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kingreywrites · 3 years ago

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Beyond Those Trees

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 2263

Eugene Appreciation Week Day One: Childhood

Summary: When he was five, Eugene climbed a tree.

Note: i am very very weak for orphanage stories so here is a self-indulgent one asfhdghj also i generally hc that lance grew up for a few years with his parents before losing them (around the time he was six or seven) and then going to the orphanage and meeting eugene, which is why he won't really be there because they haven’t met yet ;;

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When he was five, Eugene climbed a tree.

He shouldn't have climbed that tree. He knew the matrons at the orphanage would be mad at him, and tell him that he was causing trouble again, that he should stop making it more difficult on them by being up to no good all the time. Something like that, at least; he heard the sermon often enough.

But, for all that they hated when he did stupid stuff, it wasn't like the matrons paid much attention to him in the first place. Not enough to stop him, in any case. As long as they didn't know, it would be fine, and Eugene knew they wouldn't notice anything if he did it before they checked where he was. So he left the orphanage right after lunch, went to the big old tree not too far at the edge of the village, and decided to climb it. He saw the older boys do it a few days before - they weren't his friends, and so he had been too shy to join them, but now he knew how to do it, and he wasn't gonna wait anymore.

He wanted to do the same thing as Flynnigan Rider on the cover of his favourite book, the one he was painstakingly learning to read with. On it, the adventurer stood tall on the branch of a tree, looking towards the sun rising on the horizon. The rays of sunlight were the same colour as his treasure, and the golden accents were in relief - Eugene had traced them with his finger time and time again, yearning for a life like this one.

So Eugene climbed a tree. It wasn't too hard, and he was very proud of himself, because he knew the older boys had needed each other to get up there, but he had done it all alone. He reached the thickest branch he could see, stood up tall, and... well, Vardaros was not as pretty as the city drawn on his book, and the sun wasn't exactly rising, but it still looked wicked cool, in his own words.

If you had asked him then, he would have said that this was the best moment of his life.

He was bored after exactly four minutes. To be fair, there wasn't much to do on a tree, and he really wanted to go tell everyone about what he did - except the matrons, of course. Anyway, he reasoned, Flynnigan probably didn't stay there long either, instead running off to go on new adventures, which was exactly what Eugene was going to do.

Eugene looked down.

Climbing had taken him mere minutes. He had been so focused on his goal that he did not even stop to think about the height, or anything, really. But he looked down, and suddenly the distance to the ground was nauseating, and the closest branch seemed miles away. Leaning on the trunk, feeling small, Eugene shakily tried to extend his foot towards it, before immediately giving up.

He... He was scared.

As he remembers it today, the tree was the tallest thing he had ever seen, reaching towards the sky, nearly on par with the clouds. When he came back during his teenage years - when Eugene wasn't his name anymore and his dreams had drastically changed - he saw the tree again, and realised that it was simply a sad, old tree, who wasn't even that tall compared to those in Corona's luxurious forests.

But he had been five. He had been five, and little, and scared, so he had decided to stay on the tree, and wait for someone to notice his absence. Wait for someone to come help him.

And he waited. And he waited.

The sunset had been prettier, bathing the entire town in red and golden light, just like on his book. He hadn't really appreciated it.

(When he tells this story, he always acts as if he had tried to distract himself, and that was it. He doesn't talk about the tears, and the heart wrenching loneliness he had felt, certain in that way kids were that this was permanent.)

Exhaustion and fear got the best of him, and he fell asleep. When he woke up, he was still here, and no one had come.

The sun was rising this time. Eugene got up, looked down, and something clicked for him. No one would come. He was cold, and scared, and hungry too, but no one would come, and so there was only one person who could save him. Only one daring adventurer, ready to brave his fear and save the day.

He tried to convince himself that this hero was him. Despite how terrified he felt, he was an adventurer, he was just like Flynnigan Rider, and Flynnigan never backed down when faced with a challenge.

"If it's not possible, it's not worth doing," he muttered, before jumping to the nearest branch.

Miraculously, he reached it. The same couldn't be said for the next branch, and he fell heavily to the ground.

He remembers pain exploding in his arm, staying on the ground for a long, long time, and then making his way back painfully, stomach growling loudly.

"Eugene?"

Rapunzel's voice breaks him out of his narration, and he looks at her, squeezing her hand lightly. They're both sitting in the special spot he found on the roof, an easily accessible ledge giving one of the best views on Corona.

"Yeah?"

"You said… You said this was a funny story," she remarks, tone hesitant, uselessly tucking a strand of her short hair behind her ear.

"It is!" he exclaims. "After spending all day and night away, I was so sure I would find the orphanage in absolute chaos that the whole way back I prepared a lie about going to fight off bandits or something. Imagine my surprise when not only no one had noticed I was gone, but the adults were even mad at me because I was late for my chores!"

He chuckles, and stops when he sees the lack of amusement in Rapunzel's eyes.

"It's funny because… I was being overdramatic?" he tries. Her frown deepens. "Guess you had to be there…"

"You were five," she protests. She's the one who takes his hand this time, an intensity he hadn't expected in her eyes. "You were five, and alone, and- no one cared you were gone?"

He opens his mouth, and closes it, unsure how to proceed. That wasn't the reaction he had expected. And, in all honesty, the way she said it did make the story sound sad, but it wasn't! He… They cared, he thinks, they would have if they had noticed because, at the very least, they would be in trouble with the law if they had lost a kid. They cared… They simply didn't know he had left.

"I got up to a lot of mischief at the time," he finally answers. "They were busy, and probably assumed I was out causing trouble."

Rapunzel stays silent after that. She holds his hand on her lap, and gently rests her head on his shoulder, while they both look at the view. The sun is setting on the horizon, bright and burning, the entire town glowing orange because of it.

Eugene sighs, and finally rests his head on top of hers, enjoying the soft brush of her hair against his cheek. Maybe this story isn't as funny as he remembers it. He's good at turning every little anecdote into something grandiose, entertaining whoever is willing to listen with his lively retelling, but… It's different, with Rapunzel. Everything is.

There's no hesitation to have when he says she cares, for one. Maybe she shouldn't, but she does, more than anyone ever did. She's also the first person in his life he doesn't want to lie to. The first person he doesn't feel like he has to lie to. She saw the worst of him already, saw how much of a selfish, useless jerk he could be, and she… she still loves him, for some reason. It's difficult to phantom, sometimes, and in the last month since their first meeting, Eugene kept worrying that he would wake up someday, and this dream would have ended as quickly as it started.

He's used to being forgotten, after all.

"I think we'd have been friends," Rapunzel whispers, interrupting his thoughts. "If we met, as kids. I think we'd have been friends."

"I was a troublemaker," he breathes out softly, still resting on her, "Sometimes, I acted out some scenes from my books, and it often ended with broken windows. You probably would have found me annoying."

"Oh I don't know, I think I would have enjoyed acting out those scenes with you, Mr Troublemaker," Rapunzel teased. "Though… Maybe you wouldn't have liked me. I was a bit of a crybaby when I was a kid, and not a great adventurer."

For a second, Eugene is glad she can't see him, because he knows his sadness for her must show. His heart tightens each time she mentions her childhood, and he remembers how lonely she had been, all alone in her tower.

"I would have loved you," is all he answers, and it's not even a lie. There's no universe in which he doesn't like Rapunzel, he's pretty sure of that, and even then… He had loved the younger kids, at the time. When he grew up a little, got over his tree adventure, and decided that he wasn't gonna be like the older kids he had known - he had read them stories, and had helped the new kids adapt, and had felt both happy and sad when they got adopted, and he inevitably wasn't.

And then… Then he started stealing, and it all went downhill from there.

"I would have loved you too," Rapunzel echoes, a bit too intensely. "We would have played together all the time, and- And I would have noticed that you were gone. I would have helped you come down from that tree."

They're still hugging. Still looking at the view, though Eugene is not seeing much of it, too focused on her words. He wants to joke that she couldn't have been more than one year old at the time, that she would have had trouble doing anything, but the deflection doesn't feel right. She's squeezing his hand tight, and he understands what she's trying to say, understands what she's trying to make him see.

"I know," he whispers, because he does. He knows she cares about him. He knows- He knows she wouldn't forget him. As much as he worries, deep down he knows she loves him, because she tells him and shows him in every little moment.

Rapunzel shifts, and they finally meet each other's eyes again.

"Do you know how I found you here?" she asks.

"Uh…" Eugene hesitates, thrown off by the subject change.

To be perfectly honest, he had come here because he was bored out of his mind, since Rapunzel was taken by her princess lessons, and no one really cared where he went as long as he didn't cause trouble. And then, all alone here with the sun shining warmly on his face, and the ledge offering more than enough space to stretch, Eugene had simply… fallen asleep.

Before waking up to Rapunzel curiously peering down at him, which surprised him so much it nearly made him fall off the roof. Thankfully, she had quick reflexes, and caught him, but she had looked spooked and he had wanted to make her feel better, thus the tree story he had been reminded of with this adventure.

"Usually, when my lessons are over, you always manage to find me and let me talk to you about my day, or try to take me on a date even when Cassandra says we can't, or… Well," Rapunzel chuckles softly, "what I mean is that you're always there. And today… Today you weren't."

"Oh," he breathes out.

"Cass said there was no reason to worry, and I knew she was right, but- but what if, you know? What if you were in trouble, or what if you had gotten hurt somewhere and couldn't come, or- or… I was worried," she sighs, looking down.

Gently, he put his hand on her chin, and made her raise her head again. The thing is, he does know what she was talking about. That worry gnawing at his insides every time he can't find her, and doesn't know where she is, he understands that all too well.

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay," she immediately corrects. "I simply… I notice your absence. Always, all the time, I notice when you are there or not, and I care about that. If… If you ever were in trouble, if you ever disappeared, I would find you, I promise."

When he sees the honesty in her eyes, Eugene thinks back to that little kid crying all alone on the branch of a too big tree. He thinks about him, growing up, meeting people he loved, finding a best friend in Lance, and yet continuing to ruin all of that little by little, because he was so sure the only way to carve his place in this world was by doing it alone.

He had been an idiot, he knows.

"I know you would, Sunshine," Eugene says. "I would too." Because now that they have each other, he knows that, no matter what, they will never let the other feel lonely ever again.

#tangled #tangled the series #Eugene Fitzherbert #Rapunzel #EAW

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ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes · 4 years ago

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Field of Poppies Part 19

Summary: After being apart for six years, childhood friends Tommy and Amelia reunite under odd circumstances. Tommy is an outspoken young man and Amelia is pregnant and out on the streets. The bond of family can be unbreakable but it is tested often. Especially when Europe descends into war.

Part 19: The war rages on and Amelia struggles to hold things together as the Shelby boys face the Battle of Somme

Dear Amelia,

I got the photograph of Annie and Max together. I can’t believe how much they’ve both grown. I hope Max is being good to his sister. At least he’s been around John’s kids before.

Have you made any New Years' resolutions? Not that you need to change anything. I’ve always thought you were perfect. Much too good for me and much too good for Small Heath. I promise that once I come home, we’ll get business going and start making real money. Then I’ll buy you that house out in the countryside. Nice big lawn for Max and Annie to play. We’ll have a stable full of horses. I think it’ll be nice. I want to give you what you deserve. I want to make up for lost time.

Tell Max and Annie I love them very much and I hope to be home soon. I’m hoping that at least Annie doesn’t remember me ever being gone. Maybe when I come back, she’ll be young enough that she won’t remember ever being apart from her dad. I’d hope for the same for Max but he’s grown up so much since I’ve left. And what you’ve been saying about him asking after me. I’m afraid he’ll never forget this. I just hope that I can make it up to him when I return. And to you.

I love you very much.

Yours,

Tommy

Since Ada was old enough to look after the kids, Martha and Polly swapped turns staying over at Amelia’s at night. With a young child and a newborn, they figured she needed some extra help. Especially since Amelia seemed to be stuck in deep sadness. It was clear she was doing everything she could to be the best mother possible for her son and daughter. But all of her energy and time went into them and her work in the betting shop. She hardly gave herself another thought, struggling to take care of herself most days. She never slept more than a few hours at a time, even if Polly or Martha was there to stay up with the baby if needed. She was growing thin because she had no interest in eating. Everything about her just seemed to dull. Her hair, her eyes, her skin. She looked lifeless.

What was more, Polly knew she was lying to Tommy. She snooped a bit and read an unfinished letter that Amelia was writing to her husband. It was full of pleasantries and lies about her well being. She wrote about how wonderful the children were and how much they were growing each day. She wrote about the business doing well. Wrote about Ada and Finn. Polly and Martha. Abigail and Wilbur. Then, she wrote one brief sentence about herself.

I’m doing well.

~~~~~~~

Neither Tommy nor Amelia knew that they were both having hauntingly similar dreams in the brief bouts of sleep they got. Each of them had vivid nightmares about losing the other in a haze of darkness. They would scream and yell for each other but there was no answer. They woke up in a sweat, almost in tears. It felt so real. Amelia swore she could smell Tommy’s cigarettes. And he was certain he could smell her perfume.

Neither of them told a soul about the night terrors. They simply went on about their days, hoping that when night came, they wouldn’t have another dream. But it was inevitable.

~~~~~~~~~~~

After a few months of Amelia’s depressive state, Max was starting to act out. It appeared he was picking up on his mother’s sadness and as a young child, it was frightening. He would have outbursts of screaming and tears at a moment’s notice. Any little thing could set him off. He often went off on Finn who had always been like an older brother to him.

One day, things took a turn for the worst. Amelia was in the betting shop with the rest of the girls while Ada watched the children. She began to hear shouting and crying.

“Enough!” Ada snapped from the parlor. “Max, get off!”

Amelia got up to see what was going on. She found the sitting room had been turned into a warzone. Ada was holding back Max who was wailing and writhing in her arms. Finn was standing a few feet away, looking dazed with a bloody lip.

“What’s going on?” She gasped.

“Max hit me!” Finn exclaimed.

Amelia looked aghast. “Maxwell? Did you hit Finn?” She knelt down on the ground in front of him.

Ada let go of him, confident Amelia could handle him. “I don’t even know what set him off.” She sighed in disappointment.

“Max, we do not hit people. That’s very naughty.” She scolded. The young boy’s face was going purple as he cried and tried to push his mother away. “What has gotten into you lately?”

Overwhelmed and exhausted from overexerting himself, Max went limp. Amelia pulled him into her arms, cradling him close like she did when he was just a baby.

“I miss daddy!” He sobbed.

She felt tears well up in her eyes as she held him tightly. “I know, darling. I miss him too.” She tried to hold steady, to show him that she was strong. He needed someone to have strength. But she felt as if she fell short.

“Why can’t he come home? S’not fair!” He wailed. He was getting so worked up he was practically shaking in Amelia’s arms.

“You’re right, it’s not fair.” She rubbed his back. “It’s not fair at all. But it’s something we have to live with. We have to stay strong for daddy. I want him home too, but I know he’s keeping us all safe.” Her words felt so hollow. Amelia had become so jaded with the war. The toll was far greater than anyone expected. Was she just meant to stand around and wait for the news while holding her breath? Was she supposed to hope for the best? Was she supposed to prepare for the worst? What was she supposed to tell her son if Tommy died in France? How could she ever help him understand?

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she rocked back and forth with Max clinging to her. Some days it felt like her children were the only things keeping her tied to the Earth. Otherwise, she was afraid she might just lose her mind completely.

~~~~~~~~~~~

One Sunday afternoon, Ada came over to visit Max and Annie. She spent the day at Amelia’s playing with her nephew and cooing over her niece. When Max and Annie were put down for a nap, Amelia made tea for them both.

“Who are you writing to?” Amelia wondered.

Ada was sat at the kitchen table, adding to an already lengthy letter with a couple of pages. Immediately the young woman looked up, her face turning red. “Erm…well.” She sighed. “Fine, I’ll tell you but you can’t tell anyone. Not even Polly.”

“I’m not a gossip, Ada. You know you can tell me anything.”

“Well…it’s to Freddie.” She finally admitted with a shy look. “John said he doesn’t get many letters because his mother is ill and his father passed away. So, I started to write to him.”

“Oh.” Amelia knew there was something else Ada wasn’t saying. “And you fancy him then?”

“Mel!” She cried.

“I’m just asking! I mean, you’ve known him practically your whole life.” Amelia thought out loud as she poured tea for them both. “Bit older than you.”

Ada rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, he’s only seven years older than me. And I’m an adult so I can make my own decisions.” She replied, lifting her chin.

“Yet, you want to keep it a secret.” Amelia sat down beside her sister-in-law, remarking silently at how much Ada had written.

She huffed. “Because me stupid brothers would never let me see him. They’re too protective.”

“They’re only looking out for your best interest.”

“They’re being nosy.”

“Alright, alright.” Amelia laughed softly. “I’m sure Freddie appreciates your letters.”

“Oh, Mel, he’s so clever.” Ada gushed. It seemed she was glad for someone to confide in about her secret romance. But her face fell. “I just…I hope he comes home. It would be so awful to have this relationship with him and then-” Her voice faltered and her eyes went down to her letter. “I’m so worried about all of them. I don’t know if I could bear losing any of them. I think about it all the time. I’m worried every time Polly gets the mail.”

Amelia knew exactly what she was talking about. She had to steel herself every day while getting the mail. She prayed that she wouldn’t get that damn letter. The one telling her that her husband had been killed. Somedays, she couldn’t even get herself to pick up the little pile of letters by the front door.

“Do you think they’ll come home soon?”

Amelia swallowed and nodded. “I think so. The war can’t go on forever.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Great British Offensive

Attack On A 20 Mile Front

German Trenches Occupied

In mid-summer, Amelia read the headline. Her eyes scanned for the usual markers that told her whether or not the news could affect Tommy.

Somme.

“Pol, that’s where the boys are.” She pushed the newspaper toward Polly who was sitting at the front table in the betting shop.

She took the paper. “What did I tell you about reading the news? It’ll only make you more stressed.” She chided gently. “There’s no need to get up in arms about news like this. If there is anything to do with them, we’ll get a letter.”

“I feel like I’m going crazy. Tommy won’t tell me anything. It’s as if he’s gone on holiday, just sitting around doing nothing. I know that’s not the case.” She replied.

Polly sighed. “Sit down.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re having a conversation, sit down.”

Amelia listened, but her heart rate was starting to pick up. “Polly, what?”

“I wrote to Tommy months ago, a long time before Annie was born. I told him to be light on the details when he wrote to you.” She confessed.

“Light on the…you mean he doesn’t tell me anything because you went behind my back?” Amelia instantly put up her defenses. It was her only coping mechanism other than shutting the world out.

“I was looking out for your best interest. You couldn’t have stress with the baby and now you…well, I don’t think you could handle such news.” Polly replied frankly.

“You have no right to intrude on my relationship like that!” Amelia snapped. “What I discuss with my husband is my business, no one else’s.”

“I was only trying to help.”

“Well, I’m glad that Tommy will listen to you. And I’m so glad that everyone around me wants to coddle me like I’m so fragile. I’ve survived because I’m resilient, Polly. If I was so fragile, I would’ve broken years ago. But I’m still here! I have two kids and my husband is fighting overseas. I’m still here though and I’m still fighting. So, think about that next time you decide to censor my life.” She stood up quickly and left the shop.

~~~~~~~~~~

The battle raged until November. Tommy kept fighting with the pictures of Amelia, Max, and Annie, in his breast pocket. Even at his darkest moments, when he wanted to give in, he kept at it. Even when his muscles screamed for relief, or when he was fighting through the mud, he continued on.

It was lucky they all made it out alive, even though there were some close calls. John had broken an arm, Arthur was shot in the shoulder, Freddie took a nasty bayonet wound to the stomach, and Jeremiah had been hit with shrapnel. They tried to keep their spirits up, but after the battle, they had all changed so drastically.

One night in the trenches, Arthur and Tommy were chatting quietly. Neither could sleep with the persistent sound of gunfire all around them.

“Don’t even think Mel will recognize me,” Tommy muttered as he cleaned his rifle. “Won’t be the same man returning.”

“Nothing’ll change, Tom.” His brother tried to reassure him. “You’re still Tommy Shelby. That’s not gonna change.”

He shook his head. “Already have changed, brother. We all have. We can’t just leave this behind when we go home? How do you think that’ll work, aye? We just pretend none of this happened?”

Arthur’s brow wrinkled but he couldn’t come up with an argument. He knew Tommy was right.

“M’fraid I’ll go back and she’ll realize that I’m not the same person. That she won’t like the person that I am. Maybe she’ll leave, take the kids with her.” He mumbled.

“Enough of that. You’re only thinking of ways to punish yourself when you ain’t done nothing wrong. Put that shit outta your head, okay? Mel will always love you, you know that.”

Tommy stared at his rifle, all sorts of thoughts were running through his head. “And what if I don’t go home at all? What if I don’t make it out of here?”

Arthur was obviously concerned with his brother’s thoughts but he couldn’t blame him either. The battle had taken a lot out of them. All of them saw the potential of death. There was no fooling themselves. Anyone of them had a good chance of never making it out of those tunnels. “You just keep your head up, aye? We’ve made it this far, we’ll keep going.” He said gently. “Just got to keep your hopes high.”

Tommy heard him but wasn’t sure he believed.

Permanent tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @biba3434 @kimmietea @karmezii @enrapturedbythemoon @vampgirl1997 @tarafaithe @evelynshelby

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lucdoodle · 4 years ago

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Big Brother To The Rescue

Big thanks to @prototypelq for the ideas!! (these are not in a chronological order by the way)

Also on Ao3

Summary: Leo knew he could always count on his older brother to help him out when he got into trouble. He and his other brothers were so lucky to have such a great guy as a big brother. Leo hoped Raph knew they would always be ready to return the favor back at him.

Or, three times Raph protected his little brothers, and one time they protected him.

1- Donnie

"Master Shredder, destroy your enemy!"

Under the command of Foot Recruit, the Shredder attacked them using an inhuman speed, successfully destroying Raph's mystical form in the blink of an eye.

Before anyone could react, Donnie, Leo, Mikey, Raph, their father and April had been separated and scattered in separate places in the room.

Recovering from the shock and regaining his bearings, Donnie sat down. When he noticed he had landed in a shadow of something, he had the silly (yet logical, he knew) instinct to look up.

Above him was Shredder. He looked huge and was towering him completely, engulfing him in his shadow as if Don was nothing. To make things worse, their gazes met and they stared into each other's eyes.

...

Well, shit.

He was deep into trouble, he knew it. His brain was inquire him with all the ways he could end here and now, and there were far too many different ways and possibilities for his liking. He calculated his odds of surviving for any possible outcome of this situation, and maybe he was a little pessimistic there but they were ridiculously low at the moment.

They already had such a hard time fighting The Shredder last time, even if technically speaking, they had more limited the damage and win some time for Leo to come back, they hadn't 'defeated' him.

And now Shredder was staring right at him.

Donatello was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the threat approaching him. His mind refusing to cooperate for once.

He didn’t regain his feet on the ground until his vision was filled with a very familiar green.

Before Donnie could say anything, Raph positioned himself to form a shield around him. This stupid big brother of his was ready to be killed to save him.

Raph had probably regained his senses not long ago and had noticed the situation in which Donnie was in, then run to protect him without any thought for his own safety. That stupid big brother.

Despite that, Donnie will never even admit it for all the gold and purple jackets in the world, that he was sincerely grateful for the familiar presence of his brother by his side while he was terrified.

And so he clung at Raph's arm as if it were a lifeline, putting all his trust in his big brother. He hated acting on instinct, as Mikey often did for exemple, he always preferred to react out of pure logic. But right now he had to cheet on the logic and could just believe that a miracle would saved them all.

Donnie tightened his grip on his older brother's arm and tightly closed his eyes. He could feel the moment when Raph's arm flexed and also by the sound when The Shredder started to crush and press down on his brother's shell. Forcing him down, towards Donnie. And he knew that Raph was doing everything in he could to not hurt him.

He felt terribly bad for Raph. Not that he never was depenent of the red turtle, just as much as his brothers, they could just say 'Raph will fix it' to each of their problems.

But it was something else. Shredder was something else. And he hated most of all when his big brother ended up injured, either trying to fix problems, or totally ignoring his own safety in favor of the one of his little brothers in a self-sacrificing gesture that was typical of Raph. Just, typical.

And that was one of those situations, he could feel Raphael giving in to the pressure of the monster above them as he tried with all his might not to let himself let down. But each repeating blow from Shredder caused him to lose ground and Donnie himself started to feel the kicks.

Donnie didn't even want to start imagining what pain his brother was under right now. And he knew that aftermath, the red turtle would apologized to him that he couldn't have protected him better than that.

Which was totally ridiculous since he knew that Raph was doing everything he could to protect him, regardless of his very own safety. But that scenario was only possible if they could make it through this situation in the first place, whitch only some sort of miracle could allow.

That miracle was not brought about by Raph, whose plan was to shilelding his brother no matter what happens until death if it was necessary. But by Leo and Splinter, using Leo's Ōdachi to drive the beast away from them and create a portal on the ground allowing them to escape.

Aftermath, Donnie noticed that Raph had on his shell a little crack, small enough to not be noticed unless you were conscious of it, and Don felt terrible about it. Raph, noticing his expression, he hurried to assure Don that he was perfectly fine, trying to cover it up by saying that he was proud of his all his scars because they proved he was a great fighter. Which didn’t make him feel much better. The fact that he was more of a man of science and less of a hand-to-hand fighter maybe played a little.

He knew he wasn’t the only one who hated Raph’s habit of always putting his brothers before himself, Leo and Mikey also shared the same feeling as him. The red turtle was always the one to protect them, he just wished they could do the same to him for once.

2- Leo

Leo's steps echoed through the rainy night, followed by other steps noises that dragged his trail behind him, the sounds of rain hitting New York soil around them.

As he ran, (or rather fled) jumping from roof to roof, he opened a portal, then another, and another. All teleporting him just a few feet away from where he was previously. He didn't fully master his Ōdachi yet, and while he would very much like to be able to teleport into the lair directly, je just couldn’t. But that's not what would stop Leo from trying! But whatever which roof he was jumping on, the noise of steps chasing him never stopped.

He messed up.

The fact is that Leo unintentionally offended a bunch of new-mutants who then attacked him. Why did all the mutants around New York tried to kill them anyway?? There were the crabs-man, the worm guy, Meetsweats… He couldn't even remember all their names and why they were attacking him and his bros! (Okay, Meetsweets had nothing personal against them and was going after everyone, but he was still one of the mutants who was trying to destroy them so he still counted.)

And for some reason, they all decided it was his fault and attacked him.

Leo had tried fighting them, but against his will, he had to admit that seven against one turtle (no matter how cool he was) was very difficult to win, which he shoudn’t be since he was the Battle Nexus champion once, before a shadow-thing or something like that took his place, by what he heard last time he went to Hueso’s pizzeria. But the fact that these mutants were extremely strong didn't really help either.

After a hard fight, he had come to the conclusion that his only way out was to flee, he had even triggered the panic button on his belt to warn brothers and dad that he was in trouble.

Still jumping from building to building, he looked behind him. The mutants pursuing him were still on his heels. Damnit.

The rain that had started to fall didn't really help, because now in addition to trying not to be caught up, he had to be careful not to slip on the edges of the buildings. And it's not like he liked rain like Donnie does. And if he was honest with himself he could feel his legs getting tired.

"Leo!" He was pulled out of his thoughts by a very familiar voice calling him.

He turned his head very quickly in the direction the voice came from, where a certain red turtle was running and jumping from roof to roof towards him. Raph must have gotten the button signal and be the nearest from him.

Leo felt a lot relief and his confidence being restocked in him by just seeing his big brother. He was always happy to see him, but right now he had to admit that he was a little more than usual. Leo even let out a small laugh of disbelief and sudden relief. A big smile was now painted on the face of the blue turtle, not that the other mutants could see it from where they were, especially ince they were too busy trying to keep up the pace not with the blue ninja turtle.

But in contrast to Leo's new smile, Raph’s face only expressed concern. Although Leo knew that expression would soon go away when the older turtle would lectured him for being careless, even though this time Leo did next to nothing, apart from being in the wrong place at the wrong time but he knew that after explaining this to his brother, he would no longer be mad at him.

But Leo wasn't going to let the look on the red turtle's face take his smile away.

"Hi bro!" He said loud but casually. As if he wasn't into a pretty dangerous situation and being chased at the moment.

"Don't 'Hi bro' me Leo!" He sounded a little angry, "How did you get into that mess?!" And although there was anger in his voice, Leo could distinctly hear concern for the younger turtle. His big brother was such kindhearted.

The blue turtle analyzed the situation, a quality he thought his brothers needed to give him more credit for, the enemies were about 3 or 4 buildings behind him and Raphael was about six or seven buildings away in front of him, but the distance got smaler and they were getting closer overtime. And Leo himself was starting to get tired from running and also by the previous fight.

Suddenly, an idea struck him.

He smiled in a cat-like way, looking like a cat right before they do something they're not supposed to.

"Oh no." Raph said knowing this expression too well on his little brother’s face for over ten years of living together, his ninja training allowed him to clearly see Leo's expression despite the distance that separates them.

"Hey Raph!" Leo called as he opened a portal way below, near the floor of one of the alleyways between two buildings, "CATCH ME!!"

And without more warnings, Leo took a step into the void and let himself fall from the building and straight up into his portal, managing to destabilize his pursuers, before reappearing through another portal located in the sky above from where he was, and facing upwards.

Due to the speed the blue turtle had accumulated in his fall, Leo reappeared through the other portal like an arrow, projecting himself very fast and far away.

Maybe a little too fast.

With nothing and no one to catch his fall, Leo would be as good as a turtle scramble, and not one as neat as Meatsweats could do, probably.

Leo looked as little as a fly as he blasted through the second portal, passing Raph and sending him high into the air.

That’s when Raph understood Leo's plan.

From where he was into the air, Leo stuck his tongue out at the mutants who were chasing him while he was upside down, having little control over his position or trajectory, although they probably couldn't see him at all anyway.

Then he saw his brother, jumping from roof to roof after him, following the path that his careless little brother had taken and running as fast as he could to catch up with him. Not letting the little blue and green spot up into the sky that was his brother actually out of his sign. The other mutants having been sown for good now.

But Leo had complete trust in Raph, and he knew he would catch him (Although he had slightly been sent flying a little too far and fast than he had originally planned). He knew that his big bro would soon catch up with him.

When Leo finally started to approach the ground a little too closely for his liking, the blue turtle thought he had to warn Raph to hurry up, "Um, Raph? Could you catch me a little faster please? I'm kinda falling here and you’re supposed to catch me noooOOOoow!"

Which was followed by a loud and clear "I’M TRYING!!" filled with frustration but also fear.

Seeing Leo approaching the ground to the point where he passed below the level of some of the tallest buildings in the city, and still not within arm's reach. Raph made a dangerous decision.

He jumped to the ground, glad they had arrived somewhere where there were only a very few people out at night while trying to get to where his brother was supposed to land.

He heard a "Huh... Raaaph?" calling for him just a little uncertain, which he replied from the top of his lungs so that he could hear "I KNOW!" He was going to grab his little brother, no matter what. He had done it before and he would do it again.

And when finally the big red turtle was close enough to Leo to see about how he was definitely going too close to the ground, he threw himself forward, not caring in the least about all the scratches he would probably get on his chestplate and activated his powers to summon his mystical form.

And then he felt a weight land on his mystic hands vaguely, and stopped sliding on the wet floor of New York.

Leo, "YAY! I knew you could do it!" He exclaimed in a tone WAY too casual for the situation.

"Don’t do that ever again!" Raph replied catching on his breath, his mystical form dissipating and softly setting Leo on the firm ground.

Leo walked over to his exhausted older brother, and then hugged him. Raph, surprised at first, did nothing but then gently returned the hug, being careful to measure his strength (which he tended to forget when he cuddled).

And although his big brother couldn't see him, Leo smiled, “Thanks! I never doubted you!"

"I'm your eldest brother, of course I was going to catch you," Raph grabbed him by the shoulders, "But seriously don't EVER do that again, get it?! Never again!" shaking the little brother by the shoulders, causing his whole body to shake by extension.

Leo knew he would get a long lecturing from his big bro about how completely careless he has been and how he could have hurt himself and all later. But right now he wanted to just savor the moment of relief with his big brother.

“Want some pizza?" He said nonchalantly. In the back of his mind he thought that even if the other mutants managed to find their track (which was very unlikely), Hueso's restaurant in the hidden city would be the perfect place for hiding a bit.

A sign, "Sometimes you’re impossible you know?" Raph said wearily to the blue turtle. Leo laughed.

He wasn't alone anymore, and Leo knew he could always count on his older brother to help him out when he got into trouble. He and his other brothers were so lucky to have such a great guy as a big brother.

Leo hoped Raph knew they would always be ready to return the favor back at him.

3- Mikey

Mikey was just six years old when he had started to get an interest in skating, although he had never tried it before, for the simple reason that none of them had any skateboard.

But after seeing and researching in so many magazines all about that, he had asked (harassed) his father to give them one all one for Christmas. Mikey was sure doing it together would be a lot more fun than alone. And Splinter had read enough books whose title always was variations of 'how to raise children' and 'how to be a good father' to know that giving a gift to everyone would be better to avoid jealousy, or the feeling of preference than to give one to Mikey only.

Then for Christmas, Mikey's wish came true and he could swore he had never been happier in his entire seven-years-life, he couldn't help but squeak out loud from excitement. Leaving his imagination to think of all the new things they could do.

Mikey could even draw on it and even on his brothers' skateboards if they gave him the permission. It would be so cool!

It was then that eight-year-old Raph, being the eldest of the brothers (Although not from much) and trying to behave like the more mature one directly made it a rule to always ensure that they all put on the proper protections before skateboarding.

And right now Mikey was happy and excited, as he ran down halls of the lair to the new ramp their father had built them for the occasion. He was running with his new skate under one arm towards his destination to finally test his gift for the first time, he stopped in front of the big ramp, (without any idea that when they would be older their dad would make one way bigger, but for seven-years-old Mikey the one they had was the biggest, and also only, skate ramp he has never seen).

He dropped the board on the ground, put one foot on it, and-

“Mikey." Oh he knew that voice, that firm tone despite the hight-pitched voice. He turned to his oldest brother.

Raph was not far behind him, both arms crossed over his chest and looking at him with an expression Mikey couldn't quite read, "Haven't you forgotten something?" His brother continued.

The orange turtle tried to reflect, forgotten? What could he have forgotten? He had his board so… He was good, right?

"Ah! You wanna skate with me Raph? Sorry if I forgot to ask you and you wanted to-" Before he could say anything else, Raph put a helmet on Mikey’s head.

“You forgot to put on your gear!" There was no judgment or disapproval in his older brother's voice, it was more a fact than anything else.

“Oh, right. But do I really need to?" he asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to try anyway.

“Definitely! Or else you could get hurt." His brother didn't waste a second answering.

Mikey sighed in submission, Raph could be so protective sometimes, they didn't even have such a big difference in age to begin with (even though he was definitely the biggest and tallest of them all), even if Raph was the eldest and he was the youngest, the red turtle behaved the exact same protective way with his other brothers too.

Mikey sat on the floor, letting his brother help him put on his knee pads while he put on his elbow pads. A voice caught their attention “Hey, what are you guys doing?"

The orange turtle looked up and saw his two other brothers, who had their respective skateboards in their arms.

“Oh I'm just helping Mikey put on his gear to try his skateboard later." Raph replied.

“Yeah! Wanna join us on the ramp afterwards? It’ll be even more fun!" Mikey was excited at the idea of tem all skating for the first time together.

“But you have to put on your gears first." Raph informed them as a fact, like a kid reciting what adults told him before, which to be fair, was probably the case.

"Sure." Donnie said nonchalantly, knowing that arguing with Raph about that was pointless. He sat down next to Mikey and began to put on his protections from the box where they stacked all their gears not far from the ramp.

Leo who wasn’t as smart as Donnie didn't get that and made a dramatic pose like he often did, "But do we have to? It’s useless isn’t it?"

“It’s really not!" Raph retorted, almost offended that he would think that.

"Come on Leon," Donnie said, knowing that Raph's protective spirit will never be bent by Leo's complaints, "If you don’t put those, Raph will remind you to put on your protection gear every two minutes."

Realizing that this would be way more annoying that way, Leo sighed, "Fine! But that’s just for you Raphi! They’re still useless!" And took his stuff from the box, sat down, and began to put them on. Satisfied, Raph didn't reply anything and continued to help Mikey then Donnie and finally Leo who was struggling whith his elbow pads.

Once they were all ready, Raph included, they inaugurate the ramp for the first time, each of them in their own way. Donnie preferred to leave his skateboard rolled by itself a few times on the ramps at different levels of speed and distance to test how it worked, Raph was just rolling back and forth on a short distance, still keeping an eye on his little brothers at the same time but looking like he was having a good time. And Leo tried to go higher and higher each time. Mikey just loved doing whatever he wanted on the ramp and was having a lot of fun.

They were having so much fun that about half an hour passed without any of them really noticing, then a voice caught Mikey and his borthers’ attention.

“Hey!" Leo had climbed to the very top of the ramp when no one was looking, he had a confident pose, holding his skateboard by the end while the other tip leaned on the ground. "Wanna see something awesome?"

Leo was obviously notexpecting a response but the red turtle replied anyway, “Leo, no!"

“Leo, yes!" Then he put his feets on his skateboard and bagan to hurtled down the ramp.

Raph took Mikey by his shoulders because he was the closest from the red turtle and shifted him out of the way and so out of the ramp, standing next to it now, Raph not far from him. Unfortunately, Donnie hasn’t been as lucky as him and had no time to react before Leo launched into the descent, and as it might be predicted from a eight years old mutant turtle on a skate, he was barely standing up on his skateboard and had absolutely no control over his trajectory. And so Leo and Donnie inevitably crashed onto each other.

"Are you guys okay??" Raph instantly asked with concern although even Mikey could see that the fall wasn’t a big deal at all, the ramp not being that big in the first, adapted to their height (little did he know that years later they would have a way bigger ramp when they’d grown up a bit).

"I'm fine..." Leo mumbled, "Dee, you okay?" Some concern passed in the voice of the blue turtle.

“Yeah, the gear cushioned the fall." Donnie replied simply.

A silence.

"So, they're useless, huh?" Raph said, with a little smug smile on his face, enjoying being right in front of his little brothers.

“Aaah, you shut up!" Leo retorted blushing from embarrassment that he just might have been wrong about something.

Mikey laughed, finding the whole thing rather funny and Donnie must have felt the same because he was laughing too, and soon after they were just all laughing. He really enjoyed spending time with his family and was suddenly even more glad that his Christmas wish came true.

The whole thing reminded him of the comics he’s used to read, although Mikey was more drawn by the drawings than the scenario, he remembered the superheroes in them, they were all brave, caring, protecting people, also always looking out for others, and sometimes broke things with their fists and were very strong too. All these characteristics corresponded to Raph!

A while later, after they were done playing on the ramp for the day, Mikey approached the red turtle from behind him and pulled his shirt’s sleeve to get his attention.

"Raph, you’re my hero!" He said simply, hoping to get the message of how proud he was of his big brother.

Apparently not by the look of confusion on Raphael's face. “Um, sure Mikey. I don’t know what you’re talking about but I’ll take that as a compliment!"tThen patted his little bro's head affectionately.

But it didn't bother him that much that Raph didn't understand the his meaning behind his words, because he would always admire his hero big brother and be proud of him, always! And Mikey hoped that one day he could become as strong and big as him and be able to protect others too, even Raph!

4- April

April O’Neil felt like she was frozen, she folded her arms around herself in hopes of getting some more warmth as she walked through the cold streets of New York as the sun was just beginning to set.

She finally reached the sewer cover she was looking for, already excited of just about being in the fully air conditioned lair by Donnie.

After descending the ladder and walking the short path to her friends/brothers. She entered with a "Hi! Guys!" Which was returned to her with ‘Hi April‘, ‘Sup!’ and the like.

April finally took her jacket off and put it somewhere not far from the entrance, she sat down on one of the armchairs not taken by Raph and Mikey who played a video game displayed on the TV and sighed contentedly, relaxing in the armchair as she relaxed as she could finally enjoy the perfect soft warmth of the radiator.

“What is it April?!" Raph asked curiously, not looking away from the game.

" Oh nothing." April dismissed with a vague wave of the hand. "It's just that it's so cold outside, it's good to have a little warmth in here."

"Yeah, Leo said the last time he bad been outside he almost froze such it was cold. But also he was out in the middle of the night, so it must have been colder." Mikey inquired absently, Raph stayed silent.

"You don't have a scarf, gloves or something like that April?" the red turtle asked her, sometimes Raph made her thought of her father with a sort of similar parental protective instinct, although she still appreciated the thought.

"It's all good Raph! I really need it! It’s not a little cold that will knock me down!" The fifth group member replied, her voice picking up on a heroic tone towards the end of her sentence.

“Yay! You go April!"supported the younger turtle, starting to gain advantage in the game they were playing at the same time. April laughed heartily, but she didn't hear the gears in Raph's head working to come up with a decision.

Days later, they had all gathered into the lair to go on the surface but still away enough from the town, after a lot of snow fell last night to take advantage of the white blanket that was now all over the place. But when they were ready to go and had already put on their coats, Raph asked for their attentions.

“Hey, so… Here!" Then the red turtle pushed into the April’s hands and each of them something something that felt... soft to the touch?

“Wow Raph, that’s fantastic!" Mikey's excited voice came first, holding his present in front of him.

"You've really outdone yourself there big brother! And I know I sound sarcastic but I’m not at all." Leo said completely genuine.

Donnie, seemingly impress" Wait, did you actually make those?"

“Well, yeah." Raph responded to the question, a little embarrassed and running a hand behind his head. "I thought it might protect you from the cold."

Then April finally layed her eyes on her own soft gift into her hands, it was a scarf the color of her favorite variant of green, the same green as her usual jacket and also her beanie.

And despite the fact that they were right at the exit border of the sewers, near of the manhole cover, and so out of the comfortable warmth of the lair. I it was therefore rather chilly but she felt her heart warmed up and couldn't help a smile growing on her face as she marveled like the others in front of her amazing gift.

The red turtle cared so much of them, the least they could do was to give him a proper thank you April thought.

“Thanks Raph!" Was the only clue the red turtle got before April pounced on him and hugged the turtle tightly. Raphael was confused at first but then smiled, chuckled and hugged back.

The remaining brothers looked at each other in silent agreement before pouncing on Raph too, one after another, all thanking him, until they formed a giant hug pile.

April loved her second family so much that she wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world. April wanted to be there for them as much as they always been here for her, even if it was just by small gestures like sewing scarves for her and her bros, one in her favorite color to protect them from the cold after she only complained a little bit before.

4- Raph

While Raph was doing one of his patrol as the Red Angel of Preventing Harm, he was grumbling a little about the fact that his brothers hadn't joined him once more. He knew it was a waste of time to hope for them to come but there was still a little hope inside of him that at least one of them would join him by surprise.

The night was rather calm, and if Raph usually enjoyed the calm of those nights, something, he couldn’t say what exactly, but something made him uneasy, as if he was being watched.

Suddenly, Raph's ninja instinct told him to be on his guard.

But it still took him a some time to realize that he had just received a humanly impossible strong kick that sent him flying into a nearby wall. The contact between his shell and the wall created several small pieces of debris falling on the ground.

The blow had been so sudden that the pain started a second late, and Raph suddenly felt as if a bulldozer had hit him in the stomach.

As he fell back to the ground, debris from the wall falling with him. Raph saw a large shadow advancing towards him, blocking the street lights. Holding the spot where he had been hit in the stomach with one hand, the red turtle looked up to see who his enemy was.

Raph instantly recognized Heinous Green, after all that was not everyday he got to met someone that taller than him, especialy an other turtle, but he was also the criminal he had been mistaken for during his visit in the Hidden City which had resulted in him being thrown into prison.

Raph didn't know how he found him or how he escaped from the prison. But he knew one thing, he didn't seem happy, and was probably looking for revenge.

Raph was in trouble and he knew it. But he had already beaten him once, he could do it twice! Seeing that his enemy was about to launch a second attack on him in the form of a punch, he decided to play on his speed using their difference in stature to get behind him before he struck. Taking advantage of the lapse of time that would create the moment his fist hit the wall, he could attack in return.

Or at least that has been the plan.

Because the second he passed on Heinous Green's left, Raph felt his arm get caught and squeezed tightly to the point it hurt. Then the red turtle felt its whole body sway to the left, and to the right, then back to the ground, colliding with something extremely hard each time. And every time he took another hit, he could feel the pain reverberate throughout his whole body.

Each sway to the ground or else were extremely strong but also fast at the same time, leaving Raph no space to try to defend himself.

Suddenly the red turtle has been completely let free, and went sent to a wall at full speed. Falling back with a heavy sound, the red turtle could almost no longer feel his limbs and was also bleeding in several places, but none of his wounds were too deep, fortunaly.

But that's not what was going to prevent him to fight back!

As the criminal advanced towards him with probably the will to finish the fight, like a cat after playing with a mouse. Raph, still on the ground, tried to get up and summon his mystic form, but fell back on his knees, apparently too weak for being able to use his mystic powers. He only managed to lean on one of his fists and panting for air, exhausted.

Before he could register it, Heinous Green was right in front of him. He wondered distractedly if he should activate the panic button on his belt before realizing that it had been torn off from the belt during the fight. Well, shit.

Before he could think of anything else, Heinous Green cornered him against the wall behind him, his head hitting the wall, and prepared himself to punch him in a way he was sure to really hurt.

Closing his eyes tightly to prepare for the blow, he unexpectedly heard a very familiar voice.

“GET AWAY FROM MY BIG BROTHER !!"

A very familiar orange weapon flashed out of nowhere and wrapped itself around the raised fist of the biggest turtle, then because of the effect of surprise and the surprisingly great strength of his little brother and his habit of swinging things much heavier than that, he managed to send the criminal flying pretty far away from Raph, who fell to the ground once again with a grunt.

“Raph!" Leo's worried voice called out for him.

Leo and Donnie were by his side in an instant, helping and support him. "Raph, are you okay?" Asked the purple turtle, also worried about their older brother's state.

"Huh, yeah, I'm okay..." Raph did his best to give a reassuring smile but only managed to make one in pain. And by seeing the look on Donnie's face, it really showed.

“How DARE you making me feel feelings!" Don said, sounding offended but at the same time honestly worried. Raph’s smile get a little more genuine.

“H-How did you know I was in trouble?" he asked.

“Oh well, our brother instinct never fail us, you know." Leo said as if it was obvious, in a cheerful voice, trying a little too obviously to lighten the mood.

"That and your panic button went on." Don inquired, matter of factly. It must have been probably activated by mistake when it fell off.

“Donnie, not helping!" the blue turtle replied, fully offended.

The red turtle couldn't help but let out a small laugh, which was quickly cut off by a growl of pain. He could feel Leo and Donnie's hands tightening around him in concern for their big bro.

"But this dude’s pretty tough, you should go away now…" he managed to say, the last thing he wanted was for his little brothers to get hurt by his fault.

Finally, Mikey landed from the roof of a near building and positioned himself between where Heinous Green had been yeeted and them. Then turned his head back to Raph "You’re always protecting us. Let us protect you for once!" He said confidently.

And although Raph was used to be the one to protect them. Sometimes his brothers would prove him that they could take care of themselves, like when they had go looking for the antidote to the pizza puffs. Although Raph had to punch himself in the face to keep himself from coming protecting and helping them.

He knew he could trust them.

And so he nodded at Mikey, trying to convey the fact he trusted them in this interaction, also aware that Leo and Donnie were watching as well. And that seemed to work by the determined but happy gaze Mikey gave him back.

Several approaching footsteps interrupted their conversation, heavy enough to shake the ground with each of their every step, as the biggest turtle charged on them with a war cry. Determined to not give up that easily.

Leo made an unsatisfied noise, "Aww come on, we’re having a family moment here!" he complained. "Don’t worry Big Brother! We'll take care of this quickly, okay?" and then he set off towards their enemy.

“Yeah, just stay here! We are taking care of this!" Donnie added, as if Raph wasn't positioned at the end of a dead end anyway, even though it was just concern speaking over him.

A great fight ensued, Leo using his mystic portals and his Ōdachi better than ever before, Donnie with his high-tech bō at full capacity and Mikey jumping with agility and using Kusari-fundo to constrain their common enemy.

Raph really wanted to get up and help them, part of because he knew it wasn't their fight, but the red turtle also knew he wasn’t into the right state to fight and couldn’t do much at the moment.

And he had made the silent promise to let them help him this time, though he wouldn't hesitate a second to go and help as best as he could if things turned out in their disadvantage. But judging from the fight in front of him, they clearly was fine on their own on that one.

And soon enough, Heinous Green backed down, realizing he couldn’t win against this family. And Leo wasted no time calling the Hidden City police number he got from his friend Hueso, who had spent enough time with the blue turtle to know that he could get into all kinds of trouble.

"Raph, are you doing alright over there?" Donatello asked directly after making sure they were no longer in danger, running to their big brother’s side.

“Y-Yeah. I’m good." The injured turtle replied, not wanting to worry his lil bros, besides he was pretty sure he had nothing broken, just some scratches and some wounds that needed to be bandaged to stop the weak bleeding, that was all! Really! Even though his whole body ached a lot.

“Riiiiiiiight." Leo said in a tone that sounded like he didn’t buy it at all.

Mikey intervened, "Anyway, we need to get back to the lair to bandaged your injuries." he said concerned about the eldest turtle’s health. "Can you walk Raph?"

Instead of giving a response, the red turtle decided to try walking directly. But he only had time to take a single step forward before his knees gave up under him.

But the feeling of the ground he was expecting never came, instead he found Leo in front of him trying as best he could to hold Raph weight from his chestplate, he was obviously struggling trying to hold his position.

Then Donnie and Mikey joined him as if they had agreed on a silent common decision like they sometimes did, though they mostly did that in battles, except that Raph had apparently missed it somehow. That or maybe he didn’t notice because he was hurting like crazy. Yeah, that was probably that.

Feeling his weight being slowly lift off the ground and carried by his brothers, he asked to no one specifically, “What are you doing?...” If he was being honest with himself, all that Raoh wanted to do was to take a little nap, but he knew it really wasn't the right time for that.

"Don’t worry Raphie, we’ll carry you to the lair!” Replied Donnie’s struggling a little more than the others over carrying Raph’s weight was very clear in his voice.

“What?!” Now way more awake, Raph wondered what could have possibly crossed his littles brothers’ minds, there was no way they could carry him that long!

And yet, even Donnie who was the least physical of them was doing his best to hold Raph up properly.

On one hand Raph was so moved he wanted to cry, on the other he wanted to scold them for that silly idea. But all he wanted to do more than anything right now was to take a good nap, and his muscles relaxed without him really noticing.

"Um, Raph? You just released the tension in your muscles, right? Try to stay awake until we get home, okay?" Don's worried voice returned. He nodded with a, "No prob D." although he knew it might be quite the challenge, but he loved challenges.

"Hey Raph?..." Mikey's voice unusualy hesitant came, "You’re always protecting us, but we will always protect you too! You can count on us!"

“Yeah! We have your back!" Leo agreed.

“Same. And that’s a fact. So don't even start saying that we don't need to do that, you can just deal with it." Donnie said, which made Raph chuckle.

“Guys?" the red turtle caught the attention of his brothers," I'm glad to have you as brothers." He said from the bottom of his soul.

“Awww!! Same here!" Mikey answered sounding very happy.

" You're welcome!" replied Leo, proud of himself.

“Glad to have you too, big red!" Donnie said in turn, trying to keep a neutral tone but failing miserably.

And so they came back to the lair, not without efforts, and Raph could finally take a little nap (fell unconscious on the couch) while Donnie patched him up.

He was glad to have such cool lil’ brothers. And to know that although generally he was the one protecting them, he too could always count on his awesome family to have his back.

The day after, April came to visit the lair and asked Raph where his bandages came from, after he told her what had happened she asked the name as well as a detailed physical description of the one who beat him up. When Raph asked her why, April didn't answer and just walked away, her bat on her shoulder and said a determined "I'll take care of it."

Donnie who had witnessed their conversation, being in the same room as them, stood up and approached April.

"Count me in." he said, then they bumped fist together as they left the lair leaving Raph behind, tilting his head in confusion.

#fanfiction #rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt raph #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt leo #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt april o'neil #tw blood #tw injury #ijust in case

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weirdcanucks · 4 years ago

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Highlighting Canucks Podcasts #2 - Area 51 Hockey Podcast

Here is an excerpt from Area 51 Hockey Podcast in which guest Brock McGillis discussed in length about the concrete steps to change hockey culture. I transcribed this powerful message. Listen to the full episode where McGillis shared his journey from closeted goaltender in OHL, to the verge of suicide, to becoming an influential advocate for the LGBTQ+ community here 🎧[x]

Sam If Hockey Canada or any one of those leagues were to, say, hire you in the role that Kim Davis kind of has in the NHL, but with more concrete actions than I think Davis has been able to do in the NHL, what what are kind of the first things you would do in that role?

Brock McGillis I would recognize all the issues. I think that is the first step. You need to recognize all the issues. And in terms of social issues and why they exist. And I've already thought this all through, and I know them all. Hockey is incredibly insular, arguably of all sports, maybe the most insular. And let's keep it to male team sports for now. Most sports are played at schools. Hockey is not. Even school teams don't play at school. Hockey is played when you sent off to arenas, when you're isolated in arenas. And then if we take like elite hockey, let's say you're matched up based off your age group. So from the age of 7, through the age of 15, you're with essentially the same kids six nights a week for eight or nine months of the year. And with the same coaches in a room who came from the same culture. And you're together there more than you are with your family, than anywhere else besides maybe school. And even at school, most of them go to school together and hang out with hockey players at school. So you have this insular environment and the way the culture is set up right now, they tend to majority come from similar socioeconomic backgrounds, are predominantly white. They are presumed to be straight and all these things. So let's just take that. So from the age of seven, you start talking the same walking, the same dressing, same because you're around each other so much. And we've known society people become products of their environment.

So you grew up, then by the time you hit 16, you moved away from home. I don't know any other sports where that happens. You are that young. So you move away from home or as consistently as in hockey. You move to this new community with 22 other hockey players who have moved away from home into this community and each other essentially. And now you're together seven days a week and you're out the arena even longer. And then you're traveling around the province or whatnot, northern the United States or in the WHL across multiple provinces. And you're together all the time. So once again, that culture of the language you use, the way you talk, the way you dress, the way you act... you're going to start to mimic each other. It's normal and it influences the older players, influences the younger players, just like in minor hockey. The culture is continuously copied and the cycle is vicious. And they're also influenced by the coaches who came from the same culture and management who talk the same way, dress the same way, act the same way, etc. Then once they hit like Junior and whatnot, they go home in their off season. And who are they going to hang out with? Their buddies they grew up with. And the only people they really spent time with are the hockey players they've hung out with since they were seven. And they're going to train for hockey, then go back and do it again the next year. And it's over and over and over. That's the reason why they're not exposed to anything else. And they're taught put your head down, worry about hockey. You're not allowed to have hobbies. It's very conformist. You're not allowed to enjoy anything else besides hockey. And in locker rooms, all you can talk about are partying girls and hockey when you're a teenager. So you have that aspect. OK. So that's kind of the root reason why this exists. And then you see the social issues are the biggest problems and hurdles in hockey culture.

OK, to recognize each one. And then what do you do? In my opinion, you start off by humanizing them. We're seeing society right now through the Black Lives Matter movement that even hockey players are speaking out publicly. Something that they kind of knew existed but didn't know because players probably didn't say how racist the sport and culture is to them, because they have either conformed or afraid to, in a sense don't really speak out on matters because then they are "the other" and they are seen as different. So they kind of have to fly under the radar. Same as being gay. But we're seeing in society that when things have been humanized for these players, they've spoken on it. So you need to humanize it, and I think the easiest way to humanize these things are taking hockey people who have the lived experience within the sport to humanize it. I'm very fortunate that I am masculine presenting, I am cis gender, I am a white man who happens to be gay that grew up in hockey culture and also worked in hockey culture afterwards. So I can infiltrate that culture very easily. And so when I go into a room and speak to players, it may have and it's sad to say, but it's just reality, a little more impact than somebody who's never been in the culture trying to talk about being gay in hockey, and the impact of being gay in society and the language we use and and whatnot. So we need people with the lived experience within it, who understand it, to humanize the issues for the masses within the sport and for the parents and for the coaches. Because then once it's humanized, hockey people are softies. They act like these tough, rugged, hypermasculine men, but they're actually real soft. And you can tug at their heartstrings and you can pull at them a little bit. And when you do, they become more engaged. They'll be willing to learn. You just got to teach them why they need to learn.

And we haven't done that, so that would be my first step. And then from there and take educators like Courtney, educators like Cheryl MacDonald, like, there's so many out there who study the different areas within the sport of hockey. And they're not utilized. They're not utilized by the culture. And it's so foolish to me that we have people in Canada who study this stuff for a living and are the best in their fields. And hockey isn't utilizing them? So from there, after you humanize the issue, you have academics that can put the programs together in a manner because they've been in the culture that people will relate to it, want to learn it and be a part of it, instead these stupid videos.

Then once we've done that, we have to break the conformity of the sport. So one exercise I do when I go into locker room after humanized through my story, my struggle and how I empowered myself, et cetera. I do a little breakout where I will try and break the conformity by saying, "OK, you tell me that you're going to fight together and you're there for each other. They're your bros. Yet all you're allowed to talk about are women, partying and sports. Share something with me you wouldn't typically tell a teammate that you enjoy." So I started thinking about it and I did a podcast with Ben Fanelli and Ben's really insightful guy. You should read his story sometime, if you don't know. It's pretty fascinating. And I said "Ben could imagine being in a locker room and reading a book for fun?" He's like, "oh my God, you'd be harassed." And like, “yeah, you'd be the fag.” He goes, "Yeah." And I start thinking about Dougie Hamilton. Dougie Hamilton is a six foot five defenseman who can skate, and he's a right handed shot, that should be every team's dream. He is a point per game defenseman in the NHL. He's been traded twice because he can't fit into the culture, because instead of going for beers and drinking and partying and all that, he enjoys reading. He enjoys museums. He loves history and art. Like when did knowledge and the pursuit of knowledge become a bad thing? But it is in this culture, which is one of the issues, which is why everyone's so fearful of allowing people like myself in, allowing the academics in, or allowing anyone else in to shift it. Because then where's their place? Right? So you need to break down those barriers of culture. So one time I went into, I had a player, say, a major junior team, a tough guy, stood up and said, "I love writing poetry." Then another kid stood up and said, "if I don't make the NHL, I want to be a zoologist." Then a first year player literally jumped out of his seat and said, "I love animal documentaries." And the coach stood up and said, "I love Broadway musicals. And my wife and I go to them every summer." Now they're bonding on a deeper level. Now, hopefully, if that continues, at some point, they can stand up and proudly talk about being Muslim in a locker room. Then the gay kid could stand up and say, I have a boyfriend, and we stop judging people for their differences and recognize we're all different. But we've conformed to a culture, because I know, personally, I can walk into any mall in Canada and I will tell you which kids play hockey. I go to school, as part of my speaking is going to schools because I am passionate about shifting culture within youth, because I think it's the only way we're going to ever fix things. And we saw it with the zoomers in Trump's rally the other day. It's phenomenal. But I think they're the ones who are going to fix humanity. And I actually ask questions. And when I do, I intentionally pick out the kids I know are hockey players, because I can tell looking at them and I go "you play hockey, right?” And they say, "yeah."

Then from there we have to put in better systems to evaluate coaches. Teachers have to go to school for how long to become a teacher to work with children. But these coaches spend as much, if not more time, and they take a little course online, like really? And they're influencing society and future generations? We have to invest more in the system we put in place or evaluating them. We should have people that are third party on each team, to ensure that nothing is done out of line with the coaches and we have to continue engaging with them and teaching them, because this can be more difficult for them because they're older. And they've been ingrained in this culture. Or, in this culture longer, it's ingrained in them.

Then after that, put rules in. After that, put punishments in. And suspension or fine is not gonna do anything. All you're doing is telling them just shut up so it won't be as obvert. But it's still going to exist. The problems will still exist. At that point, they should have to sit down with people either within the culture or the academics and do deeper dives into why this is happening and sit down with the parents and find out why they're making comments like this. Like I saw a video recently of Tony DeAngelo and and how his father said, "yeah, I said the same stuff." Well, we should sit down and help educate them so this doesn't exist any longer, instead of just a five games suspension and then they're back, and all of a sudden they're saying worse things. Or, for that matter, most of the time the suspensions aren't even called because referees and officials don't want to ruin kid's career and don't want to get this kid labeled or they may be homophobic, racist, sexist themselves. So they don't call it.

And so the whole culture has to be reformed. And I think those are the steps in reforming it. And if you do punishment first, which has been done or any leagues will argue they do. It doesn't work. It doesn't work! I've been looking at this every day for four years. And this is the only path I see the shifting in it. And it seems it's doable. Why wouldn't it be? They charge thousands and thousands of dollars. You can't put money towards this? And investing in people's futures?

#nhl #hockey #hockey culture #lgbtq #brock mcgillis #canucks podcasts

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sparrow-flies-south · 4 years ago

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Ten Things Chapter 9

Fandom: Sanders Sides Pairings: Anxceit, Royality Intrulogical Summary: Ten Things I Hate About You AU When Roman Prince learns that Patton Foster isn’t allowed to date until his older brother, Virgil, is, Roman is crushed. Roman’s twin brother Remus, however, comes up with a plan: find someone who is willing to date Virgil. And who better to ask than Janus Verona, who according to rumours is willing to do anything for the right price? Taglist (ask to be added): @glitchybina @ellietempest @imlikeaghostzombiejesus @someone-idk-is-here @anxiety-ismy-name @what-aboutno

Masterpost

AO3 Link - Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight

Two days after their date, Virgil sat next to Janus in the cafeteria for the first time. He managed to stay there for a whole five minutes before the feeling of everyone’s eyes watching them got to him. Janus had asked if he wanted to go somewhere quieter, and then showed him a staircase that led only to a locked door; the boiler room, according to Janus.

“How do you even know about this place?” Virgil had asked.

“I was born knowing everything about the school,” Janus had replied. “I certainly didn’t find it when looking for good places to eavesdrop on people.”

In the weeks that followed, Virgil spent most of his lunches with Janus, either in the cafeteria or their staircase. He never missed his friends, and he had a feeling that they didn’t miss him, either.

The Monday after Thanksgiving, Virgil managed to brave the cafeteria. The school must have gotten used to him by now, because only a few people ever glanced their way. It didn’t stop the prickling feeling against his skin, as he imagined everyone whispering about the two of them.

“Wonderful,” Janus scoffed, pulling Virgil out of his thoughts.

Janus was looking at the doors to the cafeteria, where a girl was hanging up a poster reminding everyone that the Winter Ball was less than two weeks away.

“Considering the dance happens every year,” Janus said, “You’d think they’d realise we’re not stupid enough to need reminding.”

“Yeah, well, they probably need to drum up attention,” Virgil said.

“As if. Give people a chance to dress up and show off and they’ll jump on it ever time.”

“Like what you do every day?” Virgil joked.

Janus spluttered. “That is not- I have style. And I haven’t been brainwashed to think that the greatest thing I could achieve is a decent sexual partner.”

Virgil began to head to English as Janus followed, continuing to explain every way in which school dances are a scam designed to get high schoolers to spend money or something. Virgil wasn’t really paying much attention.

He’d never gone to a school dance before. He’d never had anyone to go with, so what was the point? If he was going to stand around feeling miserable, he could do that at home, where it was quieter.

If he’d known Janus before, maybe it would have been so bad. They could just find somewhere to sit and make fun of people. And even if Janus did want to dance, well, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

They were almost at the English classroom, when Janus suddenly stopped talking, and narrowed his eyes at Virgil.

Virgil felt his shoulders hunch up defensively on instinct. “What?” he asked.

“You didn’t join in,” Janus said, slowly. “You never let me monologue.”

Crap, did Janus think he’d been ignoring him? Worse, he kind of had been ignoring him.

“Sorry,” Virgil said. “I zoned out.”

Janus hummed. “That doesn’t have anything to do with the subject matter, does it?”

Virgil felt his cheeks go red, even though Janus wasn’t actually accusing him of anything. He ducked into the classroom to avoid having to reply.

“Really, Virgil, if you were interested, you could have just said something.”

“I’m not!” Virgil said. “I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.” Janus followed Virgil over to his desk. Most of the other students were filing in to the classroom, which meant Virgil only had to distract Janus for a couple more minutes before class began.

Though, knowing Janus, he’d probably just pick up the conversation as soon as class was over.

“Fine, I was thinking about it,” Virgil admitted. “Doesn’t mean I want to go. I think about a lot of things.”

Janus didn’t look convinced, but eventually he nodded. “Fine, if you’re certain.”

“I am,” Virgil lied.

Janus nodded, and went to his seat. Virgil sighed, and pulled out his notebooks. Time to spend the whole hour avoiding Mr Williams’ attention.

They’d moved on to studying the sonnets, now. Virgil hadn’t actually hated it as much as he thought he would. He’d actually enjoyed some of it. He’d even been able to give an answer to a question that Mr Williams wasn’t able to make fun of, though he did eye Virgil suspiciously as if Virgil had somehow cheated.

“Each of you will produce a sonnet,” Mr Williams announced, and Virgil sat up straighter. “It must follow the standard rules for sonnets. Which, before you ask, means it has to rhyme.”

Virgil flipped to a new page in his notebook, already thinking about what he could do. Finally, an assignment that was actually interesting. He jotted down a couple of ideas as Mr Williams continued to talk about the assignment.

“Mr Foster,” Mr Williams said suddenly, and Virgil jerked his head up. Mr Williams was frowning at him. Great. What had he done now?

“Do you understand the assignment?” Mr Williams asked.

Virgil glanced at Janus and met his eyes. It was enough to make him feel slightly better.

“Actually,” he said, “I had a question.”

Mr Williams looked satisfied. “Oh? Well, perhaps if you were paying more attention you’d know what the assignment was.”

“Did you want the sonnet in iambic pentameter?”

Mr Williams stopped, and frowned. “Very funny,” he snapped after a moment, before returning to his teaching.

Well, he hadn’t gotten mocked for it. And, judging by that reaction, he assumed the iambic pentameter was not necessary. Still, with Janus looking impressed, it felt like a victory.

***

Once school had ended, Roman Prince was stood hidden behind a corner near Patton’s locker, waiting for Patton to come closer.

“This is going to be so good,” he whispered.

“What if he’s allergic to flowers?” Remus asked.

Roman froze, and then his face filled with horror. “Oh, God, I didn’t think about that. This was a terrible idea. We have to take it down!”

“Too late,” Remus sing-songed.

Sure enough, Patton had walked into the corridor with Logan at his side. He stopped and stared at his locker, the door of which had been covered with flowers.

“Well,” Logan said. “I think I can hazard a guess as to who was responsible for this.”

Remus snorted. Roman screwed his courage to the sticking place and stepped out into the corridor. Patton and Logan had their backs to him, staring at the locker, so Roman cleared his throat. Patton spun around, and his eyes lit up as soon as he saw Roman.

“What do you think?” Roman asked.

He’d barely finished the question before Patton was moving, throwing himself into Roman’s arms. Roman caught him and hugged him, smiling. Patton kissed Roman on the cheek.

“They’re beautiful,” Patton said. “Thank you.”

Roman leaned down, and pulled Patton into a deep kiss. Behind the two love birds, Remus slunk over to where Logan was watching them.

“This is going to take forever,” he said. “Walk me to my car?”

“It’s Roman’s car,” Logan corrected, though he still followed, lips twitching in the barest hint of a smile.

Roman and Patton finally pulled out of their kiss, Roman stroking his thumb along Patton’s cheek.

“I wasn’t planning on kissing you just yet,” Roman admitted. “That was meant to be the finale.”

“Finale to what?”

Roman took a deep breath, and then dropped to one knee. Patton giggled.

“Patton Foster,” Roman said, “Would you do the honour of going to the Winter Dance with me?”

“Oh, of course I will!” Patton replied.

After that, there was more kissing, so Roman got the finale he’d planned. By the time the two of them walked to the parking lot, Virgil was already waiting by Patton’s car. He wasn’t alone. Janus Verona stood next to him, saying something. Whatever it was, Virgil laughed.

“He seems so happy,” Patton murmured.

“Who, Virgil?”

Patton nodded. “I was worried when Janus started talking to him. But Virgil has never acted like this before.” He took Roman’s hand and leaned against him. “Guess it must be love.”

Roman looked away. “Right,” he said. “Love.”

Patton frowned, and looked over at him. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Roman said quickly. “I just, uh, remembered Remus is probably waiting for me! I should go before he decides to start a fire.”

Patton didn’t look convinced, probably because Roman had always been happy to make Remus wait in the past, but he just smiled and said goodbye. Across the parking lot, Virgil must have noticed Patton, because he was saying goodbye to Janus, too.

Roman looked away quickly and hurried to find Remus. Seeing Virgil and Janus together made something twist uncomfortably in his gut.

***

Virgil didn’t leave Roman’s head for the rest of the night. Roman didn’t even like the guy, but every time he closed his eyes, he kept imagining Virgil, broken hearted at the end of it all. And fine, Virgil was a dick, but that didn’t mean he deserved that.

Remus was strangely quiet whenever Roman was around, until right before they went to bed, when he told him that if Patton hadn’t wanted to go to the dance with him that made Patton an idiot. Roman just shook his head, and told Remus that everything was fine, which just made him more confused.

It wasn’t like he could talk to Remus about the Virgil problem; Remus probably wouldn’t even see the issue. And there was nobody else who knew about the deal. So it was just up to him, lying awake in his bedroom. And, when he thought about it, there was only one obvious solution.

So the next day, Roman grabbed Janus’ arm and pulled him to the side of the corridor. Janus went along with it, an indulgent look on his face.

“We need to end this,” Roman whispered.

Janus sighed. “We discussed this,” he said, as if he was talking to a child. “Ending it too soon will just arouse suspicion.”

“I don’t buy it,” Roman snapped. “It’s been weeks. Why would Virgil be suspicious now?”

“And if you’re wrong?”

If Roman was wrong, Virgil would probably murder him with his bare hands. Worse, Patton would know what he’d done. He might never forgive Roman for it.

Janus took Roman’s silence as agreement. “Just a little longer. I’m the one who knows what he’s doing, remember.”

Roman shook his head. “But when is it enough? Tell me, at what point will it be safe to end things? And in the meantime, we just keep hurting Virgil.”

Janus stiffened. “He won’t get hurt,” he snapped.

Roman rolled his eyes. “Some people have feelings, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Janus replied. “They’re wonderful to manipulate.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Perhaps. But you’re the one paying me.”

“Well, not anymore. I meant what I said. This is over.”

“And I meant what I said. You want to take Patton to the dance, don’t you? Why not keep it going until that, at least.”

Roman shook his head. Something in Janus’ eyes, the way he held himself, the speed at which he answered, made him seem almost… desperate. But why would he be? Sure, Roman was paying him an extortionate amount, but it wasn’t like Janus needed the money.

And then there was the glimpses Roman had seen of him and Virgil together. How relaxed he seemed, the way he looked at Virgil as if Virgil had singlehandedly created every Disney film. Roman had admired Janus for his acting abilities, the way it looked so natural. So real.

“You don’t want this to end,” Roman realised.

Janus looked at him as if he were stupid. “Yes, I told you that.”

“No, you told me that it shouldn’t end. But you’re not worried about Virgil finding out; you’re worried about not being able to date him.”

“Right,” Janus said. “If you’re done being ridiculous?”

“Deny it all you want, but you can’t change the truth. Not that you’d have much experience with that.”

“You’re right,” Janus deadpanned. “I was cursed as a baby so that I can only speak in lies. I am forced to always say the opposite of what I mean. It’s incredibly inconvenient.”

“Don’t try to change the subject!” Roman snapped. “The truth is, you’re in love with Virgil. Admit it.”

“I don’t have to admit to anything. Certainly not to your fanciful daydreams.”

“Would it really be so bad if you were?”

Janus said nothing.

“Look,” Roman said, softer, “It doesn’t have to be either or. If you want to keep dating Virgil without the money, what’s to stop you?”

For a moment, Janus seemed to consider it. He looked hopeful, but the kind of hope that was tinged with the fear of what you wanted being taken away. It was the most vulnerable Roman had ever seen him. Quite possibly the most vulnerable that anyone had ever seen him. Then head snapped up, his face smoothed into his usual blank mask.

“Very well,” he said. “If you truly think our arrangement should come to an end, I’ll respect that.”

Roman relaxed. Already, some of the guilt was ebbing out of him. “Okay, good.”

“And to show I mean it, I’ll end things with Virgil straight away. It’s only proper.”

“Wait, that’s not-”

But Janus was already walking away, not listening to Roman’s protests.

“That’s not what I meant, asshole,” Roman shouted, but Janus didn’t even break his stride.

Roman scowled. Well, he’d done the right thing at least, even if Janus had refused to listen to him.

***

Their staircase was empty. The cafeteria wasn’t empty, but it didn’t have Virgil in it. That wasn’t surprising; Janus had doubted Virgil would have braved it on his own. Virgil must have gotten out of class and not been able to find Janus, which meant he’d probably gone to his friends so he wouldn’t have to spend lunch alone.

Sure enough, when Janus reached the fire escape, he saw the familiar patchwork hoodie, slightly further away from the group than he had been last time. Virgil was staring at his phone, foot tapping on the floor. If Virgil looked up, he would probably smile when he saw Janus, would probably start frowning when Janus asked to talk to him somewhere private, would worry about what Janus wanted but wouldn’t say anything.

And then what would Janus say? The simplest option was to not offer any explanation, to just say it was over and then leave. Let Virgil come up with the reason, sometime around three am. The easiest option would be to make it complete, suggest he’d found someone else, or that he was never really interested. Destroy the bridge so completely that there wouldn’t even be ashes left to find.

“What are you doing here?”

Luc Edwards had stepped inside, his arms folded. Wonderful. Behind him, Virgil had twisted around to look, eyes wide.

It was Janus Virgil spoke to. “I need to talk to you.”

Virgil nodded and quickly stood up and stepped inside. Before he could get to them, Luc took another step closer. Janus tried not to flinch back. It was fine, Luc hadn’t tried anything physical for years, wouldn’t dare try anything now.

“What do you want to talk about?” Luc asked.

“Is that any of your business?”

Virgil tried to get around Luc, but Luc held out an arm, blocking his path. Virgil scowled.

“Get out of the way,” he said quietly.

Luc ignored him. “You’ve been talking to Virgil a lot. What do you see in him? Can’t be his personality.”

“Knock it off, Luc,” Virgil growled, shouldering past him. He grabbed Janus’ arm and muttered, “Let’s go.”

“You know what I think?” Luc asked. “I think you’re just using him.”

Janus’ blood turned to ice. He forced himself not to react, to keep his face blank. There was no way Luc could know the truth.

Luc must have sensed some of Janus’ fear because he grinned. “Are you really so obsessed with me you need to cosy up to my friends?”

The surprise and relief made Janus laugh. “Oh, honey, why would I possibly be interested in you? You’re a nobody.”

His words hit their mark. Luc took a step forward, so they were toe-to-toe. His hand was clenched into a fist, and maybe he shouldn’t have been so harsh, because this was going to hurt.

And then he was pulled back, and Virgil was pushing his way between them.

“Back off,” Virgil snarled.

For a moment, they both stood ready to fight, and Janus waited for Luc to hit Virgil. But then Luc just turned away.

“Whatever,” he muttered.

Outside, the rest of the group were watching them intently. One kid looked about to say something, but Virgil tugged Janus away before anything else could happen. Janus followed, letting Virgil drag him across school.

“Are you okay?” Janus asked when they had stopped.

Virgil looked at him incredulously. “You’re the one who almost got hit! Are you okay?”

Janus’ hands were shaking. He hadn’t realised that. He quickly stuffed them in his pockets so no one could see, and then sank to the ground. They were in their staircase. Virgil sat down next to him, eyes wide with worry.

“I’m fine,” Janus said. “Thanks for stopping him. His punches hurt.”

Virgil snorted. “Yeah, Luc’s an asshole. Wait” –his eyes narrowed- “how do you know what his punched are like?”

Oh. He hadn’t meant to say that. He should probably come up with a lie, say that he’s seen enough kids get hit by him to guess, but all that came out was, “How do you think?”

Virgil stood up quickly. “I’m going to kill him,” he snarled.

“Don’t bother,” Janus said. “My revenge was very thorough.”

“The cheating,” Virgil guessed. Janus nodded.

“But then why did he hit you?”

Janus shrugged. “I was there.”

Virgil sat back down. He didn’t say anything, though he looked confused, just rested one hand on Janus’ arm; an invitation. And, though Janus knew that he should keep quiet, keep his secrets hidden, the words began to tumble out of him.

“I’m sure you can imagine what middle school was like with my scar.”

“You were bullied,” Virgil said softly. It wasn’t a question, but still Janus nodded.

“Luc wasn’t the worst, but he was the leader. Believe it or not, he used to be popular. One day I overheard him telling his friends that he cheated on his tests. So I told him that if he didn’t leave me alone, I’d go to the school.”

“And it worked?”

“Luc and his friends stopped bothering me. And then the rest of the school followed their lead. And I knew how to get what I wanted.”

But it was about more than just that. Luc had been scared of him back then, and that had made him untouchable. It was a feeling he’d wanted to keep.

“That’s how you got started,” Virgil said. “But then what happened with Luc?”

“He fell back into old habits,” Janus explained. “Not with me, but with others. I confronted him about it; it didn’t go well.”

It made him sound so altruistic. In reality, he hadn’t been thinking about those other kids at all when he went to the principal. But Luc had threatened him, and that was something he couldn’t allow.

Virgil processed Janus’ story silently. Finally, he turned so his body was facing Janus, and held his arms open.

“Can I hug you?”

Janus nodded, and Virgil’s arms wrapped around him. Virgil’s body felt warm pressed against his.

“Thank you for telling me that,” he whispered into Janus’ ear.

“Go to the dance with me,” Janus said. Virgil pulled back to stare incredulously at him.

That was not what Janus had meant to say. And yet, he didn’t want to take it back.

“What?” Virgil asked.

“Go to the dance with me,” Janus repeated. “I know you want to go.”

“Why?”

“Does there need to be a reason?”

Virgil hesitated a moment longer before nodding. “Okay,” he said. “Take me to the dance.”

Perhaps Roman had a point after all. There was no reason for their relationship to seem anything less than real.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #janus sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #remus sanders #anxceit #royality #intrulogical

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threeletterslife · 4 years ago

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06 | Over the Moon

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→ summary: You feel isolated in the vast American country with no one but your older brother and your six rowdy friends to keep you company. But when they disappear without a trace, you're left with nothing. Nothing until you become dragged into the world of the mob. The mafia world promises glory, fame and big bucks. But that comes with backstabbing, pain, regret and vengeance behind the veils. You're not ready for that alone. Are you?

→ genre: 85% angst, 15% fluff | mafia!au

→ warnings: profanity, intense description of torture, blood, mentions of death by torture

→ wordcount: 6.4k

It's been a few days since you walked out of Yoongi's bedroom after the gala. And you're not going to lie, it's been awkward with him ever since—he probably woke up in the morning confused and alone. Without the familiar curve of your body against his chest. Knowing him, he probably thinks he did something wrong. Which, of course, isn't true.

Yet you've been avoiding him. And he avoids you just the same to give you space.

You've found that not spending time with Yoongi actually allows you to think. You didn't realize how much a distraction Yoongi was in your life—how much he distracted you from getting what you really wanted: revenge.

All that extra time you spent cuddling with him and being with him is now spent thinking of Jimin. What would you say if the Crescents finally caught the murderer? You've been writing a couple of speeches out, trying to memorize the angry words ahead of time so you're not a mess when the true moment comes. You think about how infuriated you would be when you finally see the man that killed your brother. You wonder if, at that moment, you'll want that murderer to suffer. Maybe you'll ask JK to beat him up a little bit so he can have a taste of his own medicine. Or, better yet, drip a few drops of rubbing alcohol down his throat?

You hate yourself when you start thinking of these things. No, I need to take care of it in a civilized manner. But maybe you've spent way too much time as a Crescent, already. You've forgotten where they draw the line between malicious revenge and justified punishment.

And besides that point, you can't get your revenge if you never catch the murderer. It's been several months since you've become a Crescent, yet there hasn't been a single good lead on Jimin's murder. Sure, there are only seven people in the gang... but what was taking so long? The murderer is obviously an enemy of the Crescents. So how many enemies did they really have? And why were you kept in the dark about it?

They're questions that you have been meaning to ask Seokjin. But so very conveniently, he's never home.

"His day job keeps him well-occupied," Namjoon sighs as he shrugs. "I'll try to tell him when he gets home, alright, Y/N?"

Bullshit.

That's what Namjoon's been telling you for days now and not once has Jin come to find you. But knowing Seokjin, he wouldn't lie. The man has a heart of gold, so true to Namjoon's words, Jin's job must really be keeping him busy.

So you leave Namjoon's office feeling quite dejected once more. You shake your head. I need to stop fussing. Things will work out if I'm patient, right? I should probably just apologize to Yoongi so things are back to normal.

Yoongi's been nothing but an angel to you and it was unfair of you to push him away because you needed space to mull over Jimin's death. Yoongi is more than a distraction—he's someone you genuinely see in your future. And you always feel bad that he's left chasing after you...

You finally muster up the confidence to knock on his bedroom door at night. There's a bit of silence, but then he answers:

"Yes?"

"Yoongi..." you breathe, squeezing your eyes shut. "It's um, me." The door opens immediately and you almost fall forward if Yoongi hadn't caught your arms. "Hi..."

"Hey," he mutters. "Wanna talk?"

"Yeah," you nod, walking into his dark room and sitting down on his neatly made bed. "I want to apologize, actually."

Yoongi hums, sitting down next to you. "Okay," he says.

"Well, I think I've been unfair to you," you admit, looking down at your feet. "I like you, Yoongi. But I feel like I have a hard time showing it. When I'm with you... I just forget about everything, you know? I don't feel sad or bothered as I should be because, well, Jimin. But in those small moments when I'm not with you, reality comes crashing down on me and I just get so fucking miserable. It's hard to tell you what I'm exactly feeling because frankly, I'm a little confused, myself. And that day I just walked out of your room after the gala? I swear that was nothing against you. I like you for you, Yoongi..."

Yoongi grunts, pulling his knees to his chest. "I understand, Y/N."

"I'm sorry that you caught me at such bad timing... And I'm sorry I push you away when you're just trying to help, okay?" you sigh. "I really like what we have, and I don't want to butcher it."

Yoongi simply nods. "I didn't think you needed to apologize over this," he shrugs. "I get what you're going through, Y/N. I get that you need your alone time. And frankly, I do too, sometimes. You don't have to apologize for being confused over your life, right now. I'm here to help if you need it, but you shouldn't feel obligated to feel sorry when you need space. You would've done all of this the same for me."

He's right. You would've done the same for him. And in that way, Yoongi becomes the perfect puzzle piece that had been missing for years of your life. You two have similar ideals, similar thoughts, similar ways of conveying yourself. Both of you are straight-forward, preferring to ditch flowery language for concision. You don't believe in stupid fairytale romances and neither does he—in fact, neither of you know anything about romance at all. Dating Yoongi does not give you insane butterflies in your stomach; it does not make you squeal like a hormonal middle school girl. He does not make you feel like the most special woman in the world. But that's fine because you doubt that any man could make you feel that way. You're practical—as much as he is. And you're attracted to him, and him, to you. Maybe you have some unconventional ways of showing your feelings, but he does as well. That's what makes him special. Because he's consistent with his feelings and he understands you.

"And Y/N?" Yoongi asks.

"Hmm?"

"I don't want anything to come in between us," he says, scratching his head awkwardly. "Um, especially not stuff about..." he pauses, "the Crescents."

You nod. "That especially."

"Are you tired?" he asks. "I was just gonna go to bed."

"I'll stay over if you want."

"Yeah, that'd be great," Yoongi smiles. He rolls over to his side of the bed, making room for you to crawl next to him and slip under the covers. Yoongi tucks the both of you in, grabbing your warm hand underneath the blankets.

God. Being with him feels too right. You've never felt this right in your life before.

"Y/N?" As if on cue, Yoongi calls your name.

"Hm?" you answer, turning around to face him in the dark.

"I love you," he whispers, kissing the tip of your nose. "Goodnight."

You smile, processing the weight of those simple words in your head. It's the first time something he says makes you feel like you're soaring in the air. "Goodnight," you whisper back, squeezing your interlocked hands. "And Yoongi?"

"Hm?"

"I love you too."

Sleeping has never been this peaceful.

Ever since you and Yoongi had exchanged meaningful "I love you's," your relationship with him had been much more stable. At this point, you practically live in his room and he in yours. It's a bit foreign for you to feel so much comfort around a single person, but Yoongi's obviously a special case.

For the most part, you try to keep business out of your relationship—the two of you keep it very professional when dealing. You know how worked up you get when talking about your brother's death. But sometimes you just can't help yourself. Waking up to a new day symbolizes another damn day that the person who had killed your brother is walking around free of charge and punishment. It symbolizes growing anxiety on your part. Growing frustration. Growing impatience.

You sigh, placing both hands on your stomach as you adjust your head laying on Yoongi's bare chest. It's late at night and the moon's at its peak, shining brightly through your room's window. Your Crescents marks are connected together once more.

"It's taking so long," you mumble.

"Hm?" Yoongi asks. "What is?"

You hesitate, blinking your eyes a few times to really contemplate whether you should bring up the sensitive topic again. But your frustration prevails. "Finding Jimin's murderer. It's been months. Taehyung acted like it would take less than a week the last time I talked to him. But it's been several weeks since he's told me that."

Yoongi hums thoughtfully but he does not speak.

"Why is it taking so long?" It's more of a rhetorical question, but you wouldn't mind if Yoongi answers.

Your boyfriend sighs. "Well..." he trails off, fingers coming down to play with your hair. "Um..." His eyebrows are crinkled and he looks deeply pensive, staring off into the distance with a hollow but perplexed look on his face. You realize he probably knows as much as you do at this point.

"I'm sorry. Never mind," you whisper. "You don't know either."

"Do you want me to help you get things off your mind?" Yoongi offers. "It seems like you're worrying again."

"No, it's fine," you say. "You're probably tired. You should get some sleep. Don't worry about me. It's just one of those nights, I guess... You know? When I get all sentimental? And I starting missing him... And wondering what it would've been like if he were still here..." You sigh deeply, frowning as you stare at the empty ceiling. "Just one of those nights..."

"Do you need time alone?" Yoongi asks. "It's okay. You can be honest."

"No," you answer without hesitation. "I like you here."

"Hmm..." Yoongi hums again. "Well then, can I help you distract yourself?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I've been meaning to ask you for a while," Yoongi smiles, rubbing your arm gingerly. "What do you think we would've been like as a normal couple?"

"A normal couple?"

"Yeah," Yoongi chuckles. "A couple outside of the Crescents."

"That's so weird," you frown. "I've never thought of that. Wow."

"Right? It's weird," Yoongi laughs at the way you wrinkle your nose in deep thought. "Do you think we would've been together outside of here?"

"I dunno," you say. "I might've been with Taehyung or something if you really think about it."

"Or Jungkook. Or Seokjin," Yoongi teases. "I would've been in the sidelines with Hoseok, right?"

"Who knows? I might've still pranked Hoseok with Jungkook and Taehyung," you giggle. "Maybe I never even grew up because of those two. Maybe Hoseok hated me because I pranked him and you hated me because I pranked Hoseok!"

"I can see that," Yoongi chuckles. "Then I'm happy with the way things are right now."

"Really?" you smile. "Me too."

"You know, our marks connect when we lay like this in bed."

You beam. "I know."

"Good." Yoongi wraps his arm around you. "Doesn't sleep sound welcoming right now?"

"You know what? Yeah," you agree. "It actually does."

Yoongi's somehow miraculously able to calm you down to the point you're able to feel tired again.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Y/N."

"Goodnight," you whisper, closing your eyes and savoring the warmth of your boyfriend as you drift off to sleep.

I’m writing this down so I don’t forget! Is it just me or does writing things down help you remember things better? I dunno. It’s late. I’m a bit tired and I feel like confessing my thoughts and feelings in writing. So, I guess I’ll be writing about the Crescents today.

The name honestly originated years ago back when I was in high school. I remember that particular day. Joon and I were sitting outside the balcony of his house, the rest of the squad lounging around in front of the television. We were talking about how pretty the moon was, too. I remember Joon and I were having a friendly debate about whether it was a waxing crescent moon or waning crescent moon for the longest time. Looking back now, I should’ve just admitted I was wrong. The moon had definitely been a waxing crescent. But despite the fact that we disagreed whether the moon was waxing or waning, we agreed that it was a crescent moon. And Joon specifically pointed out then that that was a beautiful name. It’s full of meaning too. A crescent moon is sharp at the two points but round—it’s well-balanced and no matter how small it is, it shines brightly in the darkness. A waxing crescent moon is always growing, developing to fill into a full moon, which the waning crescent moon prepares to start over as a new moon. We couldn’t pass up that symbolism.

Fast forward a few years later, that’s the name of our little gang: the Crescents. Plus, the mark looks damn nice, doesn’t it?

I can’t stop admiring the scar at the back of my neck. It hurt, but it was totally worth it.

Us Crescents chose our marks carefully and meaningfully, of course. We didn’t want anyone snooping around and calling us out for being in a gang, nor did we want to have a permanent mark on a place that didn’t mean much.

Seokjin spent two glorious days thinking about where to put his mark. He works in a bright kitchen so he couldn’t put it anywhere that could possible be visible to others (his hands, ankles, neck). He had to be smart about it. I told him he should get the mark where he felt the most confident in himself. Jin told me that was his shoulders, to which I’d laughed and replied that he couldn’t get two marks on each shoulder because that would technically be breaking protocol. Seokjin shrugged. He came back the next day and told everyone he was getting his mark on his collarbone. Not a bad choice. A lot of ladies swooned over his collarbone in our high school days.

if I thought Jin took long to decide... well, Joon took a whole week! I think it’s because he had to really factor in good hiding spots on his body so that no one in court could see his bond to the mafia. He didn’t want to place it anywhere obvious, nor did he want to place it anywhere too well-hidden. He told me simple is best and that he was having trouble coming up with a spot that was ‘simple’ enough. Finally, finally! he came up with the perfect place. Behind his ear. Joon told me that the spot behind your ear is actually one of the most painful places to get a tattoo or scarification for that matter. He said that the pain would be worth it, and it was signify his true bond to the Crescents. Joon always wears glasses at his day job, which would hide the mark, too. Genius, I tell you.

Yoongi chose a spot that was kind of obvious, in my opinion. He said if we were really going to go all out to bond ourselves as Crescents, he wanted to go all out as well. he decided in literally less than thirty seconds that he wanted it on his chest, and we all knew that his mark would rest near his beating heart.

Jungkook and Taehyung teamed up to get marks on matching places. It took them only ten minutes to decide too, and I can’t seem to find out the reason they chose those places but I’m starting to think the place didn’t matter for them. What did was that they’d be matching. Taehyung chose his left thigh and Jungkook, his right. I thought it was a loyal move more than an intelligent one.

I took a good few hours deciding where I wanted my mark to be. But if the Crescents were really going to be my family, I’d want them to watch my back. So I conveniently chose that I would get my mark on the back of my neck. I usually wear high-neck sweaters so no one at the bars would see. If I had to symbol of a Crescent on the back of my neck, I felt like the Crescents would always be watching out for my back! Even when I’m looking in the wrong direction, they’d be able to help me when danger is trying to ambush me. I like the meaning I chose for the placement of my mark a lot. And I’m not gonna lie, but Hoseok kind of copied me.

He wanted his mark somewhere on the backside of him because he had really liked my idea of the Crescents watching each other’s backs. But he couldn’t do it on the back of his neck. As a doctor, he’d surely have people snoop around and accidentally catch sight of it. Plus if he put it there, he’d really be copying me. That’s probably why he had to choose to place his mark on his literal back. I’m kind of glad it worked out that way because we all silently agreed not to get the marks in the same places.

Anyways, even though the whole choosing thing was a bit of a fiasco, I thought it was fun. We’ll have these marks forever. And they’re basically physical proof that we’re blood-bonded as the Crescents.

It’s beautiful, really.

I know we were already a family before all of this... But just having these marks as something official? Damn. We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?

You've come to terms with yourself that you will never get used to this room. The walls are too white, the lights are too bright—everywhere you look nearly blinds your eyes. You're left casting your gaze downwards, looking at the tops of your shoes, or staring straight down at the grand table. You rarely participate, either. The tension is too thick, almost suffocating your throat and keeping you from speaking. There are fights in that white room. Fights and arguments and heated debates that you do not like to take part in.

No matter how brightly the lights of the white room shine, the meetings there are always grim.

"Do you think this constitutes the very starting point of a trend of boss murders again?" Namjoon asks, rigid in his seat, his posture so poise and perfect you would've thought he was a frozen statue if he hadn't just spoken.

"No," Seokjin answers right away. "One death does not mean anything. It could've been an accident. There is no reason to bring panic across the county gangs." His soft but authoritative voice makes you glance up to check if he's as calm as he sounds. But when you look up, his eyes meet yours and you freeze. But Jin merely smiles at you, giving you a small, reassuring nod. "There is no need to be scared."

It seems as though he is speaking to you and you only.

Hoseok scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes. "Boss, I think we should be scared. And out of all of us, you should be the most scared. They're going after the mob bosses, again. Does that mean nothing to you?"

"We have no evidence whether that was a murder or not," Seokjin sighs. "Fear and panic will do us no good right now. We have to stay calm and collected before we jump to conclusions."

"Boss, I'm pretty sure he was murdered," Taehyung says. "They said he was shot twice—in the head and in his dick. I don't think even an accident would have done that."

"The correct term, Taehyung, is groin," Namjoon says in exasperation. "Stay professional. Please."

"Tae's right," Jungkook pipes in. "My police squad was talking about it the other day. It was definitely murder. They were going for the kill."

"Okay," Seokjin says, nodding slowly. "So it is a murder, then. But the boss of the Bloods was neither an ally nor foe. We are safe because we have no connections."

"We can't be sure of that," Hoseok gripes. "Constant fucking vigilance, you know? We're already keeping so many secrets. If the other gangs find out we don't have hundreds of hitmen sprinkled everywhere throughout LA, they're going to come for our fucking throats! We should all know that we're seriously outnumbered."

"Well, they haven't figured out how many are actually in the Crescents for around six years now," Namjoon says. "If we're careful, they'll never know."

Hoseok scoffs. "Mhm. Sure."

"I'm sure we'll be fine," Seokjin tries again. "Lucky for us, we've been playing middle man since the game began. We don't have many enemies."

You raise your eyebrows in shock. What? "Wait—"

"We don't have many allies either, Boss," Taehyung points out. "We don't have anyone but ourselves."

"But—" you try again.

"Essentially, we can't trust anyone but ourselves," Namjoon clarifies. "And—"

"W-Wait! Just... Wait, please," you interrupt, your voice ringing painfully in the white void. "Someone said something about us not having many enemies?"

You've spoken out of turn, you can tell. Hoseok shoots you a look, Yoongi places a hand on top of yours and Namjoon raises his eyebrows. It's because you hadn't interrupted JK or Tae. Or Yoongi or Hoseok, your so-called "equals." You've interrupted the underboss and apparently, that's some sort of crime—a product of the hierarchy you wanted to avoid.

The awkward, uncomfortable silence commences. No one bothers to answer your desperate question.

"And," Namjoon continues, clearing his throat and doing away with the silence. "We must unite in times like this and become a family."

"I agree," Seokjin says. "We can only hope that we are united in this emerging crisis."

Everyone nods except for you.

"Meeting's dismissed," Seokjin says, standing up. He looks straight at you. "But I'd like to talk to you, Y/N. Please, stay."

Yoongi narrows his eyes. "For what?" he says.

Seokjin raises his eyebrows at Yoongi's defiant tone. "You may stay too if you wish," he finally says after a moment of silence.

No one looks back as they file out of the room, Jungkook closing the door as he steps out last. Seokjin stands, towering over you and Yoongi who are still sitting down.

"I understand you have frustrations, Y/N," Seokjin says.

"Yeah, well, frankly, I don't understand anything at all," you say, crossing your arms over your chest. "You don't have many enemies, but enemies are the only ones you have to check for his murder? What's taking so long? Are you trying to delay it? Don't you want to justify his death? I don't understand! Don't you want to know who killed him?"

Yoongi makes a move to hold your hand, trying to calm you down, but your breaths are ragged and you clench your other fist.

"Y/N," Seokjin soothes. "We're trying as hard as we can."

"Are you?!" you say. "You acted like this job was a piece of cake!"

"It's not as easy as it seems," Jin says.

"Well, I would've known that if you told me," you sigh. "I'm a Crescent too, you know. You don't have to hide anything from me!"

"We're afraid you won't like what's going on," Yoongi finally speaks. He squeezes your intertwined hands. "I—we don't want to scare you away from staying."

"I'll stay!" you say. "Where would I go if I left?"

It's a rhetorical question. No one answers.

"Y/N, you have to understand that we didn't know it was going to take this long, either. I know Jungkook and Taehyung might've said it would take a couple of weeks, but unfortunately, it's taking longer," Jin says. "It's out of our control at this point, Y/N. We can't force information out of everyone."

You stay silent.

"There will be another meeting dedicated to Jimin tomorrow," Seokjin says. "We'll talk about it more then. Is that okay with you?"

You ignore him, too lost in your thoughts that Yoongi has to shake you a bit. "Hey," he says. "You good?"

You shake your head. "No, I'm sorry," you mutter, standing up and taking your hand way from Yoongi. "I'd just like some time alone."

Seokjin and Yoongi watch you leave, neither making a move to stop you.

Once you're completely out of sight, Yoongi turns to Seokjin, slowly crossing his arms over his chest. "She's smart, you know. She's already suspicious... You can't argue with gut instinct, Boss. She's going to find out sooner or later."

The boss shakes his head smiling slightly before looking up at Yoongi. "She won't find out. Not unless you tell her."

The movies make everything seem so easy.

Living a life in the mob is not something you can switch on and off at your will. No, Hollywood screenwriters, being in the mafia is a lifestyle. It's not all guns and games and tuxes and wealth. It's about trusting no one but yourself—trusting anyone else could leave you vulnerable for anything.

I'm starting to feel heavily nostalgic about the times I played around with my friends when we were kids. We'd joke around, pretend to target each other, wear our best clothes and pretend we were undercover on a secret, high-level mafia mission. We thought the mafia would be fun.

I just think we forgot how dangerous it could be. Any of us could die at any moment because of one wrong step.

Well, when I'm killed—no, if I'm killed, I want it to be quick, torture-less. I know that's a lot to ask for, but if I had one wish in the world that could be granted, that would be it. I don't want to die by the hands of someone else. I try not to make enemies. I try to be careful. I try not to hurt anyone.

But what good is it in this world? There are strangers lurking around in the dark to kill you not because they have a personal vendetta against you but because you were a convenient target their sadistic selves could fuck around with.

There's nothing worse than being killed by someone you don't know for absolutely no reason. Because then, there is no apparent reason for your death. I wish I never have to kill anyone I don't know—if I will ever kill that is...

Seokjin says it's imminent. I wish it's not.

I don't know. I just want a reason for my death—if I even die here. This entry has gotten quite depressing. I think I'll have to call it a day and go to bed.

True to Seokjin's word, there is a meeting in the white room again the next day about Jimin's murderer.

The meeting starts with something Seokjin and Namjoon calls open discussion, which essentially lets anyone talk over each other. You and Yoongi don't have much to say as always, but Jungkook and Taehyung are being quite loud.

"Oh, if we find that sick fucking bastard, we're going to skin him so good he'll wish he's dead!" Taehyung snorts and Jungkook agrees, nodding his head. "Anyone who messes with our family gets the fucking hammer." Taehyung makes a squashing motion with his hand, grinning at Jungkook who supports his again by clapping his hands together.

"Or maybe we should do the things he did to Jimin to him," Jungkook suggests. "Eye for an eye. Toe for a toe. Life for a life."

"Genius!" Taehyung pipes up. "Fucking lovely."

You grimace at their graphic descriptions but stay quiet. It seems that everyone else is enjoying this talk of graphic torture and murder that will happen when the Crescents finally catch Jimin's murderer.

Finally, Seokjin silences all conversation by raising his hand. "We're closer than ever now," he says after clearing his throat. "We've narrowed it down to just a few gangs. Then we'll narrow it down to one person."

"But how do you know it's one person?" you challenge.

"Hours and hours of torture," Taehyung grins. "Don't worry, Y/N. We'll find that man and make sure the last few days of his life are fucking miserable."

You can't say that makes you feel any better.

"You look like you have something to say," Yoongi says, tucking a strand of your stray hair behind your ear as he cuddles you in bed. "Was it about the meeting today?"

You sigh. "Yeah... I don't know." You bury yourself in Yoongi's arms, seeking his warmth and comfort before pulling away and finally asking, "Don't you think something's just... off?"

Yoongi frowns. "About our relationship?"

"No," you say, shaking your head. "I meant about Jimin's death."

"Really?" Yoongi raises his eyebrows.

"It's just weird," you say slowly, choosing your words carefully. "We don't have many enemies. Jimin's never mentioned anyone specifically hating him... And if the enemies really do hate me and my brother for whatever reason, I just think they would've killed me already, you know? I don't know. Maybe mourning's getting to my head. Something just feels... off."

"Y/N..."

"I know, I know," you sigh. "Sometimes, I think this lifestyle isn't for me. I know I'm not doing anything remotely dangerous compared to what Jungkook and Taehyung are doing, but I'm just always living in constant fear and hatred and sadness and that feeling of vengeance... I mean, of course, you, Yoongi, you keep me grounded but... I don't know," you say. "This is going to sound crazy."

"It's okay. You can let it out," Yoongi says. "I won't judge."

"Well... I'm starting to think I'm being lied to. You know? Like Seokjin and Namjoon are lying to us all. I've just been thinking—because I have so much time to think these days—but what if the person who killed Jimin didn't even know him? What if the murderer was told to kill some random, innocent guy to be formally accepted in his own gang? It's like that stupid ritual thing you told me about! And I just can't help but think... what if Jimin had just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Doesn't that make more sense? That's why it's taking them so fucking long to find the killer! Because there are so many gangs to check!"

You look toward Yoongi for some validation or any kind of reaction for that matter. But he merely sighs. "That's an interesting theory," he mutters.

"Yeah," you say. "If it's true, then that would mean I'm not even in danger because no one's looking to take my life... And I was dragged into all of this for no reason..." You shudder, looking at Yoongi expectantly for any sort of reaction.

He grunts, shifting his position in bed. "Let's not jump into conclusions, though," he says. Though you want to continue on with the subject, Yoongi seems like he wants you to drop it. And you guess you understand. You hadn't meant to attack and accuse his friends of being liars, but it might've come off like that when you were speaking. So you drop the matter and snuggle into Yoongi's warm arms.

You shouldn't be having doubts this far into the game. These people are your family.

You suspect Yoongi's been a bit pissed off at your accusation that Seokjin and Namjoon were lying to all of you because he's been kind of distant these days. You guess you deserve it. After all, you shouldn't have jumped into conclusions—especially conclusions as harsh as that. Besides, Jin and Joon would never lie to you. They're your family.

You'd just been desperate that day, looking for any scapegoat that you could get your hands on. But thinking about that theory now makes you realize how utterly crazy it is. You've dropped it completely. And since Yoongi's been having his 'me-time,' you suddenly have a lot of time leftover. So you've been using it to binge read your brother's diary.

It's all too soon when you're at his last, er first entry.

You recognize the first few lines because you'd read it before, months ago. You hadn't been able to continue on at that time, but now, you're ready. Your eyes carefully follow the lines of your brother's neat writing:

I can’t believe I’m in the mafia. I mean, I’ve thought about it for years, wondered what it would be like... if I’d even feel a difference. But I don’t. I feel the same. But this blood that courses through my veins... it doesn’t belong to me anymore. It belongs to us all. The Crescents. Beautiful name, isn’t it? Joon and I came up with it years ago and decided it was finally time to put it to use. It’s my dream come true, actually. Being in the mafia with the people I would die for. I’m ready for anything with these six people by my side.

There are so many stories I'll be able to tell in his diary, so many happenings and so many great news! I'm excited for what's in store for me in the future. This has always been my dream, and it's finally coming true! There are so many things to learn, of course, but that's not going to deter me.

God, I just can't wait until we're a few years into this. I know it's early to say this, but I can't wait to look back and laugh at my inexperience or lack of street knowledge. I can't wait to look back and see how much I've improved. (Can you even improve as a gang member?)

Anyways, the Crescents got away with their first grand mission just yesterday. We had to fake certificates, IDs, hire false witnesses and god, that all took so long, but we've accomplished it. We put Yoongi and Hoseok in medical jobs. They're probably the youngest practicing physicians in the country at this point. It's just step one of our elaborate plan to become millionaires!

Joon suggested that I faked my degree and whatnot too, but I didn't really want to be that involved... although the medical field has been an on and off interest of mine. I think I might go into bartending. The late-night gossip is the best around here.

Joon's already passed his LSAT—with a perfect score, of course, so he'll be a lawyer. Seokjin's planning on waiting to invest in a building to turn into his dream restaurant. JK's been training as a cop these days. Taehyung's wandering around lost, but he'll find a job to do.

I think it's perfect that we've all chosen to have side jobs to disguise our real careers. It's the best cover-up, really.

There's a lot to be excited about at this point. We're just starting out, so there's not much to do, so much to know, so much to see and try and have. We'll get everything as time progresses.

I'm mildly aware of the dangers that follow being in the mafia. But to that, I only have one thing to say: I never want any unnecessary violence. It's stupid and a small thing to ask for in such a violent community, but all of the Crescents have promised to solely base the gang off of the black market—nothing else. I think that's become my catchphrase, by the way. 'Unnecessary violence.' Everyone's starting to quote me on that. So maybe it'll become true.

So, here's to new beginnings, the Crescents, myself, my future... and Y/N (though she's strong and has probably already forgotten about me to chase after her career). Here's to unnecessary violence. May the new year and years beyond that bring peace and a shit ton of prosperity!

The moment you finish reading the last line, you have to turn away to wipe away the tears welling up in your eyes. The first entry is so light-hearted, so oblivious to the darkness of what's to come that it physically hurts.

You're just about to reread the entry again when there's a knock on your door. The knock is soft, delicate.

Yoongi?? Your heart leaps in your chest—you'd missed your boyfriend, after all.

"Y/N?"

Your face falls. That wasn't Yoongi's voice; it was Jungkook's.

"Yeah?" you call out. "Do you need me?"

"Yoongi's asking to see you," Jungkook says. "He wants me to tell you that he's in his room."

You frown. Yoongi was fully capable of coming to your room and telling you he wanted to see you himself. "Do you know what it's about?" Maybe it was dealing with business? But if it was dealing with business, it would've been in his best interest to meet in the white room and not his bedroom.

"He didn't say..." Jungkook says. "He sounded urgent, though."

"I'll be there in a minute," you call.

Jungkook mutters an "okay," and you hear him leave your doorway shortly after. You huff, stashing Jimin's diary away under your mattress before walking out your door and towards Yoongi's room. Maybe he was going to apologize for avoiding you? But you weren't even mad at him in the first place. Maybe he was calling you so you could apologize for accusing his friends? With Yoongi, anything and everything is a wild card.

You knock on his door, expecting truly nothing. You hear him croak, "Come in," so you do, opening the door and closing it behind you.

"Yoongi?" you say. The room is dark, the curtains are closed and a shadowy figure is sitting at the edge of the bed with his hands covering his face entirely. The room sinks your mood. "Hey..." you whisper, slowly approaching your boyfriend, "are you okay?"

"No," he says, refusing to look up at you. "I'm not."

You're a bit taken aback at the roughness of his voice, but you press on. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"

"You're going to hate me."

"What?"

"Please," Yoongi pleads. "Don't hate me... I love you... Please don't think I never loved you."

His urgency brings chills down your spine as you frown. "What are you talking about?" you ask, fidgeting with the nervousness building up inside you. "Hey, look at me," you say, taking his hands in your own. They're surprisingly cold. "What's wrong?"

Yoongi looks up into your eyes so suddenly, you almost jump. He looks at you with such regret, misery, hurt, and he squeezes your hands before he speaks: "I lied to you. We all did."

—previous | next

—masterpost

—masterlist

#bts #bts fanfiction #ot7 #seokjin #yoongi #hoseok #namjoon #jimin #taehyung #jungkook #mafia au #over the moon #otm

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talesofpanem · 5 years ago

Text

The Interview

Author: @xerxia31

Rating: T for potty language, adult situations, mentions of substance abuse and minor character death.

Summary: This has all the makings of the most uncomfortable job interview of all time.

Author’s note: This is for the prompt ‘work’, but I just couldn’t get it done on time. Thank goodness for make-up week!

————

It feels like entering another world, driving through the grounds of the west campus. Everything is wide open, lush, green, alive, a huge contrast to the dirty and crowded city where I’ve been living for the past two years.

There are young people everywhere on the expansive lawns, throwing frisbees or leaning against trees with books or binders in hand, and not a cellphone to be seen. It’s like a utopian fantasy world, on the surface.

But I know better.

I pull up to the building where my appointment will be. Grey stone, old, but not yet old enough to be considered classic. Its architectural failings have been compensated for by brightly-painted window trim and shutters, and climbing vines clinging to the stones, bursting with purple flowers. Elegant, but only if you don’t look too closely. For all of its window dressing, it’s an institution.

I’d been instructed to wait in the lobby, arranged as a waiting room of sorts. It’s little more than a dozen chairs ringing the area, facing the double set of interior doors, faded industrial carpet underfoot. I settle into one, the sun-hardened vinyl squeaks in protest. The walls are covered with inspirational posters, pictures of sunsets and mountaintops with words of wisdom in bold print underneath. Motivation. Persistence. Achievement.

“Mr. Mellark?”

I jump to my feet as a young woman with glossy black ringlets enters the room where I’ve been cooling my heels for twenty minutes. She smiles at me. “They’re ready for you now.”

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I wipe my hands on my suit pants before picking up my portfolio. I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous about anything. Young Peeta Mellark was an outgoing, gregarious fellow. But I haven’t been that guy in a very long time.

The doors close behind me, electronic locks snapping ominously.

The young woman, Rue, she tells me her name is, leads me along a dim corridor, the floors polished to gleaming, reflecting scattered pools of light. “We only use emergency lighting in the offices on the weekends,” she confides. “Budget…” I nod. The schools where I worked while finishing my master’s degrees had all struggled with budgets too. Education is not a career that is steeped in money.

But working with children is what I’ve chosen. And this job, at this particular school, is the one I want more than anything.

Art therapist at the Panem Institute.

The Panem Institute is the preeminent residential facility for kids in trouble, kids struggling with substance abuse issues or mental health disorders. And unlike most centres of its kind, lack of funds is not a barrier to admission.

I can’t help wondering how different my life might have turned out if I’d had access to a place like this when I was a teen. Would I be established now, with a life I could be proud of? A wife, maybe even a family of my own?

Instead, I’m thirty, with a shiny new double MA in social work and art therapy, and precious little in the way of resumé experience. That the institute is even meeting with me is almost miraculous. Apart from student placements and volunteer work, I have almost nothing to show for my life.

But I want this job so badly I can almost taste it. This job, this place– this is why I’ve worked so hard the past six years, for the chance to make up for my own failings.

My childhood wasn’t fantastic, but it was typical by most measures. The youngest of three children, I was born upstate, in a quintessential white-washed all-American small town where everyone knew everyone else. My parents didn’t get along, but they stuck it out for the sake of us boys, which is retrospect was probably far, far worse for us than if they’d simply split.

Instead, beaten down by a life she hated and a town she couldn’t escape, my mother was cold, and often rough with us. Rye, Brann and I learned young to hide from her temper. She, in turn, hid in a bottle.

My dad, though, was my hero, mine and my brothers’ too. He coached our little league teams, came to every one of our wrestling matches, filled our lives with cookies and hugs. Shielded us from mother’s ever-increasing drunken and violent episodes.

Then midway through my senior year of high school, the unthinkable happened. My father, my kind, generous father, was murdered. Shot by some punk barely older than I was, killed for nothing more than the two hundred dollars in the cash register of the small family bakery my father owned.

I was devastated.

There was no one left to moderate my mother’s behaviour with my father gone and my brothers away at school. Down to one final obligation, freedom in sight, she made it her sole purpose in life to be rid of me as well. Or maybe she was just drowning in grief and alcoholism and wasn’t even aware of how she was acting, a theory my brother broached at the time. Whatever the reason, life at home deteriorated. Badly.

And like my mother, I sought refuge in a bottle. Or many, many bottles.

I’d already been offered a college wrestling scholarship based on my earlier performances. A good thing since I showed up at the state wrestling championship - my last ever high school wrestling meet and the first one where my father wasn’t a spectator - hungover as hell, or maybe still a little drunk, and ended up placing second.

College was supposed to be my escape, but by the time I got to State that September, I was far more interested in getting bombed than in studying or practicing.

Over the course of a year, I destroyed every dream I’d ever had, every hope, every plan, every relationship. I alienated every friend, every mentor, even, eventually, my own brothers.

And I hadn’t even cared.

Twelve years later, I’ve clawed my way back, one sober day at a time, through more ups and downs than I can even remember. Fought to become a man my father would have been proud of. But I didn’t do it alone. Therapists and counsellors helped me heal, and in doing so showed me how satisfying it could be to guide someone back from the brink, to help set them on the right path.

And that’s why I’m here now, standing sweaty-palmed but hopeful at the door of a boardroom. Interviewing for a job where I could change the lives of troubled young people like I once was.

My escort, Rue, pulls the door open and gestures for me to enter. The room is small and much brighter than the hallway, with a pair of large windows and pale wood reflecting the warm afternoon light. It takes me a moment to adjust to the brightness, to focus on the group of people waiting for me.

Then the bottom drops out of my stomach, and out of my world.

I never got blackout drunk. Consequently, I remember every stupid decision I made, every assholish word I said. And the recipient of one of the tirades I regret most is sitting across the table, her ebony hair pulled back in an elegant chignon.

Katniss Everdeen.

She and I went to school together, from kindergarten all the way through until I ruined my life. I had the worst crush on her back then. But until after we graduated from high school, she didn’t even know I was alive.

Imagine my shock when, a few months into my ill-fated college career, I ran into her at a party on campus. I’d had no idea she went to the same school. But I was well into a bottle of Bombay that night, and what should have been the start of an epic relationship, or at least a chance for me to talk to the girl I’d lusted after always, turned into a nightmare.

I was already slipping then, already on academic probation, already suspended from the wrestling team and constantly in trouble with my coaches. I was weeks away from losing everything - my scholarship, my sport, my friends. And every encounter with my professors, with my academic advisor, with the counsellor the athletic department had insisted on, every single one had impressed on me that I wasn’t good enough, though I am, in retrospect, certain that’s not what any of them had meant. But I’d had so much anger in my system then, so much loathing.

And Katniss, beautiful, seemingly unattainable Katniss, for some reason seeing her there triggered the deepest well of self pity to open in my chest. She was, in that moment, the embodiment of everything I’d been told I could never have. My gut clenches and my heart hurts as I remember the vitriol I’d spewed at her that night, the accusations about her character and motivations, every one of them utterly untrue. I’d called her stuck-up, selfish, a bitch, among so many other words. Katniss, beautiful, stoic Katniss hadn’t reacted at all, apart from a widening of her eyes and maybe a slight trembling of her lower lip. When I’d run out of filth to throw her way, she’d simply blinked and said softly, “This isn’t you, Peeta.” Then she’d walked away.

I have heard those words in my head a thousand times since that night.

It had taken another three years of couch-surfing and homelessness, of lying and begging and stealing to feed my addiction, before I finally hit rock-bottom. In an alley in the Capitol, with a bunch of other low-life scum just like me, I’d listened as they made plans to rob a convenience store a few blocks away. So desperate was I for the few bucks it would have garnered me that I was ready to go along with them… until I saw the gun.

The idea of robbing a little mom-and-pop convenience store at gunpoint was my come to Jesus moment. I was hunched in filth, hungry and so desperate for a drink that I was steps away from becoming the man who had killed my father.

The road back from that point wasn’t straight, and it wasn’t easy. I’d like to say that I never had another drink after that, but it’d be a lie. But I’ve been sober now for seven years and forty-four days, a purple medallion in my pocket reminds me every day how far I’ve come.

As does Katniss’s voice in my head, reminding me when I feel weak, when the cravings hit hard, that I’m not that person.

But she doesn’t know that. Looking across the table, she must be seeing the asshole who treated everyone, and especially her, like dirt.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Mellark,” an older, balding man says, smiling. I recognize his voice, Plutarch Heavensbee, the institute’s director, with whom I’ve spoken on the phone several times before today. I hesitate though, steeling myself to meet Katniss’s eyes. If she looks uncomfortable I’ll leave. It wouldn’t be fair to her if I stayed. As disappointing as it’ll be to walk away from this opportunity that I want so damned badly, I have only myself to blame.

I catch her gaze, silver pools in the sunlight, expecting her to be glaring at me. She’s not though, her expression is carefully neutral. But as if she sees the question in my glance, she nods.

Plutarch introduces the others in turn; Reza Seder, head of counselling services, Dr. Lavinia DeSantis, head of medical services, Alma Coin, head of security. “And of course you know Ms. Everdeen,” Plutarch says, his smile widening, and I can feel my eyebrows crawling up to my hairline. She knew I was coming, told the others that she knew me, and yet I’m still here. They’re still going to interview me.

“Hello, Peeta,” she says, in that smoky smooth bourbon voice that has acted as my conscience for years. And, okay, has narrated my fantasies too, if I’m being honest.

“I’ve already disclosed to the board that we grew up together,” she continues, “and they’re okay with my presence. But of course I’ll leave if it makes you uncomfortable having me here.” Her words and delivery are coolly professional, but beneath them I hear a faint note of pleading. She wants to be here, I just know it. And though I’m likely signing the death warrant on this job, I find myself asking her to stay.

This has all the makings of the most uncomfortable job interview of all time. But if I’ve learned anything from my primary therapist, Dr. Aurelius, it’s that I can’t run from my past. And if I’ve learned anything from AA, it’s that I can’t ignore my shortcomings.

Each member questions me, softballs to start - my education, my job experiences, my plans. I pull out my portfolio, walk them through the educational and therapeutic programs I’ve developed, outline what worked during my previous placements, what innovations I’d like to employ. They seem impressed, and I start to relax.

“You didn’t go to college right after high school, Mr. Mellark?” Alma Coin asks, her strange, pale eyes cold and judgemental. I stiffen; this is where previous interviews have gone off the rails. I’d never outright lie about my addiction, but I’m not keen to bring it up either. Even seven years sober, people are reluctant to entrust an alcoholic to watch over children.

“That’s correct,” I tell her. “I didn’t start my undergrad until I was twenty-four.”

“Why is that?” I could tell her that I couldn’t afford it until then, that’s true, or about my father’s death throwing a spanner in my plans, also true.

Katniss is looking at me, grey eyes wide and guileless. She nods again, and it feels like encouragement. I know what I have to say.

“I’m an alcoholic,” I tell them, bracing for their reactions. But nobody flinches. “I’ve been sober for seven years. But I started drinking in high school, and I lost a lot of years to the disease.” Across from me, a hint of a smile graces Katniss’s pouty peach lips. I take it as my cue to keep going. “That’s why I went into social work, and why I want to work here so much. To help kids like me. To maybe save some of them from the mistakes I made.”

There are nods around the table, no one looks particularly surprised. I don’t know whether Katniss has told them, or if it came up in my background check.

“And you’re not concerned that working with addicted children might trigger you to revisit your own demons? Your CV is completely lacking in experience with troubled youth.” It’s true, my field placements were all in middle schools, my experience as an art therapist mostly with kids with ADHD or autism spectrum disorders. The kids here by and large have much more complex issues, abuse and addiction and mental illness all compounded, often violent and criminal backgrounds too.

“I’ve spent years in therapy learning to cope with my triggers,” I tell Coin.

“That’s not the same as real-world experience,” Seder interjects. “These kids, the things they tell you, the things they’ve seen. It’s gutting.”

“I realize that,” I tell her, affecting the most professional tone I’m capable of despite the cavern that’s opened in my stomach, the knowledge that I’m nowhere near qualified enough in their eyes. “I completed a research project on intergenerational addiction in college and interviewed hundreds of young addicts.”

“That’s really not the same as interacting with them day to day,” Seder says, and it’s not cruel, but it feels dismissive.

“I also observed troubled youth in counselling during my practicum while I was in graduate school.” They know this, it’s in my resumé, along with letters of reference from the clinician supervisors. But Seder is shaking her head and Coin looks unimpressed and I can feel the opportunity slipping away.

“Peeta has volunteered as a mentor at the Children’s Hospital’s substance abuse treatment program for more than three years,” Katniss interjects, and every hair on my body stands on end. Because while that’s true, it’s also something that’s not in my resumé, something I’ve avoided self-reporting because it’s common knowledge that the program volunteers are all addicts in recovery themselves.

I have no idea how she knows that.

My gaze snaps to Katniss. Her expression remains carefully neutral, but there is the barest hint of a smile in her silver eyes.

“That’s an excellent program,” Dr. De Santis says, looking up from her notes for the first time. “They’re incredibly selective about who they choose to work with their clients.”

“They are,” I agree. The screening had been brutal, but it had been necessary, so many of those kids have lead lives that make mine look like a walk in the park and many are not shy about sharing all of the horrific details. “They can’t risk having the volunteers drop out or relapse. The kids need the stability of knowing that they can’t scare away their mentors. So many of them have had everyone else in their lives give up on them.” I swallow hard; it’s the reason I volunteer there. I’ve seen myself in so many of their faces, kids who use alcohol and drugs to escape the pain, kids who lash out and push away the people around them before those people can abandon them. Like I’d done to my teachers and coaches, my friends and my brothers.

Like I’d done to Katniss, all of those years ago.

“How do you find your personal experiences impact your work with those children?” Katniss asks, a gently leading question, and one for which I am so grateful.

“I can empathise with them in ways that their doctors and case workers often can’t,” I say, mostly tamping down the waver in my voice. Four sets of eyes watch me intently. “It’s the whole basis for the program, giving these kids not only guidance, but hope for their future. If I can succeed after all of my mistakes, after all I’ve done, then they can too.”

“And you intend on continuing to volunteer there?” Coin asks.

“I do.” I’ve already checked with the hospital about whether this job would constitute a conflict of interest, they assured me it would not.

Across the table, each of the interviewers smiles, even Coin, though her smile looks a little less genuine. But I only have eyes for Katniss. Because her smile feels like forgiveness. And though this is my dream job, I feel like even if I don’t get it I’ve accomplished something monumental here. I’ve shown Katniss that she was right, that nasty boy who hurt her, who made her feel small and alone, that person wasn’t me.

Plutarch claps his hands. “Excellent, my boy,” he says. “Now let’s talk salary.”

“I… what?”

“For the position.” At my expression, he laughs. “The interview is really just a formality,” he says, mirth twinkling in his eyes. “The job is yours if you want it.” He pushes a couple of papers across the table. A contract. “I know it’s a little less in salary than you’d make in private practice, but we offer a comprehensive benefits package. Take a couple of days to look it over and let us know.”

I don’t need a couple of days. I don’t need a couple of minutes. “I want the job,” I tell him firmly.

“Well then,” Plutarch booms with evident pleasure. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Mellark.” He reaches across to shake my hand firmly, and I can’t help my goofy grin. I got the job!

Plutarch informs me that their admin will get in touch with me over the next few days to file the tax and legal paperwork they need, and then I’ll begin at the start of the new term, some four weeks away. And I nod in all the right places, but my mind is spinning so fast I’m almost dizzy with it.

I shake each of their hands in turn, lingering just a bit longer to squeeze Katniss’s hand tightly. I thank each of them, but my gratitude to her means more. I think she can tell.

“Could you see Mr. Mellark out?” Plutarch asks Katniss, and she agrees, though she doesn’t meet my eyes.

I follow her silently down the corridor, towards the exit, the delicate tapping of her heels on linoleum almost drowned out by the pounding of my pulse in my ears. Katniss was a cute kid, tiny and scrappy, and she had morphed into a fierce and self-possessed young woman by the time we’d graduated high school. But now, at thirty, she’s an absolute bombshell. Still lean, but with delicate curves that her pencil skirt and blouse highlight perfectly. She walks with confidence, back straight, head held high. She’s more intimidating than ever.

At the electronic doors, she pauses, hand poised just above the lever that would release the locks. Then she sighs, and glances back at me over her shoulder. “Would you like to have a cup of tea with me? Catch up?” I’m nearly rendered speechless; not only is Katniss Everdeen willing to work with me, she’s willing to talk with me too.

“I’d like that,” I rasp, the first words I’ve spoken directly to her in twelve long years.

She leads me back into the building and up a set of stairs. Another corridor stretches in front of us, windowless doors set close together. “Our offices,” she says. Partway down the hall, she stops and pulls a set of keys from her pocket. A small brass plate on the door reads Katniss Everdeen, Lead Addictions Therapist.

Her office is small, and appears to be set up for both paperwork and individual counselling sessions with a tiny desk tucked back into the corner but comfortable looking couches dominating the space. She confirms my guess. “I see the lower risk kids here,” she says. “It feels less institutional that way.”

I can only stare, stunned, as she unlocks a cabinet and withdraws a tea kettle. I knew Katniss’s title here from Plutarch’s introduction of course. But until now, it hadn’t really sunk in, what she does. She’s an addictions counsellor. How utterly incredible that she went into the very field that eventually inspired my own career path.

“Sit, please,” she says over her shoulder. I slip off my blazer, draping it over the arm of the couch, then sink into plush microfibre. The ceramic clink of teacups and spoons and the sultry sway of her perfect posterior as she putters, preparing tea and humming just faintly are almost hypnotic. For all of the times I’d thought about Katniss Everdeen, I never imagined I’d ever actually see her again, and good lord she’s so much hotter than even my edgiest fantasies. “Black, right?” she says, snapping me out of my lurid thoughts.

“Uh, yeah,” I say after a moment’s pause where I try to pull myself together and remember that she’s making tea, so that we can talk. So that I can apologize to her. As glorious as her ass is, I have no business looking at her that way. I lost any possible chance I might have had a dozen years ago.

But she knows how I take my tea. The last time I saw her, gin was the only thing I was drinking.

She sets a red mug in front of me, on the low table between the couches. But she herself sits beside me, instead of across from me, which surprises me. Though maybe it shouldn’t, since she’s a therapist. Knowing how to set someone at ease is part of her training. It’s backfiring in my case though, since her closeness feels intimate. I catch a hint of her scent, something fresh and green but with a little bit of spice, like a campfire in the woods. So perfectly Katniss. “How have you been?” she says, sipping from her own mug.

“Better,” I tell her, because she’s not asking to make small talk. In addition to knowing everything I confessed in the interview, she was there when my world fell apart, she saw first hand how shitty I was.

“I’m glad,” she says softly, and she smiles, and it’s so beautiful and sweet it nearly breaks my heart.

“I am so sorry,” I tell her, but the words are completely inadequate. How do you tell someone that they are not only your biggest regret, but also your biggest inspiration? “For how I treated you when I was drinking. You didn’t deserve any of that, and I have regretted it every day.”

“I know,” she says.

“And what you did for me today,” I continue before my nerve runs out. “I can’t begin to thank you. You not only gave me this chance when you could have told any of them I wasn’t worth considering, but you actively helped me in the interview.”

“You earned the job, Peeta. Plutarch was already convinced before you even walked in the door.”

“The others weren’t.”

She laughs. “I knew Lavinia would love you. And Alma, well, she doesn’t really like anyone, but I have a feeling you’ll win her over eventually.”

“What about you?” I can’t help asking. She’s treating me so kindly, but she can’t possibly have forgiven me. I know she hasn’t forgotten.

“I believe in second chances.” Her smile is softer, a little pained. “I knew you’d find your way back.”

“I was such a dick.”

“You were,” she agrees. “But I knew that wasn’t you.”

“You said that back then too,” I tell her, my tea forgotten. “I, uhm.” My neck feels hot and I rub it distractedly. “I hear you saying that, when I’m having a difficult day. It’s helped me so much over the years. You’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know.” It’s embarrassing as hell to admit that. But she deserves the truth.

She snorts, and it’s a sound so at odds with her elegant presentation and with the seriousness of our conversation. My gaze snaps up to her face, she looks amused and abashed.

“You’re the reason I went into psychology,” she says, and my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. “I was a biology major first year. But seeing how everyone failed you after your dad died, and how easy it was for you to fall…” she trails off. “And then when you came back to school to try again, sober and working so hard, I knew I’d made the right choice.”

“You were there?”

She nods. “Just for a semester. I was finishing my masters. I saw you a couple of times on campus, but you never noticed me.”

Honestly, that’s probably for the best. That early in my recovery I was still so fragile, just getting through classes took every bit of effort I had, and I spent so many hours with my sponsor and therapist back then I had no time for anyone else. “I wish I’d known,” I tell her. “But I had my head pretty far up my own ass.”

“You didn’t though.” She looks away, towards the tiny, narrow window on the exterior wall, barred, like all of the windows I’ve seen in this building. “I watched you. I’ve kept track of you over the years, when I could. Even then you were already working so hard to make amends.”

I was. And I can tell by that specific word that she knows why. One of the steps in AA is making amends for the shitty things we’ve done, at least where doing so won’t cause any further damage. In those early years, I’d concentrated mostly on my brothers, and earning their trust again. But I also spent time speaking with professors and coaches who I had alienated. It would have been far easier to start over at a different college, and likely would have been less triggering. But it’d have been a coward’s way.

“I never got a chance before now to apologize to you,” I whisper. She’d kept track of me, but I hadn’t made the same effort. Before the booze, Katniss Everdeen was that perfect, unattainable fantasy woman I put on a pedestal and never approached. And after, I locked her away, so terribly ashamed by my actions that I never sought her out, even though she would have been easy to find. I was terrified by how she might look at me.

But she’s clearly a much bigger person than I could ever be.

“I think the time wouldn’t have been right before now,” she says. “For either of us.”

We lapse into silence, Katniss still staring out the window, me fiddling with the mug I’ve picked up again. “Can I ask you something?” she says, and there’s something in her tone that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Of course.”

“That night… why me?” She’s trying to keep her voice even, I can tell, but the slight waver slays me.

“You were there, and I was a drunken asshole,” I rasp, but she shakes her head, glancing at me.

“It was more than that. The things you said…” she looks away, but not before I see the shine in her eyes. Not before I see the hurt I had been expecting all along. The knowledge that even all of these years later, my words continue to bother her is gut-wrenching. I feel like the biggest piece of shit.

“It was all bullshit, Katniss, the ramblings of an absolute lowlife shit of a human.”

“There’s always truth, even in ramblings,” she says softly. “It certainly wasn’t the first time I’d been called those things. But we’d never even spoken before then. I didn’t know you even knew my name.”

“I knew you, Katniss. I’d always been watching you.” She turns back to me eyebrows raised, confusion in every line of her beautiful face. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, and I don’t want to make excuses for my absolutely inexcusable behaviour. But she deserves the whole truth. I drop my gaze to my lap. “The truth is, I had a huge crush on you, nearly the whole way through high school.”

She makes a little choking sound, and I can’t bear to look at her. I know I’m doing unfathomable damage to our potential working relationship, confessing like this. I’ll decline Plutarch’s offer, if being here will hurt her. But I can’t let her think that any of the awful things I said had even a speck of truth to them. I can’t let her take any blame.

“In senior year,” I continue, “I had finally convinced myself that I was going to talk to you, to ask you to the Valentine’s dance. But then…” I trail off. My father had died at the end of January, and everything else in my life had fallen away, sucked into the black pit of grief.

A soft, cool hand lands on my forearm, and I glance up. Far from looking disgusted, as I was expecting, Katniss is looking at me with compassion, even through her confusion. “When I saw you that night,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out. “I had already screwed up everything else in my life. I was just so angry at the world, but mostly at myself. I was drowning in regret and self-loathing. And you were there, and you were every bit as beautiful as you had always been. And you just represented everything I wanted so badly and had fucked up. My father was gone, my sport was gone, and the girl of my dreams was completely out of my league. And I lost it, lashed out at you instead of at the person who really deserved it. Me.”

“You didn’t deserve it either,” she whispers, and her eyes shine silver under a film of moisture.

I place my hand over hers where it still rests on my arm, and she doesn’t pull away. “I’m truly sorry, Katniss. Hurting you is the biggest regret of my life.”

“I accept your apology.” I squeeze her hand in gratitude, and a sad half smile ticks at her lips.

“I won’t take the offer,” I murmur, and her brow furrows again. “This is your career, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, being here.”

She shakes her head. “You won’t,” she says. “I’ve been watching you for so long, cheering for you from the sidelines. I feel like I know you. And I know you won’t ever repeat that mistake.”

“I won’t,” I swear. “I’ll always be an alcoholic, and there will always be a risk that I’ll relapse. But I’ve learned so much in therapy, about communication and managing my emotions. About coping. I have better mechanisms now, and a really great support group behind me.” It had taken a long time to make things right with my brothers, but they are my staunchest supporters now. And my sponsor, Haymitch, is a crusty old bastard, but he’d rip out someone’s throat before letting me down.

“Then stay,” she says. “I’d like to start again, if it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable. Build up that friendship we should have had.” She looks down at our hands. At some point, she’d flipped her palm and I’d entwined my fingers with hers.

“Always,” I whisper in awe, and she smiles, that beautiful, elusive smile that I know will be the stuff of all of my future fantasies. And maybe, just maybe, the stuff of my future reality too.

#talesofpanem #tales of panem #makeup week #work #xerxia31 #submission #week 10

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 5 years ago

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Witches, Chapter 16: congrats Apollo you’re not back in hell. this case, you’re only on the margins of it.

[Seelie of Kurain Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

[Witches Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

Among the ethical questions Apollo has pondered in his time as a lawyer, “is it wrong to search for a new job on my current employer’s office computer?” is the least consequential and least dire one. Not that he’s thinking of leaving the WAA, not at this moment, but being stuck spinning in a chair while Phoenix and Athena go out to investigate - it might not become a trend, but it might be, and he’ll need to prepare a contingency if it does. If he, the lawyer who got this place renamed from Wright Talent Agency to Anything Agency by being the first lawyer in seven years to work within its walls, who put the pieces together for Phoenix to let him get his badge back, gets squeezed out of it.

Fine. He’s used to it. Foster home after foster home and before any of them a home in the mountains of Khura’in, Apollo doesn’t fit, Apollo goes away to the next place that will take him for a little while longer.

But Phoenix is only so reliable and some part of Apollo suspects that he’ll get yanked away by the fae and leave the case suddenly on Apollo’s shoulders, and instead of pondering the ethical question - the answer is, he doesn’t care if it’s wrong, but he’s not going to do it because Mia would know and he’s not going to test a fae queen’s patience - he sets to work researching the scene of their crime. The Shipshape Aquarium’s website prominently displays what they call the Aqua Tunnel, a glass tunnel that runs under the aquarium’s largest tank, allowing a full view of fish to the sides and right above their heads. Apollo’s stomach churns just seeing the pictures of visitors standing there, illuminated blue in the dark, water all around them held back only by glass that can’t be thick enough to put him at ease. It looks like drowning feels.

So it’s almost like a good thing that this is the case that he’s been squeezed out of.

Then Athena texts him to tell him that their client is an orca, one of the marine animals on display and performing at the aquarium, and the dizzy lightheadedness that the Aqua Tunnel instilled in him turns to dizziness from the breathless laughter wheezing forth from his lungs.

The woman who had shown up on their doorstep really didn’t say much specific about her friend and her case, did she? Apollo desperately wants to see how Phoenix bluffs his way through this one and is desperately relieved that he’s only involved in this case from the margins. Athena tells him that she wants to hear later about the time Phoenix cross-examined a parrot; their human client (Athena says human, anyway, because she needs to distinguish from their orca client, but they probably can’t say for certain yet, human) mentioned it as the real actual reason she came here looking for Phoenix Wright.

Apollo drags his feet across the carpet to bring the spinning chair to a halt - wait, maybe this is why he’s so dizzy - and heads for the shelves back behind Phoenix’s desk. His oldest cases, and a few that he acted as Mia’s assistant on, and a few of hers even before he was a lawyer at all, rest there, and Apollo had read through some of them again on the really slow, lonely days before Athena was here and while Trucy is at school. He knows exactly where to find that one, the one where Phoenix cross-examined a parrot to defend the future Chief Prosecutor and get a forty-year legend of a prosecutor indicted on murder charges.

(How many legends has Phoenix torn down in the strangest of ways, as a rookie, while disbarred, a force to be reckoned with no matter his personal circumstances?)

The parrot’s name was Polly. Apollo sort of hates that as much as he hates everything else about Phoenix’s chaotically stupid bluffs working out for him, and that this is what he so admired about Phoenix from the start. It’s a lot less fun to be the one behind the bench, bluffing frantically, than it is to follow it in a transcript.

He drops the file on Athena’s desk and sticks a pen in the relevant part so they can review it later. Her last update said that they’re going to do their own investigation to find possibility of a human culprit, so that the orca won’t be put down, and it’s radio silence from there out. Apollo goes back to the aquarium website. Trucy sends him photos from the wrestling match she and Jinxie are attending; she won’t be back until early evening.

The other bookshelf out in the front room is where the fun happens. He’s found the same book there twice, sure, but almost never with the same cover. A weathered leather-bound tome, cracking along the spine, surely a grimoire full of old fae secrets, contains Mia’s taxes. A textbook cover proclaiming this a study of real estate law contains biographies of famed stage magicians. The only ones that stay the same are the thin picture books slipped in between matters of law and magic: Deauxnim, all of them, Elise or Laurice. Bored again, he thumbs through one, marveling at the elaborate illustrations, and the pages are cold to the touch. On reaching the end, a loose sheet torn from a sketchbook slips out, drifting feather-slow to Apollo’s feet. It’s a simple painting, three people and no background rendered in pale watercolor - a man with stark white hair and a visor that makes him look like he stepped out of a comic book, a beautiful woman in a suit jacket with a magatama around her neck, and another, older woman with hair tightly bound up on the top of her head and the same soft smile, albeit wearier and more lined, as the first woman. His eyes keep drifting back to the woman with the magatama, the yellow dot on her lapel that might be an attorney’s badge, her knowing brown eyes. The page, then the book, he slides back where they came from, but he can’t close the cover on the sensation that he’s supposed to know who she is.

Every time he thinks he’s dug into every nook and cranny of this office, turned up every little scrap, there’s always something new. He hasn’t had the chance - that makes it sound like he wants to be doing this instead of being so bored out of his skull that he ends up hunting through decades of paper - to explore the shelves since Athena came to the office. The last notable anything he found before her arrival was an accordion folder containing receipts for what looked like every single thing Phoenix ever bought from September 2016 through the next six months. What neurosis created that habit?

He glances back at the spine of the picture book, still holding the image of the middle woman’s watercolor eyes in his mind. Mia? Could she be? He doesn’t ask, not out loud, and she doesn’t give any hints.

Back at Phoenix’s desk, where the desktop computer is, the overwhelming blue of the aquarium website mocks him and his memories of water rising up over his head, and he spins the chair away and stares at the back wall, the sun-faded movie film poster that doesn’t show a title, and the shelf of case filings. He doesn’t care if Phoenix wants him to man the office tomorrow - he is not missing this case for the world, not because it’s Phoenix Wright back in court for the first time in eight years, but because he desperately wants to know how this orca matter pans out. (And okay, maybe he does want to see what Phoenix is like behind the bench when he’s not backed into a corner, his life on the line against a serial murderer, no other choice in his eyes but to become the thing that Kristoph framed him to be seven years earlier. Maybe Apollo’s still looking to find the legend he admired within the man that he knows.)

His phone, left on his desk, begins buzzing and continues buzzing. Someone’s calling, probably Phoenix, because he’s the only one who calls regularly instead of texting. What sort of trouble has their case run into, or maybe he’s wondering if Trucy’s back yet because she can be somewhat unreliable when it comes to letting anyone know where she is. But the name displayed on screen isn’t Phoenix - it’s Klavier.

They’ve never spoken on the phone before. Apollo’s heart seizes up, beats out a swift staccato rhythm. What the hell is going on that he would call? “Hello—?”

“Tell me your boss isn’t defending an orca.”

Apollo collapses into his desk chair, nearly tipping it off of its wheels. “Where did you hear about that?” he asks. “That’s not - please tell me that’s not a - a timeline constant, or whatever, that you didn’t see it happening, or - tell me you’re not prosecuting the orca!”

Klavier laughs. “Nein, Forehead, I am not sure even you could convince me to take that to court.” His chuckle continues for a few moments after but trails away into silence, long enough that Apollo wonders if the call has been dropped. Apollo inhales to say something and Klavier cuts across him, maybe coincidence that they chose the same time to speak, maybe not. “Herr Samurai told me about it. He’s the one prosecuting that whale of a defendant.”

He starts laughing again and Apollo groans. Determined to not give him any more satisfaction, he simply asks, “Blackquill doesn’t have an office space, does he?” He’d dismiss the thought entirely on basis of common sense, but Klavier has to have spoken to him somehow, and common sense would have a convicted murderer not prosecuting at all. Who’s to say what they’re doing over at that building?

“He does not, but he was here to speak with the Chief Prosecutor over some or another matter, and stopped by my office before he left to tell me that your boss’ first case with his new badge is…” Klavier makes a dismissive, disgusted noise from the back of his throat.

“The client when she showed up at the office didn’t say that her friend who needed defending was an orca.” Apollo has a sudden need to defend Phoenix against Klavier’s disdain, not least because that disdain sounds particularly like someone else. “Though, I mean, when he and Athena found out, yeah, that was a, uh - a choice, they made, to continue.”

“You aren’t working this one?”

“No. I’m stuck back at the office.” Like they’re a real agency that is going to have clients show up more than once every three months. “Missing out on a free trip to the aquarium” - and all the fun drowning phobia that could come with it - “but at least I don’t have to figure out the defense plan for a killer whale.” He doesn’t mind a challenge, finds all the outlandish challenges in the past have made him a better lawyer, but it’s a killer whale. It’s there in the name, and he can’t ask it for its testimony to get its side of the story, put that together with the rest of the evidence, with what he sees and hears. A client who only spoke a little English, and pretended not to have even that, sure. An orca might be taking Phoenix’s “have total faith in your client” mantra a little far.

“Which aquarium is this?” Klavier asks. “There’s the two big ones around here, ja?”

Apollo spins his chair back to his desk, finds that he doesn’t have the computer here, or his laptop up, and racks his brain for the name. “It’s the Shipley” - no, that’s the victim’s name - “Shipshape Aquarium.”

“Ach, the pirate one.”

“You’ve been there?”

Apollo hasn’t - there had been been a middle school biology class field trip that his foster family of the time couldn’t afford to send him on; they had five kids in that house and naught to spare for any class trips. Clay came back with a googly-eyed shark keychain that Apollo still has clipped to his bag, and the proclamation that the aquarium was “totally lame” and if they wanted to see fish they could go to the pet store and walk through the fish section for free.

(And then they did, and then they couldn’t stick to their for free part of the concept and bought a betta fish that lived for four years after they did extensive research on the proper care and tank setup, which caused Apollo to take up a crusade against the store for the little plastic containers they kept the poor fish in, and then Clay said again, not for the first or last time, that he should be a lawyer because he could get really passionate about arguing and his surname made the whole deal better because with a surname like Justice you have to be either a lawyer or a criminal, basically. That was two years after he left Khura’in, after he was starting to realize it might be a long, long time, if ever, until he returned, but he had never stopped thinking about being a lawyer, not because of Dhurke but because of Clay, who never knew Dhurke. He just knew Apollo. And he thought that would be the career for Apollo, not because he was Dhurke’s son, but just because of Apollo.)

“Mhm.” Klavier sounds more subdued than usual. “Ja, I have. Many times.”

“You don’t strike me as a fish person.”

“That could be because I’m a human person, do you think?” He’s laughing again, but again, it falls off quickly. “It was Daryan who so enjoyed the aquarium, not I. You didn’t suppose his shark aesthetic was an accident?”

“I never really thought about it,” Apollo admits. Maybe that’s not quite true - the thought had passed his mind, and then gotten shuffled away as many more important impressions of Daryan replaced it - namely, that he was an asshole, and probably a criminal. And then actually a criminal, another of the people Klavier loved who turned out nasty. “Though I guess that makes sense.” If there’s anything that could make that hairstyle make sense.

“We went there often, even after we were celebrities - every time we’d come home from a tour, less and less as that was, especially as I started traveling for reasons that weren’t tours, we’d visit that or the other aquarium around the city. Hard to sneak through the crowds when you’re famous, admittedly.” He gives another softer, sadder laugh. “The fans coming up for autographs made it harder to play our favorite game of harassing each other about what fish looked most like the other one.” A thoughtful pause, where Apollo thinks he’s dwelling on the times passed with someone no longer around in the same capacity as his memories, mourning a friend turned into a monster - and maybe he is, but the actual words he follows up the silence with are, “I’m not sure what fish I’d call you. Something very small and very red, surely.”

“Ugh.” Just when Apollo wants to be charitable to him, and sympathetic. “You’re hilarious.” He tips his chair back and stares at the ceiling. They’re not in court, but he’ll never let one of Klavier’s statements go unchallenged. “I know exactly what you’d be.”

“Oh?”

Apollo grins as he says it, the one that Trucy always teases him for because she says it’s his texting Prosecutor Gavin look and she’s sort of correct, but it’s more like a roasting Prosecutor Gavin look. “A clownfish.”

His jab is rewarded with a strangled, choking laugh.

Apollo toys with the idea of asking him why he didn’t glamour himself free from the squeeze of the crowds, but decides not to. He’d never told Daryan about his history and the abilities he had - that, Apollo remembers, Klavier saying he never had the words to tell his best friend and then he was gone. (Apollo remembers him saying that because Apollo, without the words to tell Clay about Dhurke, sympathizes.) Maybe he didn’t want to so obviously display his secret in front of his friend. Maybe he liked the attention, the screaming adoring fans, back then before Gavin was the name of a murderer, too. He had nothing to hide from back then.

So instead, the prior part of the conversation that Apollo circles back to is, “So Prosecutor Blackquill came by to let you know, specifically?” Any angle he looks at it seems like one of Blackquill’s manipulations, a stab into that open wound of Klavier’s mistake. Something to use against him, measuring his reaction, assessing the best way to get under his skin - tell him Wright is back in the legal world, tell him that Wright is making a mockery of the legal world with an orca, and watch and wait to see if there are fireworks.

“He did specifically wish to let me know, but it is not as though we have never spoken with each other before.”

“Right. And you thought he was pleasant enough, or whatever.” Should that surprise him? Klavier’s best friend was Daryan, an utter asshole, after all - and Klavier can be a real dick in court too.

“He is not unpleasant, which is something not quite the same, especially not as we are lawyers. I think he may just have wished to see my reaction as I found out about what your boss is up to.”

If he isn’t being manipulative, he’s simply a troll, and yeah, that sounds like the conclusion to draw about Blackquill. “You’re right,” Apollo says. “That probably would’ve been pretty funny to see.”

“Hmph. I don’t imagine you were any more composed - you probably yelled loud enough to wake the dead, ja?”

Yes, he had yelped “What?” to the empty office, nearly dropping his phone as he did, and the longer he takes to come up with a retort to counter that assessment, the more Klavier is going to start laughing at him. “How do you suppose Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth feels?” Apollo asks. “He’s done this thing allowing him back in court for whatever reason and now Blackquill’s using his freedom to prosecute to take an orca to court.” Klavier doesn’t respond, just laughs at that, but Apollo can’t laugh for more than a moment. He rubs at some stray ink marks on his desk and adds, “Do you have any idea why he’s set this all up?” he asks. “Let Blackquill do this? Not the orca specifically, but prosecuting at all”

Klavier goes quiet. “I presume, as do the few colleagues I’ve spoken of this with, that he thinks the verdict was wrong - that he hopes, in some convoluted manner, to clear Herr Samurai’s name and overturn his conviction.”

“You think?”

“I respect Herr Chief greatly and would at least like to hope that there is some reason to his actions.” Right, this is Edgeworth, not Phoenix. Edgeworth’s the one who’s not a cryptic fae bastard. “I could not tell you what I think, myself.” Bitterness coats his words as he adds, “I am not known to be someone good at guessing if someone I know is capable of murder.”

“I…” Apollo clumsily searches for some kind of condolence. “I don’t think anyone is.” Klavier talks to him about these things because he knew Kristoph, too, but sometimes Apollo thinks that Klavier forgets that he did know Kristoph, too. That it wasn’t his brother, no, just his boss, but still blindsided him. The evidence was there but otherwise Apollo never could have guessed - he just chose to believe the evidence. But what if it was a friend, now, a brother, a coworker - if Clay was accused, if - or Trucy, Phoenix again, Athena - if there was evidence to it, what would Apollo do? He doesn’t know.

“You have your Truth, though. I suppose that makes it a little easier, wouldn’t it, ja? You see and you know they are lying - know more than they are saying, are involved, did it.”

“Yeah, but it could be any of those options, like you said. It’s not necessarily just, did a murder.” He pushes off from the desk and starts slowly spinning his chair again. Everyone has secrets, but they’re probably not all murders committed. It’s all context, during cases, and he’s a defense attorney, he’s supposed to trust his client, but everyone else caught up in a thing— “Not that it helps me with Blackquill.”

“Too secretive even for our eyes - ja, he’s a bit of an odd one.”

“A bit? A bit? Do you say that because you’re already so far out there odd that he only seems a bit—”

“Ja, ja, you work for an ‘Anything Agency’ that is defending an orca—”

“I’m not defending the orca!”

“You are an accomplice. All of you are guilty. Blackquill is prosecuting the orca as well, and all of you are a bit odd.”

A bit. Understatement of the decade. “And you’re still a clownfish.”

Athena’s car pulls into the lot before Trucy gets back, which means that Apollo could’ve just shut the place down for the day and gone with them to the aquarium and it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing but that he had time to talk with Klavier. Not like anyone showed up with another case.

“I got to feed an orca!” Athena’s shout begins before she has thrown the door open. “But the penguin hated me.”

What, exactly, is Apollo supposed to say to this? “I’m sorry?” he offers, and behind Athena, Phoenix snorts stifling laughter. “How’s the case for tomorrow looking?”

“Eh.” Phoenix wiggles his hand noncommittally. Athena presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. “We’ve got enough of a possibility to get it to go to trial, but nothing more than that, and that’s probably just in part because Prosecutor Blackquill is a lunatic.”

“Is he really that bad?”

That’s a young woman’s voice asking that question, but Athena has been face-to-face with Blackquill and knows exactly how bad he is, and Trucy heard her and Apollo complain about him for weeks after Mayor Tenma’s trial. Phoenix steps into the office and aside, and behind him stands a girl maybe Trucy’s age, with a soft round face and big gray eyes, her light brown hair pulled up in tight twists. Her clothing looks like Iris’ robes, with a shorter hem, down to the large beaded necklace from which a magatama hangs.

Oh. Oh no. Do all the fae dress like this, or is this one of the relatives that Iris mentioned to them in Nine-Tails Vale?

“I’ll let you make your own determination from the gallery tomorrow,” Phoenix says. “If you’re coming. If not, we can catch you up but I’d rather go over the case again with Apollo and see if we can figure anything out.”

“Of course I’ll be there tomorrow!” The girl claps her hands together. “Your first trial in ages, Mr Nick! I wouldn’t miss it!”

“Who’s this?” Apollo asks. He sounds calm, really, he thinks, and then Athena shoots a quizzical look, eyebrows pressed together and turning up where they meet, at him. Of course. He can’t hide, not from her, but either she hasn’t registered the similarities between this girl and Iris, or she’s been assured, by Phoenix, by spending some time with this girl already if they all came in together, that she’s not terrifying.

Not any more than the fae are, conceptually, for what they all have the powers to do.

“You can call me Pearl!” The girl inclines her head forward politely. Apollo notes that she didn’t say that’s what her name is, just that’s what she goes by. “I’m a friend of Mr Nick’s!”

Her clothing, her careful wording of an introduction, and now an odd nickname (nickname, don’t think the pun, don’t acknowledge it) for Phoenix. Add it all up, and he doesn’t like the sum. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Apollo.”

“It’s very nice to meet you.” Her language is formal but not stilted; it sounds like the most natural manner of speech, coming from her. Mr Nick. She’s just polite, then; polite, refined, almost regal in mannerism, her every movement stepping further into the office made with deliberate care. She tips her head back, her expression serene, scanning the air of the office like she’s looking for something.

“Pearls is an old friend of mine who we ran into at the aquarium,” Phoenix explains, with no indication of whether she’s a human “old friend” or the other sort. “She gave us some help with our investigation.”

“Oh, I didn’t do much of anything.” Her cheeks start to turn pink and she quickly brings her hands up over her face. “It was just good to see you lawyering again! But you haven’t gotten any better at keeping your office clean.” She lowers her hands, one of them falling only to her mouth to chew on a thumbnail, and she surveys Trucy’s magic props spread out on every available surface. “Why doesn’t she just keep everything in the Magic Panties and take out whatever she needs only when she needs it? They’re already enchanted and there’s no cost to using them, and poor Mystic Mia has to look at all this!”

“Huh?” Athena asks. “Mia, that’s - she was your boss, wasn’t she, Mr Wright?”

Which is when Apollo realizes that he hasn’t ever mentioned Mia to Athena, and from the expressions on Phoenix and Pearl’s faces - slow dawning surprise for the former, and narrowing eyes, rising anger, for the latter - Phoenix hasn’t told her, either.

(He feels awful that he feels some sort of - satisfaction? No, that’s too strong a word. Relief, a little bit - that Athena wasn’t told the secrets off the office. That Phoenix isn’t always good at communicating with her either.)

Instead of sitting down and mapping out the case, their evidence, and their plan of attack for the trial tomorrow, as Phoenix clearly still wants to, he sinks into the couch with a long sigh and explains Mia’s continuing presence to Athena, the way he did for Apollo and Vera last year. (“So that’s why the lights did that this morning!” Athena exclaims, and Apollo is really curious what she thought was going on otherwise.)

Pearl sits primly next to him, hands folded neatly in her lap, watching Phoenix without ever blinking. “Mystic Mia is my cousin,” she says when Phoenix has finished his brief summary - nothing in it new to Apollo, but Athena next to him sits hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, her hand cupped over Widget as though ready to start a therapy session based on whatever emotional testimony she finds in Phoenix’s words. “But she left to become a lawyer when I was very small and I don’t remember her very well.”

“Oh!” Athena sits up suddenly. “If she’s your cousin, and she was a faery, then you’re…” She doesn’t finish the statement, either waiting for an affirmation from Pearl before she speaks it into truth, or being extra cautious with the idea of not asking or accusing her what she is. But Pearl nods, and Athena slumps back against the couch and says, “That makes me feel so much better about the smelling blood that you did back when we were investigating! That’s so much less weird.”

“That still sounds kind of weird, whatever you’re saying,” Apollo says, literally biting his tongue a second later as the fear of telling one of the fae that she’s weird - even a true statement as that is - takes hold. A bit odd is such an understatement.

Pearl, though, does not react to that, and Apollo doesn’t hear about the blood-covered coin until later. In the moment, the door violently bangs open and Trucy barges in, a huge grin swallowing up her face, excitedly shrieking, “Pearly!”

The apartment door creaks open and the approaching footsteps stop abruptly. “Bad day, huh?” Clay asks.

“Mmph,” Apollo says, his face pressed into the couch cushions. He considers leaving it at that but knows that Clay won’t let it go, and a second later the door closes and the weight of his best friend settles in on his legs. Apollo turns his head to the side, unable to see Clay but at least able to be heard without yelling. He doesn’t have the energy to yell. “My coworkers are defending an orca in court.”

“Like, a whale? Like that kind of orca?”

“Is there another kind.”

Clay cackles. “Holy shit.”

Phoenix sends the kids off long before he leaves the office himself, pondering a whistle and a bloody coin and a looped fifteen seconds of security footage and a dead man still without an official autopsy report. That’s the first thing they’ll be slapped with at the trial tomorrow, and if they’re unlucky it’s going to turn out to show that the manner of death wasn’t blunt force trauma at all and they’ll be in deep shit with nothing to bluff on from the outset. If he’s really unlucky, they still won’t have finished the autopsy, as late today as it was ordered, and he and Athena are going to get through a good case before the full report arrives and smashes their every conclusion to bits.

He leans his head in his hands, staring down at the surface of his desk as though he can divine the answers from the scratches in the wood. “Mia,” he says, “what am I doing?”

Silence answers him. He lifts his head and looks out the window, to the bare empty rooms of the long-ago closed Gatewater Hotel, that whole damn lot cursed because that’s what happens to a place when it’s used as a staging ground to frame one fae royal for the murder of another. He’d been glad that particular branch of the Gatewater went under, as he’d stopped leaving these blinds open and really did miss the sunlight shining in through, even if he still had to pull them shut when the night became dark and the cold yellow city light cast a pool on the ground that night after night still marked where Mia died.

How does he get over the death of someone who’s only sort of gone?

“I did this for Edgeworth,” he continues, “but now other people want my help - Sasha, and Athena, and - I don’t know if I can do this anymore. I don’t know if I should. Do you think defending an orca is going to make me any less of a laughingstock? Maybe it’ll be better publicity for me. People think orcas are cute, right?” He doesn’t have much opinion, but Athena and Pearl and Trucy all seem to agree. “Maybe that would put some trust back to me after, y’know, having to set up an entirely new legal experiment just to get Kristoph convicted. That really looked good for me, huh, makes me seem real honest.”

He leans back, hangs his neck over the back of the chair. “How long were you chasing Redd White for, anyway? Was that when you left Grossberg’s, when you found out that he was the one White bribed for information about your mother? If you’d been chasing him for seven years and came up with no solid connecting evidence, just a list of names - would you have given up fighting in an honest manner? How many people could he have blackmailed into suicide in that time - is it wrong to stop someone like that, even with—?”

Even with forged evidence. Fudge it here and there for the safety of innocent people because sometimes the guilty are too damn smart to be found out. That’s not why the devil forged evidence, but it certainly is what the Demon Prosecutor’s mantra was. No way to know, so damn them all.

“Or,” he asks, “are you a better person than me? Would you not fall so far?”

He should probably get home soon, make dinner for the girls before they just eat cookies and bagels. Pearl doesn’t have Maya’s appetite, thank god, and hosting her doesn’t send him bankrupt and empty the entire pantry. It’s been so long since she last dropped by that even if he did have to shell out for a five-course feast tonight, he’d do it. Trucy adores her, and vice versa. It’s good for them to get to see each other again.

He makes sure to leave the computer on, cursor blinking on an open document so that if Mia has anything to say, either to the case or the latest installment of Phoenix’s forever-ongoing personal crisis, she can let him know. (Right after her death, Maya left the computer on, slept on the couch, and in the morning before she came to cheer Phoenix on in court found flip reciept and suicde folder compile names. And she had dutifully followed her older sister’s last, typo-marred instructions, cryptic as they seemed at first, but when the surrounding cards were played, it made sense, and Mia saved Phoenix’s life for not the first and not the last time.)

He flips the back room lights off and sees, standing next to the couches, between Phoenix and the door, the Gavin hellhound.

Phoenix lets out a shaky breath. Like he wasn’t doing a good enough job of reminding himself that he’s an imposter walking back into the courthouse tomorrow, spot who doesn’t belong, and the convicted murderer doesn’t either but Edgeworth’s put them both back there because he believes in them. But Edgeworth’s faith doesn’t change the past, only the future, and he’s only one man against the multitude of specters literally haunting Phoenix.

“What do you want?” Phoenix asks the barely-corporeal fae hound. Feathery plumes of white smoke drift off of her tail and the backs of her legs, her edges blurred against reality, the classic archetypal image of a ghost. She opens her mouth wide enough that she could probably fit her jaws halfway around a basketball, pulling her lips back, showing off her teeth.

He has no idea when Kristoph summoned her - at what point his patience gave out and he reached to the magical heritage his blood allowed him, binding for himself a hound bred for the Wild Hunt. He first ever saw her after Kristoph was in jail, and he out, when he and Trucy noticed the beast stalking them, never coming close, never making a threat, but observing, studying, gathering information for someone. And he first saw her teeth when she yawned, and through the Sight she changes just slightly; shining gold tips the ends of her misty fur, and her teeth drip and bleed with the rotting red of death, the kind of curse Kristoph cast. It all snapped into clarity that instant, whose monster this was, and where the dark red marks of teeth in Zak Gramarye’s neck came from.

She didn’t kill him. That isn’t what her kind are bred for; they don’t kill their prey themselves. They flush out their quarry and chase it back to their masters, herd it in and corner it, to let the handler deal the final blow. Zak came back to Los Angeles because of the statute of limitations was about to run out, and magic that lies in contracts often runs parallel to the laws of human land, but he also came back knowing that he was being watched, being followed, being hunted, and Phoenix knew by who but not how. Didn’t know how until he saw the dog whose lineage was dedicated to the hunt and her teeth that left the impression of her pursuit.

Zak Gramarye died by a blow to his head, but the jaws of death were tight on his throat before then.

He tried to play it cool, for a while, what with her haunting his apartment and the office every so often but then more when Apollo was there and then not at all. Don’t let her smell fear, bribe her with human food, the way Phoenix knows to befriend the fae. It took him a long time to understand why she was still around - she wasn’t pursuing anyone, hadn’t sunk her teeth into a new victim, and Kristoph was shut away in iron. He figured she should be gone.

And he really should’ve figured out what Klavier was - a stolen human child, replaced by Kristoph, who Phoenix knew long ago was a changeling - when, after the verdict came down, he watched Kristoph laugh and Klavier flee and the dog followed Klavier. Fae hounds are bound to one master only, always, until they’re set loose or die, and she was Kristoph’s but followed Klavier. She shouldn’t have been able to shift allegiance like that, and she couldn’t have, not to anyone else but Klavier, because the Gavins - they were the same to her.

Knowing that Klavier is the man commanding the hound, or just letting her wander loose to her own devices (however a creature like her, so bound up in the will of one master, makes determination of what she wants to do herself) doesn’t make Phoenix feel any better at her presence. Not today, and not this time of night when ordinarily, no one would still be here.

She pulls her ears back, jaw opening again, but instead of keeping her head level, she turns her open mouth toward the floor and gags. The horrible sound grates down his spine like claws and his throat like broken glass, like he’s the one choking. With a last wet cough, something yellow falls from her throat, and she snaps her long, disproportionate jaws shut, lifting her head back up to look at him. She licks her lips with her long black tongue, weirdly solid against her wisping fur, and smacks her mouth open and closed a few times. Then she noses whatever-it-is toward Phoenix and looks up again, expectantly.

“Fine,” he says, squatting down so that he can get a better look at it without turning his eyes entirely away from her. It’s an attorney’s badge, its gold plating flaking off to show duller silver below. A well-worn attorney’s badge. “Huh? Is this Kristoph’s—?”

Cold to the touch, cold in his palm, he turns it over. Eight years later he still knows that number by heart.

“Why did you have this?” he asks, his words choked out around his heart risen up into his mouth. He’d ask why she ate it, but that just seems to be a thing that the fae do. Why she had it is the same as why she ate it: because she had it. But why? “Did Kristoph take it when I had to turn it back in to the Bar Association?”

He still doesn’t actually know what happens to a badge of someone no longer a lawyer - he decided he didn’t want to know, mourned the ambiguous fate of his badge, whether it was melted down to become part of a new badge for a new attorney who wasn’t a fuck-up, or had the numbers shaved off and gold plating reapplied and new numbers engraved to become a new badge for a new attorney who wasn’t a fuck-up, or just got dumped in a box for record-keeping about attorneys who are fuck-ups. “Did he send you in to take it for him? Like a trophy?”

He has no way to know where her hollow red eyes are focused. She’s nearly nose-to-nose with him and showing no sign that she understands a word he’s saying. Even if she does she probably can’t convey it back to Klavier, as though he would know the answer either. What person alive has spent more time with Kristoph than either of them, and they don’t know him at all.

On the off-chance that Klavier can actually hear what is being said to his hellhound, or if he knew that she had swallowed Phoenix’s attorney’s badge, he looks her in her empty eyes and says, “Thanks.”

She spins about, her tail swinging right into his face and through it and it feels like a faint misting of snow, the powdery top layer gusted up by the wind, and streaks straight through the closed door, out of the office.

Leaves Phoenix sitting on the floor, and his heart in his hand, tiny and tarnished and ice cold.

#roddy fanfics #fic: the witches of los angeles #weekly updates until i get thru my nano buffer is my plan

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hannahmcne · 5 years ago

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Lost on the Case - Chapter 7

At five o'clock Alya couldn't sleep, so she slipped out of the room as silently as possible without waking Nino. She went to the living room and spread out an arsenal of lined paper, black and blue pens, and sticky notes. She was going to crack this case once and for all.

Armed with at least four hours of sleep and a renewed vision of what had occurred almost ten years ago, she opened up her video of Chat Noir's email. Using frequent pausing, she was able to read the entire contents.

The Marinette emails were seven in quantity. They were short, out-of-context, and showed a side of her friend that Alya had never seen. They'd been sent over a period of two days and changed a lot of what Alya thought about the case.

CN: This is Chat Noir, reporting for duty. Do I read my princess?

MDC: Hey kitty. Glad it worked.

CN: Me too. Could have been catastrophic if someone else had gotten this

MDC: Created a new email address. La_coccinelle.

CN: Sweet. Just sent an email. Did it work?

MDC: Yup.

CN: Sweet. Make sure to delete these emails on your end on the off-chance someone reads your emails after we're gone.

Alya felt like she was fourteen again, famous for running after akumas and uploading stories about the symbolic history of ladybugs. One large half of her was overjoyed at what she'd discovered. Namely 'my best friend is on a nickname basis with one of Paris's superheroes' and 'Chat Noir puns in his emails'. But a very small portion of her spirit was shivering. Marinette had created the Ladybug address. She scribbled on a paper to keep her mind going, even though she was afraid of what she'd find.

Problem: Marinette created the Ladybug email.

Solutions/Options: It's the real account, or it's not.

And, of course, on that note, Chat Noir had definitely planned to leave to somewhere with Marinette.

With shaking hands, she started the portion of the video with the Ladybug emails. There were more of these, twenty-three in all. They spanned the time up until the night Marinette was kidnapped, even going past Adrien's death.

1. CN: Do I read my Princess?

2. LB: This account is actually under Ladybug, but you can call me whatever. Either way, it's me.

3. CN: Kay. I found a house. 420€ yearly rental. It's large, out of way. Two-story.

4. LB: Bed/Bath?

5. CN: Four baths and seven-bed.

6. LB: Wow, large. Sounds good. Rented car yet?

7. CN: No but I found a place. I'll actually step in and rent it after I've died.

8. LB: Kay. I'll suit up and hit up Alya and Chloe today. When does Nino get back?

9. CN: Late tomorrow. I can drop off to him.

10. LB: Great.

11. CN: I'm just about to push my fake body out the window, then I'll head over.

12. LB: Make it to the house okay?

13. CN: Yup. Put your things in a spare room. I'm going to order in for a few essential furniture items. Pls help?

14. LB: Use francecanape.

15. CN: Kay. Have things blown up yet?

16. LB: Sorry to have taken so long. Yes, things were dreary at school today. A gardener discovered your body before lunch, so when we came back from break Ms. Bustier was crying. I think I did well pretending I didn't know what was coming. Chloe left school. Nino was taken out of class and sent home. The lesson was canceled. Great day. Everyone misses you.

17. CN: I miss everyone. Do you think you played the sad crush part well enough?

18. LB: Knowing you were actually alive made it hard, so there weren't any tears. I just went unresponsive until Ms. Bustier sent me to the nurse. Then I went home with a nurse ticket and watched sad videos on YouTube until my face was red. Alya didn't pry, so I think I did good. I just got off of a facetime with her.

19. CN: Clever bug. Did my dad say anything?

20. LB: Not yet. I'll keep you updated. LMK when you come back to get me.

21. CN: On my way. Ready to be kidnapped?

22. LB: I'm wearing a black jacket with white buttons and red leggings. I'll leave in thirty-two minutes.

23. CN: I'd know you anywhere, my lady. Lying in wait and in position. See you soon. (I love you)

Alya began to cry. She'd forgotten so many details. She'd missed how Marinette hadn't cried. She remembered that stupid FaceTime.

The door to the bedroom down the hall opened and Nino emerged, rubbing his eyes. "Alya?" He mumbled. "Why are you up?" He came over and squinted at the screen. Alya wasn't sure he could read anything through the layers of eye boogers around his lids, but he still leaned down to hug her.

"Figure it out?" He asked.

Alya nodded into his shirt.

"Tell me." He murmured. He adjusted her in his arms and rubbed her back soothingly. Alya wiped her eyes.

"Adrien was the kidnapper. He pushed a fake body out of his window – I'm not sure how it passed as real, but I almost don't want to know. He and Marinette planned the entire kidnapping and were emailing each other thirty minutes before they staged it. The car was a rental. I- I need to find it." Alya reached toward her computer. Her fingertips felt numb. Since all the rental companies were still closed, she took a chance and went back to her public-domain file finder again. Nino watched over her shoulder as within minutes, she found a record that matched perfectly.

"White, four-door, tinted Chevrolet hatchback taken out on the same day Marinette was kidnapped. The name was Bryce Papenbrook. In Paris for a quick vacation. According to this court record, he came in the next day and explained that the car had been totaled in an off-road accident. He agreed to pay for the car in full and produced the entire cost – €16,919 - in cash, upfront. The company didn't press charges and only filed a record to explain why one car had been blacked out from the records. They also asked him to please refrain from renting in the future." Alya summarized as she read.

Nino grunted. "So, if Adrien took out €40,000 and the car was €16,919-"

"Plus initial renting charge of about thirty-five euros." Alya interrupted.

"Right." Nino agreed. "That's like, twenty-four thousand left."

"And they're renting a house." Alya flipped back to the emails. "See? And it's a large house too. They've got a great rate on it too. A house like that…" Alya thought. "Well, it depends on where they are. In a smaller town, maybe four-hundred euros is a reasonable amount, but in Paris... She trailed off. "I wonder if Adrien kept using that name?"

She cleared her public records finder and took thirty extra seconds to also clear her cookies so that the website wouldn't give her biased reports. Then she entered the name Bryce Papenbrook. A slew of records came up. Bryce shared the same birthday as Adrien but was three years older. He was married to a woman named Christina whose maiden name was Vee. Coincidentally, Christina shared the same birthday as Marinette, but was also three years older. They had a house together at 830 Whitebreak Road in Winebrook(Pronounced Vine-brook.).

Alya looked at the housing record a little closer. It was a large house with two stories plus a basement, open-concept kitchen, four baths and seven-bed. It matched what Chat had described to Ladybug with extra details. And to top it all off, they'd had it for ten years as of six days ago.

Nino opened his phone while Alya stared numbly at her screen. He opened Facebook and searched for Bryce Papenbrook. Third down on the list of related people was a picture of Marinette and Adrien sitting on the ground together, dressed in shades of black and dark red. Adrien had a smile that was more Chat than Adrien, and Marinette smiled sweetly like she had a secret no one could guess as she leaned into Adrien's touch. They were older, meaning it was more recent than their kidnappings. Nino nudged Alya to show her.

The cover photo was another one of Marinette and Adrien, and the rest of the account was private. But it was under the name Bryce Papenbrook, which confirmed everything they needed to know.

Alya went back to the settings of Chat Noir's email. She hadn't noticed it before, but the primary recovery email was set to . A teacher's email. Alya examined the phone number attached to the account and grabbed her phone.

"You're not really going to call him, are you?" Nino asked.

Alya cleared her throat two or three times in answer. She pursed her lips and then stretched them as wide as she could. Nino had to resist the urge to laugh. Then, Alya glanced at the clock. It was almost six. With any luck, Brye would be asleep. She dialed the number and put it on speaker at least three feet from her. No one picked up, so she dialed again. This happened twice more before the receiving end clicked.

"Mhello?" Someone groaned on the other end through a yawn.

"Hello this is Frances DoGood and I'd like to schedule a flight for thirteen-o'clock?" Alya said in a high-pitched voice. She kept her lips poised like she was whistling, not speaking. She sounded like an old lady.

"Mmph. What?" The voice on the other end was distorted through fabric noises and the general sounds of someone very sleepy.

"I need a flight from Versailles to Brussels at thirteen-o'clock." Alya repeated in her funny voice.

"Lady, this isn't the airport."

"This isn't Orlay?" Alya acted innocent.

"I think you mean Orly. No, I'm… Bryce Papenbrook. Not the airport. I can… find you the right number if you want?" It was clear that he really, really wanted to go back to sleep. Nino felt bad for the poor guy.

"Oh, no thank you. I think my phone can tell me. Sorry to bug you." Alya smiled wickedly. Nino almost laughed.

"No problem." If the action of rolling your eyes could be expressed in a sound, that was what came through the speaker. Nino bit his lip. A colossal yawn followed. "Goodbye."

"Bye!" Alya hung up. Nino burst into laughter, which filled their whole apartment and almost made up for the sadness of Alya's breakdown. Alya tapped her fingers on her laptop to let out some loose energy.

"That was Adrien." She said after Nino calmed down. "Could you hear him?"

Nino nodded. "It sure sounded like him."

"That means now I have his phone number, his email, and his address." Alya schemed as she closed all the tabs open on her screen and opened a blank google.

"And to think he was dead four days ago," Nino mumbled. "I just heard my best bud's voice for the first time in ten years."

"I know. Crazy, right?" Alya mumbled.

Nino looked at the screen she was on as she typed. He sat up straight. "What are you doing?" He demanded.

The screen showed the Paris Metro out of the city. Alya was booking a ride to Winebrook. She shrugged at Nino's expression.

"Adrien and Marinette ditched us without a word, so they'll have to deal with me dropping in unannounced to ask a few questions," Alya said.

"Us." Nino corrected.

Alya smiled and upped the passenger count to two. "Us." She confirmed. Once booked, she shut the laptop.

"Should we mention this to anyone?" Nino asked as she stood up and walked to the bedroom. "Marinette's parents, Chloe, Mr. Agreste?" He trailed off.

Alya pulled off her pajama top and began rifling through her wardrobe for a shirt. "I'll send Queen Bee a message through André Bourgeois's hotel management that she'll have to manage Paris for two or so days, and I'll tip off Marinette's parents and extend an invitation for them to tag along. As for Gabriel Agreste…" Alya made a disgusted face. "If you want to be the one to call him and say his son is alive, be my guest."

Nino held up his hands in surrender. "No thanks, hun. I'm not opening that can of worms. Guess Gabriel Agreste ain't getting told."

Alya smirked. "I guess not."

______________________________________________________________

After a three-hour subway ride, Alya, Nino, Tom, and Sabine stepped off with luggage in tow onto the smallest station Alya had ever seen. Winebrook had a population of barely five-hundred. There was one elementary, and one dual high school/junior high building. One hometown market store, one police station, no visitor center and two playground/park areas. There were no asphalt roads. On the bright side, it was one of the cleanest, prettiest towns Alya had ever seen. She had brought along her personal DSLR to take photos, and got shots many of the pretty, dated homes along the streets. Children ran in the road and many people stopped to ask who they were. Alya got the sense they were a close-knit community where everyone knew everyone.

They wandered up and down the roads for about ten minutes, but the town didn't seem to have an in-order numbering system. Finally, Nino stopped at a house where children's shoes were strewn across the porch to ask for directions to the Papenbrook's home. A preteen with unwashed hair and cowgirl boots led the way at her mother's request. Two kids, aged seven and four, followed her as she took them to the very last road in town. It was about a ten-minute walk from the subway station. The girl asked them all their names, where they were from, and what they did as small talk. When Alya mentioned she was a reporter, the girl scrunched her eyes up.

"Are you reporting on Christina's dresses?" She asked.

Alya shook her head, a little confused. The girl shrugged. "Christina designs dresses. Apparently, she's in with Gabriel Agreste and he does the advertising for some of her designs. She does prom dresses for some of the girls in town."

Nino choked a little. The girl studied him. He straightened up under her gaze. Finally, she looked back at Tom and Sabine. "You say you're bakers?" She asked. "Christina can bake really well. She always donates cakes and cupcakes to the school bake sell. Mom commissioned her to make my birthday cake last year."

Alya kept her mouth shut. Designing and baking… sounded like Marinette had included herself into the community.

Their new friend took them to the very last house on the very last road in town. The houses here were newer or remodeled.

The house she left them at had tan stucco with dark brown shingles and white trim. The windows were rectangular, and the door was made of stained wood. There was a sidewalk path leading up to the porch and a gravel driveway. The house had a large, grassy yard with rose bushes under the windows and a large tree growing about ten feet from the house. A rope swing and a treehouse were supported by the tree's large branches. A group of kids was playing in the yard with Nerf Guns, Barbies, and Lincoln Logs. The oldest kids were around ten, and the youngest around two. At least fifteen kids were hanging out at the Papenbrook house.

The kids looked up when Nino opened the white gate but overall ignored them. They continued with their game, giving a few curious looks but asking no questions. The four adults wheeled their suitcases up to the door. Alya pressed the buzzer and then fidgeted as they waited for the door to open.

There were footsteps behind the door, and a woman nearing middle-age with a head full of black, wavy hair opened the door. Marinette was looking over her shoulder as a complaining toddler followed her toward the door. Alya inhaled sharply.

Marinette looked at her guests and her welcoming smile dropped off her face. "Alya?" She asked. The years melted away, and suddenly Alya felt like the nineteen-year-old girl who'd gotten off a FaceTime call with her best friend after the boy in their class committed suicide. She hiccupped and reached out for a hug without a single word.

#miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #miraculous fanfic #miraculous ladybug #chat noir #rena rouge #carapace #missing #mystery-thriller #fanfic #alya cesaire #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #nino lahiffe #lost #found

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born-in-the-wrong-multiverse · 6 years ago

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Literal Baby Blues

Title: Literal Baby Blues

Square: De-aging for @clintbartonbingo

Warning: Language

Pairing: None

Summary: When Clint ‘volunteers’ for an experimental procedure to make himself sixteen again for the sake of a mission, no one could have predicted how horribly wrong it could all go.

"You absolutely promise this won't be permanent?" "I swear it. Forty eight hours, max. It'll wear off gradually over the last couple of hours but until then, you'll be sixteen again." "Greattttt. Because that's every grown man's greatest fantasy, to be pimply with a squeaky voice right before he's even had his growth spurt all over again." Clint was understandably a little unhappy about the whole situation. He'd drawn the short straw, though, and now he had no choice but to follow through, no matter how hard he might try to talk his way out of it. "How do you even know this will work in the first place? I'm guessing you didn't exactly use yourself as a guinea pig, Banner." Looking up briefly from the monitor he was observing as he calculated the dosage based on Clint's weight and height and current age, Bruce nudged his glasses up a little higher on his nose, delaying the need to answer. "Well...I mean...the mice responded well." Clint damn near shrieked at him. "Mice?! You mean you've only tested it on rodents?!" "Well," Bruce muttered, "Every scientific theory has to start somewhere." "And now you're back to calling it a theory!" Clint's eyes bugged out of his skull, backing away from the workbench hastily. "You're joking, right? About this whole stupid idea?" When Bruce shook his head, eyes full of sympathy, Clint slumped dejectedly, reluctantly resigning himself to his fate. Whatever it might be. "Fine," he grumbled, "Just make it quick so I can get this mission over with and go back to being a full grown man with all his short and curlies again." Scrunching his face up as he pinched the bridge of his nose, Bruce just nodded, doing his best to bleach that image from his brain as he instructed Clint to sit down and lay back in the chair. "You'll likely experience a little disorientation, your balance will be a little compromised to begin with until you adjust, but your mind will be your own. You'll have all your memories, all your personality and...quirks...will be intact." "Oh, I suppose you and Pym just asked your little mice subjects to clarify all that for you in a handy little questionnaire, huh?" Ignoring Clint's little outburst, Bruce drew back on the syringe as it filled with the serum that would revert him back to his teenage body. "Okay? Ready?" "Do I look ready?" Clint muttered, his eyes wide with trepidation and displeasure. Bruce shrugged. "Not really."

Over the course of the forty seven minutes following the injection which flooded Clint's veins with the highly experimental solution, the Avenger's body shrank, in both height and muscle mass. The battle-weary creases at the corners of his eyes smoothed until they were no longer a visible reminder of the seven layers of hell he'd survived. The scruff on his jaw and chin retreated, leaving only the faintest hint of fluff on his top lip, while his voice lost its tenor. Almost disconcertingly, however, his nose still heralded the crooked memories of every time it had been broken in a fight, and the reminders of innumerable gunshots, stab wounds and other miscellaneous injuries still scarred his skin. "Aw futz," Clint croaked as he tested out his resurrected, under-developed vocal cords. Looking at himself in the mirror, he cringed, resisting the urge to reach up to squeeze the zit that itched next to his left nostril. "Forty eight hours, right?" For a moment, Bruce didn't respond. He was gawking awestruck, foremost at the serum's success, but also at the sight of sixteen year old Clint in all his gangly glory; he hadn't grown into his limbs, yet, and the years of hard work put into his physique hadn't yet passed. He hadn't expected the scars to remain, either; he had, foolishly he now realised, assumed that the formula would have somewhat regenerative properties. "Banner! Don't stand there staring at me like I'm your Frankenstein's monster success story; answer me! Forty eight hours and I can go back to normal, right?" "Right!" Bruce snapped out of his reverie, nodding emphatically at the teenaged Hawkeye. "So, better make them count. Unless you want to have to go through this whole thing again." Eyes wide, Clint squawked a curse. "Not a futzin' chance."

It started slowly at first, so gradually it was imperceptible to the naked eye. The crackling pop of his maturing voice started to shift up an octave instead of dropping one. The shoes that had fit perfectly that morning started to slip off his feet with every step. The fuzz on his lip receded one hair at a time without him so much as lifting a razor. It wasn't until his gums painfully swallowed his wisdom teeth forty two hours in that Clint realised something was horribly wrong. "Fix this!" Clint shrilled at Bruce as he stormed into the lab with all the fury his now twelve year old self could exude. "I'm supposed to be getting older, not younger!" Bruce's eyes expanded in perfect synchronicity with his jaw dropping. "I...none of the test subjects experienced anything like this. I'm not even sure what...I mean...I can't fix what I don't understand, Clint." "Then understand it! Figure out what's happening and fix it!" the younger version of Clint Barton snapped, his voice no longer squeaking with the effort of pushing words past vocal cords that were still figuring out their role in this world. “An hour ago my balls were still right where I’d left them and now they’re back up somewhere between my bladder and my spleen along with the pitch of my voice! Fix it so they drop back down where they belong or so help me God, Banner...” Squashing down the absurd instinct to deliver an unnecessary anatomy lesson, Bruce exhaled slowly. Bracing himself for another outburst, he held his hands up, palms out so as to placate the already irate archer. “Give me time. I just...I need some time to run tests and figure this out, but I promise, I can fix this." He paused. "I think." "It's the 'I think' part that worries me," Clint groaned. He was almost certain that in the five minutes since he'd walked into the lab, he'd shrunk another inch, and the pre-pubescent blemishes had faded from his now perfectly smooth skin. "I swear I'm losing two years every couple of minutes now. If you don't fix this before I'm back in diapers, I will sink my milk teeth into you!" "Six hours," Bruce pleaded, "And that's if I take a lot of shortcuts. But I'm going to need at least six hours to run tests. I'll need blood, hair and a cheek swab. To begin with, at least." Gritting his teeth, Clint scrunched his now nine year old face up in contempt. "I'd even jerk off into a cup if it would help but I'm not sure I'm even capable of that any more." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bruce rubbed his eyes with the pads of his thumb and forefinger, his glasses resting on his knuckles as he sighed. Admitting he needed at least six hours to even run the tests was one thing, but trying to tell Clint that he would need adult supervision for the duration of those six hours was going to be another thing entirely.

"Gimme the goddamn drink! I'm teething and have nappy rash that itches worse than a case of the clap because someone -" the piercing pair of literal baby blues shot daggers in Bucky's direction, "- forgot to powder my ass!" At two years old, it was disconcerting hearing that sort of language spouting from Clint's tiny, but not yet completely toothless mouth. The team that wasn't hunting for answers in the lab was officially stuck on babysitting duties. While Clint retained his memories and his ability to speak, his fine motor skills were on the decline, resulting in the need for a little more help getting around. Pym had suggested it was possibly only a matter of time until even his vocal cords reverted back to being unable to form sophisticated sounds, too. Clint hadn't liked that, and was in the middle of a particularly foul mouthed tantrum as though to make the most of what time he had left to do so. "Well next time tell one of us you need to crap yourself and we'll take you to the bathroom so you can do it in the big boy's potty instead," Bucky smirked, clearly still not over the trauma of changing his teammate's dirty diaper, and still cursing Tony for suggesting that they draw straws for it, too; especially when he was positive Tony had somehow cheated. Just because he looked like a toddler didn't mean it was any less Clint. "Besides, you can't metabolize alcohol any more. So, suck it up. Have a binky instead." The look of pure rage blazing in Clint's eyes when Bucky tossed a pacifier in his direction was enough to force Steve's hand, as he stepped in and lifted Clint into his arms. "Okay, that's enough out of you. I think you need a nap." "No I do not need a nap!" Clint protested, but even as he did so, he yawned, snuggling into the crook of Steve's neck and shoulder. "I am a grown ass man. Grown men don't use binkies or take naps or...or..." "Shit in diapers?" Bucky teased, eliciting a tempestuous shriek of indignant wrath from the two foot tall, blond haired boy with eyes bluer and colder than icicles as he tried to fling himself from Steve's arms in an effort to sink his sharp little fingernails into Bucky's face. “Okay,” Steve laughed, drawing the word out slowly as he wrangled Clint in his arms, “Enough. Just because you look like a baby doesn’t mean you need to act like one.” Watching with an eyebrow raised in bemusement, Nat piped with an affectionate taunt in her voice, “This is Clint we’re talking about. Acting like a baby is sort of what he does best.” Clint shot a furious look in her direction, but with his plump infantile features, the scrunched up button nose and pouty lips only served to remind Nat of a Cabbage Patch doll, making her own face contort with the effort of holding back her laughter. Sucking in a breath to try and calm herself, Nat looked at Clint sympathetically, walking over to take him from Steve’s arms and cradled him close to her chest to try and comfort him. “Just hang in there a little longer. Banner, Pym and Stark are all working on a way to reverse this, but you gotta be patient. They can either do it fast, or they can do it right. Which would you prefer?” “Both,” Clint muttered. “Can’t we just get Strange to do his magic wizard thing and take me back to before I agreed to this nonsense? So I can use my brain for once and refuse to do it at all?” Glances were exchanged between the group; the idea had been floated briefly, but was quickly rejected. The mission itself had been a triumph, and a diplomat’s sixteen year old son had been saved from a politically fuelled abduction attempt. Any effort to distort the prose of history could undo all that hard work, and none of them were willing to take that risk. “You know why we can’t do that,” Steve sighed softly, “Just...be patient, like Nat said.” Tears welled in Clint’s eyes, and for a moment, it was easy to forget that there was a man in his mid-thirties trapped inside that baby’s body. His bottom lip trembled, and his eyes screwed shut, sniffing loudly as he tried to force the sob of despair back down his throat before it could escape. Fat, lazy tears of pure frustration slipped down his cheeks as he looked around the room at each of his teammates, silently pleading with them to help him. He knew they were doing all they could, but he was losing hope. When he opened his mouth to speak again, all that came out was a few babbled, incoherent syllables. “Oh no...” Nat’s hand flew to her mouth as it dropped open in horror. None of them knew what would happen if Clint continued to shed months of his life in mere minutes, and it was clear now that he didn’t have many months left to lose. “We’re going to get you back to normal, Clint. Until we do, we’re going to look after you. You’re going to be okay.”

Moments after the now four month old baby Barton fell asleep in Natasha’s arms, Bruce summoned Steve to the lab. The sombre look on his face wasn’t promising. “He’s stopped growing younger,” Banner frowned, cleaning his glasses on the hem of his shirt, “But...we still can’t figure out how to reverse it. Barton’s antibodies should have kicked in and essentially started eating at the serum as it attached itself to his cells, but, the serum was too strong. We could try giving his immune system a boost, but if his white blood cell count raises too high, then...that in itself won’t be good, either.” Looking Steve in the eye, Tony folded his arms across his chest, and shrugged. “The alternatives are to either let him grow up all over again,” he quirked an eyebrow at the look of disbelief on Captain Roger’s face and held his hands up, demanding patience before he continued, “Or we keep looking. The solution is here,” he tapped his temple and shrugged again, “We just need to dig around in the grey matter to find it. Until then, I guess we all just signed up for Parenting 101.”

#clint barton #clint barton bingo #hawkeye #marvel #marvel fic #hawkeye fic #clint barton fic #fanfiction #aw futz

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roedusk · 6 years ago

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Kisame finds Nagato

I’ve been brainstorming people in Naruto I don’t mind writing as soulmates (people who could actually make each other’s lives better) and had this idea. Do you guys think it works ok as a stand alone or do I need to continue?

Hoshigaki had been one of their earlier acquisitions but not the first. One of the list of possible missing-nin Zetsu found while scouting, those who hated the world enough to tear it down. His chakra reserves were massive, and he brought with him one of the legendary swords of Kiri: Samehada, a blade which ate chakra itself. Both of them blunt weapons, all teeth and strength and bravado. For all he kept to himself - Hoshigaki was an open book, a man who would slaughter his own comrades if needed to ensure his own survival. Who could turn on the jinchuriki Mizukage and win. A powerful, dangerous tool, but one Akatsuki could use well.

Nagato was unaccustomed to being taken in so easily.

Konan was out, recruiting Sasori of the Red Sand as an excuse to test her skill against his. Zetsu had tracked down Kakuzu finally, just at Ame’s borders, and they needed to move before he evaded them again. So the Paths were out as well, and over half of Nagato’s focus with them.

He’d thought he was safe, in the secure bunker they’d created long ago. Tobi and Hoshigaki were the only others at base, and Tobi had orders from Zetsu to take the older nin into town for a few hours.

A task at which he must have failed because there was a light in the darkness - slipping through an opened door - and a smile.

“There you are,” Hoshigaki grinned, “Pain.”

Nagato considered - in free fragment of his thoughts - calling the Paths back, cutting off the battle with Kakuzu entirely. But the rest of him was still invested wholeheartedly, determined to recruit the oldest bounty hunter into their ranks, and the remnant thoughts left to consider his situation didn’t have the keenest danger sense.

When Hoshigaki held his hands out to the sides, open and unarmed, those thoughts gave up trying to judge the threat. Samehada might be with him, but Nagato was willing to take problems as they came, at least until the input from the Paths calmed down.

“Don’t take it personally, I’m counterintelligence. I had to know why I was being lied to,” Hoshigaki offered in the dark. The door must have closed again.

“I’m trying to focus,” Nagato told him, and the other nodded.

“Fair enough.”

Then he faded, for lack of better attentiveness, and Nagato turned his scattered thoughts back to the Paths and Kakuzu.

When the battle finished and his mind settled back to just moving the Paths back to Ame he regained some processing power, and promptly panicked.

Hoshigaki straightened slightly from his seat on a nearby box, offering a wave and a grin.

“You good? Six bodies seems like it’d be a pain to keep track of. Or, seven I suppose.”

“Running back takes less attention than fighting,” Nagato replied, filter not quite up to where he’d want it to be just yet. Maybe he could have the Animal Path summon Konan? She’d be able to make it back faster than any of the others. But Hoshigaki had yet to threaten him, and she’d been looking forward to this fight for a while now…

“What do you want?” He asked finally.

“I hate liars,” Hoshigaki replied simply, leaning forward but not getting up. His hands still apart and in plain sight, Nagato noticed. “Too many people telling me what to do for the good of the village, of the world, and keeping secret the big picture. The why. If I let others think I’m stupid, offer myself up as a lie, they fall for it every time. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see the truth waiting to be dug out. And a leader who hides in the shadows, controlling a puppet stand-in? That’s a pretty big lie.”

He probably should call Konan back.

“Then why the act? If you hate being lied to so much why pretend to be dumber than you are?”

“Because I’ve met Zetsu before, sort of. Samehada sensed him reporting to the Mizukage and recognized him when he showed up recruiting for you. And Tobi… well, last I saw him he was calling himself Madara, and controlling the Mizukage with that eye of his.” Hoshigaki’s fists clenched. “Neither of them were surprised when I ‘didn’t’ recognize them. I kept it up because I want to know why.”

Nagato blinked, then his eyes narrowed. The Animal path and Deva path would keep going, he could summon the others with the Animal Path once they got back. He needed more focus.

“Tobi? Was calling himself Madara?”

Madara had disappeared, leaving them with Zetsu to help reform Akatsuki. And Tobi had only joined years later, after they’d taken Ame for themselves. But if they were one and the same...

“Yea. He was controlling the Fourth. Something about that eye, the Sharingan, lets Uchiha control the tailed beasts. Or their jinchuuriki, apparently. Played him like a puppet, at least until he disappeared overnight and the ‘Kage broke free.”

“Leaving you behind without a warning of what was going to happen,” Nagato realized. “The assassination wasn’t planned, it was an accident.”

Hoshigaki grinned and nodded, but Nagato was beginning to wonder if any of those grins were happy.

“Why are you telling me this?” The redhead asked.

“You’ve given me no reason not to trust you,” Hoshigaki shrugged, “And if you’re going to kill me to keep your secret someone needs to know.” He waved at Nagato with one hand. “This secret, I understand lying for. They’re killing you though, you know?”

Nagato blinked, barely managing to keep the Deva path from stumbling. “I…” What? “What?”

Hoshigaki stood then, gesturing over Nagato’s shoulder.

“They’re draining you, even for an Uzumaki you’re dying slowly.” Hoshigaki grinned and shook his head at Nagato’s startled look. “It’s the red hair. I’m from Kiri, it’s pretty obvious. As for the rest, well, I have personal experience with it.”

He stepped closer, and Samehada started to growl, low and unhappy. Hoshigaki chuckled.

“Samehada doesn’t like the rest of this stuff anymore, but the principal is the same.” He reached past Nagato’s head, which should have been too close, but Nagato was curious enough to risk it now.

Then Kisame dragged his hand through the black rods piercing Nagato’s back, making as much skin contact as possible, and suddenly Nagato could breath again.

He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath, just how much of his chakra was gone, until it stopped draining as fast as he could generate it. It was like getting punched in the gut, and he gasped for breath for a moment. Then he breathed out, shakily, and realized how much worse it would be the moment Hoshigaki pulled back.

That was enough. He shoved the extra chakra to the Paths, insisting to Zetsu and their captive recruit that they would be returning as fast as possible. The animal path summoned a bird, then the others, and they were off.

Hoshigaki met his alarmed gaze with a sheepish half smile.

“More chakra than an Uzumaki. A lot more, though it’s not good for much. Refuses to mold into most jutsu, but Samehada is happy to take it in. But all the other wielders of this blade went the same way. Drain enough chakra and the body shuts down. Then, well, Kiri isn’t know for our hospice care.”

Even just this little bit was making a difference. He wasn’t so tired, his mind able to sort through more faster, keep himself and the Paths separate even the littlest bit more. He should summon Konan.

“I have to much left to do,” he tells the ex-Kiri-nin. Hoshigaki tilts his head in agreement.

“Then you need to get these out.”

“Pull even one of those out and I’ll bleed to death.” Nagato warned him.

“Have Zetsu track down some medics then.”

“Impossible,” Nagato disagreed firmly. “No one is to know.” He gave Hoshigaki a pointed look. “Let go.”

The swordsman hesitated.

“Are you sure? If I hold on for a bit it might give you a chance to recover…”

He’s cut off by a long growl, and Samehada actually seems to be wriggling in protest. Which is… noticeably strange to look at.

“Your sword doesn’t seem to like that idea,” Nagato points out. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yea,” Hoshigaki sighed, looking back at his blade now. “Samehada shares. Stores up energy but is willing to give some back. We have an agreement like that. But those things don’t seem to give anything back, just take and take. Samehada doesn’t like it at all.”

He took a half step back though, only to stop with his hand still resting between the two topmost rods.

“It will kill you first, though. Faster than it would kill me. Are you really sure?”

“It won’t kill me soon,” Nagato snapped. But he can’t help but glance at the other ninja a second later, questioning his surety.

“Not for at least a few years,” Hoshigaki agreed softly, finally pulling away. Nagato could feel the drain now, pulling at his reserves the way he hadn’t felt since Yahiko died. He’d assumed he was better at control now, but it seems like he’d only stopped noticing the draw.

It took him a moment to adjust, and when he looked back up Hoshigaki was standing a handful of steps away, waiting.

“So, what now?” he asked once Nagato made eye contact.

The Paths were within sight of the city now. Kakuzu was complaining about the rain and the cost of weatherproofing. No sign of Konan yet.

Hoshigaki still hadn’t made a threatening move towards him.

Nagato considered for a long moment, watching the rain fall through Yahiko’s eyes.

“Keep an eye on Tobi for me,” he decided finally.

Hoshigaki grinned at him.

“Sure thing boss.”

Well, Nagato supposed he had a right to be happy with himself. He got to live, after all. They both did.

At least until Konan finds out. Then they were both dead.

#Kisame Hoshigaki #Nagato #Naruto #My Fanfiction #Kisame loyal to Nagato Fic

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esselley · 7 years ago

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Kinktober #4: Knife Play

Some story notes: this is set in my Zombie AU – in this verse, all humans are infected by the disease that turns people into Plaguewalkers, but are affected at different degrees. This determines a person’s “number”: 1 - 3 are slightly stronger humans. 4 - 6 have superhuman speed, strength, and resistance to damage. 7 - 9 are the most dangerous. 8s and 9s are barely human and addiction to human flesh, to kill or be killed by on sight.

Kageyama is a 3. Hinata is a 4 – or at least, he started off that way.

The weather is starting to get colder, and they still can’t find a place to stay.

Hinata doesn’t feel the chill as readily as Kageyama; at the back of his mind, he knows that he also feels it less than he did when they were younger. He’s not really sure why that’s the case, but he remembers how they used to both need to squash together for warmth, two tiny, big-eyed children depending on the kindness of strangers to allow them to edge near to their trashcan fires in the makeshift walls of a settlement.

No one wants to let them share now. For starters, they’re both too big, no longer children, though “adult” barely qualifies. That’s just a dumb term, though, Hinata thinks. They’re more adults than most adults. They take care of themselves outside any safe walls, without preying on other people, no matter their number.

Of course, that’s mainly because settlements won’t take them in anymore. And that’s most of the reason why, with winter bearing down on them, they’re faced with a problem.

“Oy!” Kageyama shouts, as the guard detail of yet another settlement slams a heavy metal gate shut in their faces. Kageyama slams his fists against it so hard it must hurt.

They jeer at Kageyama through the slats, as though he is the enemy, and not just some low number trying to find shelter. He’s harmless, trustworthy; but because of his travel companion, he’s locked out. Again and again.

Hinata doesn’t know why he keeps trying.

He spies movement, flicks his attention that way to see a crow’s nest overlooking the front of the settlement, then a gun barrel emerging.

Quickly, he grabs Kageyama’s arm, to pull him away. Kageyama is angry, tries to jerk out of his grasp, but Hinata doesn’t let him. He is smaller, but the disease inside him has selected him to be stronger.

“Let’s just go,” he mutters. “We’re not wanted.”

He lets Kageyama shake him off, this time; neither of them like being reminded about the gap.

“We’d let you in, Grumpy,” one of the men behind the gate says, “if you ditch the flesheater.”

Kageyama freezes, and Hinata swears, inwardly. He doesn’t give a crap what they call him, but Kageyama…

“What’d you say?” Kageyama asks. Hinata means to try and stop him, but then he says, “That’s it? All I have to do?”

Hinata doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t look at the gate, where the men laugh and mock him and tell Kageyama that yes, it’s that easy. Kageyama is only a Three, he’d do well among their ranks.

“Yeah, okay,” Kageyama says. “Here’s my answer.”

He unzips his pants and pulls his dick out, so he can piss all over their doorstep.

Hinata is torn between horror and laughter. A little bit of fondness, and more disgust.

“I’ll ditch him if you let me piss up your nose, you coward fuck—” Kageyama is threatening, still waving his dick about like there aren’t seven rifles trained on it, and Hinata decides it’s time to quit while they’re only a little bit behind.

“You are done,” he says, grabbing the back of Kageyama’s jacket and starting to walk, Kageyama dragged along in his wake. A bullet pings the ground near their feet but neither of them flinch, and Kageyama just sticks both middle fingers in the air. “Put your—put your penis away Kageyama, it’s going to get shot or catch frostbite—”

“Good, I’ll break it off and shove it up—”

“Trying to make me jealous?” Hinata asks him. “First you’re going to ditch me, then you’re going to jam your cock—”

“My detached, frozen cock, yeah,” Kageyama confirms, turning around to walk properly and zip up his pants. Hinata lets go of his jacket. “I wasn’t really going to ditch you. I’d’ve left after—”

“The nose peeing,” Hinata says.

“Yeah.”

They walk on in silence for a bit, the settlement receding behind them as they get further down the highway. Hinata knows Kageyama wouldn’t ditch him.

“They’d give you a space,” he murmurs. “Any one of these settlements. If you went without me.”

“Yeah,” Kageyama agrees. “So what’d be the point?”

The point is, Hinata thinks exasperatedly, that you won’t freeze to death, and I’ll survive just fine.

“You’d be useless without me,” Kageyama grunts.

Since it both is and isn’t true, Hinata doesn’t argue.

It didn’t always used to be this hard. When they were younger, they’d been small and round and cute. Good people, the ones who still remain, want to help kids like that. It’s the only way society stays open for business, after the Ivory Plague nearly shut it down.

There’s always a few good people in every settlement; older folks who act hard but can’t help feeling soft; mothers who have lost too many children; young men who still think they are tougher than the world outside the walls and want to be hero worshipped.

Kageyama and Hinata stay inside during winters, but they always leave when the warmer weather comes. They both know staying in one place makes people slower, dulls their instincts. They would rather be prepared to run than hope a makeshift home holds. They never do.

But they get older, and people, even the good ones, get meaner. It’s not unexpected. No one gets by for free anymore, least of all them, but they have to prove their worth first. They’re athletic and, even better, their numbers are good.

Kageyama is a Three, hardy, strong, fast; he’s tall, too, and there’s something about his face that makes you trust it. Maybe the fact he’s naturally handsome, grew into his big round eyes and straight nose as they got older. Hinata has always been a little jealous, even though looks don’t matter that much, anymore. Well, not good looks, anyway; mad looks, hungry looks, red-rimmed eyes and paper-white skin—those are the appearances people are trained to look for, now.

Hinata may be smaller than Kageyama, but he knows Kageyama is jealous of him right back, because he’s a mid number. A Four, by the time they’d grown enough to tell, but as they got older, braver, stronger, even that was called into question. They discovered Hinata isn’t just strong, he’s superhuman strong. He’s taken bullets and been up and about the next day. He’s had limbs shattered and killed the men who broke them for their trouble. Their fault, not his.

They thought he was a Five, until earlier that year, when the settlements stopped wanting to let them in.

They were around each other every day, so they hadn’t noticed. But Hinata has gotten paler, over the years. The ringing around his eyes redder, his arms and legs skinnier, even while his physical capacities seem to increase without limitation.

Most settlements won’t let in anyone over a Five. Especially not an unfamiliar Six, uncollared and unchained, led about by nothing but another boy who claims he’s harmless, he’ll be helpful, he doesn’t get the cravings.

Hinata used to ask Kageyama why people never believed them. It was because people were stupid, Kageyama insisted, stupid and afraid of outsiders.

But as they are turned away again and again, and autumn becomes grey, Hinata stops asking. Because no matter what they thought Hinata was, he is changing.

They both try to think of it as becoming something more, and not less, and that makes things seem better.

It starts a few days after they get turned away by that last settlement—the one Kageyama peed on.

Hinata hasn’t been feeling right. His head has been throbbing nonstop, first a dull headache, now a stabbing pain at his temples that won’t go away no matter what he does. He feels nauseous, and heavy, the first time he can remember feeling unwell in… forever, almost.

The worst part is also the strangest. Hinata is hungry.

One of the perks of being a mid number is that he has more resistance to states a normal human body wouldn’t. He doesn’t need to sleep as often, he heals rapidly, and food is more a luxury than a necessity, which is fortunate, as scarce as it is.

But now Hinata feels it. A gnawing in his gut that won’t go away, even after he scarfs down some of their food from a past hunt, normally more than enough to sustain him. It’s getting worse, with the headaches, the dizziness. And there’s one other thing, about the hunger pangs.

The more painful they get, the more Hinata starts to notice that Kageyama looks… appetizing.

At first, he wonders if it’s something to do with sex. That’s not new, though, Hinata is used to feeling that way about Kageyama, he has for years and years now. This is different. This is actual hunger; the need to devour, to consume. It’s so strong that it eats away at Hinata, instead, makes him weak and sluggish.

But it can’t be what he’s afraid it is, it can’t, because Hinata isn’t a high number. He can’t be, he wasn’t born one, and people’s numbers don’t change… do they?

It’s worst when he’s around Kageyama, his mouth waters, his throat constricts, so he makes excuses to stay away. For the past few weeks, they’ve been holed up in a rundown rusty shell of a bus. The close quarters have not improved Hinata’s situation any.

The area they are staying in now is vaguely familiar—Hinata thinks they may have passed through before some years ago in their travels. It’s hilly and wooded, and the plant and animal life thrives, enough for a food source, though the oncoming winter makes things harder. This isn’t entirely unwelcome, currently, as it gives him an excuse to stay away longer, as he searches for prey.

He moves silently, watchfully. Kageyama is better at the long wait; Hinata is less patient. He usually chases his target down. He is nearly faster than them, and they get tired. He doesn’t.

Movement in the brush catches his eye and he darts toward it, as the deer spots him and tries to flee. He doesn’t give it a chance. Moments later, it lays dead at his feet, its neck broken. He always does it as fast as possible. He doesn’t like to think of how frightened the animals are, or that they might be in pain. He’s experienced both too many times himself.

Now, typically, comes the preparation; sometimes they might lug the whole carcass back to camp if they are secure in their surroundings, or quarter it and transport it that way, if they feel like they may need to be prepared for fight or flight on their journey back. Hinata stares down at the deer, wondering what to do.

He stares, and stares, and suddenly he realizes he’s on his knees, hunched over it, mindless with starvation—and at the back of his mind he knows what he’s doing, what he’s about to do, some part of him realizes that this is not right, this is not human—but no one is all human, anymore, and he angles his head down, to take the first bite—

“Shouyou,” a voice says, not a question nor a condemnation, and Hinata freezes.

Then, jerky and lightning quick, he turns on Kageyama. Kageyama doesn’t stand a chance—he’s knocked down before he can move or defend. He doesn’t even try.

Hinata crawls over him slowly. It’s strange—up close, he can smell Kageyama, but it’s not like when he smells something good to eat. Kageyama smells like Kageyama, and the deer smelled like wild animal; ordinary, commonplace smells. But he’s hungry all the same, mouthwateringly so, mouth wet with saliva, dripping. He leans down, staring fixed and unblinking at Kageyama’s face. Where should he start…?

Kageyama reaches up, and rests his palm against Hinata’s cheek.

“You idiot,” he says.

This is stronger than the twisting in Hinata’s stomach.

“No,” Hinata croaks out. His voice comes out cracked and broken. He sits back, sits away from Kageyama, pushes himself off to the side so that he’s not as near to him anymore. “No, no,” he moans, curling in on himself, out of shame and fear.

“Hinata—”

“Don’t come near me,” Hinata rasps. “Do you—I was about to—”

“I know,” Kageyama says.

“I would have—”

“I know,” Kageyama repeats. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

Hinata hugs his knees to his chest. “Because I just want it to stop.”

“I don’t think it will,” Kageyama says, because he’s always been honest. “Not until we feed you.”

“The deer.” Hinata sniffs, and wipes his nose. “I can—I can eat it raw—”

Kageyama shakes his head. “Better idea. Give me your knife.”

He holds out his hand and Hinata looks at him questioningly, but does as he says. He has a pocketknife he always carries on him, just in case. But when Kageyama rolls up his sleeve, forearm held out in front of him and the knife lowering carefully, Hinata is jolted out of his stupor.

“Tobio, no!” he gasps, but Kageyama ignores him.

“Relax,” he says, “I have an idea.”

Kageyama’s spur of the moment ideas vary from practical to terrible, and Hinata doesn’t relax in the slightest. But Kageyama makes a thin, shallow cut on his forearm, and his blood wells up from it, rich red. He stretches his arm toward Hinata, who recoils.

“Come on,” Kageyama coaxes. “It’s not like I’m going to let you drink all of it.”

“What if I drink too much, though?” Hinata asks.

“I’ll punch you if I start feeling lightheaded,” Kageyama tells him, like that solves it entirely. It really doesn’t, but Hinata is starving.

He grips Kageyama’s arm gingerly and raises it to his lips, to press his lips to his bleeding flesh. He’s kissed Kageyama plenty of times before—soft and slow, hard and insistent, scared and trembling. But this, this is something else.

Kageyama’s blood tastes harsh and metallic on his tongue, but the instant Hinata swallows it down, it lessens his headache by half. He’s practically forgotten what it feels like, not having that pounding, pounding, pounding in his skull and he moans in relief and gratitude. He’s still terrified; that this is working, that feeding on another human—on Kageyama—is the solution to the cravings. How will he ever resist now that he knows how it feels, to lap at Kageyama’s blood and feel his pain ease so quickly, like it was never there to begin with? Is resisting even possible?

He shudders, whining, and slides his tongue in a slow line over Kageyama’s skin, intending that to be the end. His stomach has nearly stopped hurting, and the dizziness is gone.

“Shou,” Kageyama murmurs, and Hinata looks at him, all too conscious of the wet trail that drips from his mouth, Kageyama’s blood sticky and hot on his lips and chin.

Kageyama is staring at him with an odd, affected expression. His eyes are dazed and heavy lidded, and Hinata worries that he drank too much already. But Kageyama reaches a hand out to stroke fingers through his hair.

“I’m fine,” he says. “You don’t have to stop yet.”

“Too dangerous,” Hinata says, though he wants more, he could have more.

“I don’t care about that,” Kageyama says. “I don’t like you staying away from me, either.”

Oh, Hinata thinks, staring at him. He doesn’t even have time to wipe his mouth clean, before Kageyama leans in to kiss him. His lips linger, his own blood is smeared across them, when he speaks next.

“Take more from me,” he whispers, and Hinata feels a much more familiar, more welcome surge of need.

He’s been avoiding Kageyama more and more the past few weeks. The thought that whatever was happening to him might have meant he’d need to leave Kageyama completely—it must show in his eyes, because Kageyama grabs his face between both hands and kisses him again, painfully hard.

Hinata twists his hands into Kageyama’s jacket, holding tight. He has only the barest, vaguest memories of family before Kageyama. That’s how young he was when they found each other, both of them alone. They’ve never had anyone else.

“Eat more, stupid,” Kageyama says, knocking his forehead against Hinata’s in admonishment. He lowers his hands from Hinata’s face to roll up his other sleeve, but Hinata shakes his head.

“Not there… m-maybe…” He bites his lip, wondering if Kageyama will think he’s disgusting, if this request will be too weird, too wrong.

“Where, then?”

Hinata looks at him pleadingly. “Can you lie back?”

Somehow, Kageyama doesn’t think it’s wrong. Hinata supposes Kageyama has always been strange anyway, noticeably so, even though everyone they meet is strange in some way or another. But Kageyama has always had an odd set of moral rules, at least as far as Hinata is concerned. Somehow, he always make sure Hinata gets what he wants.

With Kageyama lying on his back on the hard earth, Hinata finds it easier to touch him, lift Kageyama’s layers of clothes from his stomach to run the cold tip of his nose over Kageyama’s abdomen, the line of his hip bones. Now he smells good—the aroused kind of good, that makes Hinata shiver. He nips at Kageyama’s hips, not to break the skin, but to stimulate him, and Kageyama gives him a soft sigh.

He drags Kageyama’s pants down with little resistance, not far—only a little ways down his thighs, so he won’t get too cold. But there may not be any danger of that. Kageyama is already getting heated; skin warm, cock starting to stir with interest. Hinata is worried it might start to flag if he resumes his earlier attempts, but Kageyama senses his hesitance right away.

“Come on,” he says. “I told you it’s fine already, how many times do I—”

Hinata growls in annoyance, leaning his weight on Kageyama’s thigh with one hand as he grabs his knife with the other.

“You’re a jerk,” he says. “As though this is just some normal, everyday—”

“I know it’s fucking not,” Kageyama scoffs. “I don’t give a shit. You should have said something, that's—” He shakes his head. “That’s what we do, Hinata.”

Hinata stares at him. It’s an odd moment, to feel shaken by the weight of clarity. Kageyama is glaring at him fiercely, but his pants are still down, and he’s still got a half-boner going, and he’s scolding Hinata, who certainly almost would have happily gnawed on some of his vital organs just a few moments ago. He’s reminding Hinata of the reason they’ve survived this long.

They always trust each other.

Because it’s still too hard to admit, most of the time, when Kageyama is more right than he is, Hinata says, “Yeah.” Kageyama’s mouth pinches, and Hinata adds, hurriedly, “I get it!”

Kageyama huffs, and gestures with his hands, staring up at the sky. Hinata raises an eyebrow at him. Now that the initial awfulness of the situation is over, and he can push any thoughts of future issues to the back of his mind, it’s easier to focus on other matters.

He flips his pocketknife over in his hand, an easily practiced gesture—blade spinning before the handle lands safely back in his palm. He learned this trick years ago much to Kageyama’s annoyance. Kageyama says he just does it to look “badass”. Well, duh.

“How come you’re enjoying this…” he murmurs, laying the flat of the knife blade against Kageyama’s leg. He slides it over the skin, and Kageyama’s thigh twitches, that big, strong muscle jumping under the metal.

“Who said I was?” Kageyama fires back.

Hinata runs his thumb up the vein on the underside of Kageyama’s cock, and watches it twitch, too. Kageyama grits his teeth.

“Not enjoying it at all,” Hinata hums.

He’s a little scared, still, when he turns the blade. Scared, when he makes the smallest, shallowest cut on Kageyama’s thigh, halfway up, where the meat is thick. He’s cut flesh plenty of times with this knife, but never Kageyama.

Kageyama hisses, but it can’t have hurt him—barely. He’s felt real injuries before. Hinata still glances up at him, eyes wide, and Kageyama nods at him.

This time when he tastes Kageyama, he gets more than the tang of iron. He gets sweat and Kageyama’s warmth and a hand sliding into his hair, goading him on, not pushing him away.

It might not be in entirely the same context as usual, but Hinata is not oblivious to how much Kageyama likes this, Hinata’s mouth on him here where he’s so sensitive. He is careful with the knife as he fills his mouth with Kageyama, feels the actual strength in his body return as he drinks him down, laves his tongue in slow strokes over the cut and then up Kageyama’s trembling thighs.

He drifts the blade of the knife higher, so light across Kageyama’s skin that it doesn’t so much as nick him, until he’s dangerously close to where he really wants to put his mouth.

“Careful,” he warns. His voice is rough.

“I know what I’m doing!” Hinata says, a little too eagerly.

When he cuts Kageyama’s thigh this time, it’s slower, less hesitant. He glances up to see Kageyama is watching, head raised, attention rapt. His eyes track the line of red as it wells up from the cut, droplets squeezing out, round pinpricks quivering from the tiny vibrations caused by his own shivers.

Hinata keeps his eyes on Kageyama’s face as he leans in, the tip of his tongue darting out to gently burst the surface tension of the drops so they finally roll and trickle over Kageyama’s leg. He gets the precious liquid before it can escape, blocking it with his fingers in some cases, tongue swirling, spit and blood and sweat mixing. Kageyama’s eyes flutter. He reaches out, rubs his thumb over Hinata’s chin to catch a stray drop of blood, and Hinata snags his thumb with his teeth, sucking it into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Kageyama whispers.

He doesn’t hate it. He’s not disgusted; far from it. He’s never said it, but Hinata has known since forever that Kageyama likes being needed. Likes to be what Hinata needs.

Hinata ducks down and fastens his mouth to the cut, sucking hard, and Kageyama rolls his hips up into his face. Hinata is actually starting to feel—amazingly, wonderfully—full.

It smears crimson when he finally drags his lips across Kageyama’s hips, before settling at the base of his cock, which is thick and hard now, red with blood. Hinata isn’t after blood anymore, though (which is probably fortunate for Kageyama).

He kisses Kageyama all the way up to the tip, open-mouthed and wet, and Kageyama exhales heavily. Hinata has set the knife aside, strokes his hip bones reassuringly as he rubs his lips over the head of Kageyama’s cock.

“Stop trying to make it up to me,” Kageyama mumbles. “I told you it was fine.”

“I know,” Hinata says. He wasn’t trying to make anything up to Kageyama, not really. He just wants him to feel good.

Judging by the sounds Kageyama makes when Hinata finally takes him in his mouth, he manages pretty well. He even earns himself a hard-won moan when he sinks as low as he can get, though the cry is soft and stifled by Kageyama’s palm.

“Close,” Kageyama pants, “do you want—”

Hinata shakes his head, hums around him, and Kageyama breaks off into breathless swearing. He wants to reciprocate, Hinata knows, but one of the less exciting things about Hinata’s physiology is how difficult it is for him to get and sustain an erection.

But that doesn’t matter. The entirety of his focus now is on Kageyama, on devouring Kageyama in every way he can, specifically the whole of his cock, and Hinata swallows, throat tightening around him.

He pulls off as Kageyama’s hips roll and he shudders violently, keeps his hungry little mouth open as Kageyama comes so he can watch it splash over Hinata’s lips and tongue. It makes Kageyama groan, which makes Hinata grin, and more of it gets on his face than in his mouth. He doesn’t mind.

When Kageyama finally flops backwards into the ground with a thud, Hinata crawls closer until their heads are at the same level and he can stare at Kageyama’s face.

“What,” Kageyama asks, without opening his eyes.

“You know what,” Hinata says.

“It felt really good,” Kageyama responds.

“Not that—”

Kageyama’s hand shoots out, and Hinata finds himself being yanked down, faceplanting into Kageyama’s chest.

“There’s nothing else to say,” Kageyama grunts.

Hinata is quiet, momentarily. He shifts, scooting to press up against Kageyama’s side. They need to move—they need to pull up Kageyama’s pants. They need to get back to their bus shelter.

“What’s happening to me?” Hinata asks.

Kageyama’s arm slides around his shoulders. It’s a comforting weight.

“I don’t know. But,” he says, “just blood was enough. So your number can’t be all that high. Whatever it is.”

That’s true. But a year ago, Hinata had never had cravings in his life. Something is still changing.

“We’ll just figure it out,” Kageyama says with a shrug. “We always have so far.”

“Yeah,” Hinata mumbles. Kageyama’s arm squeezes, very briefly. Then,

“Okay, come on,” he grunts, “my dick is freezing off.”

Hinata splutters. “Whose fault is that, Hornyama? I can’t believe you got off on that!”

Kageyama grabs his head painfully hard. “I’ll kill you.”

Hinata squawks and struggles, and for the moment, everything seems okay. Some things are changing, yes. But others, it seems, will always stay the same.

More kinktober? You’re really living on the edge…

#kagehina #hinata shouyou #kageyama tobio #kinktober2017 #kinktober #kagehina fanfiction #haikyuu!! fanfiction #haikyuu!!#esselle writes #tumblr fic #knife play #cw: blood #blood play #sorry this is so intense and weird #zombie au #essie's hq fic

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alhaitham-shrine · 7 years ago

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@aperfectexampleofsarcasm had to go and tag me in a gtkm thing SO i guess I’ll do that instead of sleeping. I like doing shit like this :’’)

and I’ll tag @ratfuxk @relativelyjilly and @dyerink and that’s. all I’ve got

how tall are you: I tell everyone I’m 5′11″ but honestly? I think I’m 5′9″?? I’ve got absurdly long legs (at a lil over 3 feet) so it gives me the illusion of being taller

what color are your eyes: uhhhhh, blue? but also a bit green in the right light? once they were very gray and i had a five minute identity crisis

do you wear contacts and/or glasses: according to the optometrist, yes? but one, they’re just reading glasses and two, I forget that I own them so I won’t wear them until the migraines get too bad cause I’m stupid

do you wear braces: not anymore, thank fuck!! I have a permanent retainer along the back of my bottom teeth, though.

what’s your fashion style: occasionally feminine, mostly fuckboy? I dress in a manner that makes it hard to determine my gender/sexuality/age?? most of my shirts used to belong to my dad and I’ll wear skinny jeans in 110+ degree Fahrenheit weather. also i only own one pair of tennis shoes that i rarely wear because 90% of the time it’s black combat boots. and one pair of cowboy boots

when were you born: september 22, 1999! on that day in history the US spy Nathan Hale was hanged by the British in 1776 :D

how old are you: 18 but i feel like a 1950s housewife high on drugs. that’s not an age but like. yknoww

do you have any siblings: I have one half-sister that I know, then two other half-siblings that I’ve never met

what school/college do you go to: no school or college for this idiot, I’m disappointing everyone I know and avoiding school for as long as I possibly can

what kind of student are you: I was the sort that never did any work until the last minute and half the time I found ways to convince other people to do a lot of it for me. I was never dumb, and I excelled fairly well in history/english/theatre, but like math and science shit? I was really bad at it, so I’d work my way around that by befriending the nerds. I also refused to read a lot of books for english throughout high school simply because they were all shit but i also never read the cliff’s notes so to be honest? i have no idea how i passed. i’m a fast typer so in some classes when the teacher was asking questions i’d already have answers and shit queue’d up? all the teachers liked me but the asshole teachers? I was their Favorite because I, too, am a sarcastic little shit like them. (specifically my government teacher, advanced english teacher, and that final theatre teacher i had)

what are your favorite subjects: psychology, government and economics, theatre, english, almost any home econ class, and i already said theatre but like. ESPECIALLY theatre.

what are your favorite movies: The Labyrinth, Jumanji, Stardust, Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas, Hercules, Deadpool, Burlesque, Silent Hill, Grease, and I don’t know if I’d consider it a favorite but I watched Leap! today, twice, and cried both times so.

what are your pastimes: reading, writing (fiction and poetry), listening to an absurd number of podcasts, daydreaming, cleaning, drawing eyes on everything, drinking coffee, uhhhhhh. spinning really fast until the circles until the world is still a blur even when i’m standing still.

do you have many regrets: if there’s any one person out there that has no regrets, they’re probably a shitty 2D excuse of a person.

what is your dream job: I want to be a NYT bestselling author, that’s the job I want more than anything in the world, but there are a few other things that all equally come a close second so.

I want to get my doctorate in psychology, and I wanna work with either criminals or teenagers.

I want to make either short films or podcasts? I haven’t decided yet, but I’m too visual of a person to not take advantage of at least one of those.

I want to do more with theatre. I don’t think acting is something I could do, at least not anytime soon, but. I have so many stories to tell and, like with the films/podcasts, I’d love to just do one thing onstage. I love set building and the idea of choreographing every move to mean something it just. i love theatre

and, lastly, I want to just travel. I think I’d do this with any of these jobs, but I wanna go everywhere I can possibly go

would you like to get married: I mean in theory, yes? but I’ve never been provided with very good examples of healthy marriages so I don’t think that’s something I’ll be comfortable with for. a long time. BUT THAT BEING SAID, weddings? I love the idea. If I could just have a wedding without the actual marriage that’d be fantastic. I’ve been planning it out for so long I just. ignored the part where I needed a partner (basically I just wanna wear a fancy ass dress and be adored and eat cake??)

do you want kids? if so how many: I adamantly refuse to give birth to any living, sentient thing. My family doesn’t seem to grasp this but I hhhhhate the idea of giving birth. It absolutely horrifies me, and also? I just don’t like small children. I’ve got the patience of a hand grenade when it comes to small kids cause like. they can’t read?? I literally do not remember how the fuck i learned how to read one day i was illiterate and then suddenly i had a college reading level in third grade???? i can’t handle kids they’re just so. egh. BUT I’m okay with older kids? and also they’re the ones less likely to be adopted from the foster system so like. I wouldn’t mind, one day when I’m older, fostering older kids?

how many countries have you visited: I have not left Texas/Oklahoma since I was seven years old. someone please save me

what was your scariest dream: oh where do I start?

the dream where the rocking horse flies from Alice in Wonderland ripped the skin from my face? (I was five)

the one where I watched three witches perform an autopsy on my mom? (I was five)

the one where I continued to dig a bloody gouge into the side of my face and no one bothered to question it? (recent dream!)

I have been visited infrequently by a very large ant since I was about six?? but these were less dreams and more vivid hallucinations? the first time it happened i woke up in the middle of the night and watched this ant crawl across my body? and then another time in broad daylight i watched it crawl through a large dollhouse like it lived there? but it left when my friend returned??

do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend/significant other: i don’t know? i mean i guess not, not really? it’s weird and complicated, but it’s all good!! complicated is my middle name :’’)

put your playlist on shuffle and without skipping the first 15 songs: i have like a million playlists so I’ll just put the first song of each!

"When You Loved Me Least” by Michl

“Fine!” by Mal Blum

“Never Wanted to Dance” by Mindless Self Indulgence

“More Than Survive” from Be More Chill

“Girls” by Marina and the Diamonds

“All I Want” by Kodaline

“Traveling Song” by Ryn Weaver

“The End of All Things” by PATD

“Neptune” by Sleeping At Last

“Maps” by Keaton Henson

“Smother” by Daughter

“Fear of the Water” by SYML

“warm glow” by Hippo Campus

“Sleepover” by Hayley Kiyoko

“Whoa Whoa Whoa” by Watsky

#word vomit

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gondalsqueen · 7 years ago

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Things To Come, Chapter 2: In a Pinch

Chapter 2: In a Pinch (linked to A03 here)

“If you ever—” Maya said, the words shaking. “If you EVER disobey me like that again—”

Hera sniffed, frightened.

“The next time I tell you to run, you run.” Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: F/M Fandom:Star Wars: Rebels Relationships: Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla, Cham Syndulla/OC, Cham Syndulla & Hera Syndulla Characters: Hera SyndullaCham Syndulla, C1-10P | Chopper, Gobi Glie, Kanan Jarrus, Original Characters Additional Tags: Backstory, Childhood, fathers and daughters, Mothers and Daughters ...

Maya got the rice bubbling, covered it with a piece of camouflage tarp to keep the steam in and the flies out, and turned the knob on the Republic-issue army stove to low. Dinner was going well.

The flame went out.

Okay, maybe “well” was an overstatement. This should have been so easy! But while she could plan an elaborate seven-course meal for diplomatic delegations, field strip a blaster, or debate political philosophy with anyone in the galaxy, most of the skills that they needed now — such as basic cooking — hadn’t been covered in her education.

She frowned at the little canister of fuel under the stove, then carefully slid her arm beneath it and gave it one good thwap with her forefinger. The igniter popped and the fire roared to life again, and that modest success assuaged a little of her chagrin. She WAS getting better.

Still, cooking in the open air was a surreal experience. They were all still too shell-shocked to feel real annoyance at their rough surroundings or to believe their good luck in surviving. A week ago they’d been pinned on the Cazne plains with no shelter, nothing to eat, and Separatist troops closing in on three sides. A week ago, General Di and his troops had bought them time to escape that death trap. She’d thought Cham was going to kill himself to get them all to safety, and he had lived. And instead, a Jedi master and his Clone battalion were dead. Maya didn’t know how to make sense of a galaxy in which Core Worlds men sacrificed themselves for her and her family. But if the past week had been an uncomfortable lesson in humility, a reminder of how much she needed other people, she welcomed it in comparison to the month of siege and starvation before that.

And then the first supply drop had come, and with those ration bars, the strength to start thinking about the future again. Yesterday, the second drop — canned goods, dried grains, and even some miraculous packets of spices, which were not strictly necessary. Some person on Coruscant had put thought into packing this for them. This wasn’t foreign aid, it was a care package.

The war went on, but they would live.

Cham and a few of his lieutenants passed by on the way to survey the next cavern, and he waved at her backside, blasé, as they went.

Maya sat up and stuck her tongue out at him.

“You’d best have dinner ready by six!” he called across the field to her.

“You make one more comment like that and I will feed every bite to the blurrgs!” she yelled back. He’d never dare tease if he hadn’t cooked for them last night.

Within the next couple of days, they’d divide these tasks more efficiently — some kind of a co-op in which they all worked for each other, though she’d need to come up with a plan so that the village women who had showed her how to make rice didn’t bear the burden of cooking for the whole camp. Within the next couple of days, they’d have scouted out the caverns and begun setting up better shelters.

And she would raise her daughter in a cave, for as long as the war lasted. All right. Desperate times were better than none.

Thoughts of her daughter made her acutely aware of how long it had been since she’d heard the little ones squabbling and playing. Where was that child?

“Heraaaaaaa!” she bellowed.

Nothing, but Hera wouldn’t answer even if she were in earshot. She was probably afraid she’d get a rice-cooking lesson.

“Diin,” she accosted a poor child who was unlucky enough to be playing within her line of sight, “Where’s Hera?”

He shrugged. “Not with the pack. They’re playing by the gully.”

Great. Cham’s fine army could fend off hundreds of droids and innumerable wild animals, but they couldn’t seem to keep a few small children in camp. Rice cooked slowly for forty minutes, she remembered. Somebody had to go find Hera.

But after searching the camp for twenty minutes, she was getting increasingly anxious. Nobody had seen Hera in over and hour, and the only child with any information reported her heading towards the forest.

Of course she’d gone there.

Eighteen minutes until the rice was done. Maya appropriated a hand blaster from one of the guards and started up the rocky canyon path to the three dead trees that the children called the forest. It was well out of the way of any adults and well out of the protection of the guards, which meant that they’d all be sneaking away to congregate there within a few days. Trust Hera to find the highest place and then climb on it when nobody was looking.

She hoped. She didn’t let herself consider the alternative — that Hera was lost somewhere in these hundreds of miles of wasteland. At seven years old, her daughter was a bipolar mix of willful, unreasonable temper tantrums and older-than-her-years dependability — you never knew which Hera you’d be dealing with — but she was usually fairly sensible about looking out for herself. And if she didn’t find her in the trees, Maya didn’t know where she’d look next.

There. Thank goddess. There was a dangling leg and...a child swinging from branch to branch with wild, terrifying jumps. And making some sort of explosion noises in the midst of her game.

“Hera, come down. We’re going back to camp.”

“Just a minute.”

Maya’s temper, which had been simmering just under the surface all day, threatened to break. “Now, young lady. You are in trouble for wandering off.”

“Okay.” Without even the pretense of obeying, Hera jumped from one tree to another.

Maya winced and closed her eyes, but the little girl caught her handhold without the least concern.

“Hera,” she snapped, “you are already sticking next to Papa and me all day tomorrow, and if I have to come up in that tree to get you, you’ll be sitting still in camp for a solid week.”

As soon as she said it, Maya knew the threat was hollow. Nobody wanted to watch Hera for a week.

She was glad that Hera had never stopped moving, never become listless with hunger like some of the other children — she was grateful beyond thought that her daughter had stayed healthy — but she did wish the child had the ability to sit still for five minutes every so often.

“Oka-ay,” Hera whined. “I’m COMING.”

She then clambered to the next branch.

“Hera!”

“I have to go this way to get down.”

Maya tapped her foot for a solid minute of the slowest climbing she’d ever seen until her temper snapped and she started berating her daughter. She tried to mask it as a halfway reasonable lecture, but it sounded like nagging even to her own ears. “Do you know why we don’t let you wander away?”

“Yes.” Hera sat down on a branch. “It’s because you want to know where I am.”

“We’ve got reasons for that, you know. If nobody knows where you are, we’re afraid you’ll break your neck or get eaten by some creature, and who will be around to help you then?”

Maya closed her mouth on a twinge of guilt. She was scared and she was irritated, but there was no reason to scare Hera, who was going to act like a child no matter what worry her mother put on her.

“I won’t get hurt,” Hera told her blithely. “And Papa says I’m too skinny to make a good dinner.”

“Cute,” Maya frowned. “Come on, I have dinner cooking.” She holstered her blaster and found a hand-hold up the last steep rock.

Hera gripped onto the lowest branch of the tree, stock-still and stubborn.

No, not stubborn, frozen. Something was wrong.

“Look out!” Hera shouted.

The same instant, Maya grabbed for her blaster. Before she could turn around, the blow landed across her shoulder, sending her three meters to the side and the blaster skidding into the ravine beneath them.

Her mind registered the shape, lithe and razor-bristled, long milliseconds before it thought of the name. Vornskr. They’d found a vornskr. Only the best and most dangerous for the Syndullas.

The creature turned towards her child in the tree, the prey that it hadn’t yet incapacitated.

“MAMA!” Hera’s voice didn’t sound terrified, it sounded furious — which meant she was about to do something stupid beyond her years.

Maya jumped up before that could happen, scooping a stone the size of her head as she went. “HEY!” She felt the rip of muscle in her arm as she hurtled it at the beast, too panicked to be shocked when it flew far enough to hit. “You look at ME!”

Its body never turned from Hera, but its head swiveled, incredulous, vicious, to look at her.

“Hera,” she said, keeping her tone too low for the creature to care about. “I’m going to draw it this way. You jump down and run back to camp. Fall if you have to. Go FAST.”

Hera stamped her foot on the branch. “No!”

“Run to Papa and get help.”

Hera glowered at her. I’m not stupid, that face said.

The vornskr twisted its body, pacing closer to Maya. Stalking her. Thank you, goddess. Keep your eyes on me, you gida’tta. No hope of going for the blaster, tumbled into a ditch. She backed away from the tree and kept her voice even. “Her’asyndulla, you listen to me. One. Two. Three. GO!”

Hera kicked out from the tree in a wide, beautiful arc, clearing the top of the hill before she even hit the ground.

In the wrong direction. No, no, please no.

Maya leapt at the vornskr’s back, directly onto the sharp ridge of its spine. It shook her off like a fly and she hit the ground, her arm slippery with blood that she didn’t recognize as her own. Then a blaster fired, one two three four five six seven without a pause, and the creature lunged backwards at Maya and she smelled cooking meat, and it landed on her, dead.

Hera’s agonized screams let her know that they were both still alive. “Mama! MAMA!”

“Baby, are you hurt? HERA. Are you HURT?” The creature was too heavy to push off of her, but she could wriggle out from beneath it. “Cham! Tae!” She couldn’t see anyone, blast this stupid hulk of a beast — she couldn’t see who had saved them and she couldn’t see around it to find out how bloodied Hera was.

“Mama mama mama,” Hera was careening into her now like a droideka, and she thought the little girl’s arm was broken, hanging limp by her side, until she realized that it was simply heavy with the weight of a blaster.

Maya’s blaster. She’d jumped towards Maya’s blaster, and nobody had come up the hill to save them at all. Who had taught Hera how to fire a weapon? She was going to have some serious words —

“Mama, answer me!” Hera was screaming in her face.

She took the sidearm carefully from her daughter, laid it on the ground next to them, then examined her for injuries.

Nothing. Not even a scrape. And her own arm, sliced open in the fight, was already beginning to stop bleeding.

“If you ever — ” she said, the words shaking. “If you EVER disobey me like that again — ”

Hera sniffed, frightened.

“The next time I tell you to run, you run.”

And there was the stubborn brat expression again, sliding down over her face like a blast door, but this time with something new in the stubbornness, something Maya couldn’t fault. “No, I will NOT leave you.”

Then her otherwise brave girl caught sight of the blood on her mother’s arm and burst into hysterical sobbing. Maya drew her daughter into her lap and rocked her, shaking, squeezing the child in her arms hard enough to hurt. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Hera, you’re okay. We’re going to be fine.”

But they didn’t dare stay like that, unarmed on the hillside. She gave Hera a final squeeze, picked up the blaster, and looked her in the eyes. “Can you walk?”

Hera wiped the tears off her face with two grubby palms. “Yes.”

“My tough girl.” She took her daughter by the hand and they walked down the hill together.

Maya could never explain what made her stop right before they got back to camp, take out the small medical pack, and clean them both into some degree of presentability. Aristocratic pretensions? The reflex knowledge that they were always on display? That long need to hide any weakness so they wouldn’t become a target? Whatever it was, when she walked into camp with Hera neither of them said a word, and the other inhabitants, busy with their own chores, didn’t notice anything amiss.

Hera went quietly with her to their own family’s encampment, where a horrible smell met them.

The rice. Oh, no. She’d burned the rice, beyond salvageability if she could judge from the smell. She’d wasted it. An entire cup. She fell to her knees in front of it and stared.

“It’s okay,” Hera told her, kneeling beside her. “It’s just some rice. Nobody’s mad.”

Maya fumbled under the stove and turned off the burner.

“Mama, come on.”

“Maya?” Cham. She steeled herself. He wouldn’t be angry, but he would quietly tally it in his head as a loss, and that was almost worse.

“Mama burned the rice, but it was because she had to come look for me, and we’re not mad,” Hera explained quickly.

Cham knelt beside her. He opened the lid of the pot and the charred smell intensified. “Well,” he said. And then, “I don’t like normal rice, anyway. It’s too mushy.” He grabbed the stirring spoon and took a small bite. “Crispy and delicious. Here, Hera. Do you want to try?”

The little girl nodded eagerly and took the spoon, and it was almost enough to make Maya laugh, watching her face contort in a failed effort not to show disgust.

“Hera, don’t eat that. Cham, don’t make her.”

“No,” Hera insisted. “It’s good. I like crispy rice.”

Her good girl and her good boy. They had both survived — and she had survived, too, made it through everything. Who was she to mope and worry? Wasn’t she the daughter of Nercathi chieftains? Hadn’t her people resisted slavers for a thousand years while the rest of the planet fell? Weren’t they even now fending off the combined forces of half the galaxy? It was time to turn disaster into opportunity.

“Leave the rice, Cham. Hera and I caught dinner for the whole camp.”

#fanfiction #hera syndulla #cham syndulla #maya syndulla #cw: child in danger #things to come

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rilenerocks · 4 years ago

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Here I am at age seven, standing in the grassy park that borders Lake Michigan at Rainbow Beach on the south side of Chicago. Except for our brief sojourn in Iowa from my infancy through 1st grade, I was born into a family of non-swimmers, who managed to stay out of the water despite being virtually lifetime Chicagoans. I was always clearly a water person. Sometimes you wonder how you got to be the different one in the family. I remember my parents telling me they thought I was going to be an Olympic swimmer. That was naïveté talking. For them, my voluntary entry into the frigid lake was my first step toward athletic fame. I learned how to swim adequately in that cold water and then improved somewhat in high school, where we had a pool that I mostly disliked. I always preferred swimming outside. I know how to do all of the strokes but basically, I’ve got a decent, comfortable breaststroke in addition to being an excellent floater. I’d never win a race, even when I was young. But I have endurance and can last a long time in the water.

The laat time I did any real swimming was in the beginning of March when I was lucky enough to be visiting friends in Florida, whose subdivision has a pool. Lots of the residents down there like the air temperature and the pool temperature to be what feels like a bathtub to me. I was happy to have it to myself a few times on cool mornings. Covid was on my radar before I left for this trip but during my ten days away, the progression of infections was ramping up and I was terribly anxious when I returned home through two airports and as a bus passenger. I bought groceries and self-quarantined for days before having the courage to walk across the street to see my daughter and her family. Within a week, I cancelled a long-planned sisters’ trip to Alaska and hunkered down along with so many other older people who I darkly refer to as “the death group” because of our age and co-morbidities. For the first few months, the sameness of my daily life didn’t bother me much. I had my spring garden to think about and work in, I started babysitting for my grandsons and found ways to see a few people by parking next to each other and chatting through our car windows. I was really grateful I’d had both my knees replaced so I could take walks.

As the weather heated up, I started having some issues. Going for long walks and returning home drenched was not my idea of a good time. I started missing the water. Desperately. I knew the pools, both indoor and out, were closed in my area until the end of July. I set up a little kid’s splash pool and a beach umbrella in my back yard which really made a difference in how I felt for awhile. But I found myself spending lots of time on the internet, looking for bodies of water close to home, places where I could feel safe from the virus and yet at the very least, wade and feel a small sense of submersion. In addition to longing for that physical sensation, I started running low on the rocks and pebbles I’ve been using for years to decorate brick pavers which I use to surround trees and create borders for my different garden sections. I found myself going out in the yard to scrounge them out of a few containers I use as yard decorations.

I haven’t much liked this version of myself. Lots of people are struggling with this stressful time. And certainly there are those who are facing much more challenging issues than me. I’ve not been enjoying this rather petty and selfish piece of me that’s erupted at this point. I’ve been thinking that feeling trapped without the physical release of swimming is just one piece of a bigger picture. When Michael died, I realized how hard it was going to be to not have human contact on a regular basis. I lived my whole adult life right up until his death next to a warm body. I know, lucky me. But going cold turkey has been hard for me. Being a person who plans ahead, I decided to budget a standing massage and pedicure into my calendar. Those contacts plus haircuts went a long way to not getting in the weird place I could go with no physical intimacy. Add in swimming and hugs from friends and voila – ways to stay sane. But basically, all that planning has been negated by the threat of Covid. I honestly don’t know if there will be a return to my previous existence. So now, I’ve had two significant adjustments in three years, along with the limits of travel these days. Which brings me back to the lake. While perusing social media and chatting with friends, I saw that some people, admittedly younger than me and so perhaps less vulnerable to the virus, were on the road. And what caught my attention was the photos posted of one of my favorite places on the planet, Lakeside, Michigan.

The first place we stayed at in Lakeside was a bed and breakfast place at the time, sometime in the late ‘90’s. After basically going on an extended family vacation with a close group of friends further north in Michigan, our son, our youngest child wasn’t enjoying the trips much. When our friends decided to invest in a place as a group, we opted out to be able to address our kid’s needs. From then on, we took different trips as a family. But Michael and I always slipped away on our own for a weekend in Lakeside, right on the shore of Lake Michigan. That felt like home. The lake there has this magic illusory feeling to it. You know you’re at the shore of familiar waters but sometimes it feels like you’re on the edge of an ocean when the waves are up and the water is so, so clear. After a time, as the kids got into their teens, they wanted to join us for these few days and we needed bigger accommodations. We wound up a little way down the road at the Lakeside Inn, a rustic lodge listed on the National Register. No televisions, primitive decor and furniture, it’s a little island of detachment from the rapid pace of daily life. As Starved Rock became our winter destination, Lakeside was our summer one, with an occasional fall or spring getaway on the side.

I waffled up and back about going. Was it selfish and stupid to go in this uncertain time? Was I just acting like the type of spoiled person I find so irritating? And even more than that, was I ready to go back to a place that holds so many beautiful memories of my life with Michael? I haven’t been back there in four years, since the summer before he died. We just had a scant day and a half back then because we were taking what would be the last big trip of our lives, our Utah National Parks adventure shortly thereafter. The only photos I have from that time are of Michael standing in front of our two favorite restaurants in the next town east of Lakeside, him at the beach and one of our feet in the water.

But I have photos of our family enjoying Lakeside going all the way back to 2003. There were times when it was just the four of us. We lay on the beach, swam, collected rocks and read books. Over the years we tried lots of different restaurants in the small towns that line the Red Arrow Highway, some wonderful and others awful. I remember spasms of convulsive laughter, mostly in the expensive places, when we were sharing the most entertaining words from the book Depraved and Insulting English. We played Spades and Hearts at night or Scrabble and Monopoly. Some of us were more competitive than others. I took my son’s high school graduation picture there.

He convinced me that we should go back to Lakeside as he’s heading out west soon, and we’d have a chance for one more special time together. I made the reservations, worried that I’d get up there and cry the whole time. I wound up doing my crying in advance. I looked through all the old photos with a combination of joy and love, nostalgia and pain. I got worn out but in a good way.

As the years passed, our family group went from four to five and eventually six. Three generations on the beach along with a couple of dogs on occasion. What I know is we had so much privilege and fun that eludes so many people. I remind myself of that all the time.

So off we went on our brief excursion. By doing the emotional work in advance, I was pretty relaxed. My son and I travel well together and we enjoyed our couple of hours drive, listening to music and chatting. We stopped at a cafe which made good sandwiches and then headed to the Inn. I was relieved to see that good Covid practices were being observed which also took away stress. After quickly checking in, we headed to the private beach, a bonus when trying to avoid crowds. The weather was perfect as was the water. I scavenged for rocks for a long time and finally got my body into the lake. We stayed all afternoon and into early evening.

We headed upstairs and drove over to a favorite burger joint for a takeout dinner. After a day of beach and driving we were tired and decided to call it a night. We headed back to our rooms at the inn. When I looked out my window I realized a glorious sunset was taking place. We dashed back down the 115 steps to get back on the beach in time to see the flaming colors shimmering on the lake. I was so glad. Who knows when I’ll be there again, if ever? We went back upstairs and watched an episode of a series we’d been sharing on Netflix. Then my son turned in for the night. I wrote for awhile and pondered how just a few hours away from this 5 month slog soothed my tired brain.

The next morning we ate our boxed breakfasts on the long porch that spans the front of the Inn. We decided to go back down to the beach for a few hours to soak in the last moments of our perfect excursion. No one was there but us. I think many people think mornings are too cold to take the waters. They don’t know what they’re missing.

We reluctantly tore ourselves away for the ride home. I felt tired but restored. My body was so refreshed by the water and the vista from the shore. The same magic I always felt and had missed so badly. Although the time was brief, it’ll hold me for awhile. As we drove along, I was thinking of the face of a young native girl whose photo hung in my room at the Inn. I was haunted by the layered look in her eyes, which were complex, sad and moving. Life has always been challenging for everyone, long ago, currently and certainly, will be in the future. Perspective is everything.

Meanwhile, I’m back in the routine of these past five plus months. But I’ve replenished my soul a bit and additionally, my supply of rocks for the garden project of the winter months.

#reneerocks

Back to the Lake Here I am at age seven, standing in the grassy park that borders Lake Michigan at Rainbow Beach on the south side of Chicago.

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