trying to look angry, but glints of his tears leak into the moonlit water. Without another glance or word, Marvin turns tail and rockets off into the midnight ocean. Anti holds himself after he leaves, hating the feeling of timid eyes on his back. He can’t tell Marvin- he can’t tell anyone about what he saw… what he knows… what he did. They’ll hate him- hate him more than they already hate him. He can handle this… they’re just memories. They can’t hurt him anymore…

[animefinatic]

Fire Force: 1st thoughts/impression

Okay so I’ve been hearing some murmurs about this anime for a while but because I weird I move slow when it comes to new anime for some reason, mainly because I want something to binge. But since getting Hulu recently I’ve been watching a lot of nostalgic shows (Digimon s1-3 and Yuyu Hakusho along with some old school nickelodeon and cartooonnetwork shows) but I’ve decided to finally get around to watching something new for a change. I’m not done with season 1 (episode 12)yet so I’m just going to give some 1st impressions on a few characters. Just some general thoughts, I’m sure overall feelings will change as i finish what’s currently out so don’t get bent outta shape if I don’t like someone or mention someone. Also be respectful if you’re a manga reader.

World building: The whole people turning into infernals at the drop of a dime and killing other people and the rest of humanity seems to have all been clustered in some small ass piece of japan lowkey put me in the mind of AOT (humanity being behind walls, the monster being humans all along type shit) I went into this thinking the protagonist is some sort of form of internal with that logic.

Shinra: Sharp teeth. I’m not into the whole teeth thing (Rin from Free, Soul from Soul Eater, Kirishima are swell in their own way but i was never a fan of their teeth) I like his little ‘smile in tense situation quirk because bless his heart i know when he’s nervous or tense about something. He’s a good kid all the same and he lowkey gave me Izuku vibes because they want to be a hero but he also gives me Rin (Blue Exorcist) vibes because he gets a bad rep and being called Devil even though he’s really sweet and has a good character. Seeing him in action I can’t help but think how would he do in the my hero universe (he’d kick so much ass) Has a typical shonen protag tragic backstory about his mother and brother and so has a reason to be in the fire force, I like the drive to be a hero from that kid dream he had, I look forward to him finding the answers he seeks while also not looking forward to seeing him fight his kid brother (I fucking swear if he has to kill his own brother I will fucking scream)

Akitaru: Oh my god fucking hot, fucking cute that's my husbando right there. When he called Shinra’s smiling quirk cute I fucking melted. The Dad (and daddy) of this squad I see him looking out for the other and providing a solid foundation of justice. a swell guy that has the whole groups trust and respect and I just hope nothing happens to this man. When Joker gave Shinra a reason to doubt the fire force i was a little nervous but so far so good team 8 seems to have been formed for a specific reason bc the other teams are lowkey shady.

Hinawa: stereotypical glasses character, annoyingly strict, and give the mc a hard time. In comparison to captain he annoyed me, by putting down my boy Shinra without giving him a real chance, (it wasn’t Nighteye lvl of annoying  but still) but overtime I’ve warned up to him, I tend to like the glasses characters too (Kyoya...I blame Kyoya) so by this point I see he’s a caring individual in his own way, what sold me is when he pulls Shinra aside to check on him and ask if he was ok...also mans can cook so bonus.

Maki: Mikasa vibes, just a woman with some muscle but she seems very insecure about it. I like she’s such a romantic maiden at heart though. I like her Sputter flames, so cute it made me think of calsifer from Howl’s moving castle.

Iris: I took one look at her and went: a sister. oh fuck religion is going to be a big influence in this show. Ignoring my own personal bias feelings of religion it seems she serves the purpose of praying for the souls of those who turned nothing too special about her, she’s sweet even though she has her tragic backstory with everyone but her and Hibana watched the whole damn church burn. 

Arthur: Annoying. I thought he was gonna be some sort of edgy rival for Shinra since they seem to fight on sight. However he’s kinda this cute idiot. But his knight at the round table schtick is kinda aggy he reminds me of that one classmate in my class that took Shakespeare too seriously. Maybe he’ll warm up on me later he has got to be more than the idiot blond (maybe at some point they’ll drop a back story on him)

Tamaki: Adorable, her powers make her look like a twin tailed cat (I not sure but I think there is like fire yokai so it works for the fire theme of this show) and I love cats so she's adorable. However this trend of her being clumsy af all of a sudden and becoming undressed and/or being groped or touched by Shinra accidentally only for her to hit the hell out of him is a trope i kinda want to die already like it’s not even funny. I’m an elder weeb so i’m not new to this but idk if it just my old age but I’m kinda over it. So even though I found her so cute earlier she’s almost annoying me even though its not her fault its the creator. 

Hibana: Bad bitch, she had dudes as her chair and had dudes lined at her feet like a red (in this case orange) carpet. Love seeing a black woman thrive (she’s brown skinned or whatever so I’m claiming her as black until further notice).Stunning, only I hate the oddly shaped eyes (it works given her power is flowers and her eyes are in a shape of a flower) but it was jarring to see it. It reminded me of Nia teppelin (Gugrren laggan) did she make me wanna stomp her for messing with my boy Shinra? yes. But I kept wondering why was I so awed by her I looked up her VA and it made sense, fucking Riza Hawkeye and Erza Scarlett (I am watching it dubbed, blame Hulu for not letting me have an option for sub but its whatever I’m committing to the dub for now) and well I respected her more. Also love how she wasn’t actually into that religion stuff even though she was taken in by the sisters. Now her moment with Iris after she got her shit rocked, sweet, adorable, so cute. Also her sudden affections for Shinra going forward is cute not sure if I ship anyone at this point but adorable is adorable I can not deny that.

Rekka: My stars that annoying. I also cringed because it reminded me of (yagamiyato’siida if you know then you know) And again with the weird ass eyes its not missed on mean that Hoshi is means star and its a part of his surname. But he went from 0-100 real quick once I realized he’s who Shinra is looking for and once again  me being wary over religion is validated through the white coats or Evangelist running around turning people into infernals on purpose (once again we back on some AOT shit) this man is bat shit crazy but he somewhat succeeded I wonder what it means for that kid who happened to be compatible with that bug thing (and of course Shinra is special bc the bug reacted to his fire) anyway what I learned from this character than religion got this universe all the way fucked up and the direct result of this is that religion has a firm hold in government and I know this is not finna be good.

[iwillgiveyoumyhappiness]

김우석, Kim Wooseok

anonymous asked:

Hi 화성아! Could I please request Wooseok looking after you while sick, but you knew he was busy, so you didn’t tell him you were sick? I love you, and hope you slept well!

(A/N) I love you, too. ^-^

Group: X1 (엑스원) & UP10TION (업텐션)

Member: Wooseok

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Wooseok checked his phone for the third time in the last five minutes. He felt like it should’ve brighten up by now, a notification or two hiding on the screen. Yet there was nothing. 

“Why do you keep looking at your phone?” Seungyoun asked, a bit of strain on his voice after the rigorous practice. He grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “You look pissed,” he joked. 

Wooseok scowled a little, staring at his empty lockscreen, devoid of any messages or reminders to take care of himself. “A little bit,” he muttered, not denying the playful accusation. 

He blinked at him. “Wait, seriously?” he asked, taking a swig from his water bottle. “Why?”

He huffed a frustrated breath out his nose, shutting off his phone and tossing it on his bunched up hoodie that rested in the corner. “Because why hasn’t she texted me yet, huh?” he complained. He crossed his arms grumpily. “She always texts me around now. Asks how I’m doing, makes sure that I’m staying hydrated.” 

Seungyoun chuckled. “Well, aren’t you being petulant today,” he cooed. “She brings out a different side of you, Kim Wooseok. A very different side indeed.”

He gave him a glare. “Oh, hush,” he said. He zoned out again, tapping his fingers against the hardwood floor. “Did I say something?” he wondered aloud. He scanned his mind for any mistakes he could’ve made. “Maybe when I... No, she doesn’t get bent out of shape for dumb things like that. Maybe—! No, not that either.” 

Seungyoun hummed thoughtfully, watching his bandmate overthink about every possibility. He really did go above and beyond for that girlfriend of his. “You’re really worried, aren’t you?” he finally asked.

Wooseok snapped out of his muttering. He looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Yeah,” he admitted, “a little. She’s usually so diligent about it and today, she’s not even answering my texts, so I’m just a tiny bit...” He searched for a word that would save his tough guy image. “Concerned,” he settled on. 

The older boy glanced from side to side, eyeing the other members, all mucking about and doing their own thing during break. He sighed. “You’re lucky that your girlfriend’s adorable,” he said. 

He leaned over, grabbing Wooseok’s hoodie and phone and tossing them to him. “I’ll cover for you, so go check on that ‘concerning’ girlfriend of yours.” He gave him a playful wink. “On the condition that we actually get to meet her for longer than two seconds at some point.”

Wooseok felt a small smile spread across his thin lips. “Promise,” he said, slipping the hoodie over his head and shoving his phone in his back pocket. “You know,” he said, standing up, “you’re actually pretty cool sometimes and not a total irritant in my life.” 

He shrugged, a dopey smile plastered on his face. “I try my best.” He waved him off. “Now, shoo!”

+++

Wooseok didn’t even bother knocking on the door. He had a spare key attached to his bag and he’d been given permission to make himself at home. 

He never knocked when he visited.

At first, it was on accident, but after he realized that it didn’t bother her, it became more of a habit to him. It felt nice to unlock the door and walk in with confidence and a warm, soft feeling. 

He always knew that when he got past the threshold, her head would poke out of one of the rooms of her small apartment and she’d just smile and say, “Hey”. The smile that made the house feel like home; the one that made him weak in the knees, though he’d never admit it.

He didn’t live in that apartment, but if she kept being so freakin’ adorable, he might, sooner than later. 

Coming in uninvited was even better if she was vacuuming or listening to music, because then he could sneak up on her, totally freak her out, and then apologize with a thousand little kisses. 

That was his personal favorite part of the whole ordeal. 

When he passed the threshold this time though, no face peeked around the corner to say ‘hi’ to him. In fact, the entire flat had a strange vibe to it. Thick and suffocating. A little cold, too. 

“Baby?” he called. “Are you in here?” 

With no response, he made a b-line for her bedroom. He didn’t have a particular reason to assume that she was in there, but it just felt right. There was a feeling, like it was a little warmer in that direction. 

It just felt more like her.

He opened the door slowly. “Babe...?” he said softly, thinking that maybe she was sleeping. When he opened the door a little farther, he sighed at the sight before him. A mess of sheets and blankets, tissues scattered all over the floor, and a sweaty, short-of-breath girlfriend, stuck in an uncomfortable half-sleep. 

He put his hands on his hips. “So you were sick,” he said, more to himself than the girl tossing in bed. He clicked his tongue.

With expert speed, he picked up all of the stray tissues and tossed them into the trash bin, making faces at them every once in a while when it felt like he was touching something questionable. He washed his hands very thoroughly after that.

He pulled some medicine out of the cabinet in the hall and grabbed a glass of water. He kept wavering between cold and warm water, so he just got a glass of both. Perhaps a bit excessive, but he didn’t care much. 

He just wanted her to feel better. 

He pulled a chair up to her bedside, sitting down with a huff. He poked her shoulder. “Baby,” he whispered. He poked her again. “Sweetheart, wake up,” he said, a little louder. He rolled his eyes and shook her ungracefully. “Dummy,” he said, voice returning to normal volume. 

She groaned awake, still not opening her eyes. “What...?” she mumbled, her voice slurred with broken sleep. She grabbed the edge of the covers, pulling them up over her head. “Go away, reaper...” she said. “You’re not taking me yet.” 

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not quite,” he said. He leaned forward, grabbing the sheets from her weak hands. He pulled them down, smiling a little at her bleary expression. “I can leave though, if you want.” 

She blinked a few times, trying to adjust to full consciousness. “Wooseok?” she finally asked. 

“Mhm,” he nodded. “That’s me, the coolest boyfriend ever.” 

She pouted. “What’re you doing here?” she asked. She yanked the covers from his hands, putting them over her mouth. “You’re gonna get sick,” she said, her voice muffled. 

“Well, now,” he said, plopping back in the chair, “whose fault is that?” He saw her raise a brow. “Yours,” he said, pointing. 

She furrowed her brows. “What? How so?” she asked. “I didn’t text you specifically so that you wouldn’t come over.” 

He flicked her forehead. “And that, my dear, is exactly why I did,” he said. He gave a quick apology once he saw her rubbing her head, a stream of guilt running through his veins. “Sorry. You probably have a headache.”

She nodded. “A little bit, yeah.” 

“I have medicine,” he said, holding up the pills. “And some water.” He gestured to the two glasses on her desk. “I didn’t know what sounded more refreshing, so there’s warm and cold, so you can take your pick...” He trailed off when he saw the way she was looking at him, covers finally pulled back. “Why’re you staring?” 

She shrugged. “You’re just cute,” she said. “And so worried about me.” 

He tilted his head. “Of course I’m worried,” he said gently. “Did you expect me not to be?” 

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I didn’t really know how you’d react, I just didn’t want to bother you and mess up your schedule.” She gave a guilty smile. “I was trying really hard to be a good girlfriend.” 

He frowned and smacked her leg lightly. “What the heck is wrong with you? You are a good girlfriend,” he assured her. “I think the least you can do is give me the chance to be a good boyfriend.”

“But you’re so busy—” she started before breaking into a coughing fit. 

Immediately, he rushed around the other side of the bed, slipping in next to her and rubbing her back with soothing circles, calming her a little. “Yes, I’m busy,” he said, whispering the words comfortingly into the shell of her ear, “but you’re always my first priority, you idiot. Without you, I’m a singer, a son and a friend, but with you...” 

He placed a quick kiss on her nape. “I’m Kim Wooseok,” he said. “I’m a man. A man who loves and is loved in return, and I wanna protect that feeling.” He leaned over, trying his best not to crush her. He grabbed a random glass, not bothering himself with the differing temperatures. “And in order to protect that feeling,” he said, settling back into his spot, “my lady has to get better, you hear?” 

She chuckled weakly, her eyelids getting heavy while listening to his steady breathing and feeling his torso pressed against her back. “Fine,” she muttered drowsily. “I hear you, you closet cheese-ball.” 

“Only for you,” he said. He tapped her arm. “Before you knock out, take the pills. I’ll stay here while you sleep, make dinner and stuff. Also, if you try to fight me on that, I promise you that you will lose. 100%.” 

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I hope you enjoy it, twin! I had so much fun with this one. :’) You know I’m in my mood right now, so it’s kinda... Yeah. Like this. Anyway! Hope you liked it!

[ravenclaw-craftsgirl]

Lilian - Year One

Part 1 Part 2 Rating: G Foreword: This story uses the fanmade idea of Rowan Khanna being the name of Two Twins (The Twin Khannas) Using their middle names to distinguish themselves. Research has been done ahead of time, with certain instances purposely being different. 

I will pre-translate all of Lilian’s french for Mobile users! 

Enjoy!  Here’s the original Google Doc Link for those who enjoy proper formatting

The morning was warm over London’s suburbs. The sun shone over the road as a young girl surrounded by several children in a house’s driveway. Each were chatting individually while two stood nearby with a timer as they watched. “Come on, Lil, ya got it!” 

“Ye can do it!” they cried as the young brunette quickly reassembled a bikes assembly from scratch after having just polished them. Within a minute, she was done. “Woah, that’s thirty seconds faster!” The boy holding the stopwatch exclaimed, while the girl watching merely shouted in celebratory victory for her friend. The two helped the other up as a group of girls walked past and started laughing. “Oh look, La Rude is in the dirt plating with the boys again. Guess she didn’t get the memo that Girls don’t do that.” The leader of the group shouted, as the others laughed and chided in their obnoxiously high voices. “<It is rather rude to deny my talents. Only an idiot would degrade someone for doing something she likes.>” Lilian Le’Reau replied with a smirk. Several of the girls simply looked among themselves, confused and worried at what Lilian had just said. The leader simply frowned and stuck her tongue out before snapping her fingers, signalling for the others to continue wherever they were trying to go. “I don’t know why you put up with her, Lilian. She’s always such a jerk.” Lilian simply shrugged, pulled the hair tie out from her ponytail and shook her head. She grinned as her hair fell past her shoulders “Because I know I can make fun of her in french without her tattling.” With that sentiment, the kids all boarded their bikes and rode down to the nearest Football field to play a game.

It wasn’t until much later that day when Lilian finally rode home. The sun was barely touching the horizon as Lilian was riding. Suddenly a flash of black as an Owl suddenly appeared on Lilian’s handlebars. “<WHAT THE HECK>!” Was all she could say before she jerked the front wheel to the side out of reaction, causing her to crash into her yard. Covered in sweat and dirt, Lilian sat up and groaned as she looked at the bent front axle of the bike she had bought. “Mama is going to kill me. And what was… that.” The owl simply turned to her and spun it’s head around, almost in a form of acknowledging the wreck that had just happened. Even more curious than the owl itself was the letter in its beak. Addressed to her home… with her name… Lilian carefully reached out to the owl to take the letter, careful to not potentially spook the creature. Thankfully she didn’t have a problem, with the owl only flying away once Lilian had the letter. “ ‘From the office of Hogwarts’ Huh? <What are you>?” She then stood up and hissed with pain as she saw her shin, scrapped and bloody from the crash. Thankfully she didn’t have to walk far as she took her bike into the garage before walking into the house.

Once inside, and after treating her injury, Lilian sat in the living room with her pet cat Eleanor as she opened the letter. The letter itself looked old, yet she opened it anyway and pulled out the letter inside. “ ‘Dear Mrs. Le’Reau, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’? <What is that>?” 

Lilian continued reading through the letter, not noticing until she was nearly tackled by her cousin that the front door had opened. “Whatcha got there, Lil? Some love letter o’ some blighter lookin ta court ye?” Abbigail Mckinley said, big grin on her freckled face. Lilian smiled, rolling her eyes as the back of her hand smacked Abby on the arm. “<Stop that>, Abby. It’s some letter for some place called-” “Hogwarts school o’ Witchcraft an Wizardry. Glad ta see you finally got the letter. Was startin ta wonder if they sent it through the Post.” 

Lilian looked up to see her uncle Rorick standing with his hat and coat alongside her father, Daniel Le’Reau. “Well, It would seem you were right, Rorick. Glad I didn’t bet anything on that.” 

“Bah, I won in spirit, Danny. Ye just don wanna admit it.” Rorick said with a nudge of his elbow. “Wait, what is Hogwarts? Why did I get this letter?” Lilian asked, perplexed by her father’s casual acceptance of this… Wizard letter? 

“Ah ye see love… This is a letter for you to learn how ta be a witch like Abby here. Learn how to use your magical talent. Like yer normal school now, but with all the fairytale happenin’s ye’re so fond of.” Rorick said as he took a seat. Lilian simply stared at the letter, dumbfounded by this revelation and everything else that Rorick had to explain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lilian walked through the sliding brick wall, mesmerized and afraid at the same time. It was only a month ago in July that she had learned about Magic from her uncle and cousin, let alone seeing it in action. How else was she supposed to be taking this kind of information? Just accept that her favorite childhood stories could be real? That Eragon could possibly have existed in some way shape or form? That Lord of the Rings could have actually been a real battle covered up? 

“Lil? Oi, cous, ye’er me?” 

Lilian snapped back to reality, hearing her cousin’s voice. “<Excuse me>, it’s just...So much to deal with, Abby…” Abbigail simply grinned, pulling Lilian along. “Come on now, we’ve only jus started!” 

The two went about, purchasing whatever they needed for school with Rorick nearby. The Auror simply smiled, following behind the two as he put all of their supplies in his bag. Thankfully, and mercifully, it was enchanted with an undetectable extension charm. He simply smiled as they went around with some money, buying what all they needed while he went to buy the rest of their school supplies that they would need. 

Abby and Lilian continued walking around for a while, Abby finally letting go of her arm, when she bumped into someone causing them both to spill. “<I am really sorry! I should have watched where I was going!>” Lilian started speaking as she quickly scrambled to pick up the books and other supplies before they were ruined by the streets. Lilian had nearly picked up all of the books when she noticed the other girl simply staring, wide eyed with wonder at her. Lilian suddenly wished she didn’t have her hair in a ponytail, feeling very self conscious of herself until she heard the girl speak. “That… That was French! Oh my goodness you’re so fluent! I wish I'd be able to learn french! Oh uh, Sorry if I didn’t understand it though. I’m good with books, but not people. Sorry for bumping into you!” The odd girl with round glasses smiled as she stood up with Lilian and took back her books. “I’m Rowan Hubei Khanna! Pleasure to meet you…?”

“Aye, Tha’s me cousin Lilian, an I’m Abby McKinley!” Abby said with a big grin as Lilian stood by her side and nodded, smiling slightly to be polite. “<H-hello>…” Abby turned to Lilian confused and then realized. “Oh right, ya switch ta French when yer nervous. Sorry fer that, Rowan. Ya shoppin for Hogwarts too?” As if to answer Abby’s question, the three see a young man, his complexion and demeanor almost the same as Rowan’s. “Hubei, little help! I’m tipping I’m tipping!” He cried as he tripped on a loose stone, toppling his books and a couple of other boxes over the trio. The boy sat up and rubbed his head before readjusting his glasses. “Oh, are we making introductions? I’m Rowan Harrow Khanna! Just call me Harrow!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So ya two grew up on a tree farm? Seems a tad of a bore.” Abby said as the four children sat down at a nearby bench as they talked together.

“It’s really not that bad. Lots of reading and interesting stories!” Harrow said, followed by Hubei nodding enthusiastically. “It’s true! We get quite a lot of various people at the farm. Mom and Dad always say that we’re getting the entire world coming to buy their wand and broom wood.” 

Lilian smiled. “That seems interesting. I’ve never heard of a tree farm for brooms and wands specifically. It must be exciting.” 

The twins looked at each other and frowned. “Not really. More often than not, it’s kind of boring. Trees aren’t the fastest growing things.” “Yeah, for the most part we stayed inside to read and play wizard chess against each other. Harrow tried climbing a tree once. He was stung by so many Bowtruckles.” 

Harrow’s face turned bright red as he turned to Hubei. “Did not! That was just the branches not being trimmed in a while…” 

“Right, that’s why you screamed like a little girl. Haha dad had to levitate Harrow out of the tree!”

Lilian smiled at the two’s bickering when she noticed Abby looking down. She had forgotten how her cousin had lost her brother a while ago. She didn’t know how, but all she knew was that Abby’s big brother, Jacob McKinley, had run away and was never seen again. 

Lilian put a hand on Abby’s shoulder, silently nodded and smiled. “You’ll find him, Abby. I know it.” 

The two Khanna’s stopped their bickering and fell silent. Harrow was the first to speak “I’m sorry, we forgot about you being a McKinley…”

Abby shook her head. “Nah, ‘S fine. Jus comes with the territory. Come on, Lil. We should probably find Da an head home. Who knows what Hunin an Munin are doin right now.” Lilian nodded, bidding farewell to the Khanna siblings. As the two found Rorick, Lilian couldn’t help but hug them both. “<Thank you>, for everything you two are doing.” 

Rorick chuckled. “Lass, we’re a family. We stick together, through the thick of it. Now then, how about we spoil yer appetite a bit a’fore we head on home, Eh?” Lilian and Abby grinned to each other, following Rorick’s lead to a nearby candy shop.

[grownups-are-the-real-monsters]

Heartache Tonight - The Kids Are Alright

Summary: “Somebody's gonna hurt someone before the night is through...”

Another one shot in the ‘Kids Are Alright’ Series

Words: 2,144

{Derry, Maine. June 28th, 1976. 12:47 P.M. Beverly’s room}

“Just squint your eyes and focus between your fingers…”

Beverly did as she was instructed, she focused on the white wall of space between her fingers on her outstretched hand. The world became fuzzy and blurred but outlining her hand was a thin line of color. She blinked, eyes back to normal as she hunched her shoulders to laugh. Her red ponytail falling loosely onto her shoulder. “Purple. My aura is purple.” She grinned.

Stan grinned at her from his seat on her bean bag chair. Richie held out his own hand and shrugged. “Mine’s still red.” He frowned with a look of suspicion. However Beverly grinned, reaching out to shake his thigh.

“What does purple mean?” She asked, eager to hear the answer. Richie shrugged, pushing up his glasses.

“Dunno.” He smiled and Beverly scoffed. 

“You mean to tell me that I did that for nothing?” She rolled her eyes and Stan crossed his legs to bring them up on the bean bag chair. The blob of green melded to his body shape and allowed perfect comfort. He wiggled a little in the new spot and tilted his head. 

There was an unspoken sort of tension in the room they were all separately aware of. Beverly frowned deeply and played with a loose thread on her jeans. “You wanna know about the date I had the other day, huh?” her voice, accusatory, carried loudly throughout the room. “I assume Richie blabbed to you, Stan?” 

The man in question shrunk back and picked at the rubber of his shoes. “Oh I dunno. I knew something was up without him having to tell me, I’m intuitive like that, y’know? I like to think I’m psychic too-” 

“Shut-up, Stanley.” Beverly laughed lightly to let him know not to take offense. But she had to stop his rambling before it went on forever like they all knew it would. “I wanna let you know right off the bat that it sucked. I sucked. And I would not like to discuss it further, ok? I’m gonna go make some popcorn and we’re gonna move on from there.” 

Beverly, uncharacteristically, shut them down completely and rushed out of her own room. When the door lightly tapped the doorway behind her, Richie and Stan shared the same guilty look. They let themselves sit in silence until they could her the girl moving around downstairs. Instead of breaking it with words, Richie came over and sat near Stan’s feet and tapped lightly on his leg like a child. 

“Hmm?” Stan raised his brow though he knew this little routine. He gave the guy a kind smile and shrugged. “I’m sure she isn’t all that mad about you telling me, Rich. Don’t let that bother you.” 

He advised his friend knowing full well Richie could not handle his friends being mad at him very well. Terribly, actually. He sure did hope this wouldn’t be one of the worst. He scooted off the bean bag and sat in front of his best friend with a smile. “Want me to read your palm?” 

“Yes please!” Richie happily held out his hand with a giddy look on his face. 

                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Is everyone having s-s-sex but me?” Bill asked abruptly, cutting the silence that had been going on for the past twenty minutes. He laid in the back of the Vista Cruiser that was parked in front of his house while Eddie shuffled through the radio for a good station. 

The question sent Eddie into fits of laughter for what seemed like five whole minutes. Bill rolled his eyes and sat up to face the back of his head. “Why are you laughing?” 

Eddie wiped at his eyes and turned back to face him, elbow resting on the next seat. “Partly because of how dumb that question is and partly because it’s funnier when you stutter it.” 

Bill lightly chuckled and punched the kid in the arm, who recoiled and rubbed the hurt area. “I’m serious, Eddie.” 

The other boy sighed and decided to take his best friend seriously. “First of all, really think about that question, huh?” 

Bill looked at him blankly in thought before shrugging, deciding it to be a valid question for some reason. 

“Sure, Stan’s got a girlfriend but there’s no way that’s happened for them yet.” Eddie began his long answer that he hadn’t been prepared to have to explain. “Mike and Beverly barely talk to anyone besides us and last I checked neither of them have had sex with any of us.” He paused at his own little joke and chuckled. Bill did not seem even lightly amused with that comment.

 "And do you remember who Ben and I are? We haven’t gotten anywhere with anyone which sucks but we’re pretty awkward Bill.” He laughed. 

“What about Richie?” Bill asked. Eddie frowned. 

“What about him?” He sneered and Bill put a pin in that to make sure to bring it up the attitude he’d answered with again. “He’s not had sex yet or he’d be bragging up and down the street. Don’t you know him?” 

Bill realized how silly he’d been to ask but he was still annoyed. 

“S’not that big of a deal anyway.” Eddie spoke as he turned back and pulled his aspirator from the glove-box for safe keeping. “Sex is just sex. It’ll happen when it happens.” He put the car in drive and moved to pull out of the driveway. 

“Spoken like a true v-v-virgin, Eddie.” Bill joked and Eddie even had to laugh at that. Truthfully, none of them cared all that much about ‘doing it’ except maybe Richie. But even that was just some jokes here and there. But insecurity had risen in Bill ever since Disco night when Beverly rejected him. He had briefly wondered if he’d ruined their friendship. He’d also wondered if he just...’didn’t have any game’ in him. 

                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

{Mike, Bill, Stan, Eddie & Richie sat in Stan’s basement. The room is lacking smoke.}

“I hate to be a party pooper, though it is what I’m best at, but the smoke really is bad for my asthma.” Eddie paced behind the couch in Stan’s basement with a slight grin on his face. 

“Hey, I could fight you on that, I think I’m a champion at that too.” Stan cocked his head, resting it on the back of his couch as Eddie stood above him. He wagged his finger like a much older gentleman and Eddie giggled. 

“I’d be careful if I were you. Eddie’s real scrappy. Once, we were play f-f-f-fighting over the remote and he nearly kicked me in the eye.” Bill laughed and Eddie rolled his eyes. 

“Please. Don’t exaggerate.” 

Richie perked up and smirked. “Eddie, one time you punched me so hard I fell on the floor and had a bruise for like....ever.” Richie did not look too mad about it. He actually found it rather funny and possibly adorable. 

“It’s not like it came from nowhere. You were sitting on me.” 

Richie blushed slightly at the memory. Boy, had he regretted that move many times when they play-fought. But he always went for it without even thinking about it. He was actually glad Eddie had knocked him off that day. 

Mike hummed and looked through Stan’s record collection for some background tunes. “Violence does seem to be the way with you guys.” He pretended to scold them, although he truly didn’t quite enjoy violence himself. 

Stan allowed Eddie to playfully flick at his forehead and grinned. They were all silent for a few minutes before Mike finally decided on a record. More specifically, ‘Led Zeppelin IV’.

Everyone rolled their shoulders back with the same pleasure as the first song kicked in. A natural reaction, of course. 

They were quiet again, absorbing that special sound. 

“You know what would make this better?” Richie asked. 

“Hmmm?” Mike replied. 

“Weed.” 

Mike slapped his shoulder while Eddie playfully gave him the finger. Richie smirked at him. Things had been awkward for them ever since Disco night. Neither of them willing to bring up what happened ever since. Suddenly Richie found himself wishing Ben were there because at least he’d understand his sudden mood drop. 

                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

{Derry, Maine. 4:50 P.M.}

Beverly sat on the curb in front of the local pharmacy, smoking a cigarette and hoping her dull headache would not get any worse. The day was dragging on and she felt a little guilty for blowing Stan and Richie off earlier but she also wished she’d done it sooner. 

“Loitering is a crime, young lady.” A distant voice made her jump but as she turned her head, it was just Ben putting on her on as he nervously approached. 

“Sorry I thought that’d be funny but ummm- I don’t know why I did that, sorry.” Ben tried to mumble through an apology and she had to reluctantly smile at that. 

“It was funny, Ben.” She rolled her lips together and gestured for him to sit next to her. “Listen, I’m glad you’re here actually.” 

The comment itself made Ben want to smile but her tone and expression made him want to crumble right there in front of the store. She bent one of her knees and sat in a way to face him entirely. The golden sun dusted upon her freckled shoulders and warmed her hair. He could tell she was about to speak but he beat her to it. 

“You know about my feelings, huh?” He guessed because he was just too curious and worried to wait. The girl blinked, lashes kissing her face, and licked her lips in thought. 

“I know.” She nodded and Ben felt like he could throw-up in the sewer grate just to their side. They looked at each other for a few painful seconds. 

“So if I was to ask you-...” Ben couldn’t even finish. I’d be pitiful if he even tried so he let it hang in the air. By the way Beverly put her hand to her lips and turned to look away, he knew it was bad. “Yeah...that’s-that’s fine.” Ben scratched the back of his head and tried to shrug it off. 

“Look Ben, I’m not saying no forever.” She turned back with renewed energy that he wondered how she’d managed to pull. “But for now...” 

“It’d be a no?” Ben asked. She nodded and he found himself wondering if it had anything to do with Bill. He would have asked but he was not that insensitive. It wasn’t any of his business. 

“Please... don’t hate me.” Beverly reached out to pat his knee with genuine fear before pulling away like she was burned.

“Hate you?” Ben found the room to laugh. Beverly raised a frightened brow. “Never, Bev. Never in my life could I hate you. You’re one of my best friends.” He nodded and she felt fine again. Happy, even. 

They surrendered the conversation and picked up a new one. Though, both felt a little restrained. How long would that last...?

                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

{Stan’s Basement. 5:00 P.M.}

Mike, Bill, Richie, Eddie and Stan had gotten side-tracked by a Gilligan’s Island marathon on TV like almost every-time they hung out. As another plan to get off the island failed, Richie took a small chance and put his arm around Eddie but rested it on the back of the couch casually. 

Mike and Bill didn’t notice but Stan put all his attention on the two of them as if they were just as entertaining. He could tell Eddie had obviously noticed by the way he blinked and swallowed. He seemed to allow it before abruptly announcing he wanted a pop and stood to leave. 

Poor Richie looked as if he was punched in the gut as he lowered his hand back into his lap. Stan bit into his cheek and made to follow his short friend. 

He met him at the shockingly white fridge with a look of sympathy. He leaned his chin on the open fridge door and sighed. “Judging by the way you sprang out of there, you two haven’t talked about anything, huh?” 

Eddie jumped. Stan always loved his habit of entering a room mysteriously. It was truly a gift....a really fun gift too. Eddie slammed the fridge and shrugged. 

“We have not said a word about anything.” He paused and leaned back on the kitchen counter. “I just...I don’t want things to be weird.” 

Stan thought about the way Richie had looked like a kicked puppy earlier and shuddered. “I don’t know if you can avoid that, Eddie.” 

“I can try.” Eddie gave him a sarcastic and upset grin before completely brushing him off to head back for the basement. 

Stan shook his head. Life was going to get real complicated real fast. 

[numberonehalfdadinthegalaxy]

We arrived at the party about when that the police ships were pulling away, followed by a generous range of nuclear missiles. My heart sank. I suppose Gamora was lying to me about the fireworks.

Perhaps it was a realization that was a long time coming to me, but there was little time to reflect on this. Ronan was already gliding the Sanctuary II over to the right side of the Milano.

As the intern slowed my flagship to an even stop, I took a deep breath and gazed upon the many broken-down speedsters littering the spacescape below.

Though I had fought many things bigger and grander than a horde of Ravager-hovels, something about the sheer number of ships seemed to produce unexpected intimidation in my heart.

I suppose I had never really been what they would call a “party animal.” Even in my childhood upon Titan’s gardens of bliss, it was always my brother, not I, who had the lion’s share of mirth, celebration always his “thing.” But that fact was acceptable for I always had much to do and little time to waste on frivolity.

It was an irony he’d enjoy that my task now took me into the midst of what looked to be, as he would put it, a “banging” party.

Nebula squeezed my hand almost tight enough to cut off any semblance of pulse still pumping through it. Clearly a gesture of comfort that I well appreciated. “So,” she muttered to me, metallic voice echoing in the interior of the spaceship like the ring of a bullet, “Are we going or what?”

I straightened myself up, smoothing over any wrinkles in the suit Ronan had so careful picked out. Not the kind of person that I would have expected to be a fashionista, that Ronan. But all the same.

“I’m ready, my daughter.”

“Good.” With the confidence expected of the daughter of a Titan Eternal, Nebula strode out of the cockpit and down the tentacling tube that hung strung from Sanctuary to Milano like a parasite. I followed her, head somewhat bent-- not out of any sort of anxiety of course, but simply because the ceiling was too low.

And together, we entered the chaos and cacophony of the party.

***

I suppose it was a bit optimistic on my part, even in a room full of drunken pirates, to expect that it would be over five minutes until the two of us were recognized.

Dodging between scuffles, spooning and all the other sort of tomfoolery one would expect at a party thrown by wanted criminals, I was seeking to find, someone, anyone who looked mildly similar to the descriptions the media had given of the Guardians.

Best as I could remember there were five of them.

A genetically modified rodent, schooled in the intricacies of explosive weaponry and sharpshooting.

A botanical being, strong as a galactic toothhare and indestructible save by fire and ash.

A warrior brazen enough to call himself “the Destroyer.” As though he too was tasked with a quest to save the galaxy from ignorance and greed.

A paradoxical pirate captain, half Earthian and half something wilder, more ancient than that.

And finally a huntress. Unshakable warrior. My daughter Gamora.

I had to find her, had to understand the width of the gap that so suddenly had grown between us.

But alas Fortune was not of the same mindset. It was barely a few minutes before the (admittedly strange) sight of a Titan Eternal and galaxy-class assassin weaving through the crowds drew attention-- and with that came recognition.

“Eyyy,” a voice slurred from behind me. I whirled around, unsure if it was I who was being addressed. But the sight unfortunately only offered confirmation. A man dressed in the rags of a Ravager, eyes clouded by spirits stumbled toward me. “Ain’t you Thanos? The Mad Titan?”

I would not flinch. After all, he was drunk. The situation could still be...salvaged. I took a breath and tried to act as disgusted as the rest of the world felt when it saw me. “Your accusations offend me grossly. Systems forbid I should ever be ever be mistaken for that purple error of nature.”

For a moment I thought I had done it. The man’s eyes drooped back into his sockets and he let out a short moan-- something about me “talking funny.”

Then he screamed.

Though I like to think of myself as a being of great restraint, I will admit that I punctuated the ear-curdling shrieks with a few cuss words of my own.

Thankfully, Nebula by now could not hear them, already having disappeared into the throngs of partygoers-- all shape, size and species-- that swarmed to me en masse. From prior experience, I knew that their purpose was to hunt me, tear my flesh to pieces for destroying exactly one half of their civilizations as to to save the rest of them.

And I understood their actions. How, after all, could I fault any single one of my foes when I had taken away so much from them-- family, friends, normalcy? Fear and hatred came far more easily than rationality to the grieving mind. Indeed, as long as this fact held true,  I would be mad to expect any of the survivors to understand the importance of my solution.

All the same... I could not allow this mismatched group of pirates to strike me down.

So with a heavy sigh, I reached for my Infinity Stones, hidden away in a breast pocket because Ronan had thought they would clash with the outfit. The jewels warmed to my touch and responded to my call, enveloping the room in an uneasy scarlet haze. With a snap of my fingers, there now were dozens of Thanoses, each like an image reflected in an infinite mirror.

The pirates halted in confusion and I allowed myself a brief smile. I had learned the trick from my first intern, and though he had been less than helpful, I still used the tactic-- convenient and remarkably nonviolent-- to this day.

Now the problem was reduced a simple matter of sneaking away undetected in the midst of this chaos.

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done when you’re an eight foot tall Titan Eternal.

“Excuse me,” I muttered slipping between two Skrulls hurling shot glasses at one of my doubles.

“Pardon,” I called to a what looked like a genetically modified labrador in a spacesuit as I almost stepped on his tail.

Neither of the groups responded and I knew that the Reality Stone was shielding me somewhat, hiding me away from any set of prying eyes.

I crept closer and closer to the door, careful not to let impatience or anxiety get the best of me. But they would not. I could not have made it this far to my goal without learning to quiet the din of emotions in my head.

At last I was only a few feet from the door, the air alight with shouts and saturated with the smell of alcohol. I drummed my fingers against my side, a nervous habit I had never quite been able to shake, as I lay in wait for an opening. Patience, I thought, Patience yields perfection, Thanos.

The crowd cleared a path almost as though it heard my silent demands.

I took a step.

And then came the explosion.

It was a Type-Y bomb, I could tell that by the size of the blast. Technically illegal in more than 97% of the galaxy and most certainly not approved as a party favor. For a few moments I was knocked to my knees but I rose quickly. Ronan would be furious if I managed to ruin the suit on the Milano’s dirty floors.

“Everybody put your hands up above your heads where I ken see’em.” A sandpaper voice cut through the cloud of haze. Around me, most of the pirates raised their hands, with what appeared to be fearful recognition of the noise’s source.

I, however, did not join them.

This was a game I had played before and one I had known for decades how to win.

I would keep to the shadows where the smoky air and Reality Stone could do their best work; I would find out who I was dealing with, and then I would strike. Patience. That’s the way the great thinkers of Titan had done their work and that’s how I would do mine.

Finally as the dust settled and even my own illusions faded, I finally began to get a glimpse of the man who set the bomb. Except it wasn’t a man.

The creature appeared to be dressed in what was a child’s sports jacket and shorts and was toting a gun nearly as large as its own body. Something clicked within my synapses: I had found my first Guardian.

“A’right. A’right, what’s the big idea here, ya scum?” The rodent took a step forward with enough swagger to fit the dictator of a small planet. The same pirate who I believed had screamed at me earlier in horror stared down the barrel of the Guardian’s gun.

“I, uh…”

But before the man finished, he was cut off by a reedy voice emanating from behind the trigger-happy raccoon. “I am Groot.”

I sighed-- how long had it been since I had practiced any of my Groot-speak? Too long, apparently. But I could glean some clue of what the living tree was saying from his smaller friend’s response.

“Yes, Groot, I can call them scum. I mean, they ain’t my friends, they’re Quill’s.”

“I am Groot.” The tree’s tone was a specific shade of patronizing I remembered from my daughters’ teenage days.

The raccoon rolled his eyes. “I know we’re the ones hosting the party. But why would that made us have to treat ‘em special? They’re lucky to be here.”

“I am Groot.”

“You’re lucky to be here too, and not grounded.”

“I am Groot.”

“Why? Don’t be askin’ me why! Because you haven’t done anything but play that stupid game in weeks!” The first Guardian shifted his gun as to put his hands on his hips. If he were actually on the same scale as the tree, I suppose this might have been found intimidating. But as it was, the companion- Groot- just gave the most indignant of sighs and returned to the glowing screen at his fingertips.

The pirate at the two’s feet raised his hand and gently tried to push the gun so that it was pointed anywhere else but his face. “Hey, uh, man. I was kind of hoping to tell you that--”

The raccoon whirled around baring his teeth. “Hey buddy, can’t you see that I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”

“I mean yes but--” The Ravager shifted his gaze around the room uneasily as though he could sense that I was still here watching.

“Then why don’t you just shut up, huh?” The raccoon jiggled the gun around a bit for effect. “Don’t make Quill have to wipe your brain guts off the floor.”

“No, it’s just--”

“Brain. Guts.”

At last the pirate rose his voice in a understandable desperation. “The Mad Titan is on the Milano!”

It was dead silence after that. The two Guardians stared at the mercenary, jaws hung open in shock as he dove under one of the tables. His body shook as though I was, for some absurd reason, about to strike him with the very rage of the universe itself.

Hmm. The Mad Titan.

I never did like that title.

With a sigh, I stepped out from my place in the shadows and turned to face the two Guardians. All around us, the room reeked of whispers, no one quite able to raise their courage enough to speak aloud.

So I did.

“Greetings Guardians. My apologies for dropping in on you with such little warning. I fear, however, it is a necessary evil. You see I’m looking for one of your comrades, Gamora, and would be greatly indebted to anyone who would help me find her.”

The murmuring among the pirates grew louder and I began to hope that this encounter could reach a peaceful end. But all the while the Guardians’ gazes remained inscrutable. Finally, the raccoon opened his mouth--

“Bitch please.”--

leveled the gun at my chest and fired.

As the bullet hit my rib cage, I realized again to bitter disappointment I had been too optimistic.

“You know,” The words came out as a cough as the stones did their work to knit my tattered flesh together, “I really had high hopes for the two of you. After all, if Gamora had deemed to extend the hand of friendship to you both, then I assumed you to be more than a trigger-happy genetics experiment and a gaming-obsessed tree.”

“You take that back!” The rodent cried and attempted, again, to express his rage through violence.

Unfortunately I was done with the formalities. The Space Stone stopped the detonation before it could get within a few meters of me. Along with the following spray of bullets, river of flames and somehow, another Y-Class Grenade.

As a former tax-paying citizen of the galaxy, I was truly disturbed by the amount of illegal weaponry that was available to this raccoon. As the father of a woman who had spent the last several months with this creature, I was terrified.

“Please. I meant no offense,” I said, taking great measures to keep my voice as calm as possible. “Just show me where Gamora is. I must speak to her--”

The raccoon let out a low growl “Over my dead body--”

“I am Groot.”

“--and Groot’s dead body too.”

I shook my head, confused. It was not like living beings to demand their own death, particularly over something as menial as preventing a conversation. “Are you certain that’s your request?”

“It’s not a request, grapenuts,” The raccoon managed to load yet another bomb into the front of his gun, then caressing its trigger in what I supposed was one final attempt to look “badass”:“It’s a promise.”

“Very well then,” I shrugged. The minds of these creatures were not mine to fathom. “If you insist--”

“Wait.”

My words were interrupted by what appeared to be another Ravager. Ragged leather, cybernetic accessories, scruffy face marked with poorly hidden panic and yet-- his voice sounded somewhat familiar. “No dead bodies. Not today. Not on Christmas.”

At last I placed it.

“Quill! I don’t suppose you could help me locate Gamora? Your two friends over here have been inexplicably uncooperative and--”

“Hold on a moment,” The human’s face pinched in confusion, “First thing-- how in the Seven Systems do you know my name? And second thing, what the hell do you want Gamora for?”

The raccoon cut in, jabbing the star captain in the only place he was able to reach-- which was, unfortunately, the groin. “It’s Thanos, ya bastard. What do you think that he wants with Gamora?”

“I am Groot.”

“That’s right, Groot-- bloody murder!”

Slaughter-- is that all they expected of me? Even with my own daughter?

I believe I was, as Star-lord’s species would say, beginning to reach the end of my rope. “I do not desire to kill Gamora, nor do I understand the path you have taken to reach that conclusion. I merely wish to speak with her-- which is actually the same method by which I learned your name, Peter Quill.”

The human looked bemused for some reason.“You and Gamora… have met?”

“Yes-- the two of us have known each other for years.” I replied with a hint of frustration. What did Quill think-- that I was just another absentee father?

The Guardian’s face was punctuated with confusion, even more confusion-- and then at last resolve. “Well you still can’t see her. And if you don’t get out of here in the next five minutes then I’m… I’m calling Nova Corps.”

“Even though they hate us?” The raccoon muttered. “Dude.”

“Yes, even though they hate us.” Peter Quill declared, glaring at me with an insane courage that I actually found impressive. “Because, you know what? They hate Thanos more.”

Unfortunately, I could not deny this.

Nor was I in any mood to deal with the Nova Corps tonight.

So perhaps in a last ditch effort to make Gamora’s friends see reason, I threw my hands up in exasperation. My voice, almost of its own accord, called out as though directing a question to the universe itself: “What must a man do to see his daughter in this galaxy?!”

The reactions I was expecting:

Anger.

Empathy.

Or even pity perhaps.

The reactions I was not expecting:

Utter shock and--

One face, the most important face of them all, turning away as though I had taken her wildest dream and turned it to ash.

[okimargarvez]

I HAVE TO GO

Original title: Ora devo andare.

Prompt: go away.

Warning: sequel of Imperfect .

Genre: romantic, drama, angst, friendship.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez, JJ, Emily, BAU team.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot 26 in Garvez collection.

Legend: 🔦.

Song mentioned: Per un po’ sparirò, Tiziano Ferro.

MY OTHER GARVEZ STORIES

This story is dedicated to my Peruvian friend and fellow in night chatter @thinitta

I HAVE TO GO

For those who believed that love was take and run away, for those who will still believe in it from now on...

Obviously is raining. And she can't say that this displeased to her, the time is perfectly matched with her internal mood. She could even almost manage to convince herself that she was the actress of some film noir.

Penelope hugs her suitcase, sheltered under a colorful umbrella. Or in Singing in the rain. She begins to hum the melody in a low voice. Headlights illuminate the street strangely little traffic. She looks her reflected in a puddle. She sighs and moves forward, without looking over her shoulder, towards her apartment.

The taxi stops in front of her gate. A 60 ages old man comes down and, after kindly greeting her, loads the only baggage behind it, then opens the door for her. She closes the umbrella and shakes off a few drops of rain. Inside there is a nice warmth, but it’s not powerful enough. It can’t contrast with the frost that pervades her.

The driver was tired to hear the complaints of people on who knows what various topics (Reid had mentioned a study about it, which showed that people open up mostly with hairdressers, taxi drivers and some other category that he couldn’t remember) he became a bit of a psychologist: he realized that the blonde woman didn’t want to talk and left her lost in her own thoughts. Probably he also notices that in the middle she begins a silent cry, but something in her bearing, in her look, in her eyes, suggests him that it’s a serious matter, yes, there is something extremely proud in her tears.

I don’t have to think about it, but now what is the use of censoring me, forcing me not to do it? He'll never know it. So, I ask myself: what is Luke doing right now? He will be with her, probably. They'll be... She bites her lips, closes her eyes and forces herself to say it. They'll making love, surely. After spending a quiet evening watching some stupid TV program. His arm around Lisa's shoulders, she with her head resting on his chest, every now and then she’ll have raised her chin to look for his lips ... and then they will have laughed, he’ll have bent his mouth in that strange way, so sexy and mischievous and he’ll have proposed turning off the TV to move on to something more interesting. And then they may fall asleep together, legs intertwined, his arm on her stomach and this morning he’ll bring her the breakfast to bed and...

She believed she was strong, that she would be able to pretend that everything was going well, that nothing had changed. This was until Lisa had appeared from O'Keef, shattering the barrier between work and private life. She couldn’t hide what she felt, could no longer joke with herself and settle for that little, now that Luke had a girlfriend, especially if she was there, present.

And realizing how much their behavior together was natural, this had finally killed her. It wasn’t the adventure of a night, or a "phase". Surely Luke would have married Lisa, just as Derek had ended up doing the same with Savannah. It wasn’t about seeing the overlaps where there weren't: they were both female doctors, beautiful women and good people.

May you be happy, Luke. I wish you only this.

But she wouldn’t stay there to see it.

 For those who believed that giving oneself means being strong, I say no, nothing at all ...

He awakens hearing a sound that he is get attached now, but when he opens his eyes to read the content of the message, he is surprised to see who the sender is. It's Prentiss, a new case has arrived. He rubs his eyes and yawns. Needless to lie to himself, he is sad that it’s not Garcia, it was usually she to throw him out of bed with that sentence, combined with a joke every time different. In fact, Lisa had never appreciated this either (that another woman snatched him from her arms), but before tonight (last night, now) he hadn’t noticed.

He dresses without turning on the light, he doesn’t need it, because enough of it enters from the window. It is six o'clock in the morning. He can’t wait to get there, to see her. Of course, he can‘t speak already now, because they have to concentrate on the case, but later, in short, when this case too will be archived, perhaps...

Roxy barks, distracting him from his ruminations. -I'm sorry, girl, no walk today.- he gives her a caress. -Jenny will arrive soon.- without Lisa’ stuff his house doesn’t seem so different. He can’t help but imagine unicorns, octopus-shaped cups, strange-colored curtains. If there was Penelope in her place, yes, he would feel the difference.

He shakes his head and climbs into the van.

Because those who flee will not be a real winner at all, only those who don’t hide will win...

Finally, he sees the outline of the very high building, he parks and rushes to the elevator. In that narrow space he fries with anxiety. He just needs to see her, just a second... the doors open, and he go down. He heads to his desk. -Hey, good morning!- he is excited, anyone could understand it. He greets Spencer and Matt, who reciprocate him. He notices that Rossi is talking on the balcony with Emily. He turns to JJ, who is intent on working on some documents, very focused. -Hey!- he says, but the blonde doesn’t seem to have heard him, because she doesn’t answer anything. But she seems to notice that he is staring at her, because she slams the papers on her desk and sighs, as if she were trying to control her anger. Maybe she fights with Will? He sees no other solution to her behavior. -JJ?- he asks, uncertain. She turns to him and glares at him, one of those looks that are very close to those that usually gave him Penelope. Luke stands up in front of the woman. -Hey, are you okay?- JJ also stands up, pushing the chair badly, but instead of answering, she heads towards the round table room. -What's wrong with her?- he asks the other two men. Simmons shrugs, dr. Reid seems to know more, but also, it's not willing to telling him anything. After not even a second the chief appears on the balcony. -Guys…- 

Camouflaging your love can only hurt you, so it should never be done...

As soon as he comes in, Luke notices that someone is missing. There is an empty chair and the remote-control rests abandoned on the table. However, he doesn’t have time to ask for anything (because in the euphoric state he is in, he probably would have been able to do it), since a man who he has never seen, makes his entrance.

-Good morning, sorry for the delay.- and the man grabs that remote control. Luke must refrain from taking it before him, as if he wanted to protect an object he deems worthy only of the undisputed goddess of the BAU, one of the many nicknames he had discovered had been created by Morgan specifically for her.

He immediately starts talking about the case, but Luke can’t concentrate. He stares at him as if he were a usurper. He has gray hair, wears a pair of glasses with banal frames and has a voice that he finds annoying immediately. And he is clearly an IT. Kevin Lynch, is written on the name tag hangs on a shirt in bad taste.

Who is this man and where is Penelope?

Luke doesn’t participate in the debate, he doesn’t give any contribution. He wakes up only when Emily utters the mantra. -Wheels up in 20.- then he watches JJ approach the man and whisper quietly. She definitely knows him, and Prentiss too, it's obvious from their attitude. Then the blonde goes out and her place is taken by the last woman left in the room.

-I'm Dr. Tara Lewis, nice to meet you.- Lynch smiles, but this doesn’t make him more nice. Matt also shows up and so he realizes that he is forced to do the same, or he’ll seem to have something against this stranger. And even if it's really like that, it's not good for others to know it. Not immediately, at least.

-Luke Alvez.- no kind formula, it would feel hypocritical. The IT has a firmer hold than he would have imagined. In hearing his name seems to light up.

-Alvez, of course! Plum juice told me about you. Don’t worry, I’ll not call you newbie.- he doesn’t know which of the thousand things implied by this sentence should upset him more. Plum juice . It is clearly a nickname related to Garcia and is almost as odious as Derek Morgan's baby girl. Plum j... Penelope, in short, told Lynch about him. And finally... this guy thinks he can make fun of him. No one else in the world can call him that way, except JJ, every now and then...

JJ. He has to talk to her, she surely know something more about him.

-Okay... now, I’m sorry, the jet is about to leave and I wouldn’t want to stay here...- he takes leave with one of the worst excuses that have ever occurred to him. He basically runs to get on board as soon as possible. Just outside he almost crashes against JJ. -Hey, I was looking for you...- but the blonde doesn’t seem to have changed mood.

-Alvez, be more careful. Try to focus on the case, rather than on your girlfriend.- a cold, pungent tone that makes feel Penelope absence even more. JJ had never called him by surname, they were good friends, they often went out in pairs during the missions. -What do you want?- she stands in front of him with folded arms.

- I... nothing, do you know where Garcia is? Is she fine?- Finally, he is forced to ask directly what he really wants to know. The woman bursts into a sour laugh. But she decides to be generous and gives him at least one of the answers.

-She had to leave for personal reasons.- totally aseptic. -Why are you interested in knowing, Alvez?- she approaches him, this time smiling smugly. -Then? Did someone cut your tongue?- Luke shakes his head and almost manages to move her, but then she remembers that at that moment her best friend is about to take a plane and fly away, far away, all alone and the fault is of this wretch she has before her.

He sighs, closes his eyes and when he opens them he stares at her with such intensity that he upsets her. -Because I love her, JJ.- she sees a few tears in the corners of his eyes and realizes it must be something serious.

-Well, you don't show it very well.- she moves away a little. -Anyway, she told me to tell you to look in the first drawer of your desk. And move, Luke, the jet doesn’t wait for anyone.- some shade of sweetness more than the last time. The man opens it without knowing what to expect, but definitely not that.

A black and white puppet in the shape of a cat. And there's a note underneath, he recognizing the convoluted computer technician’ writing, in green. I'm sorry.

 What is fashionable, now, I don’t know, until yesterday the instinct was followed... what will remain of us, now I don’t know, I only know that for you, I will not be the same more...

Penelope opens the umbrella and pulls the suitcase up to the airport entrance. It is still raining. She can’t help wondering what is happening in Quantico in the meantime. Has a case arrived? How's Kevin doing? But she must not reflect on these things, otherwise it will change her mind.

She walks through the crowd, trying to go unnoticed. Her heels are not so tall, nor the colorful dress like so many others she had wear previously. But the suitcase is bright pink and the raincoat far too dated. In no way she couldn’t be noticed. Too bad the right person hadn't notice her, not in the way she wanted, at least.

Of course, she made him laugh with her jokes and keeping him at a distance, but... nothing more.

She lines up behind a couple of elderly gentlemen. She observes the way in which both try not to weigh on each other, but at the same time they manage to support each other. The man gives a caress to his wife, who snorts, complaining that her legs hurt. Penelope sighs, takes another step and before she realizes it, she is a few steps from the ticket office. She turns to look back, almost hoping to see Luke appear, running towards her, begging her not to leave him.

Obviously, there is nobody.

-Miss, how can I help you? -

 Maybe yes, maybe not, very careful and distracted, you've ever wondered, why it happens that... getting hurt is easier than giving a kiss, for what reason I don’t know, and I... for a while I'll disappear... for a while I'll disappear...

The screen turns on and a man with glasses begins to speak, drawing up a list of the last places visited by the victim. But Luke can’t concentrate. For a moment he had hoped to see her, inside that little box, be able to hear her voice as she said it was all a joke, that she hadn’t left. He had deluded himself so much, how could he?

-Rossi, you and Reid will go to the coroner. Tara, JJ, you talk to Felicia Miller's parents. Simmons, Alvez, you with me from the Wikins.- not even the voice of Emily seems to be able to bring him back to reality. -Luke, are you there?- the man nods. He must strive to be professional, can’t allow other girls to be murdered just because he is stupidly in love and can’t manage his feelings. As soon this case will be solved, the sooner he’ll be able to think about his business. Penelope could never love such a selfish person. He must become the man she deserves to have close.

 The previous evening

For those who had fun in a group and shouted at me “you disgusted me” and now I think, that they no longer laughs... for those who believe to be strong because they can hurt, I say no, nothing at all...

-Penelope, are you absolutely sure that this is what you want? That there is no other solution?- she sees that her best friend is trying hard not to cry and not showing weakness, to not force her to stay if it’s not what she really wants.

-Yes, JJ. I'm sure. I'm sorry, I'd like to be strong enough, be able to pretend it's nothing, but I can’t do it, I'm sorry, really. I know it's selfish, leaving you this way, abandoning you with all the cases... but I've talked to Kevin, he is willing to take care of some cases and if...- JJ interrupts her.

-Don't say that, even in fun! You are the least selfish person in the world! It's just... I'll miss you.- now the eyes of both are limpid. -But we'll do it, you don’t have to worry, just think about recover. Ok?- Penelope doesn’t even try to show herself stronger than she is. She pulls her in a hug.

-I’ll miss you too, my friend. And the others too, to die for, you know. But I need some time to reflect, to understand how to overcome this situation... and I can’t do it here, seeing him every day. I can’t treat him like before, every time I see him I feel like crying and when he smiles I just think it's another, the one that makes him feel so good and... and I should be happy for him, but I can’t. I can’t, JJ, that's not me. I've even been able to forgive Battle and mourn Baylor's death, why it's so hard to accept that...- she swallows but forces herself to say that name. -...that Luke is busy with another woman?- she is crying openly, now, without breaking away from the other blonde.

-At seven o'clock.- Penelope wipes her face with a tissue. -Now it's better if... if I go home, I still have things to do... could you... could you put this in Luke's drawer?- JJ looks at the intrigued puppet. -It's... an antistress kitten that he gave me... after the case in Vermont, that of the boy who was also killing while he was sleepwalker... I know it's a stupid and theatrical thing, but...- the other blonde makes a sign that she understood.

-Ok I will. But you call me when you land, it doesn’t matter what time it is. Okay?- Penelope sighs.

-All right. Bye, JJ. Take care of yourself and... of Will, the guys...- it sounds awfully like a goodbye.

 For those who continue to hurt themselves, not loving enough, like you, but perhaps also like me... I look into the eyes of my worst enemy and I don’t let guide from my grudge...

They are walking along the road facing the house of the last victim. Luke seems to have returned to himself and his insights turned out to be correct: Patricia Wilkins had a lover, like the first murdered girl. This doesn’t mean, however, that he has stopped thinking of Penelope, at all. Only she has become a fairly small dot that steadily occupies a corner of his brain, instead of shining in the center and dazzling it.

There is an awkward silence. He decides that to ask a few questions will not be so terrible. He glances at Matt and then at his boss. -Prentiss?- the woman turns immediately to him. Of course, she spoke to JJ, both before and after this case arrived, both later, when they were about to land. But unlike the blonde she wasn’t surprised, the first time Luke introduced himself to O'Keef with another woman. That Lisa didn’t even look bad, her only real flaw was... not being Garcia. Not realizing that Alvez's heart (and mind) were already busy, but... at least someone else had to be notice of it during that evening. Penelope couldn’t take her eyes away from the couple and finally ran into the bathroom, to re-emerge only half an hour later and... without makeup. Definitely shocking.

The whole universe had realized that IT had a serious crush on the Newbie and that the latter was even worse... except those directly involved, of course. Yet, she couldn’t see only in negative the fact that Luke was going out with another. What really mattered here was that he had started going out again, that he was ready to get back on the market... to hang out with someone. Of course he couldn’t go directly to the subject of his desires, the "true goal", as they would say if it were an unsub, but he had to look around, start with something simpler, less intense and busy... and Emily had even hoped that this could help Garcia herself to unblock herself, to understand the depth of her feelings and take a minimum step, because she could also lose him...

This was until her doorbell rang at eleven o'clock in the evening and a Penelope with the smudged makeup had not put a ball of black fur in her arms. Only asking her excuse and giving her shortly after a letter, on rosy paper, but no less official.

A temporary leave? Yet, there was just written like that.

-Why you're interested, Luke?– she chooses to prolong the agony a little bit. She also wants to see how far he is willing to push himself for know. How far he is willing to expose himself, to make others understand what he feels, to feed his jealousy. He looks her in the eye and doesn’t look away. A lot, I'd say.

-Well, he called her...- she sees the man's Adam's apple going up and down as he strives to pronounce that nickname. -... plum juice and he told me that Garcia spoke to him about me. I just assumed that.- she can’t be so bad, he deserves to know the truth.

-Yes, Kevin and Garcia have been together almost for four years.- the eyes of the Latin agent are wide open beyond measure, eyebrows raised in the most sincere and surprise expression she has ever seen. A little like when he found out that a wretch had shot her, after a date. -They've been on-again, off-again for the past few years. And the last time... it happened because she didn’t agree to marry him.- well, this she shouldn’t have said it, but how could she resist to not have the satisfaction? Alvez must have known that there was a man out there who wished to make their computer' technician as his wife, who had loved her so much. Because yes, it's clear that Luke also loves Penelope, but... but he must never forget the luck he would get if she allowed him to love her. She is one of her best friends, a person too important, strong, but also terribly fragile and it’s her duty to protect her. Also, she is co-mom of her cat.

The man's legs refuse to move when he hears that word. Marry. The image of Penelope in a white dress flashes him. Her smooth, blond hair around her face, making her look even more like an angel. The frame of the clear, almost transparent glasses and the light makeup, because she doesn’t need it, to be beautiful. And shoes, shoes high, but not in an exaggerated way, on the other hand exalting terribly the neck of her foot. Nothing else, no other frills. The only accessory she would wear is her smile.

-Hey, Alvez, are you there, are you okay?- maybe she has a little exaggerated.

 One, I always look forward and I don’t give up; two, if I tell you you're the top, I'm lying...

She sits down at the spot marked on her note, next to a decidedly handsome man, with dark hair, slightly curls. If it were not for a pair of blue glasses, he could almost be mistaken for Luke. Damn it, why she can’t stop thinking about him? What's the point to fly miles away from him, if her heart has remained in Quantico?

He had find it, the kitten? If she closes her eyes, she can vividly relive the moment when he gave it to her... the way he had smiled at her, the nuances of his voice... what he had told her. Everything had led her to believe that... he was not just a slightly too careful colleague. And how had she reciprocated him? Reminding him that she wouldn’t stop tormenting him, even if he had shown careful about her, taking care of Reid.

How stupid!

-Attention, we are about to start the take-off phase. Please turn off your electronic devices and fasten your seat belts until the plane will reached a steady position.- Penelope hurries to execute and while she sends her cell phone to sleep, she is disappointed to see that there aren't messages from him. But why does she still hope to receive a signal?

-First time you flies?- she jumps, hearing her neighbor's voice. He is smiling at her and seems very kind.

-No, but I can’t get used to it.- she replies, trying to force the heart to regain a regular heartbeat. The stranger's eyes are brown, but slightly clearer than Luke's. Luke. All roads lead to him.

 Maybe yes, maybe not, very careful and distracted, you've ever wondered, why it happens that... getting hurt is easier than giving a kiss, for what reason I don’t know, and I... for a while I'll disappear... for a while I'll disappear...

Luke can’t conceive how much he misses her. It’s not just the need to hear some joke, stupid or joyful, but always apt, or about jealousy, challenge, sense of revenge. No, it’s only about love, the word that have always scared him. He had always tried to avoid it, but he wasn't able to stop himself from falling in love with her. She managed to penetrate his skin, to change everything, every attitude, every thought. If he hadn’t met her in that elevator, cold and willing to convince him of the talents of her Canadian boyfriend, would he accept Hotch's proposal to join the BAU? He doubts it, and so much. Surely when he met her he was already doing a little thought about it, even if to Rossi he had said the opposite. But she, Penelope, had been decisive.

They all get on the jet. They go back home. But it's not home, if she's not there to wait for them, with some drink or big proclamations, and O'Keef without her laughter... it's just another place to feel alone. That's why he makes the decision to talk to JJ and understand why she has problem with him. It’s certain that it concerns Garcia, so he has twice reasons for doing so.

-Hey, JJ, can we talk for a moment?- the blonde looks up at him and then moves to Prentiss. She nods and follows him in the drinks area. She puts her arms folded and stares at him, waiting. -Would you tell me what I did to you? You've been strange since before we left, and I have a theory. Do you want to hear it?- she doesn’t answer. -I think it's about Garcia and, also the reason she left the team overnight. And I think that Emily also knows it, but she has an opinion different from yours, because she didn’t treat me like you...- the blonde explodes.

-Ok, what the hell! You're right, it's Garcia!- she pushes him away. -It's your fault, Alvez and I'm not like her, I'm not understanding and sweet like Penelope, so I'll never stop hating you for having hurt her.- her eyes are bright, but out of anger, not for the pain.

-I... I would never have…- she doesn’t let him finish talking, of course. Their screams are heard in the armchairs, but Emily signals the others to take no notice.

-Maybe not consciously, but you did it anyway, the result doesn’t change.- he realizes that she is trying to calm down. -With all those looks, those smiles, those attentions that you have dedicated her... do you think I’m an idiot, Luke? Do you really think I didn’t notice anything? Why grab her remote-control and play with it before leaving it to her, why smiling sly when she called you newbie, why help her get off the sidewalk, console her for Reid, give her that damn kitten... take her to your friend with that pet...- while she talks, he blushes. But JJ doesn’t seem to be left in the slightest move. -I wonder, in fact, I ask you... why do all these things and then go out with another woman? Engage with another but don’t stop flirting with Garcia? And then, the worst crime: bringing her to O'Keef. Will never comes with us. That's our space, Luke, ours, only BAU, do you understand?- she runs a hand across her face.-Yes, I understand...- but the blonde shakes her head.

-No, you didn’t, otherwise you wouldn’t have brought Lisa. What did you think, Alvez, when you were with her? Why make fun of two women? I know you now, and you're not like that, you're not that kind of man... So? Why tease Garcia, deceive her that way and then find another one? Answer me, for the love of heaven!- Luke tries to stem her outburst by taking her by the shoulders.

-I don’t know, JJ, I swear. I didn’t even want to go out with Lisa, it was Phil who has organized everything and forced me. I... I didn’t do it on purpose, nothing. Until... until Lisa told me that Garcia had staring at me all the time and that it was perfectly clear that she was in love with me... I swear, I didn’t realize it, neither about what I felt, nor about that what she felt. I'm... I was so blind and stupid, but I never wanted to hurt her, never, never. She is a miracle on earth and I would be ecstatic if only I could hear her voice one more time, even if she told me I'm an asshole.- JJ yields and hugs him, but also gives him some pat on the back.

-I don’t know if I can forgive you anyway, for making her feel bad, whether you were conscious of it or not. You said it, she's a miracle and deserves someone who is aware of it and that treat her like a queen.- they break away and Luke looks down, obviously not feeling up to that task. -And you're, for the hell, that person. So, find her, please, and bring her back to us. It's an order.-

 And if the pain prevails, it will make more sense... this will disappear, it’s what I think, what it means, what it means, that I have suffocated... only the need of who, has not forgotten you, and I... for a while, I will disappear...

The heart is about to come out of her chest. She doesn’t care that others understand. She shows too much apprehension to be just a colleague, who for the most part has never given a single sign of having accepted him in the team. Nothing counts, at this moment, except know, checking with her own eyes that he is fine. She doesn’t greet them almost and rushes to the room where they told her she will find him. She opens the door with a click, because otherwise she would remain on the threshold indefinitely, without finding the courage to take that step.

He is covered up to his armpits by a white sheet and looks terribly thin, small and fragile, as she had ever seen him. And his skin is so strange. The arms abandoned along the body, motionless. And closed eyelids.

-Luke.- she moans, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers. It's cold, of course. The memory of that nickname snatches a smile from her. -I can’t leave you alone one day, see what you do without me.- with the other, she touches his hair. So many time she wanted to sink her fingers and now she can do it... -Please, Luke, lift those eyelids and show me your beautiful dark eyes...- no change. If there wasn’t that machine that continues to beep, she would doubt that she is still alive. The chest lifts so slowly... -It was my fault, I know, I should not have left, but I needed it, I don’t know if you'll be able ever to understand or forgive me, but I couldn’t stay and see you... happy with another woman. I love you too much, yes, exactly, too much. Not like I love others, not even Derek. I'm... I'm jealous of you, although... even if the most important thing is that you feel good, because you deserve it, you are such a good boy and I... I tried to deny it with all of myself, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you have taken the Morgan's place. It has to do with that I can’t afford to be in love with you, and I was right... you found a wonderful person, both outside and inside and...- now she is openly crying, tears running down, crossing her cheeks and a go directly on the inert hand of man. But without making any sound, only from time to time she is forced to stop because the lump in her throat becomes too tight. -But now if you open your eyes and... you insult me or give any sign of life, I promise I’ll return to work for the BAU and I’ll stay close to you, for what I can, even if I have to see you marry Lisa...- she lets go his hand and bends over to place a kiss on his forehead. Another tear falls from the female face on the male one and ends on his lips. She doesn’t even try to capture it, if anything like this would happens... she doesn’t want their first kiss will be like that.

Then she hears like a whisper. She notices that it comes from Luke. Both the lips and the eyelids are pulsing, then the eyes open wide, but he doesn’t seem to be able to focus on her. He coughes a little.

-Luke! You woke up, I knew you would not have left us.- she jumps and screams. She would like to throw her arms around his neck, but in his condition, she understands that this is not the case. She is forced to stop because he keeps trying to say something. She places her ear close to his mouth to hear better.

-Pe... Pen... Penelope...- she warns other tears ready to be poured. He is saying her name! She moves away and smiles at him. Even the man's lips bend in a slight smile.

-Yes, it's me, I'm here, everything's ok! Now I'm going to call a nurse, somebody, so everything will be all right, okay?- she turns and starts to move away, but a slight squeeze on her wrist forces her to turn back.

-No... please... don’t... go...- she turns to him and nods. She doesn’t have time to do anything else, because the door opens, and a brunette woman enters, who rushes towards Luke, almost crashing Penelope. Lisa.

-Oh, love, you woke up, I was so worried!- she throws herself on him and starts kissing him, but the man doesn’t seem particularly happy. He doesn’t close his eyes, on the contrary, he continues to look at his colleague. He almost seems to ask for help. Then, finally she separates and seems to realize that they aren’t alone. -Hey, Penelope, why don’t you go call someone? I stay with my boyfriend.- there is something bad, however, in the tone of the brunette. And as she continues to stare at her, her face is deformed, her mouth widening like that of Pennywise in IT. Sharp teeth and long fingernails like claws.

Penelope remains paralyzed and can’t even scream.

 But in the real world it succeeds. And so, doing wake up her travel companion and not just him. It takes some time to reassure everyone. She looks out the window, they are so high up that the cities below them look like a myriad of glowing dots. A perverse thought comes to her mind. Luke would never come back for me, to save me, he would never do miles and miles just to see me and make sure I'm fine. But she would do it. Love, sometimes, is just disgusting.

The anxiety is such that as soon as she lands she does exactly what JJ had asked her, calls her, to make sure everything is going well and that the dream was only that: a fantasy elaborated by her mind. After breathing a sigh of relief, she walks along the streets of the city where she grew up, before her parents died, that she was adopted. San Francisco.

Every street, every signboard brings back memories, even if many things have changed, so many shops have closed, and new ones have appeared. She doesn’t even know why she chose this place. There's nothing left and no one for her here.

She looks at the sign with a cross on it and sighs.

She comes in, her feet direct her to the right place, even though there has been so few times. Too few. She kneels, leaving herself almost to fall on the ground and caresses the headstone, the gold writing and the photographs. -Mom, dad, I'm home.-

 Maybe yes, maybe not, very careful and distracted, you've ever wondered, why it happens that... getting hurt is easier than giving a kiss, for what reason I don’t know, and I... for a while I'll disappear... for a while I'll disappear...

A race against time. His life after they land at Quantico becomes exactly this. Rushing at the airport, boarding the plane and counting the minutes that are missing at the landing. But San Francisco isn’t around the corner and therefore he is forced to yield. Falls asleep. And he has a strange dream, where he is in a coma-like state, even though he has never experienced such a sensation. He senses everything around him, he even sees it, but his eyes are tight. He notices when Penelope enters his room, when she takes his hand and starts to explain to him that he must wake up, because she loves him even if he is with Lisa, even if she is not the one he wants close to him. He tries with all his strength to open his eyes, but he can’t, some strange force prevents him. And then she starts crying and to be not able to console her is too much. A tear ends up on his eyelids and as if by magic he finally manages to raise them. And she smiles at him, she's so beautiful... he would like to tell her, along with many other things, but then enters Lisa, even if she looks more like a witch and she hugs him, hurting him and then kisses him and sends Penelope away and he doesn’t want to but can’t stop her and then...

Black. Someone shaking his shoulder. A hostess. They have landed. He has arrived.

And then the race begins again. Where will she be? The irony of the situation is that the data that are in his possession there were come out right from Kevin. By now the man has resigned himself to have losing Garcia (if he ever really had had her) and it seems that he is about to getting married to a certain Gina. However, this isn’t what interests him. No close relatives of Penelope reside in San Francisco. So, there is only one place where she may have felt the need to go.

He knew it well before he landed. Without knowing a rational reason. Instinct or maybe something else. He walks hurriedly, without running. He makes the sign of the cross, then wanders among the tombs for a while, before finding a custodian. Explain that he is looking for a friend's parents, who should be buried here. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know their real surname, because Kevin couldn’t find this information. Probably Penelope has found a way to censor and block some parts of her personal file. The same succeeds in obtaining the desired result. The caretaker remembers her. She was such a sweet and pretty girl, how could anyone forget her?

His eyes are throbbing, as he turns the corner, ready to face her, even if she’ll decide to insult him, if she’ll tell him it's too late, it's out of time, that she can never forgive him... he's prepared for everything. He is also ready to make the most of the sacrifices: leave the BAU, where he has found a family, his own place, in order to make return her to Quantico. It must not be her, the one who leaves.

He is prepared for everything... but not for the possibility of not finding her. He looks the smiling faces of Penelope's parents. From her mother she took those big eyes, from dad instead her blond hair. His lips fold in a sweet smile. He reads the written sentence under the date of death.

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity. [Edvard Munch]

Definitely Garcia sack flour. Then notice something resting on the marble. A photo. It rained, before he arrived, and also very strong. In fact, it is faded, swollen with water and also quite crumpled. But he recognizes it instantly. It portrays a brown-haired man, a blonde woman and a shepherd dog. He doesn’t look towards the goal but towards her, as if she were a divine apparition. And her eyes are low, on the animal. Nor did she notice it. They aren’t perfectly in the picture because he has never been able to do these things. But he had so insisted that she finally gave in. And after seeing the photo on the computer, she had asked (kindly) to make two copies. One for her. But just because it portrays me and Roxy, don’t get your head up.

The other copy is on his desk. Next to the statuette of a dog and a black and white rubber cat.

He shakes his head and giggles, hearing again that phrase with her tone and even the punch on the arm she had given him. Penelope isn’t here, but she has been there.

Now he has just to find her.

  TAGS: @theshamelessmanatee @itsdawnashlie @talesoffairies @janiedreams88 @kiki-krakatoa @yessenia993 @teyamarra @c00lhandsluke  @gcchic @arses21434 @orangesickle @entireoranges @jarmin @kathy5654 @martinab26 @thisonekid @thenibblets @perfectly-penelope @ambrosiaswhispers @maziikeen92 @lovelukealvez @reidskitty13 @jenf42 @gracieeelizabeth27 @silviajajaja @smalliemichelle99 @charchampagne14 @ichooseno  @ megs2219 @rkt3357 @franklintrixie @thinitta @chewwy123 @skisun @maba84 @saisnarry @myhollyhanna23 @thenorthernlytes

[rv-rublev]

Rublev- Part One, Youth, Book Two, The Dialogues, Chapter Two, To the Theatre

THE two stepped from the shadow of the doorway, out into the cramped hallway. Beside them, a dim ray broke through the dirtied pane of glass, and thus casted their shadows upon the grey flooring.

-We need to stop by the theatre and tell the director about your revisions, Fyodor.

-Are we not a bit late for that?

-It is better now than never, my friend! There is no hurry, I assure you! Rolan raced to the end of the hallway, his body carrying the bounce of youth, his lips letting loose the sounds of gaiety.

-I wonder how he will handle the revisions. Fyodor stated, awaiting his friend’s predictable caricature of the director.

-As he usually does with anything that comes to his door, “My gooooodness!” The two laughed loudly, as Rolan’s impression managed to bring about the spitting image of the director. The man always manages to sweat, I swear, even in the outskirts of the empire would his shirt be soaked and even then, would he sound out the same!

-Interesting don’t you think?

-What? Rolan stopped upon the staircase and looked up to Fyodor, bringing about a tinge of red on his face.

-Just that how men, well women too, how we fall into those patterns, these series of repetitions, pacing, murmuring, shouting, flailing.

-Yes. Rolan held his face and broke off the gaze that they were previously sharing. His eyes had moved to the window, and he began again. Do you think there is a cause for such repetitions? For a moment, no sound was made between them, permitting a corpse of muted sounds from the street outside to drill into their ears.

What could he mean? Repeat, on and on. Some out of need, some out of something more, I suppose.

-I suppose it depends.

-Depends on what, Fyodor? Rolan smiled, and leaned further into the railing, cementing the conversation into a discussion.

-If a man draws his cart from his farm to the market, then he does so out of need, because the world about him is imposed over him.

-How do you mean, imposed on him? Like there is a mandate from the government telling him to draw his cart?

-No, by no means, and you know that. I mean, he demands food, let’s say he needs milk, and he has no dairy cows, and he is unable to purchase any. So-

-The man is a serf?

-No, consider just an independent man for a moment.

-Alright, continue. Fyodor carried on, bending down to take a seat on the top step.

-Well, excuse me. Let us say this man, the one who wants milk, grows oats. Now, he harvests the oats, and places them in his cart, and draws it into the market, because there he can exchange the oats for money, and then for milk. Eventually, he might be able to save for a cow, but because he is an oat farmer, and was taught to be an oat farmer, he must practice this repetition in order to get what he wishes. The external world places its demands upon him.

-Yes, but his desire to have milk comes from within, does it not? How is it the exterior world? At this point, Rolan ceased his asking of ironic questions, as his countenance no longer carried any shape of humor, and instead was bent deep into the wrinkles of curiosity.

-Well, his desire to have milk comes from within, but the world around him demands he draws his cart that way, because he was raised to be an oat farmer. He repeats that specific action because the world around him placed him in a certain position that prevents him from acting as such. The fact he desires milk is superfluous. Perhaps the desire for water would be a better example.

-Why is that?

-Well, a woman draws water from the well because she needs water, without water, the body would die. If we consider the body to be outside of the soul, or the thought, then the body, or the world, is imposing itself on her soul to get water. So, she goes about drawing the water every day, so she doesn’t perish.

-Ah, that makes sense now! Rolan unbent his body, and smiled. But, realizing they were not finished, he bent back over, and looked down to Fyodor once more. But what about the other, the um-

-The internal?

-Yes, that one! Do you not simply adore debate! Rolan could hardly maintain his composure now, and this caused Fyodor to smile brightly as well. Go on! Go on!

-Well, I think we should-

A door opened behind them, and the two sprung up. Rolan turned around and stepped out of the stairway and back into the hallway. The door emitted no voice, and instead the sounds of shuffling feet were heard. From the door was shoved out, by a woman’s hand, a nearly nude man, holding his clothes. The door slammed behind him. Fyodor and Rolan made no noise, and instead laid witness upon the ghastly beast, frozen in nudity at the door of an apparent lover. The man turned, and jumped, causing Fyodor to step back slightly. Rolan cleared his throat and addressed the man:

-Good afternoon, sir!

-Afternoon. The man blushed and looked to Fyodor.

-Good afternoon, sir.

-Afternoon. Having finished his exchange with the two men on the stairwell, he raced down the hall, and nearly tripped on the stairs. Both Fyodor and Rolan opened their ears to the sounds of his scurried running and tripping, Rolan enjoying the tumult of a man ripped from his comfort and subsequently thrust into the realm of the unknown. Fyodor however was distraught, his soul aching in a fervor, believing that the woman had just abandoned the man, leaving him to dwell in that fog of furious loneliness, leaving him to be relegated to the same days in the same bed, relegated from action, to memory.

-Where were off to first, Rolan?

-The director, my friend. Rolan’s eyes were still affixed to the shut door, and Fyodor’s to the shadowy stairwell below.

They came to the first floor of the building, and the two had expected for a moment to find the man struggling with his clothes. Alas, however, the two were alone at the base floor, the sounds of the streets now growing.

-Do not think for a moment I have forgotten about our discussion; we can carry on after lunch.

-Are we to eat at your house?

-You can’t avoid that which is meant to happen! Rolan laughed as he opened the door, drowning his figure in the sun. Fyodor stepped out behind him, protecting his eyes with his hands, and looking around for the direction in which Rolan went.

Right, oh, he’s here.

-You know we could eat somewhere else.

-Why would we do that? The food is free, and the comfort is superb!

-Yes well, your aunt.

-What of her?

-Nothing, never mind. Fyodor worried that he had upset Rolan, as Rolan had not, as he usually did, turned to look Fyodor in the eye when a serious question was aroused between them.

-I know she dotes, but she truly does care for you Fyodor.

-I just do not wish to be a bother. Rolan stopped, and turned to Fyodor, and the suddenness of such an action nearly caused Fyodor to land upon Rolan’s chest, as a small child does, when absorbed with his play along the garden path, comes quite suddenly around a corner, rushing into some stranger.

-Fyodor, you really are a fool! Rolan laughed, and placed his hand upon Fyodor’s shoulder, shaking him slightly. Fyodor thus turned red. How can you be a bother! Auntie always asks of you, day after day! “How is he? Is he getting enough sleep? Does he eat? Oh, bring him this bread!”

-Oh, you are exaggerating.

-I am not! And you know it! You just wanted to hear me say that we need you, you sly man!

-We? Fyodor smiled as he spoke, and began his pace once more, Rolan now following him.

-Yes! Oh yes! We need you Fyodor! Rolan clasped his hands and held them to Fyodor as if he were begging for a blessing from Fyodor’s very soul. Fyodor turned and laughed at Rolan, bowing and muttering some false prayer in Greek.

-Aren’t we the two high men of society, Rolan? Rolan straightened his posture and spake in a snobbish tone that Russian noblewomen would when their aim was to demonstrate their superiority.

-Why, yes, of course we are! Fyodor reciprocated.

-Why, yes, yes, of coooourse! Rolan called, laughing a deep, yet nasally laugh. Once their friendly, yet abhorrent actions waned, and the two fell back into the world, Fyodor, noting some odd mess in the road, asked: Do you see that?

-What? Rolan turned around himself, not knowing where exactly to look. Fyodor then pointed with his cane to the place in the road. No, I don’t see anything unusual, just some mess of sorts, come, come, to the director. Rolan turned to the left, and Fyodor followed suit, the two now unable to speak as they could before, the pavement packed and plundered with the pleasurable perfume of people.

Faces and faces, each one crammed together. Not even the sun dries the way beneath anymore, damp and wet, foot after foot, ewe stumble and tear, totter and work our way around. To the table, then to the wall, to the table, then to the wall. Men get antsy, in moments of stress, not the opposite. Table, to wall. Have him bounce his leg perhaps. No, that might be too much.

-Rolan, do you think if we had him sit at the table and bounce his leg, then he goes and leans on the wall, it would create a better sense of unease?

-What? Oh, have him mutter and bounce his leg, maybe he shouts, or exclaims when he gets up.

-Yes, that’ll be good. Plus, we needn’t have him say anything particular, right?

-Right, just have Yevgeny improvise it, he loves it anyways. But what should we say to Sofia?

-What? Say that again.

-What should we tell Sofia?!

-Why do we need to tell her anything? Fyodor was then shoved to the side, and nearly fell upon the pavement, but his body managed to remain upright as it was wedged between a tall, robust laborer, and a short woman. The man had, upon Fyodor’s immediate falling, pushed him into the woman, and she thus shouted in a panic, causing Fyodor to recoil onto his backside upon the pavement. There, on the cold and damp walkway, he was subjected to the boots and heels of the other pedestrians. His eyes then filled with its very own damp, and his entire body collapsed upon itself, his head being wedged within the depths of arms. All around him, voices called, shouting, cursing, all assuming he was but another drunk, taken to the delicate hands of the streets below. Each noise that fell upon him, duplicated, and as such, they rippled through his entire being, gnawing upon his soul, chipping upon his bone, silencing his mind. His tears fell, and in this onslaught, all of the earth was forgotten by Fyodor, all those moments which were so prevalent, merely vanished.  His body gave way to nothingness, and ultimately, no image came to his mind, no sense of solidity aroused itself within him. Alas, within this birth of oblivion, there was ultimately a rebirth of thought, a whisper unto shout:

Where have I fallen? The earth gives itself up, and I fall beneath the bodies of everything. The sun is so still, fixed above by the silhouettes of men and women, each one trudging by, each one dragging itself to and from the grave. No sound can permeate, no sound can rise against me, everything layers, crashing upon my emptiness, everything falls away when the earth tumbles into this oblivion. Weakness, weakness when I tremble, in public, curled upon the road, curled up, weeping. Rolan? Can you hear me? My friend, gone, down to the theatre, what use am I, a writer, to you? What use have I ever been, stuck here, in this concavity of pity, in this place, I so often fall into. Forgive me Rolan, for my words, forgive me for falling to the floor, and refusing to stand again, for my fragility. Rolan your feet, your hair and images, everything unto everything, I do not hate you, for forgetting my feebleness, I do not detest you for walking on without me. The table must fill, by her eyes, one day soon, one day it must be full. Rolan, you always say, one day, there she will be, one day, a woman, affixed upon me. The sand will sing with our feet within it, the sky shall weep with our eyes upon it, the grove shall be gay with our souls within it.

-Fyodor! His head moved up from the depths of his arms, and above, seemingly from the sky, came Rolan’s hand, to clasp his friend once more. Here, here, come, Fyodor. Fyodor lifted his hands over his eyes, to quiet the image of his sobbing. There, Rolan brought him into the side street, out from the heels of humanity, and he placed Fyodor upon the wall.

-I’m sorry, I-

-You don’t need to explain yourself, Fyodor.

-I want to.

-Go ahead. Rolan leaned against the wall beside Fyodor, and waited, with glee, for his friend to begin speaking. Fyodor sighed, and wiped his tears, sniffling all the while.

-I am sorry Rolan. I just fell. I was shoved, I do not know what else happened. Something inside of me struck against my mind, it, I can’t tell. As if it wanted to devour me. He paused, and looked to Rolan, who did not move his head.

-It is okay. This isn’t the first time; it does not frighten me as much as it did. Yes, when I lost sight of you, I panicked, but the incident itself does not repulse me Do not apologize. Just, I beg you, control yourself my friend, before you truly are devoured. Rolan then sat up from the wall, and placed his hand upon Fyodor’s shoulder, waiting for his friend to compose himself.

-Can we continue away from the main road?

-Yes, of course, we are in no rush. The two set off through the dimmer road and started their conversation once more.

-What did you say, about Sofia?

-Right, ah, what do we tell her once we they all find out about the changes?

-Why would we tell her anything? I do not remember changing anything with her role. Fyodor rubbed his now tired eyes and tried to run through all of the changes he had made.

-I do not know if you noticed, but whenever there is a change to any character, or direction, Sofia demands something be improved with her role. Usually, we had something for her, but on the last two occasions there was nothing to give her, and well, I had to invent some minute alteration to her direction. Hearing this, Fyodor pulled from his pocket a series of small parcels of paper with nearly indecipherable notes upon them, so as to go over anything he might have scribbled, but forgot to inform them of.

-I do not have any alterations for her, anything else would be pointless. Did not Yevgeny do the same when we gave Sofia that change with her dialogue?

-Did he?

-Yes, I am sure he stormed in on us, saying “How can you make her the star! My name is first! They come for me! Not for her! Not for the damned household maid!” I believe in the end we told him to stop for a moment after hanging his coat, the idea being that the melancholy is worsening.

-Ah, yes, I recall that! So, I do suppose it is merely the virtue of the thespian! Rolan laughed, and normally, Fyodor would copy his dear friend’s enthusiasm, but as his tiredness which came about as a result of his mental deterioration, caused him to utter a delicate chuckle, one which passed from the base of his stomach, fluttering up and out into the cold air, igniting a sense of disgruntled agreement with the joke that was told.

-So, what is the full plan for to-day? Fyodor hobbled forward, his tiredness now fully apparent to Rolan.

-Are you well?

-Yes, I am fine. Just, what are we to do to-day?

-Fyodor, if you need to go back to your house for some rest, I am more than happy to deliver the changes to the theatre myself.

-No, no, that won’t do. I need to see the actors again; I have not seen them since opening night.

Her beauty, how I have missed it, her face, the supple paleness of her skin that radiates like the moon above the black waters of night.

-Well, carry on, but the offer still stands, Fyodor.

He never answered.

-You never answered my question.

-Oh? Right, right. Sorry. I suppose we are to go to the theatre, hand out the changes, watch them with the director, then go for our walk to my home, then have lunch. Perhaps we can sit by the water, if you are up to it. Afterward I say we could retire to the study, or head to a bookstore if you need more.

-I, I do.

-Very well. After, well, we can have our usual late dinner at home once more, and then to the meeting! Rolan perked himself up, recalling the letter. Fyodor, however, did not express the same enthusiasm, but kept on:

-Could we dine somewhere else for the evening?

-Where did you have mind? Rolan sank for a moment.

-I do not know. It was idiotic to suggest.

-Fyodor. Rolan stopped, and Fyodor, not having realized Rolan had stopped walking, carried on for several paces, before he himself stopped.

-Yes? Fyodor appeared bent, his eyes dark with the circles of sorrow, his skin, no longer red with the warmth of the sun. His clothes were old, and dark, his cane, without luster. Such a sight of his friend nearly moved Rolan to tears. A man who was once upright and bright, now impoverished, now starved, now sealed away in some unknown apartment, a hovel, lost to the world. Such thoughts paced on in Rolan’s head, but instead of uttering them to his friend, Rolan merely said:

-Please do not say your deeds are idiotic. A poet is incapable of being idiotic.

A poet? Is that how you see me, is that what is behind your eyes, is that how I am, to you, to the earth? A poet.

Fyodor smiled, and straightened his back, arousing his stance from a state of decrepitness. Rolan began again, and so did Fyodor.

-So, after dinner?

-As I said, after dinner we are to go to this secret location. We might wish to rest beforehand, however. How does that sound?

Coming out of the darkened side road, the two stopped in the light of the main road, covering their eyes from the sun shining above. In front of them, sat the theatre, high and upright, bright, with tones of yellow and white bleeding into the backdrop of the bright and beauteous breath of the day. Each time the two came up to the theatre from this path, they always stood in awe, adoring the sheer prowess of the building, which never wavered, even when the sun was slain by the onslaught of ceaseless black clouds on those days when rain pelted the earth. After this moment of deification, Fyodor breathed deeply, absorbing the overhead wonder of the warmth that worked its way upon his skin.

-Yes, Rolan, that sounds delightful.

[lastsonlost]

This is an honest, open story from a young woman about her marriage. There are some powerful truths spoken here, worthy of notice and reflection. If you’re married, have ever been married, or plan on getting married eventually, this is for you. From Tickld via Reddit:

My “Aha Moment” happened because of a package of hamburger meat. I asked my husband to stop by the store to pick up a few things for dinner, and when he got home, he plopped the bag on the counter. I started pulling things out of the bag, and realized he’d gotten the 70/30 hamburger meat – which means it’s 70% lean and 30% fat.

I asked, “What’s this?”

“Hamburger meat,” he replied, slightly confused.

“You didn’t get the right kind,” I said.

“I didn’t?” He replied with his brow furrowed. ” Was there some other brand you wanted or something?”

“No. You’re missing the point, ” I said. “You got the 70/30. I always get at least the 80/20.”

He laughed. “Oh. That’s all? I thought I’d really messed up or something.”

That’s how it started. I launched into him. I berated him for not being smarter. Why would he not get the more healthy option? Did he even read the labels? Why can’t I trust him? Do I need to spell out every little thing for him in minute detail so he gets it right? Also, and the thing I was probably most offended by, why wasn’t he more observant? How could he not have noticed over the years what I always get? Does he not pay attention to anything I do?

I suddenly felt terrible. And embarrassed for myself. He was right. It really wasn’t anything to get bent out of shape over. And there I was doing just that. Over a silly package of hamburger meat that he dutifully picked up from the grocery store just like I asked. If I had specific requirements, I should have been clearer. I didn’t know how to gracefully extract myself from the conversation without coming across like I have some kind of split personality, so I just mumbled something like, “Yeah. I guess we’ll make do with this. I’m going to start dinner.”

He seemed relieved it was over and he left the kitchen.

And then I sat there and thought long and hard about what I’d just done. And what I’d been doing to him for years, probably. The “hamburger meat moment,” as I’ve come to call it, certainly wasn’t the first time I scolded him for not doing something the way I thought it should be done. He was always putting something away in the wrong place. Or leaving something out. Or neglecting to do something altogether. And I was always right there to point it out to him.

Why do I do that? How does it benefit me to constantly belittle my husband? The man that I’ve taken as my partner in life. The father of my children. The guy I want to have by my side as I grow old. Why do I do what women are so often accused of, and try to change the way he does every little thing? Do I feel like I’m accomplishing something? Clearly not if I feel I have to keep doing it. Why do I think it’s reasonable to expect him to remember everything I want and do it just that way? The instances in which he does something differently, does it mean he’s wrong? When did “my way” become “the only way?” When did it become okay to constantly correct him and lecture him and point out every little thing I didn’t like as if he were making some kind of mistake?

And how does it benefit him? Does it make him think, “Wow! I’m sure glad she was there to set me straight?” I highly doubt it. He probably feels like I’m harping on him for no reason whatsoever. And it I’m pretty sure it makes him think his best approach in regards to me is to either stop doing things around the house, or avoid me altogether.

Two cases in point. #1. I recently found a shard of glass on the kitchen floor. I asked him what happened. He said he broke a glass the night before. When I asked why he didn’t tell me, he said, “I just cleaned it up and threw it away because I didn’t want you to have a conniption fit over it.” #2. I was taking out the trash and found a pair of blue tube socks in the bin outside. I asked him what happened and why he’d thrown them away. He said, “They accidentally got in the wash with my jeans. Every time I put in laundry, you feel the need to remind me not to mix colors and whites. I didn’t want you to see them and reinforce your obvious belief that I don’t know how to wash clothes after 35 years.”

So it got to the point where he felt it was a better idea — or just plain easier — to cover things up than admit he made a human error. What kind of environment have I created where he feels he’s not allowed to make mistakes?

I know now that what he means is, “this thing that has you so upset is a small detail, or a matter of opinion, or a preference, and I don’t see why you’re making it such a big deal.” But from my end I came to interpret it over time that he didn’t care about my happiness or trying to do things the way I think they should be done. I came to view it like “this guy just doesn’t get it.” I am clearly the brains of this operation.

I started thinking about what I’d observed with my friends’ relationships, and things my girlfriends would complain about regarding their husbands, and I realized that I wasn’t alone. Somehow, too many women have fallen into the belief that Wife Always Knows Best. There’s even a phrase to reinforce it: “Happy wife, happy life.” That doesn’t leave a lot of room for his opinions, does it?

It’s an easy stereotype to buy into. Look at the media. Movies, TV, advertisements – they’re all filled with images of hapless husbands and clever wives. He can’t cook. He can’t take care of the kids. If you send him out to get three things, he’ll come back with two — and they’ll both be wrong. We see it again and again.

What this constant nagging and harping does is send a message to our husbands that says “we don’t respect you. We don’t think you’re smart enough to do things right. We expect you to mess up. And when you do, you’ll be called out on it swiftly and without reservation.” Given this kind of negative reinforcement over time, he feels like nothing he can do is right (in your eyes). If he’s confident with himself and who he is, he’ll come to resent you. If he’s at all unsure about himself, he’ll start to believe you, and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Neither one is a desirable, beneficial outcome to you, him or the marriage.

Did my husband do the same to me? Just as I’m sure there are untold numbers of women who don’t ever do this kind of thing to their husbands, I’m sure there are men who do it to their wives too. But I don’t think of it as a typical male characteristic. As I sat and thought about it, I realized my husband didn’t display the same behavior toward me. I even thought about some of the times I really did make mistakes. The time I backed into the gate and scratched the car? He never said a word about it. The time I was making dinner, got distracted by a call from my mom, and burned it to cinders? He just said, “We can just order a pizza.” The time I tried to put the new patio furniture together and left his good tools out in the rain? “Accidents happen,” was his only response.

I shuddered to think what I would have said had the shoe been on the other foot and he’d made those mistakes.

So is he just a better person than me? Why doesn’t he bite my head off when I don’t do things the way he likes? I’d be a fool to think it doesn’t happen. And yet I don’t remember him ever calling me out on it. It doesn’t seem he’s as intent as changing the way I do things. But why?

Maybe I should take what’s he always said at face value. The fact that these little things “really don’t matter that much to him” is not a sign that he’s lazy, or that he’s incapable of learning, or that he just doesn’t give a damn about what I want. Maybe to him, the small details are not that important in his mind — and justifiably so. They’re not the kinds of things to start fights over. They’re not the kinds of things he needs to change about me. It certainly doesn’t make him dumb or inept. He’s just not as concerned with some of the minutia as I am. And it’s why he doesn’t freak out when he’s on the other side of the fence.

The bottom line in all this is that I chose this man as my partner. He’s not my servant. He’s not my employee. He’s not my child. I didn’t think he was stupid when I married him – otherwise I wouldn’t have. He doesn’t need to be reprimanded by me because I don’t like the way he does some things.

When I got to that point mentally, it then made me start thinking about all the good things about him. He’s intelligent. He’s a good person. He’s devoted. He’s awesome with the kids. And he does always help around the house. (Just not always to my liking!) Even more, not only does he refrain from giving me grief when I make mistakes or do things differently than him, he’s always been very agreeable to my way of doing things. And for the most part, if he notices I prefer to do something a certain way, he tries to remember it in the future. Instead of focusing on those wonderful things, I just harped on the negative. And again, I know I’m not alone in this.

If we keep attempting to make our husbands feel small, or foolish, or inept because they occasionally mess up (and I use that term to also mean “do things differently than us”), then eventually they’re going to stop trying to do things. Or worse yet, they’ll actually come to believe those labels are true.

In my case it’s my husband of 12+ years I’m talking about. The same man who thanklessly changed my car tire in the rain. The guy who taught our kids to ride bikes. The person who stayed with me at the hospital all night when my mom was sick. The man who has always worked hard to make a decent living and support his family.

He knows how to change the oil in the car. He can re-install my computer’s operating system. He lifts things for me that are too heavy and opens stuck jar lids. He shovels the sidewalk. He can put up a ceiling fan. He fixes the toilet when it won’t stop running. I can’t (or don’t) do any of those things. And yet I give him grief about a dish out of place. He’s a good man who does a lot for me, and doesn’t deserve to be harassed over little things that really don’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

It takes two to make a partnership. No one is always right and no one is always wrong. And you’re not always going to see eye-to-eye on every little thing. It doesn’t make you smarter, or superior, or more right to point out every little thing he does that’s not to your liking. Ladies, remember, it’s just hamburger meat.

[storytimewithtara-blog]

Nancy and The Artist

Fuck IPAs.

Not my typical first thought coming out of a blackout, it was normally regretting the aftertaste of whatever kind of vodka or tequila was on sale. They were more efficient when wanting to get drunk. Though the one thing I knew right now was hops were everywhere. I was dealing with limited other information on how I’d ended up downing so many beers. My eyes were hazy, ears ringing, and every limb felt numb, but my sense of smell had come back in a flash. Bad beer filled the air, along with burnt popcorn and something metallic.

Blurry shapes moved in front of my eyes. Pins and needles started to crawl through my feet and fingers, but everything still felt sluggish. I could feel pressure from the chair beneath my ass, some sign of improvement.  Ringing was getting lower. I managed to pick out words like crazy, deserved, cleaning, and a few fucks from the noise around me. Several people were talking, but none of their voices seemed aimed at me.

I started blinking hard, but the vision wasn’t working itself out. Limbs were coming alive, I managed to shake my head. Flexed my hands and legs, no pain. Seemed to be physically fine. My clothes felt slick, they stuck to my body as if I’d gone for a long run in July. that metallic scent was strong, might be what was blurring my eyes.

“Swear to fuck, every time I get the floors done some asshole loses their shit in here, “ a woman said.

Chairs were being shoved around, someone was angry. I hear wood snap. How did I end up in a bar? The gallery I planned to attend was in the downtown area, surrounded by restaurants and boutiques. No bars for at least three blocks. And that showing’s crowd was not one to frequent dives. I wouldn’t have joined if they had been in the rare mood anyway.

“Hey, I think her snack is still kicking,” a man said.

“No shit?! Thought she scooped them clean at the end,” another man slurred.

“Probably didn’t have enough time to chew on him. Who knows what he’s got left in there.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time she left her food for someone, me specifically, to clean up,” the woman’s voice came back in.

Were they talking about me? Why was I food? Whatever, more important things to focus on. Like finally getting full motion back. I rubbed my eyes, an act I instantly regretted as it seemed my hands were covered in the same stuff as my clothes. The action worked to clear my vision. The slick on my hands were red. Blood.

“Fuck,” I said.

“Ah, well, we know Snack Boy still has one word rolling around in there.” The slurring man was laughing.

Blood was splattered over me and the floor by my feet. Broken glass and foamy beer mixed with the pool gathered at my feet, guess that explained the hops. I followed a short trail across the floor to the stiletto heeled pale feet of a woman. She was wearing a tight blue cocktail dress, that looked marbled with the amount of blood on it, and had long straight red hair stuck to her. The hair almost covered the chunk of her neck that was missing.

“Fuck!” Me again, a bit louder.

“Hey, Nancy! You’re about to have another asshole losing its shit,” a woman called out from behind me.

“Literally this time!” The slurring man was having a blast with this.

“Someone cut Joe off. He is having far too much fun right now,” the first woman from earlier said. Apparently she was on the same brainwave as I was. She stepped in between me and the dead woman. This blocked the dead body, but her more casual jeans and t-shirt were covered in as much blood as I was. “I swear, Snack Boy, if you add vomit to my list of things to clean up tonight I will rip your throat out too.”

There’s that food name again. I didn’t feel like throwing up. My stomach was holding on to its contents, whatever that was other than bad beer. The body had been a shock, but I was steady. Confused as shit as to how this situation had come about, but steady. My memory was a blank, a bad omen when a dead body was involved. “What the hell is going on?”

“This may be a surprise, but you got lucky tonight.” She flipped back a long black curl of hair to look at the dead woman again. “If she hadn’t flipped her lid, you would have been the one turning cold tonight.”

“Her throat is-”

“Here!” the man holding up the body said. He shrugged the body over to one arm and waved over to me with his now free hand, a large chunk of meat gripped tight.

There was a lurch in my stomach. I thought it was the beginning of a gag, but realized it was too light for that. It’d been the start of a laugh, dare I say a giggle. That should be concerning. Maybe I was in shock. That would be reasonable. Isn’t a main part of being in shock, not knowing you are in shock through? I’d have to look it up later.

“Frank, you’re a dick.” The woman grabbed my arm and pulled me up from the chair. She looked back to the man still holding the throat up. She flicked a hand his way and it the same moment there was a bone sticking out of his arm.

“God damnit, Nancy!” He dropped the body to the floor, her head smacked against the edge of a table on the way down. A corner actually bent from the impact, but the guy was only focused on his now broken arm.

“You deserved it,” she sang back to him as she pulled me toward the door. “Now you just scurry on home and take a shower. Get drunk. Tomorrow you’ll have a bad hangover and convince yourself this was a nightmare.”

I stopped her from pushing me outside, an act that took more force that I thought it should have. She was a good five inches shorter than me and trim, but this woman was near heaving me out the door. “I just go home? After a fucking murder? Covered in blood? After I have no clue as to what the hell happened to me tonight?”

“It’s because of the no memory thing that I’m letting you out of this one. Also, I’ve got enough to do without adding another body to that list. Her, we can do away with until her people come for her. You might have people come poke around. I don’t know and don’t care to check it out. And it’s not like any cops you go yapping to will find anything.” She gave another nudge toward the door. “But the cop thing is a bad idea. You know that right? Looks very bad for you.”

I hadn’t thought to go to the police. That should have been something I wanted to do, right? “I don’t even know-”

“We could make it look very bad for you if we had to,” she had continued, not even listening to me. “But if you force us to put more effort into this, we will be very annoyed. I will be very annoyed. And you don’t want this crowd holding a grudge. You’ll probably end up dead. We can clean this up and, as a one-time courtesy, you walk out free as a bird.”

I looked past her into the bar. Waxed up wood floor, if you ignored the area filled with a crime scene. The tables and chairs were some dark wood that looked good other than the cracking vinyl cushions. Pinup girls printed on tin sheets hung throughout the walls. Stain glass lighting hanging down over tables and the bar. In the 50s this place might have been a nice gentlemen’s bar, but no one had bothered to update since then. And it had aged about as well as I’m sure the actual pinup girls had by 2005.

While most people were standing around the body, a few patrons remained in their seats. Drinking their beers as if this were a typical night. A couple at the bar were carrying on with a conversation about what do have for dinner after their drinks. “You seem rather casual about this disposing of a body thing.”

She pushed me through the doorway into the chilled night air. “You seem rather ungrateful about this walking away from a murder scot-free thing.”

“What the fuck kind of place is this?” I turned around to face her again and took in the front of the building this time. A rusted tin building, with a neon sign that spelled out “HEATHENS”. Though it only had the two h’s and e’s working. The outside looked no bigger than a 20 by 30 box, something a crew had slapped together in a day. But there had been at least twice the room inside. And the decor inside, even as dated as it was, did not match the exterior. There wasn’t any paved parking, just packed dirt from being parked on repeatedly over the years. The gravel road behind us stretched out with other decaying buildings dropped along, this seemed to be the only one with a still functioning business inside. But I knew we weren’t too far on the outskirts of the city. I could see the lights of downtown over the top of the building, seemed like a completely different world just a short drive away.

“A place you probably won’t ever find again. Night!” She turned back into the bar.

“Hey! How the hell do I get back home exactly?”

“I could call you a cab,” she glanced back at my clothes, “but on second thought maybe not.” Leaning farther into the door, I heard her call something to a person inside.

I watched her a hand and caught the sound of a thud hitting her hand. Then she pushed back to be on two feet. The woman walked down the short line of vehicles and stopped at a sleek, black Audi.

She laid back over the hood and pointed back to me. “To go along with your grand prize of staying alive, you get a brand new car!”

I didn’t move.

She rolled her eyes and pushed herself up to now be sitting on the hood. We stared at each other until she sighed and raised a hand at me. My feet moved, but I wasn’t the one telling them too. Each step was a hard crunch and once close enough she forced a set of keys into my hand. There was a keychain of a glittery martini glas attached to the key fob with the Audi logo. “Don’t be a pain now, Snack Boy. You are so close to being clear of this.”

I tried to give the keys back. “I don’t think stealing a car will add any good karma to my night.”

“It’s Trine’s car.” She saw my blank look and sighed again. “The dead woman inside. The one who was chewing on your brain bits. Her car. She won’t be using it. Probably stole it herself initially, but I’m sure she’s gotten that all cleared up on her own. No one would be looking for it anymore. I’ll tell her people it was fair game and they will understand. Tell people you had some old aunt die and leave you a car. Or just get home and ditch it tomorrow. I don’t really care. My business with you ends once you leave my property.” She moved off the hood and around me to go back toward the doorway.

I turned with her. “This cannot just end with me going home.”

The woman flickered from being five feet away from me to in my face with a hand gripping the back of my neck, fingers dug into my hair. There had been no steps between, no turning back to face me. I’d been staring more at her ass before and then right into her face.

Her eyes looked dark before, but were now full black with what appeared to be embers floating through them. “I am about out of patience with you, Snack Boy. Take my very kind offer of a car and go. If I do not hear you leave in the next five minutes, I will scalp you and use it to mop up what Trine spilled on my floor tonight.”

I blinked and she was in the doorway, back turned to me again. There was still a hand shaped spot of heat on my neck. My feet moved to their orders, this time under my own control, toward the driver’s side of the car she claimed I could take as my own if I wished. I fell into the low seat and adjusted the chair so my legs would fit. My clothes made a squish sound from the blood and beer in them. I’d have to clean this seat no matter if I kept the car or not. As I pulled out from the bar, I kept shifting in the seat unable to find a comfortable position. It seemed odd since I could tell the leather seats were top of the line. But a flash of that black eyed bartender laid over the hood went through my mind and a lightbulb came on upstairs, to match the one that had been turned on downstairs.

Shit. Guess it would be a cold shower to get all this gore off me.

“I’m not talking like a thick layer of sawdust, just a dusting, “ I said to Wendy, my ever faithful blonde and butch barmaid, as we cleaned glasses behind the bar. “As much as different liquids get spilled around here. I’d help soak some up. That blood took two hours hours to get off of everything last night. Not including my shower afterwards.”

“But then it’ll smell extra super woodsy in here all the time. You’ll start getting more of the nymph-type folk and they are just odd.”

George shook his head, straw hair rustling, from a table covered in broken chair parts nearby. “Fuck you too.”

Wendy flinched while looking down at the sink, but called out, “Not sorry, George. Your people are freaky.”

“No. No, this stops now,” I cut in. “I demand boring, I earned boring.” I took the last glass from her hand to dry. “You ever going to watch your mouth? It’s what got you killed in the first place.”

“No, because it was cursing the men of my village as they burned me at the stake. Oh! Which I just checked in on them last week and they’re down to only the last two bloodlines. I may pop in and shake them up a bit.”

“Just get someone to cover your shifts. But for now go wiggle your nose at the condiments and get them filled for the night.”

“Now that is offensive.” Wendy vanished into the back storeroom to continue prep.

I popped open a PBR and took it to George. “Please do not let my big-mouthed worker effect your fine on fixing up my chairs.”

George took a swig of the beer and smiled, “ Eh, she’s right. Why do you think I hang around here so much? Dances, rituals, sacrifices, or some other ceremony what feels like every damn night. Too much to keep up with.”

I was personally thankful he was anti-social with his own kind. Because of that I could just give George cheap beer and get any handiwork done for free. Worked out great when someone goes psycho in your bar and breaks five chairs and two tables, one post mortem. “Oh, speaking of rituals. Taco night. I have you down for those jalapeno pinwheels again, that good?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He rubbed his fingers down the side of a cracked chair leg. The wood splintered itself back together to form a whole piece.

“Awesome! I will leave you to your work, good sir.” I wanted to give the tabletops another wipe down before any early birds rolled in. Mostly the Trine Ground Zero, to make sure none of the sticky residue from the blood or the cleanup chemicals remained. I had fans running all morning, but the bleach smell was stuck in the air.l Maybe I could spill a few beers around on purpose to cover the smell, but then it’d be sticky again. And i’d be back to square one. After that bit of fun was inventory, my least favorite thing in this world or the next. Stuck in the back for hours, counting. Just counting. Damn. It. All.

As a person who had been in literal hell, you think it would be impossible to find something worse. But that spreadsheet, holy shit was it awful. Sometimes it made me wonder if I’d ended my walk through hell or had been sidetracked in some bizarre bit of torture and never realized. If I had made it back, and ever ended up there again, I knew that spreadsheet would be waiting for me.

The front door banged open, rattling the Bud Light neon sign nearby. Out of habit of being a bartender I turned my head toward the sound to see who might be coming in. And the longer habit of being an asshole had me ready to tear them a new one for being shitty to my door. My insult caught in my throat cause it wasn’t a regular coming in, but Snack Boy. How’d he manage to get back here? Most normal people would go past this place and never realize it was here. That’s what I paid Wendy’s damn cousin for anyway. He must have put a lot of thought into finding the bar.

He looked a lot better without the blood, but still a bit frizzled out. His hair had looked brown with all the much before, but it was actually blonde. Trine had dressed him up in a generic three-piece suit, but now he was in jeans and plain t-shirt. This fit him better. Wonder if his ass looked better than it had last night too.

“You gotta fucking help me,” Snack Boy said.

“Do I now?” There was a short list this could be. Trine spent all his money. He’d been MIA too long from work and was out of a job. He’d contracted some horrible disease. Maybe she had-

“There’s a fucking body in my studio,” his statement cut off my train of thought.

George snorted behind Snack Boy. “Join the club.”

That had not been on my list. “It’s there now? Trine leave her last boy toy meal at your place?”

“It’s a woman. She’s tied to a chair in my studio out in the backyard. She’s got cuts all over. The floor beneath her is covered in blood.” He was one of those ‘talk with their hands’ types, but even given the topic his gestures were not frantic. More like a good fishing trip of gestures.

I wonder if the blood pool will get bigger each time he tells the story?

“It’s a woman,” I repeated. That seemed odd. Trine and I had not been friends, but from what I heard of her, she didn’t swing that way. Her meals were men and never bloody. From what I knew her type of ‘feeding’ was pretty clean, more a mental thing. Sucking away at the brains of those she was with.

“And she is cut up and dead in my studio,” he said slowly, apparently thinking I wasn’t grasping the direness of the situation. An edge of anger growing in his voice.

“Let’s not get rude now. Doesn’t seem like her usual thing. But she was going a bit off there at end, maybe she got violent before coming here.” It had almost been a shock to see her arrive at the bar. She didn’t come unless her cliche decided to go out for an ‘old timey’ night. Or she was kissing ass with some higher up who was holding a meeting here. And she certainly had not been around since our last conversation.

“So much for this all being a damn nightmare by this morning.” Now he was being snippy, throwing that back at me.

“Yeah, kinda sucks, dude. Sorry.” I stepped back to the table I’d been about to wipe off before being interrupted. If he was going to throw a tantrum, I wasn’t going to play that game.

“What do I do now? How do I get a body out of my studio? You made the other one disappear, what did you do? How do I clean up all the blood? You’re going to help me right?”

Dear fuck, he’s not going away. I didn’t stop wiping down my table. “There’s a lot of ways to get the body out. The easiest, I’d say, would be cutting her up a bit so you’re not seen walking out with what is clearly a body. Put her in bags or wrapped in something. Tell the neighbors you’re doing some spring cleaning if they’re nosy. Drop her somewhere. Several somewheres. I’m not telling you what we did with Trine, because it’s not a service I can offer to you. For the blood, bleach is a thing. Just air out the space and buy lots of Febreeze for afterward.”

“Cut her up? What kind of sick-”

“You said she was already cut up a bit right? Just follow the lines. Right at the joints would be the neatest. If you catch the rigor mortis just right, maybe you can break her apart.” I snuck a glance at him hoping for a good reaction.

Snack Boy dropped into a chair, but didn’t go pale like I’d hoped. The same one Trine had propped him up in the other night when he was following her around like a dog wanting a treat. “This shit is all so mundane to you.”

I kept up with the tables, very disappointed in the lack of reaction, but didn’t say more. The bleach was starting to bug my nose again. Should follow my own advice and go get some Febreeze.

“What kind of place is this, really?” he asked as he stared over at the bar tabs.

Oh wow, he managed a thought that wasn’t about himself. You didn’t see that a lot with the civilian types that got caught in these situations. I gave him some honesty and a smile,”My bar is a little hell on earth. Filled with monsters you know of, but are in no way ready to have exist.”

“What kind of monster are you?” he turned to look back to me, those dark green eyes hitting me.

“A basic hellfire bitch,” Wendy called out from the bar. She’d come back out with the condiments stacked on a couple trays.

“Still your boss. It would be a shame if you had to redo all of that hard work.” I reached out mentally and rattled the bottom tray as a warning.

“Can you please help me?” Snack Boy asked.

“It’s asking a lot to come in here and expect me to drop my work for a stranger.” I mean, given that it was a Wednesday night, the crowd wasn’t likely to be wild. But I had thought that about Tuesday night. Then I was cleaning Trine blood for two hours. On top of that I had inventory. Which I hated. And he was giving me an out.

Wait a second.

“I don’t think I can do this alone. Please.” He was rubbing his thighs with his palms, starting to get nervous I’d really turn him down.

Gotta play this right. Make it sincere. Well, as close as I could get. Moving to another table I started wiping it down like I hadn’t been listening to him, but slowed my hand before stopping. I gave him a little look over. He was a pretty solid guy; those jeans were pulled tight right now. He looked exhausted, hard to sleep when you had a dead body lying around. Well, for most people. One little reluctant toss of the rag onto the table and then I said, “Alright. You get one more favor from me.”

He perked up. “Seriously? Thank Christ.”

“Wrong crowd man,” Wendy said. She stepped around the bar. “And while you’re out doing community service, I will be here alone?”

“Call Jake in early. He’s been looking for extra cash. He can run the ar and you can work on inventory for me.”

Wendy threw her arms into the air. “There it is. I knew it. Fucking inventory bullshit.”

“Just bibbidy bobbidy it to count itself,” George said as he took a drink.

Wendy turned on him. “You know, there has been enough crude witch humor already tonight. Don’t you need to lure some virgin into a pond or something right now?”

“Children, “I cut in before George came back with a response, “I don’t imagine I’ll be gone for too long. Should be back in time to finish it up with you. So behave.”

Snack Boy stood back up, he was smiling. “Thank you. Thanks so much for this. I really didn’t know what I was going to do.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re driving. Let’s do this.”

Wendy was glaring as we passed, but she pulled out her phone to call Jake. George was turning over a chair, running fingers over a crack to fill it in as he went. They’d be bickering again as soon as I left. If the chairs got fixed and at least three-fourths of the racks counted when I got back, they could finally do the nasty on the bar in their spare time for all I cared.

Outside, Snack Boy led me towards Trine’s car. The one he’d been keen on not taking.

“You’re still using this?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You said it should be fine. And I didn’t know what else to do with it yet either.”

I tilted my head as I waited for him to pop the door lock. “You like it.”

“It’s a car.” He unlocked his door and dropped himself in.

I heard the thunk of the lock going up and I swung into the passenger seat. The ever familiar smell of disinfectant hit my nose. “Had there been a mess in here too?”

“Just my side,” he said pulling out from the bar. “Blood from my clothes got on the seat. Cleaned it as soon as I got home.”

“Cause you’d fallen in love with the car by then.”

He pushed the gas and we sped down the gravel road heading toward the highway. Snack Boy was smiling again, “It may be the silver lining to this situation.”

It was strange how level he was. Given my occupation, I didn’t interact with a large amount of normal civilian/human type people. The few I’d been around tended to be far more unbalanced. The normal behavior was spinning in circles over whatever dark corner of the world they’d found themselves in. There is more crying and ranting. Begging and pleading. General whining about how unfair it was that ‘life’ did this to them. Snack Boy was tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the song playing on the radio. Maybe it was shock, he’d still not realized what happened to him yet. A second dead body within 24 hours could do that.

“You get your memory back yet?” I asked.

“Nope. I figured out I was supposed to go to a friend’s gallery showing on Sunday. I remember getting ready for that and then my memory jumps to your bar.”

“Are you an artist too?”

“Yeah. I do landscapes. Canvas and acrylic. I’ve gotten into some small pottery and sculpting work too lately.” He had this mixed tone of pride and embarrassment.

“Makes sense. You fit into her picky appetite.” That could also, maybe, explain his attitude right now. He’d Bob Ross’d his way to some peaceful state. Or got really high. Plenty of opportunities to purchase some new vice. Especially in this city.

Snack Boy looked confused, “You keep referring to me as a food.”

“It’s what she does, did, as far as I know. She’s one of those brain sucker types. But she’s this gross snob version that only eats artistic minds. Feeds on that talent first, I guess, and then feeds on the rest. Not a bad way to go, in comparison to the way other people I know eat people.”

“The woman left at my place is in my work studio out back, this shed I had converted. So that goes along with her art thing. But her brain looks like the one part of her that was left alone.” He pushed on the break as we came to the end of the gravel road where it met the highway.

I made a cannibal reference and he doesn’t flinch. Starting to lean towards the ‘on drugs’ theory, probably shouldn’t have let him drive me. “Maybe she was trying something new, sex wise. Which explains why a woman. It’s the blood that throws me off the most. Trine’s style is pretty clean.”

“You did say she went a bit crazy.” He turned left onto the highway, heading away from the city.

My bar was close to being on the outside of the city already, as it existed now. Not much more beyond a trailer park, a gas station, and a bait shop out this way. Business, and people, moved the other direction decades ago while I was dead, or living elsewhere.

“True. True. I’ll have to get a look at her. Maybe it’ll make sense then.” Maybe this guy would make sense then too. Or he could sell me some of whatever he was on.

After a few minutes, Snack Boy turned left to a newer looking side road. He drove for another ten minutes before turning right at a sign that read “Serenity Grove”. Coming around a line of trees opened up a view of a gated community of houses that must have only started to be built out here a few years ago. Only a few seemed to be currently lived in, all spread out from each other. The kind of people who could afford these places probably were probably using them for “summer” or “weekend” homes. Being ten minutes outside of the city probably seemed rather county to them. Snack Boy followed the road to the right and passed six empty looking homes before pulling in the driveway at his own. A standard kind of two story cookie cutter that could have been plucked from a suburb and dropped out here.

“So you’re not a starving artist is seems,” I said as we waited for the garage door to open.

His face turned a little red, “My dad built the place. He’s letting me stay here for super cheap.”

“Hey, no shame in that. You gotta save that money somewhere. And if you can do that here and not on his couch, good for you.”

“He likes to use it as a sample to show interested buyers for other developments. He’s gotten a few others out here from having this house set up. Have to keep the place nearly sterile since they come by anytime. But I’ve got my own work hanging up all over the place. Sold about twenty pieces that way so far.” He inched the car forward to park it next to a shitty looking Honda. Yeah, the Audi was staying here.

“See! There you go. Work that system. You make dad’s money work for you.”

Snack Boy just nodded and turned the car off. We both climbed out and he jogged over to be able to swing the door leading into the kitchen open for me. Walking in, I saw he really did mean sterile. The place didn’t look lived in. More like a set house made to be viewed, but not touched. Peeking into the living room I was hit by deja vu and I had to wonder if I might have hooked up with this guy myself at some point and forgot. I moved farther into the room for a longer look and it hit me, I’d seen this exact living room in a magazine Wendy had thrown out on the counter a couple months ago. Back then I’d made the comment the couch was too thin and frilly to be useful and my opinion still stood as I looked at the gaudy golden thing now.

“What part of the house do you actually live in?” I asked.

He laughed. Body in his backyard, but i got him to chuckle as he came into the room behind m. “In the studio. I sleep on top of the bed covers to be safe, but I also have a fold out sofa in the studio. A bit of time in the kitchen. But I bother to make food  it takes about twice as long to clean up because I have to make it spotless. Or else my dad will kill me.”

“Not your mom?” Real forward thinking there, Nancy. You’re 1940s were showing.

“If her ghost could manage it, she would. But Dad has picked it up since she passed away a couple years ago and he doesn’t rather well.”

There was a whisper of a ‘tsk’ that came from the kitchen. I chose to not seek it out. His possible ghost was not my issue.

“Well, never know. After what you’ve been dealing with lately,” I wanted to nudge the coaster on the coffee table an inch to anger the spirit of his mother. Maybe she’d hiss at me and move it back. “You didn’t pick any of this decor out did you?”

“Is it that obvious? Dad gets stuff switched out every few months to keep up with trends.” He pushed on the creme overstuffed recliner chair near him. “I like this chair. Going to ask him if I can buy it next time he wants to swap out.”

“So, there’s a body somewhere in this Stepford home of yours?”

He tensed up again, face pulled tight into what looked like anger. “Yeah, in the one space here that’s actually mine. Studio is out back.”

We stepped back into the kitchen. He walked through to the sliding patio door and flipped a switch for the light outside. String lights lined a dark wooden deck and about 15 feet from the end of the stairs was a large shed tucked away in the back corner of the yard. I was distracted by the shine the lights caused on the fridge. God, I wanted to smear my fingerprints all over it. Piss off that ghost I was pretending I didn’t catch flicker into the hall.

“Your dad built a studio with the house?” I asked.

“Dad’s clients are usually well off, if you couldn’t tell. I pitched that adding the studio could showcase how much you can do with the space out back and not feel cramped. The rich housewives he sucks up to always have some new hobby too, so he could use it was proof that he can design spaces for them to express themselves in.” He stepped out to the deck and started to move across into the yard.

I moved through the kitchen and to his side without moving my feet. In a blink, from one space to the next. Managed to get a small jump out of him, at last. “Must be a high quality studio you got then.”

“And there’s blood all over it,” he sounded disgusted. “After all the work I put in to convince my father to make the thing.”

“At least he supports the artist thing.” The yard, even in the dark, felt annoyingly well maintained. I dug my feet in with each step toward the shed. Trying to make sure I had some dirt to track back into the house.

“More so I convinced him it was a good investment.” He grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door open, waiting for me to go in first.

“You did say you’d sold pieces to his clients.” I stepped into the open doorway, consequently this was also a step into decay filled air. I backed up again. “That is a decaying body alright. “This thing sealed that smell in good.”

“Only the best from Dad. He was convinced the fumes from whatever I was doing would leak out and ruin the property value. If my art is a true money pit, he wants it to be a big one. But whatever, I got my studio. That’s why I’d like to get her out of it.”

He continued to stand holding the door open. Silently insisting me to go first. My nose had not come fully around to the rotting smell, but it was adjusting. Hindsight had me thankful that the bleach has jacked up my nose a bit earlier. Fresh bodies were no big deal. Annoying, but manageable. You let them sit for awhile, even just a day, and things could get nasty. Fast. I leaned back for one last breath of clean air and went in.

His studio was an open space. Directly left of the door was a little utility sink, mini fridge, and two cabinets with a countertop. To the right were stacks of canvas, many of them looked like completed pieces. A couple plastic shelving unit sof supplies across the way. HIs sleeper couch tucked in between those. The right corner was filled with what looked like a large black metal box with a door, but it was built partially into the wall. Positioned near center in the room was a desk and easel. Scraps of paper were scattered across the desktop, likely bits of ideas for pieces. There was a canvas on the easel, but I couldn’t see it from here due to the angle.

Given the sparse amount of bulk items in the room, it wasn’l like the body was hidden away somewhere. A solitary chair sat in the far left corner and she was tied to it. A mix of zip-ties and rope keeping her in place. Odd, seeing as how Trine normally filled her victim’s heads with happy drugs and they stayed on their own. Maybe she wanted to hear a scream for once. There were long cuts down her arms. One on her left arm looked jagged, when I got closer I saw a bunch of smaller horizontal cuts across the longer one. Someone had put a happy little tree into this woman’s skin. There was what looked like a crude mountain etched into her left leg too.

“Did you look her over at all before coming to the bar?” I asked.

“I got to the desk and couldn’t get any closer.”

I turned back to him, he was standing with his back against the wall between two stacks of canvas. “She was tortured. Trine cut stuff into her.”

“You said she liked the artsy stuff.”

I turned back to the body. The dried blood under my shoes flaked off as I moved around. More good stuff to track back inside. Trine had appeared drunk when she arrived with Snack Boy last night. But no one had thought twice about her until she shoved Carin into the jukebox and was ranting about cutting her flesh into stripes that imitate waves and an ocean of blood tinted paint. Snack Boy had been in his seat smiling the whole time.

This woman was dressed far below Trine’s standard. Even if she was experimenting with females, I figured there would have been a hard rule of black tie attire. The jean shorts and graphic tee this woman sported would not fit the bill. I tilted the woman’s head back, no makeup. Her hair didn’t look like it had fallen out of any styled do, but had been laying limp the whole time.

I stood up from the body and turned back toward the whole room. Maybe something about this space flipped a switch in Trine. “You think Trine would come out here instead of her own little posh condo in town? Especially if she picked you, and possibly this girl, up in the downtown area.”

“I’m closer to the bar. If she had been wanting to end up there, it would have been the shorter drive.”

But to go all the way in town and come farther out than she needed? Odd. I crossed the room toward the canvas stacks, pointing to the desk as I passed and said, “Can you go through that stuff for me? You’ll be able to tell what is yours and what might be some scribbles from a Trine gone mad.”

He gave a glance towards the body, not eager to step closer, but straightened his back and moved. “I thought we were just getting rid of the body.”

“It just doesn’t make sense. She’s had sloppy kills before, but nothing like this. No one really will fight over her being dead, there were plenty of people to vouch she was off her rocker and had it coming, but a couple will have questions. Like me. And I need to have the answers for her people so that I can get them out of my hair quickly when they come for her. So dig.”

Tipping the paintings forward one by one, I took in some of Snack Boys work. He hadn’t lied. Lots of landscapes. There were your typical forests, lakes, rivers, mountains, and plains that you could find littering the walls of all your doctor’s offices and boring relatives. Though some of them had interesting color choices, darker than your expectation for a visual that was usually bright. One piece displaying a cliffside so muted and depressed that I could hear the person falling to the rocks below while looking at it.

“Nothing seems out of the ordinary here,” Snack Boy said. “I mean, to a normal person my chicken scratch might look insane, but it’s all me.”

“It was a long shot,” I said setting the stack to its leaning position and turned back to the body. From here I could see the currently in progress piece. There were currently mostly faint penciled lines across the canvas. Mountains and one significantly tall tree were the bits that stood out in darker drawn lines on the canvas. I pointed toward it. “Did Trine do that?”

Snack Boy turned to the pad and seemed to be taking it in for the first time as well. HIs eyebrows scrunched together. “Maybe? I don’t remember starting it myself. But you said she fed off the artistic stuff first, right? Maybe she was copying my style?”

What came first, the body or the sketch? I moved toward the large door in the wall. “What’s this big thing?”

“A kiln. For the pottery and sculpting I mentioned before. Real authentic setup. Gives the pieces this older feel. It was the hardest thing to convince Dad to put in. He wanted to get an electric one, but they don’t come out the same.”

I nodded as if I knew what he was talking about. “So it’s a big oven. Fire and everything?”

“Fire and everything.”

“Well that makes this super easy. We burn her! Still need to break her up into bits and it’ll probably take a couple rounds to burn her all up, but no need to even take her out of the shed.” I grabbed the door handle and pulled. A few metal racks were set inside; they were adjustable to accommodate for different sized pieces. The kiln was empty, except for a long piece on the bottom rack. It was a dark black and didn’t appear to have any of the normal ‘pottery’ traits on first glance. Being nosy, I pulled it out. Maybe his sculpting is as off as his landscapes.

Not an oddly skinny vase. Not a sculpture of a twig or some pretentious shit. Not a blob of clay he’d pass off as modern art representing the human condition. Though, the human part was a hit. A femur to be exact.

I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. “Shit, and it looks like she won’t be along in there.”

“What do you mean?” Snack Boy came around the desk to get a closer look at what I had.

I pointed the bone right at his face. “You’re a goddamn psychopath.”

He blinked. “I’mma what?”

The gears were clicking together. I felt like an idiot for taking so long to get there. “Trine didn’t kill this lady, you did. You cut her up and were starting in on your little trophy painting when you had to leave for your friend’s gallery showing. You probably didn’t think much of it because you assumed you’d only be gone for a couple hours and she would have been fine for that long.”

Snack Boy was white knuckling the edge of the desk. “That cannot be right. I’m not-”

I cut him off because I was on a roll. “Then Trine grabbed you and did her mind tricks. She started feeding on your art, not realizing it was tied to your crazy. Which then drove her crazy. Talk about biting off more then you can chew. She went off the deep end at my bar because she couldn’t handle your twisted head.”

He backed  up to sit on the stool at the desk. His face had gone the sheet white I’d been expecting to see much earlier than this.

I swung the femur over to the stacks. “Are each of those darker ones a body? Because if they are you have been hard at work, my friend. I counted like ten that seemed off. You said you’ve sold some pieces, did you sell any dark ones? At this rate, you may just blow those other big hitter serial killers out of the water.”

His face was turning blue. He was taking long, hard blinks at the stacks.

I came up beside him and hit the desk with the bone. “Breath, Snack Boy. You gotta breath, man.”

He didn’t jump from the sound, but took a long breath in and on the exhale and said, “My name is Pete.”

I didn’t really care about that, but I guess it was good to know his actual name for when the papers and police caught on to this and his name was plastered everywhere. Maybe I should grab a quick picture with him to prove I knew him for a minute. “Cool, Pete the Killer. This has got to be a unique situation we have, huh? Not many times a serial killer has forgotten they were a killer. I bet.”

Pete was keeping up with the long breaths. It’d been awhile since I’d seen one, but I think this was a form of panic attack happening. “I do suppose this is rather novel.”

“I mean, think about how well you’ve been taking a lot of this stuff so far though. It was a bit strange, I gotta say. Thought you were on some strong ass weed or something. Makes sense that finding out you’re a serial killer would be tipping point for an already unstable brain.”

“Can you stop calling me a serial killer for thirty seconds? Please.” He was slowly bending over towards the desk. His forehead resting on the wooden top. “The room is spinning a bit.”

I rubbed his back with the nub of the bone. “There, there. It’ll all come back to you. I assume. I bet in no time your memories will come back and you’ll be your old, uh, eccentric hobbyist self.

“Joy.”

“Okay, well, how long before this little fit can wrap up? We got some barbecue to do.” I was not about to do all of this myself and have to listen to him hyperventilate on top of that.

“Can you give me a minute here?”

“Sure. Sure. Woosaa, dude. Woosaa.” I went back to the body. Poked her a couple times with the end of the bone. She shifted a bit in the seat with each jab. “You know it’s too bad Trine had you gone so long. No easy breaks on this body anymore. She’s come back around to floppy.”

He groaned into the desk. His breathing was evening out.

I tossed the bone across the flood, back towards the kiln. It was going to need to finish burning. Breaking zip-ties and ropes wasn’t a hard task. Thank you, telekinetic powers from hell. No longer tied to the chair, the body tipped to the left and fell. I watched her face smack the concrete, could have bruised if most of her blood wasn’t already on the floor.

The stool scraped against the floor, Pete was standing again. He was leaning heavily on the desk, but standing. His eyes zeroed in on the stacks of paintings, the pile of potential victims.

“Hey,” I broke him of his self-induced trance. “How about you get that fire going for us?”

His movement was stiff, auto-pilot functioning, but he did what I asked. There was some control panel I’d not paid attention to next to the door. He punched a few buttons and I heard the machine hidden within the wall kick on. Small crackles of fire came a minute later.

On my end of the room, I had the body broken up in a few bits by the time the fire was popping. Arms and legs divided up the joints. Neck broken off closer to the collar bone. The torso was still a considerable chunk, no real clean place to break that one up more without spilling some guts around. It was a pretty tidy job, I thought. Though I wondered how he did it on his own. No special mind powers on his end, that I knew of. Or hell, that he knew of either.

Pete was fidgeting with a dial on the wall. Waiting on the fire to pick up. I stepped over to the sink/fridge area and continued being nosy. Maybe there was another body in here somewhere. A skull on a shelf. An organ in the icebox.

The cabinets held more art supplies. Paint thinner, cartons filled with half used paint tubes, and the like. Under the sink there was a large amount of bleach, to be expected given that this room was really for. I pulled a bottle out and the bucket also stowed away there. The fridge was empty, I realized it wasn’t even running when I pulled the door open and no light came on.

“Your fridge is busted.”

“Bad outlet,” he replied in a flat voice. “Gotta get an electrician out here.”

Before closing the door, I noticed the bottom of the fridge had pulled out from the force of the door opening. So the fridge was really, really busted. How’d his father let a crapped out fridge like this get in there? Leaning down, I pulled the loose plastic out and found another fun surprise. The edges of the piece were clean, they’d been cut. With that able to be pulled out, it made a space of a couple inches below the fridge where three meat cleavers and a sharpening stone were hidden away. So that’s how he did the bodies. I slid the plastic back into place, deciding to let him discover that one on his own.

“Kiln is almost warmed up. Should get her in there before it’s too hot to have the door open,” he said.

“Sounds good. Grab some and toss her in.” I stacked a pile of pieces in my arms. Watched enough Rachel Ray over the years to know how to balance an awkward amount of stuff.

Pete stood over the body for a moment, looking over the pieces one by one. I was tossing my arm load on a rack by the time he bent over to pick up two chunks of her right leg. He was slow going, but did a part of the body moving at least. The head had been left for me to roll into the bottom rack, but he snapped the door shut and punched the temperature up one last time.

“Now you just let that bake for about twenty minutes,” I said. “Maybe give it a turn to make sure everything cooks evenly.”

Pete stepped around me and went back to the sketch pad on the easel.”You think I could stop?”

“Being a killer? Wanting to kill? That could be a hard one.”

“But I don’t understand how I could do this. How could I be such a monster? I don’t feel like killing anyone now.” His fingers traced the lines of the tree.

“Because your head is still recovering from Trine. She was feeding on that part of you, it’s probably tapped out. Give it time, I bet whatever trigger you get to kill will come back.”

“What if I don’t want it? What if I fight it?”

God  damn, I agreed to body removal. Not therapy. Deep breath. Help the sad, human killer. It’s still better than inventory. “Uh, well, I’d suggest finding a damn good hobby. Something to fill those idle hands. Not much can match up with murder.”

Pete sat on the stool and picked up a pencil from the lip of the easel. He shaded in a peak of a mountain. “What if I just focus on the work? You think that’d be enough?”

“No. Not even close.” From what I’d gathered, it was focusing on the work that drove him to cutting it into woman. I felt a tiny bit bad when his pencil dropped for a second. “But, I mean, really I know fuck all about you. Maybe that’d work.”

“Maybe.” He kept working on his lines. Another peak coming to life bit by bit.

My eyes flickered over to the stain of blood and gunk still on the floor around the chair. If he was going to fully zone out on me now, I was out. A phantom ache in my lower back reminded me of all the time I’d spent mopping just the night before. “So I figure you can clean that last bit up on your own. Now that we have the hard stuff out of the way.”

He leaned over to look at the dried blood pool. His hand idly matching the shape on the canvas as a pond. “Yeah, I can get that. Thanks for your help.”

I passed him to get to the door, but stopped before going out. “Hey, I mean nothing says you have to be a killer. I guess. You can give the normal guy thing to try. But if that doesn’t work, if you decide you want to dive back into that dark part of yourself, come by the bar sometime. I think you’ll be surprised at how much company you’ll be in. Monsters are a matter of perspective, you’d be surprised by how many you actually like.”

I was a businesswoman first. Asshole second. Some days anyway. Anything to sell a couple more beers. And maybe something to do with those bits of humanity still rolling around in my head.

I was halfway through the yard before I heard him call out, “You need a ride back?”

“No, I can take a shortcut.” Thank you again supernatural powers from hell. “You just keep doing that.”

I didn’t need to go back in the house, but I hadn’t stepped in all that gunk for nothing. Since it seemed he’d be out here for awhile, I should probably shut off the lights for him anyway. Stepping back into the sterile kitchen was unsettling. Two very different worlds in such a small space, but I suppose that was the point. I pulled open the large fridge door and found tidy shelves filled with organic foods. Cans of beverages and neatly stacked containers of leftovers ready to be viewed by the nosy potential buyers, or the nosy demon bartender. For my time, I snatched a can of pop.

“Not yours, Young Lady,” a chill voice echoed through the room.

I licked my palm and ran it over the freezer door. “Fuck you, ghost mother.”

With a thought I flicked off the lights and then snapped myself from the house to the front door of Heathens. I popped the tab of the can, it sprayed up into the air and partly in my face. One goddamn day I was going to remember that shit happened.

A week later, I was still telling patrons about Snack Boy/Pete the Serial Killer.He was a hit around the bar. People were nagging me for his address, wanting to see his deadly art studio for themselves. They were begging for a peak at the kiln filled with ashes of who knows how many bodies. But I never gave it out. As far as I knew, he wasn’t killing anymore. I would check for missing women, but that was kind of a needle in a haystack situation in this city. Letting him try to make the normal thing work was the one good deed I had going. I liked to have one of those from time to time. For shits and giggles. Also it pissed off the Divine folk when you could throw a good dead you’d done in their face.

I was facing the bottles in the cooler when I heard the scrape of a barstool against the floor. Wendy was running tables, so I turned around to help whoever had arrived.

Pete. Blonde hair styled, a little floof of volume on top of his head. A green bottom up and a thin canvas jacket. All that around a smile that only pulled up one corner of his mouth. Green eyes brighter that I”d remember them being.

“Hey there!” he said, in a lighter tone than I’d heard from him before. “It was Nancy, right?”

Hot damn he was…damn hot. Had i not been looking at him in good light before? “Uh, yeah. Nancy. That’s me. I’m surprised to see you Sna…Pete.”

“I have something I wanted to show you.” He pulled a couple folded pictures from a pocket and laid them out on the bar in my direction. The top one was the drawing he’d been doing when I left him, but finished as a full painting. Looming mountains, a dark pond, and that tall tree you could tell was waiting for a body to hang from it.

“Wow. That’s awesome. No shit, you’re actually really good.”

“Glad you think so. Though I had to find a little extra inspiration since my original dried up.” The other side of his mouth pulled up, reacting to a joke only he got. Pete, out of instinct I figured, looked around him before swapping to the second picture. Another woman tied to the same chair. Cut with jagged lines over any visible skin. “The mountains were given me trouble. I needed a different medium to help get the lines right.”

Now I was smiling too. “Normal life wasn’t too exciting was it?”

“Not at all.”

I pulled two bottles of beer at random from the ice chest below me, handing him one. “We’ll put this first one on the house to celebrate your return to the dark side. Welcome to Heathens.”

“Thanks,” he said and took a long pull from the beer. “By the way, did you lick my fridge?”

[untruthsteller]

Oh Shit it's P5 headcanon time

[machetelanding]

This is an honest, open story from a young woman about her marriage. There are some powerful truths spoken here, worthy of notice and reflection. If you’re married, have ever been married, or plan on getting married eventually, this is for you. From Tickld via Reddit:

My “Aha Moment” happened because of a package of hamburger meat. I asked my husband to stop by the store to pick up a few things for dinner, and when he got home, he plopped the bag on the counter. I started pulling things out of the bag, and realized he’d gotten the 70/30 hamburger meat – which means it’s 70% lean and 30% fat.

I asked, “What’s this?”

“Hamburger meat,” he replied, slightly confused.

“You didn’t get the right kind,” I said.

“I didn’t?” He replied with his brow furrowed. ” Was there some other brand you wanted or something?”

“No. You’re missing the point, ” I said. “You got the 70/30. I always get at least the 80/20.”

He laughed. “Oh. That’s all? I thought I’d really messed up or something.”

That’s how it started. I launched into him. I berated him for not being smarter. Why would he not get the more healthy option? Did he even read the labels? Why can’t I trust him? Do I need to spell out every little thing for him in minute detail so he gets it right? Also, and the thing I was probably most offended by, why wasn’t he more observant? How could he not have noticed over the years what I always get? Does he not pay attention to anything I do?

I suddenly felt terrible. And embarrassed for myself. He was right. It really wasn’t anything to get bent out of shape over. And there I was doing just that. Over a silly package of hamburger meat that he dutifully picked up from the grocery store just like I asked. If I had specific requirements, I should have been clearer. I didn’t know how to gracefully extract myself from the conversation without coming across like I have some kind of split personality, so I just mumbled something like, “Yeah. I guess we’ll make do with this. I’m going to start dinner.”

He seemed relieved it was over and he left the kitchen.

And then I sat there and thought long and hard about what I’d just done. And what I’d been doing to him for years, probably. The “hamburger meat moment,” as I’ve come to call it, certainly wasn’t the first time I scolded him for not doing something the way I thought it should be done. He was always putting something away in the wrong place. Or leaving something out. Or neglecting to do something altogether. And I was always right there to point it out to him.

Why do I do that? How does it benefit me to constantly belittle my husband? The man that I’ve taken as my partner in life. The father of my children. The guy I want to have by my side as I grow old. Why do I do what women are so often accused of, and try to change the way he does every little thing? Do I feel like I’m accomplishing something? Clearly not if I feel I have to keep doing it. Why do I think it’s reasonable to expect him to remember everything I want and do it just that way? The instances in which he does something differently, does it mean he’s wrong? When did “my way” become “the only way?” When did it become okay to constantly correct him and lecture him and point out every little thing I didn’t like as if he were making some kind of mistake?

And how does it benefit him? Does it make him think, “Wow! I’m sure glad she was there to set me straight?” I highly doubt it. He probably feels like I’m harping on him for no reason whatsoever. And it I’m pretty sure it makes him think his best approach in regards to me is to either stop doing things around the house, or avoid me altogether.

Two cases in point. #1. I recently found a shard of glass on the kitchen floor. I asked him what happened. He said he broke a glass the night before. When I asked why he didn’t tell me, he said, “I just cleaned it up and threw it away because I didn’t want you to have a conniption fit over it.” #2. I was taking out the trash and found a pair of blue tube socks in the bin outside. I asked him what happened and why he’d thrown them away. He said, “They accidentally got in the wash with my jeans. Every time I put in laundry, you feel the need to remind me not to mix colors and whites. I didn’t want you to see them and reinforce your obvious belief that I don’t know how to wash clothes after 35 years.”

So it got to the point where he felt it was a better idea — or just plain easier — to cover things up than admit he made a human error. What kind of environment have I created where he feels he’s not allowed to make mistakes?

I know now that what he means is, “this thing that has you so upset is a small detail, or a matter of opinion, or a preference, and I don’t see why you’re making it such a big deal.” But from my end I came to interpret it over time that he didn’t care about my happiness or trying to do things the way I think they should be done. I came to view it like “this guy just doesn’t get it.” I am clearly the brains of this operation.

I started thinking about what I’d observed with my friends’ relationships, and things my girlfriends would complain about regarding their husbands, and I realized that I wasn’t alone. Somehow, too many women have fallen into the belief that Wife Always Knows Best. There’s even a phrase to reinforce it: “Happy wife, happy life.” That doesn’t leave a lot of room for his opinions, does it?

It’s an easy stereotype to buy into. Look at the media. Movies, TV, advertisements – they’re all filled with images of hapless husbands and clever wives. He can’t cook. He can’t take care of the kids. If you send him out to get three things, he’ll come back with two — and they’ll both be wrong. We see it again and again.

What this constant nagging and harping does is send a message to our husbands that says “we don’t respect you. We don’t think you’re smart enough to do things right. We expect you to mess up. And when you do, you’ll be called out on it swiftly and without reservation.” Given this kind of negative reinforcement over time, he feels like nothing he can do is right (in your eyes). If he’s confident with himself and who he is, he’ll come to resent you. If he’s at all unsure about himself, he’ll start to believe you, and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Neither one is a desirable, beneficial outcome to you, him or the marriage.

Did my husband do the same to me? Just as I’m sure there are untold numbers of women who don’t ever do this kind of thing to their husbands, I’m sure there are men who do it to their wives too. But I don’t think of it as a typical male characteristic. As I sat and thought about it, I realized my husband didn’t display the same behavior toward me. I even thought about some of the times I really did make mistakes. The time I backed into the gate and scratched the car? He never said a word about it. The time I was making dinner, got distracted by a call from my mom, and burned it to cinders? He just said, “We can just order a pizza.” The time I tried to put the new patio furniture together and left his good tools out in the rain? “Accidents happen,” was his only response.

I shuddered to think what I would have said had the shoe been on the other foot and he’d made those mistakes.

So is he just a better person than me? Why doesn’t he bite my head off when I don’t do things the way he likes? I’d be a fool to think it doesn’t happen. And yet I don’t remember him ever calling me out on it. It doesn’t seem he’s as intent as changing the way I do things. But why?

Maybe I should take what’s he always said at face value. The fact that these little things “really don’t matter that much to him” is not a sign that he’s lazy, or that he’s incapable of learning, or that he just doesn’t give a damn about what I want. Maybe to him, the small details are not that important in his mind — and justifiably so. They’re not the kinds of things to start fights over. They’re not the kinds of things he needs to change about me. It certainly doesn’t make him dumb or inept. He’s just not as concerned with some of the minutia as I am. And it’s why he doesn’t freak out when he’s on the other side of the fence.

The bottom line in all this is that I chose this man as my partner. He’s not my servant. He’s not my employee. He’s not my child. I didn’t think he was stupid when I married him – otherwise I wouldn’t have. He doesn’t need to be reprimanded by me because I don’t like the way he does some things.

When I got to that point mentally, it then made me start thinking about all the good things about him. He’s intelligent. He’s a good person. He’s devoted. He’s awesome with the kids. And he does always help around the house. (Just not always to my liking!) Even more, not only does he refrain from giving me grief when I make mistakes or do things differently than him, he’s always been very agreeable to my way of doing things. And for the most part, if he notices I prefer to do something a certain way, he tries to remember it in the future. Instead of focusing on those wonderful things, I just harped on the negative. And again, I know I’m not alone in this.

If we keep attempting to make our husbands feel small, or foolish, or inept because they occasionally mess up (and I use that term to also mean “do things differently than us”), then eventually they’re going to stop trying to do things. Or worse yet, they’ll actually come to believe those labels are true.

In my case it’s my husband of 12+ years I’m talking about. The same man who thanklessly changed my car tire in the rain. The guy who taught our kids to ride bikes. The person who stayed with me at the hospital all night when my mom was sick. The man who has always worked hard to make a decent living and support his family.

He knows how to change the oil in the car. He can re-install my computer’s operating system. He lifts things for me that are too heavy and opens stuck jar lids. He shovels the sidewalk. He can put up a ceiling fan. He fixes the toilet when it won’t stop running. I can’t (or don’t) do any of those things. And yet I give him grief about a dish out of place. He’s a good man who does a lot for me, and doesn’t deserve to be harassed over little things that really don’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

It takes two to make a partnership. No one is always right and no one is always wrong. And you’re not always going to see eye-to-eye on every little thing. It doesn’t make you smarter, or superior, or more right to point out every little thing he does that’s not to your liking. Ladies, remember, it’s just hamburger meat.

[alchemistc]

The Price 5/?

Summary: Killian and the Swan begin to settle into the castle together.

an: A few choice songs I listened to while writing this: “Horns” by Bryce Fox, “Hey, Brother” by Aviici and “Dauðalogn”by Sigor Ros, so, I guess, take from that what you will.

tagging @kmomof4​, @the-captains-ayebrows​, @jadeddiva​, @artielu​, and @dreadpirateemma​

Chapter List: One/Two/Three/Four

Chapter Five

Whatever small truce they’d called between them to contain the storm that night, it did nothing to stop her aggravating him at every turn, nor did it put an end to his impulse to try her patience whenever possible. There was a comfort in knowing one moment shared between them was not enough for him to grow too at ease with her.

Still, over the course of the next few weeks, they begin to grow a rapport.

They’d even begun to form a routine, of sorts.

Killian woke well before the sun, habits still unchanged despite his new and rather leisurely lifestyle, and spent a few minutes staring in annoyance at the silks and brocades and lace hanging in his wardrobe before putting on his own worn clothing.

Twice a week, instead of glaring dourly at the choice of clothing the Swan had left him with, he fashioned himself a basin and some soap from the air around him, and washed the aforementioned worn shirt and trousers, the simple, ordinary motions of the task soothing his mind. The Swan had given him a book of spells meant purely for cleansing, but he preferred the methodical action of doing them himself. The thought in his mind had exasperated her, but they’d moved on to something new the following day.

He spent an hour after that skulking the castle, surprised to find every day something he hadn’t discovered the previous day.

The kitchens held their own sort of magic - or perhaps his worked it, he was still a bit unsure - and every morning he lit the flames in the stove and the hearth, and every morning some delicacy appeared: honey glazed breads stuffed with raisins; delicate croissants, buttery and flaking against his tongue; porridge just the way his mother used to make it; sausage and fried eggs when he’d tired himself or forgotten to eat after his lessons the day before.

Very occasionally, he found dishes that were completely foreign to Misthaven, things he’d bought off street carts in distant lands, and he enjoyed those more thoroughly, losing himself in the memory of bustling bazaars and exotic spices, loud and intricate textiles and delicately crafted pottery.

The books she gave him became a bit of a game - solely for his own amusement, at first, to see the exasperation on her face every morning when he handed it to back her. At first she hadn’t believed him - couldn’t fathom how he’d grasped at the intent of the spellwork all in one night, and she’d begun to test him on it - sending hexes his way just to see if he understood the workings of defensive magic, asking him theories behind different elements, throwing up walls of spellwork just to see if he could solve their puzzle.

When she finally came to admit that he wasn’t merely being insolent, she, too, began to play at scheming, grabbing for ever more difficult tomes every evening, a challenging glint in her eye as she handed it off without a word.

She’d yet to find one he couldn’t devour by breakfast.

Killian can’t decide whether he’s begun to like her, or if he’s just been starved for company.

She’s stubborn - by the gods, she’s more stubborn even than him - and whatever vulnerability she’d shared with him the night they’d conquered the storm together had only made her more reticent since.

Still, she was surprisingly funny, once her wit was not aimed solely at wounding him, and there was a comfort in her presence, a calming stillness that felt foreign and familiar all at once.

There were days where they sat in the library together, debating the merits of using air instead of fire, or speaking of the witches and wizards whose words filled the pages around them, or he maintained small, concentrated workings, where he longed to grip her hand once more, and feel the sturdiness of her power stand rigid against the clash of his own, feel it give, just a bit, to let the rage of his storm in.

And then a moment later she’d scowl and call him a fool as whatever spell he’d been holding fell to pieces in his distraction, sifting through his fingers like sand, and he’d forget all about it.

Today he finds her pacing the library in a foul mood, muttering to herself - at least, he believes it is to herself, although she darts a glance over her shoulder once, and pins a terrible look against a wall of books behind her.

Killian makes a point of knocking his knuckles against the door as he enters, and she snaps to attention, a wild look dissipating as she takes him in.

A scornful one overtakes it. Wonderful. He does so enjoy her ever vacsillating moods.

“I have provided you an astonishing supply of clothing, Jones, have I not?”

“You have.”

“And yet, here you are, months later, still in your rags. Tell me, are you things not fine enough for you?”

Killian is in no mood to be treated like a child. Or a subordinate.

“I don’t like them. They’re stuffy, they’re overly complicated, and I’ve no use for them.”

She huffs, sullenly, and Killian wonders when it was she’d decided to drop her unflappable persona. Was it that night in the storm, when he’d felt the presence of her magic sink into his own? Or had it been earlier, while she wandered the halls of her own castle like a ghost to avoid him? Perhaps after, when he’d sat across the table from her at the dinner they occasionally shared and told her a bawdy joke he’d expected her to be annoyed with, only to get to the punchline and find her covering her mouth with a handkerchief, her eyes glittering in amusement despite her attempts at hiding her laughter.

“What, exactly, would you prefer then?”

Killian stares at her for a beat, and then raises his arms, turning his gaze pointedly downward to himself. “This.”

She sighs, impatient but surrendering, and pulls a book from the shelf behind her.

She tosses it across the room to him, ignoring his surprised yelp, and spins to a chair facing away from him, falling into it in a heave of irritation.

Killian tries, and fails, to keep his amusement hidden, but for all that he’d thought he would despise every moment of his time here, he can’t help but think no other pupil had ever managed to provoke her so. Then again, few had ever found the specific pleasure in it that he did. Few had likely ever dared. It helped that when she grew to annoyance, the veneer of her self-possessed facade fell away, and her eyes blazed, her voice changing pitch as color rose in her face.

Yes, he quite enjoyed watching her emotions play out. Perhaps, one day, he’d manage to pull out some sincerity.

The Swan snorted from her spot, hidden from his eyes, and Killian shot a glare at the back of the chair, thinking get out of my head.

He doubted the thought did much - it seemed more a reflex than anything else, as though she was so used to it she had never thought not to have her mind half in his.

The spellbook in his hands is light, barely larger than a children’s story, but when he opens it the lines of script are thin and tight, winding along the pages like threads of an embroidery. It takes him a moment to grow used to it, but after a few furious blinks he realizes it is spellwork for altering fabric.

He reads through a few pages, sitting at the chair behind her desk, until he begins to grasp the method behind it, and turns his head in search of something to try it out on.

His gaze lands on the buttery leather of the Swans jacket, but the impish thought has barely crossed his mind before she waves a hand, his wardrobe emerging from the air behind her, blocking her entirely from his view.

He pulls the most obnoxious jerkin he can find from the thing, giving it a grimace before he sets it on the desk, and begins to catch the threads of the working.

The Swan goes still and silent behind the wardrobe, something in her still curious to know his methods, eager to understand his power, but Killian ignores it, lets the magic slip nimble and soft through his fingertips, lets the memory of his own shoddy work as a young boy with a needle and a sewing palm slip into the working, the memory of mending his shirts flowing into it as well.

When he opens his eyes again, the jerkinis gone.

In it’s place is a vest - far more ornate than anything Killian has ever owned, but still somehow simple enough for his taste, with black embroidery winding on a blood red silk brocade, black piping along the edges, finely shaped brass buttons lining either side of it.

Satisfied, he lays it aside and sets upon the rest of the wardrobe.

The spell comes easier to him, this time, and soon enough he’s turned the whole thing into clothing he’ll actually wear, and feels no remorse for the loss of the ridiculous frippery. Pleased with himself, he finally returns the vest to it and slides around both the wardrobe and the chair to stare defiantly at the Swan.

She gives him an unimpressed look. “Now put the wardrobe back where it belongs and summon the other one.”

------

They dine together two or three times a week, though it’s the only time he ever sees her eat. She has an affinity for the rum he summons up, but she picks at the grand plates of food piled high, and watches him eat with a mixture of disgust and amused alarm. He’s never tasted so much good food in his life, and if not for the amount of walking he does, searching out the castles secrets every morning, he is certain he would lose his fit physique in days.

Tonight he dons his new clothing, giving himself a satisfied once over in the looking glass before he heads down to the hall where they usually meet.

It’s one of the smaller chambers in the sprawling castle, intimate enough that he is sometimes able to forget exactly how alone they are in it, and he enjoys the slide of the trousers against his legs, the new cut of his shirt, with it’s high collar lined with yet more buttons, and the way the cool evening air slides through it to his skin.

She’s already there when he turns into the chamber, staring at the roast swan with an unimpressed air, and he’s already gearing up for battle with her, ready to wave his hand over the thing and change it back to the chicken he’d had planned before she’d made him run all the way up to his chambers to ensure he’d sent the wardrobes both back to the exact spot they’d been taken from.

Instead, her breath catches in her throat when she glances up and catches sight of him.

Killian can see the effort it takes her to swallow as she stares him up and down, and he supposes he does look quite different.

He’d used a spell to slice off most of the length of his hair, a week before, annoyed to have it always in his eyes while he let his gaze sweep the pages of spellbooks, and though in theory the clothes he wore were nearly an exact replica of the one pair he’d come with, these are certainly finer, the slick leather of his trousers, the dark sheer material of his shirt, which he’d worn as usual, buttons undone until they met the opening of the vest he wore.

A word flits across his memory, one he hasn’t thought of in ages - rapscallion - and he raises an amused eyebrow.

Whatever had caused her sudden lapse of self control, it’s gone by the time he settles into the seat across from her, leaning heavily against the back of it, his legs spread wide.

She clears her throat, darts her glance to the table, and then reaches for a silver goblet decorated with fine, thin winding vinework, downing the contents of it and reaching for the bottle of rum to refill it at once.

Killian watches her in surprise as she piles her plate high with food, even pulling a leg off the bird on display in the middle of the table while she spoons vegetables out of their serving bowls.

He watches until she grows uncomfortably aware of his stare, and slows her movements before finally tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “What?”

His shoulder jumps up in a shrug. “You don’t eat, much. Usually.”

“It’s not necessary,” is all she will tell him about the matter, and most of the time, he would let it lie, but tonight he is curious, and he can tell that the murmurings of his thoughts on the matter annoy her.

“And yet, tonight you’ve loaded more on your plate at once than I’ve seen you eat in all my time here.”

“I’m hungry,” she tells him, eyeing the line of his collarbone and the way the thin shirt lies against his chest.

It’s a thought that hasn’t entered his mind before now (at least, not often, he will concede). The way she’s looking at him is curious, and new, and he feels his ears burning, but he can’t help the smirk that darts across his face, making her scowl at him and return to staring at her plate.

She’s far from unattractive, even with the strange paleness of her hair and the glittering of her skin, and he imagines that she must once have been a great beauty. The stories always made her so, a gorgeous, terrifying beast, who cared for her people by slaying their enemies.

But it is not that, exactly, that draws him to her, that makes him think of her in the dead of night when the magic is roiling under his skin and he can’t find a position that is comfortable for more than a few minutes. Trying to figure her out is maddening. There are days when their arguments about theories and methods for spellwork grow so heated they fling remnants of magic out into the room they are in, where the library grows warm enough for her to unbutton the cuffs of her shirt and roll the sleeves to her elbows, and her hair breaks from it’s bun in tendrils to curl loosely around her forehead (in the heat of the moment, he’ll watch the way her fingers brush them behind her ears with fascination, his own hands twitching with the desire to perform that action themselves).

No, it’s not that, that keeps him awake at night, wondering about her.

When he closes his eyes, he wonders what her life might have been like, before she saved Misthaven. Had she had a family? Friends, perhaps a lover? Had she known the comfort of other people, in her life, or had she always been so...alone?

He can feel the annoyed press of her magic against his skull, always moving and changing, like the spring runoff rushing to forge new paths in the ground as it makes its journey to the sea. Embarrassed by the train of his own thought, he pushes back against it, thinking of immovable boulders forcing the water to move around it, and just like that, the rush of her magic flows around him, instead of through.

She looks both impressed and disappointed.

“Stay out of my mind.”

She hums, and returns to her meal.

By the time they’ve finished, she’s eaten two full plates of food, and drank half his rum besides, and yet they are still both pent up and frustrated, the energy ringing between them. He has a vague inkling of a thought, one he hopes she hasn’t seen herself, and tries to remember what he’d done before he realized that he was charming enough to flirt his way into an easy fuck while ashore.

She shoots him a quick, frrustrated look. “It’d be far easier to stay out of your thoughts if you didn’t fling them across the room.”

He scratches behind his ear bashfully, and takes another swig of the rum, and then it comes to him. “Have you ever handled a sword before?”

The Swan had been taking a drink of her own; she coughs, her face turning a becoming shade of pink as she attempts to compose herself.

------

The yard is bathed in deep shades of red and purple as twilight sets in, shadows cast by their figures as they circle each other. Killian hadn’t thought for a moment that she’d take him up on the suggestion of sparring, but there’d been a sparkle in her eyes when he’d said the words, her gaze turning far off and distant for a moment before she turned a frankly wicked grin on him. “You couldn’t handle it.”

Surprised by the playfulness in her voice, he’d responded as though to a woman he’d met in the tavern, and not the powerful sorceress he’d disliked so fiercely only weeks before. “Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”

While he’d been choosing himself a weapon from her collection in the armory, she’d stripped herself of her jacket, and in the low light in the yard, he watched her now as she paced back and forth.

She has good form - he can see that already, in the few parries they’ve shared as they test each other out - there is something almost familiar in the way she carries herself, the way she holds the hilt, the way she settles her weight from foot to foot.

He lets out a delighted bark of laughter when she rushes towards him, raising his own cutlass against the attack of her broadsword, and the clash of metal rings through the yard as he pushes back, using his weight to shove her away.

He presses his advantage, his shoulder rolling as the sword makes a high arc, but she defends the blow, her leg kicking out to push him back, catching him in the gut and nearly doubling him over.

He grins again. She’s no novice, at this - she has a style, knows how to use her body - knows when to fight dirty. There’s no urgency in their movements, yet, though he can sense already that it will get there - for now they are toying with each other, feeling each other out. She parries his attacks, he uses the strength of his limbs to press her backward, she spins and settles low, carrying her weight where she can use it to her best advantage.

They go on like that for a while, until the sun has sunk below the horizon and the only light above them comes from the reflection of it in the clouds above. His blood is humming in his skin, and he can already feel the delicious ache of a good fight settling into his muscles. What has delighted him most, though, is the constant stream of insults they’ve been sending back and forth at each other, nothing of true ill intent, merely a battle of wits to match the clanging of their swords, the rhythm of it almost musical as the fight goes on. It reminds him, unnervingly, of the stretch of her magic against his own.

She doesn’t tire, but he can see her losing focus, settling too easily into their steady rhythm, and there he finds his upper hand.

She goes for the kick, again, ready to let the momentum fuel her spin, but he catches her leg, instead - her eyes widen in the moment before he yanks, and she goes tumbling to the dirt with a cry of bewilderment.

The sword in his hand swings towards her as she falls against the gravel, and hers rises to meet it, but he’s won, and they both know it.

His smirk is wide and triumphant as he presses his weight into the blade, watching her arms quiver to hold him away from her.

She sighs, her breath coming in deep huffs as she struggles. “Going to stab me now, Jones?” It’s a joke, mostly, but neither of them are ignoring the fact that not very long ago, were they in this position, he would have tried.

“I assure you,” he says, voice low as he leans over her. “When I jab you with my sword, you’ll feel it.”

In the darkness descending on them, it is difficult to see her expression, but he feels the discomfort of her magic as it rushes out, sending him flying backward and away from him in a wave.

They don’t speak as they return to the armory, returning the weapons to their places, and she pulls her jacket back on, turning towards him at the doorway, her face bathed in the low light of one of her lanterns, shadows flickering across her skin.

She seems to want to say something, but is unsure what, exactly. Killian again struggles to keep the wish to see inside her own mind to himself as something indecipherable crosses her expression, and finally, she turns to leave.

“I still won!” he calls out behind her, unsure why he wants her to stay, if but for a moment more.

She glances over her shoulder, eyes rolling, mask firmly back in place, whatever she’d been feeling hidden well now. “Whatever you say, Jones.”

His lips turn up, a genuine smile lighting his features, and as she turns away he catches a wisp of her own grin.

------

The fight had done nothing to ease the tension thrumming through him - it had, in fact, made it worse, like a line pulled taught with no slack to ease it. But the spar had, at least, exhausted him, and he curls into the four poster, his eyes drifting closed as he summons up a quieter, softer version of the ocean spell outside his window, and the hushed sound of water lapping against the stone outside eases him to sleep.

The blast of cannon beats against his eardrums as he rushes up the shoreline, eyes intent on the shoddy barricade set further up the sand. There are swords clashing, and pistols firing, and all around him the sound of grunts and cries, men falling to the sand, unmoving.

He ignores it, eyes searching frantically, his heart pounding viciously against his ribcage.

Cannons blast again, and chain shot goes sailing past him, careening through the barricade, the force of it driving back two men with a wild scream.

The heat of the sun beats down on them all, and over the clatter of bullets and the screams of the men, he can hear the ocean tide whispering behind him, calling out to him, attempting to ease his mind.

He longs to turn towards it, but he is still searching, still desperate, and he moves along, further up the beach, past a man grasping at the bloodied stump of his leg, past the barricade, inland until he has to leap boulders to make it to the treeline, where the majority of the fighting is being done.

Amidst the trees, the sound of the ocean fades, and Killian ignores the clash of swords around him, eyes casting about.

The desperation seeps into his marrow, his chest tight with worry, as he watches a man slit another’s throat, only to keel over a moment later with a blade through his belly.

He crumbles to the ground, but the man who’d done the job iis already turning away, raising his sword against another attack - he sins and parries, his jacket whipping around him, and fells this attacker, too, yelling out a command Killian can’t hear over the din of battle.

His fine jacket is stained with blood, his boots caked in mud, his curling hair covered in a fine dusting of sand and soot, but he looks glorious, standing tall and firm against the onslaught. Killian moves towards him, reaching out a hand -

From his left, a man rushes towards the great warrior, but he doesn’t see the attack coming, his back towards it as he surveys the scene, and Killian feels panic rising within him as the man grows closer, raising his sword -

“Liam!”

Killian blinks away the dream, the moonlight lanterns flickering to life at the bedside as he scrambles to rid himself of the coverlet, already reaching for his boots at the bedside before he realizes where he is.

Just a dream, he whispers over the pounding of his heartbeat. It’s just a dream. Outside, the sounds of the ocean stir something inside of him, and he takes a few deep, steadying breaths, eyes closed as he leans against the serpentine carvings of vines on the headboard

He startles as the door to his rooms bangs open, reaching for a weapon, anything that might help him, and finds only the book the Swan had given him the night before, the first he’d failed to complete in a single night, and he wonders vaguely if he’ll be able to grasp it’s complexities before their meeting that morning, if only to continue their battle.

He throws it without another thought, the frenzy of the combat in his dream still driving him.

The Swan catches it with ease, his dread eased somewhat at the sight of her, but only for a moment.

She’s still in her jacket and trousers, although the vest she wears beneath it is  open, a strange sight to him, as buttoned up and crisp as her appearance usually is. There is a concerned pinch to her features, and her hands shake as she sets the book on the sideboard.

“Get up,” she tells him, her gaze sweeping over his rooms, avoiding his eye. “Something’s happened.”