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hypnoticwinter · 4 years

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Down the Rabbit Hole part 29

The FBI agent reclines the front seat in the big black Tahoe and gives me a look like I’m a little girl being stubborn. My nose is still a little stuffy from all the crying I’ve been doing, and my leg feels swollen and crooked and wrong, but the time for all that is past now. I take a deep breath and let it out and refuse to meet his gaze, glare out the tinted window at the fading afternoon.

Outside there are two more FBI men in big baggy blue windbreakers, chatting casually. One of them is smoking a cigarette, and as I watch him bring it to his mouth I feel a little gnarled pang of want, for it really has been so long since I last had one, and after everything I’ve gone through –

“How’s your leg?” the agent in the SUV with me asks, and I look round at him but don’t answer. He’s a big, broad man, probably somewhere in his forties or maybe his late thirties. His tone is calm and mild but his voice is deep enough that it feels like it ought to be accompanied by a rumbling vibrato I can pick up in my bones.

My leg is okay. Makado knew exactly where and how to kick me, it seems; after the FBI agents picked me up and carried me out of the gondola Makado got them to take me straight to the infirmary where a small, stone-faced woman looked it over and tutted at how they were treating me, saying that it probably won’t heal right, but they got her to just shoot me full of painkillers and throw a boot on it. After that I was able to walk, at least a little bit; I found to my immense surprise that with the boot I was actually able to put some weight on my right leg without it folding under me or my calf snapping in half. I examined it as best as I was able on the walk over to the parking lot and discovered that instead of the mangled wreck I was half-expecting there was just a rough scrape from the cleats on the bottom of Makado’s boot and only the slightest misalignment of the broad flat bone there. I could feel, I discovered, the part where my bone melded into the synthetic replacement the autodoctor had put in, a little ridged scoriation dividing the two.

“I have some ibuprofen,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his windbreaker, “if you need it.”

“I’m fine.”

My voice is dry from lack of use. I lick my lips, make a little cough in the back of my throat. He shrugs, puts the bottle away. “Suit yourself,” he says.

Another five minutes or so go by. I pointedly ignore him. Eventually he clears his throat. “It’s going to be a lot easier on you,” he tells me, “if you talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, I disagree,” he says. “We’ve got a lot to talk about. Ever since Miss Veret gave us a call and told us what you were up to, we’ve had a lot of questions for you. I think you’ll find that you’d prefer me to be the one asking them.”

“Is that a threat?” I ask him, and he laughs.

“It is whatever you make of it, Miss Dzilenski.” He stumbles over the frontloaded jumble of consonants, overemphasizes the ‘e’ sound in the middle. Duh-zil-een-ski. Almost makes me wince.

“Alright,” I say. “What did Makado say I had been up to, then?”

It would probably be smarter not to talk at all, but sitting here in the blasting a/c in the back of the Tahoe is making me sleepy. It feels like I haven’t had a chance to actually sit and rest for what feels like ages, even though just earlier today I was just waking up from a day-and-a-half nap after surgery. I’d gone through the pumped-full-of-energy phase and then the ballast had worn off and I’d gone through the splitting-migraine phase on the way up and now at this point I just feel hollow and brittle and empty. Even though it’s cowardly I try not to think of Elena and how I’ve abandoned her, I try not to think of Makado and what she’s done, but it’s futile. Rage and despair course over me in alternating waves and I haven’t a clue as to how to adequately deal with either.

The FBI man offers me a tissue and I realize with a start that I’ve nearly begun crying again. I wipe at my eyes as best I can with my cuffed hands and leave him there, hand outstretched, until he sighs and takes his hand back, tosses the wadded tissue on the floor. “How’d you end up here?” he asks me. I stare back at him. He reaches over, takes a slim manila folder from the center console, leafs through it. “Not a lot on you in here,” he says. “Except for that whole thing with your father.”

I stiffen.

“Must have been hard,” he says, neutrally.

I know I’m being baited and I ought to stay quiet but I can’t stop myself. “You don’t know the first thing about it,” I tell him, “so you should just shut up –“

“On the contrary,” he says smoothly, turning a stapled, glossy page and squinting at the next. The first page hangs over the edge of the folder and I can see through it to the other side, see the painfully familiar mugshot that’s been etched into my brain, little fourteen-year-old me, her eyes red from crying, trying hard to keep a stiff upper lip, staring defiantly into the camera, still wearing the lumberjack shirt she’d begged her dad buy for her as soon as they made it to Illinois and the nights started to get cold. “I know a lot about it,” the FBI man continues. “I’ve got the entire report right here.”

“If you read the report,” I say, trying to keep my voice level, “you know that by now it’s ancient history. It happened twelve years ago.”

“Yes,” he says, “and now twelve years later you’re in another mess. I suppose you’re going to blame somebody else this time as well?”

The words strike me with about the subtlety of a sledgehammer but I still stiffen in the backseat, my fists clenching so hard that my nails dig into my palms. “Fuck you,” I blurt. He continues on as though he didn’t hear me.

“I don’t know what exactly they’re planning on charging you with, but I know it’s at least a few dozen counts of manslaughter, and possibly a couple of murder charges. Then there’s all the human trafficking you and your partner Peter Caum were doing. Did you really think you’d be able to get away with that?”

My mouth dropped open about halfway through. “So that’s how it is,” I say. I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning; my heart is going about a million miles an hour and all the hair is standing up on my arms. I feel claustrophobic suddenly, here in the back of the SUV, my hands cuffed together, my leg throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

The FBI man’s eyes flash beneath his glasses. “That’s how what is?”

“Makado is trying to blame all this on me,” I tell him, knowing that it’s futile, that maybe it’s even actively detrimental to say anything, but I – I can’t just say nothing, I can’t just –

“Are you saying that she’s the one responsible for this?”

I swallow and nod.

“That Makado Veret,” he says, tossing the folder to the side and fixing me with his full attention, “the Chief of Security for the Permian Basin Recovery and Superorganism Containment Corporation, that Makado, has really been trying to smuggle people inside the Pit, with the help of a disgruntled ex-Park Ranger and mental patient, for…no real apparent purpose other than to fleece desperate people of their money?”

“Yes,” I say softly. It’s pointless. He isn’t going to believe me.

“And you are,” he continues, “the same Roan Dzilenski who has a documented history of lying to law enforcement authorities?”

“I was fourteen!”

“So you aren’t denying it? That you have lied to the police before?”

“I –“

“I mean,” he says, speading his hands, “it was a juvenile offense. And it was overturned. You got off scot free.”

“I did not get off scot free,” I tell him. “I’m tired of this. You’ve got the fucking report, you can read it. Either arrest me or don’t.”

“Fine,” he says. “If that’s what you’d like me to do.”

I lick my lips. “Look,” I say, trying to think of how to phrase it, how possibly I can tell him and get him to believe me. He gives me an expectant look. “Look,” I say, a little more softly, “this is all fine, but right now there’s someone down there inside the Pit who’s hurt. Someone who might die if I can’t get to her. And if you arrest me –“

The FBI man laughs, cutting me off, and rolls the window down to signal to the other two men in windbreakers. The tall, thin one with the cigarette tosses it on the black asphalt and grinds it out with his foot, and then he gets in next to me. I can still smell it on him. And then the other gets in the front seat and, after a quiet, murmured conversation with the man who’d just been grilling me, pulls us out of the parking lot and onto the curving road that reaches around the back of the ranger barracks and over to the main road back to Gumption. I feel as though I’m going to be sick.

The sky is terribly blue and for a long while I have a hard time recognizing it, I stare at the clouds passing by outside the window and wonder at them. The world feels strange when it isn’t pitch-dark and smelling of meat.

And, god, Elena –

I’m done crying. I can’t do anything for her now. I – I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t see it coming, I didn’t see that Makado was just using me.

I suppose I will process all of this later, in a jail cell somewhere. Right now I don’t have the ability to handle any more. I lean my forehead against the cool glass next to me and shut my eyes. I’d rather think about something else.

* * *

“Now remember,” my father is telling me, “it’s going to be hard to pull that trigger, but if you just squeeze it steadily it’ll be okay.”

“But daddy,” I start, but he just ruffles my hair like he always does and adjusts the revolver so that the two little legs stuck to the barrel sink a little deeper into the berm we’re both laying on.

“Now go ahead,” he tells me, his voice gentle, “and line up those two little bits there with this one in the front.”

I close my left eye and peer down the ridged metal spine of the thing. Just holding it makes me nervous, it’s like holding a power tool, like holding the big reciprocating saw he keeps down in the garage for his woodworking. It’s heavy and weighty and purposeful. “Okay,” I murmur.

“You’ve got them lined up? The one in the front should be in the middle of the rear two, and it shouldn’t be higher than the rear two.”

“Yes.”

“Alright, now, line the whole thing up with that beer bottle over there.”

“Which one?”

“The Blue Moon bottle over there on the left.”

I shift the gun over a little and then line it up again. “Okay,” I mutter. The little green bead in the front rests just above the label, but now it’s up too high, it’s poking above the line made by the back two bits.

“Remember to focus on the sights, not on the target. If you focus on the target you won’t be able to tell whether the sights aren’t aligned. Keep your eyes right here,” my dad tells me, pointing to the front of the pistol. I nod.

“Got it.”

“Okay. I’m going to move the cylinder now so that the hammer is over the chamber with the live bullet in it. When you pull that trigger the gun will fire. Got it?”

I swallow hard. I can see the back of the cartridge in the little cutout for it on the left side of the gun. My dad told me it was so you can see whether it had already been fired but I don’t know how that works. As I watch he reaches down and moves it so that it’s in line with the barrel. “Daddy,” I say, “I don’t know if –“

“Hey, it’s going to be fine. Now, it’s going to have a hard kick, but I’m going to be right here holding it with you, okay?”

“Okay,” I say again. Down there, maybe about fifty feet away or so, the sunlight is glinting off the darkened glass of the Blue Moon bottle. My father places his hands loosely over mine; his skin is calloused and rough. He is a carpenter but only during the day, at night he writes, holed up in the den with the door cracked open so if I want to I can sneak up and peek in, see him tapping away at the enormous computer with the cathode-ray screen, the big stuffed buck’s head on the wall just behind him, angled just like his, echoing his. I want to write like he does when I get older.

His hands are just over mine. They’re very warm, and so big compared to mine. I still have a band-aid on the ring finger of my left hand from where I tripped and cut it open on the ground outside the motel yesterday. Dad was proud of me for not crying about it but I wouldn’t have cried about something like that for a long time. Even this young I’m serious, more serious than either of my parents. Right now my father is being very serious and it isn’t something I’m used to. It makes me feel nervous, like I’ll do something wrong.

“Whenever you’re ready, keep the sights lined up and pull the trigger back slowly. It’s got a bit of a weight to it so you’ll have to squeeze hard, but it’ll shoot.”

And so I pull the trigger back slowly. My hand is shaking a little but that’s just from how hard I’m holding the gun. As the trigger moves the little metal lever on the back of the gun moves too, and I glance over at my dad. “Is that supposed to –“ I start, but he’s already nodding at me.

“That’s the hammer, that’s what actually hits the cartridge to make it fire. It has to drop down onto it to do that, so when you pull the trigger what you’re doing is bringing the hammer back and then dropping it. Go ahead and shoot, baby.”

I keep pulling and the hammer keeps going back and back and back and what I realize is going to happen is that there will be a point where it’s all the way back and then it’ll fall and the gun will go off and scare me half to death, and I keep anticipating it and it doesn’t come and eventually it’s too much and I ease off of the trigger. My dad stares down at me wondering if something’s wrong, takes his hands off of my hands and starts to lean over, and the thought of having to explain all this to him is far too unpalatable for me, so instead I squeeze my eyes shut and jerk the trigger back as far as it will go, and the gun roars so loud that for a moment I wonder whether I’m even wearing the big bulky earmuffs my dad handed to me.

The pistol leaps out of my hands and then something slams into my face and I cry out and clap my hands to my nose. The revolver is lying there on the berm, kicked over onto one of its little legs, and my nose is bleeding. My dad looks like he doesn’t know whether he wants to yell at me or cheer for me. Instead he just hugs me to him before I can start crying and points down at the beer bottles. “You did it,” is all he tells me, and when I look I see that the Blue Moon bottle, amber-hued and glossy, has disappeared, and even though I’ve gotten blood all down the front of my new plaid lumberjack shirt, I can’t stop staring at the place it would have been, can’t stop grinning at the knowledge that I did that.

* * *

The glass jostles against my forehead and my eyes flick open. I’d drifted away for a second there. Then the noise begins and the man driving slams on the brakes, sending us screeching to a halt. “What the fuck was that?” he cries.

I know what it is, of course – it’s the Pit. What else would it be? What else can open its gaping mouth and scream like that, scream from its belly, miles and miles and miles deep, channel the sound out into a pinprick-tiny orifice and make it shriek for kilometers? The noise is throbbingly deep, rattling into our bones and setting my teeth vibrating unpleasantly, but also somehow manages to screech upwards into a high keening wail that drags on and on and on…

The FBI men look shaken, at least. I’d heard groans and moans and shrieks like this down in the Pit, but none quite so angry, and definitely none as loud. It makes me wonder if there’s something different about this or if the sound is muffled, down there in the Pit, muffled by the flesh everywhere. Maybe it carries differently.

There is another low resounding thump and again the ground shakes. I freeze. If we can feel it here on the surface –

The FBI men glance at each other, and the one in the passenger seat, the one who’d been interrogating me, nods. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he tells the driver, who puts the SUV back in gear and starts off again down the road, moving at a faster clip than before. He isn’t quite gunning it but he’s getting close. The one in back sitting next to me leans forward.

“Did they say anything about this?” he asks. “Is it like a test or something? I heard –“

I never hear what he heard, though, before the ground erupts like a bomb maybe two hundred yards to our left and a vast stream of – of something hurls upwards into the sky. The driver cries out in shock and for a moment all of us are just staring out the left side of the SUV, watching as a nauseatingly pale pillar of flesh hovers there, sticking out of the ground at an obtuse angle, quivering in the waning sunlight. It must reach a couple hundred feet into the air at least, and it’s as thick as a redwood, or maybe even a couple of redwoods, it’s hard to tell from this distance. It curls inwards on itself and slams into the ground and begins scrabbling around on the ground, splintering trees and bushes and rocks, crushing them beneath itself.

“Makado was right,” I breathe, watching the tentacle writhe like a blind, pale worm. “She was right, it is waking up.”

“What did you say?” the man in the passenger seat asks, but before I can repeat myself there is another echoing roar and another tentacle, a smaller one this time, bursts out of the ground just before us. The driver screams a profanity and tries to turn but the big fat SUV is too damn slow. We strike it at an angle instead and it is just enough to flip the car.

It all happens incredibly quickly. I’m very lucky that the man who got in next to me buckled me in; he neglected to do the same for himself and got tossed around the cabin like a ragdoll, slamming into the ceiling and then falling through into the back and rattling around back there like a roulette ball. The two in front are a little luckier; they both had buckled up but I see the one in the passenger seat strike his head hard against the window next to him, hard enough that the window cracks, and when his head reels back I see a flash of bright red blood mottled in his hair and dripping down his forehead. The driver is still tugging desperately at the wheel, his instincts screaming at him to do something at least, but it’s useless – we flip end over end three times before the car settles onto its side and comes to a halt.

Aside from nearly being strangled by my seatbelt, I come out of it okay. I knocked my leg against the front seat a few times but with the boot on it isn’t nearly as bad as it could have been, and then when the front windscreen burst inwards I did end up with a few cuts on my face, I think, and the same bruised spot on my cheek where Klaus struck me is aching like hell.

I think I screamed, that’s all; it’s like my brain shut down as soon as we flipped and I was simply running on automatic, no conscious thought required. I remember bringing my hands, still cuffed together, up to protect my face, and I remember clenching just about every muscle in my body tight enough to leave me with a lingering ache in my abs once we rolled to a stop, but somehow I haven’t done myself any lasting damage.

It takes me only a couple seconds to realize that this might be my big break, and then I spring into action, slamming my fingers down on the release for the seat belt and rocketing out of the SUV as quickly as I can. The driver yells at me, apparently still conscious as well, and I snap a terrified glance back at him, but he’s trapped – I can see now standing on the outside that his door is crumpled inwards and jammed into the frame, and what’s more it doesn’t look like he’s able to undo his seat belt, although I can’t tell whether it’s because it’s jammed too or because the man is injured.

Behind me the roars continue unabated. There is the faint ratcheting wail of a siren coming from the facility, over the lip of the hill, just there to my right.

The man with the glasses who cracked his head on the window, he has the key to my cuffs. I sprint around the back of the truck, tear the passenger door open as quickly as I can. He falls out, lands on his belly in the dirt, and then I am rummaging through his pockets; not here in the jacket, not on the other side of the jacket, not in the left back pocket…

I can feel my panic mounting as I rifle through his things, trying to ignore the angry cries of the man in the driver’s seat, telling me to stop, telling me that I’m going to be in really fucking big trouble if I don’t come around and help him get out of the damn truck. I shut him out, I don’t even look at him. Where is the fucking key? If I can’t find it, if it’s fallen out of his pocket somewhere when the SUV flipped –

There is a raw, wet noise next to me and I glance over. The tip of the tentacle, glossy with slime and bleeding from a dozen skin-deep cuts, from rocks and sticks and just abrasion with the ground, is nuzzling at the deflated rear tire of the SUV. It’s insane how normal it seems to me. A month ago I would have figured I was going insane if I had seen something like this grubbing around on the ground like someone trying to reach a potato chip they’ve dropped on the floor. Where is that fucking key? Goddam it –

I take a step, dragging the FBI man with me, or at least trying to, because the fucker is heavy, and immediately the tentacle jolts in my direction. I feel a scream catch in my throat but I manage to clap a hand to my mouth and stop it. The sound? No, that doesn’t make any sense, the thing’s skin is smooth and clear and bereft of anything close to being an ear. Vibrations then, that must be it.

I eye the thing. The end is blunt and about as narrow as a baseball bat but it widens out to about as wide around as a tree trunk a little further down. It’s obviously very strong; rippling bands of muscle shift beneath its thin skin. If it got wrapped around my leg –

“You fucking bitch!” the driver curses at me. He’s still yanking fruitlessly at the seat belt. I see the tentacle’s skin twitch with each word, and then it snakes its way under the SUV. “You bitch! I swear to god, if you don’t come over here - !”

I have one last pocket to search. Rear right. Wallet, what feels like a package of breath mints or chewing gum, a piece of paper…no keys. I shove my hand in deeper, all the way to the bottom, and then I find it, the tiny metal key brushing against my fingers. My heart jolts in my chest and I pull it out as quickly as I can and then try to unlock them myself, but it’s no use, I can’t reach it. “Fuck,” I murmur, out loud, and then glance carefully at the tentacle. It’s wrapped itself all the way around the SUV. At this point the man inside has seen it. It sounds like he’s having a panic attack.

I start to back away slowly, just as the tentacle flexes and lifts the SUV into the air. “Holy shit,” I murmur before I get a grip and shut up. The tentacle seems satisfied with its prize, though – it doesn’t pay any attention to me. There’s more commotion inside the SUV and then – I jump – a few gunshots. I see them slap into the tentacle’s flesh, puffing out sprays of blood, but it’s entirely futile. The tentacle flexes and crushes the SUV with the ease of someone crushing a can of Coke and then it whips back down into the dirt, still clutching the SUV, and then they both are gone.

My heartbeat is very loud in my ears. The enormous tentacle off in the distance is still scrabbling around someplace else, pointed off in the other direction from me. My hand have gotten very sweaty and I’m scared I might drop the key someplace, but I haven’t got anywhere else to carry it. I take a step tentatively, cringing in anticipation, waiting for another tentacle to burst out of the ground and scoop me up, but when none are forthcoming, I break into a hobbling sprint and make for the facility. I have to find someone who’ll be willing to uncuff me, who might be willing to help me get back down into the Pit so that I can find Elena –

The thoughts die in midstride. I crest the ridge and stare down at the wreckage below me. There are three more tentacles of roughly the same size as the first rooting around the wreckage of the administration building, which looks as though it’s been peeled open like a tin of sardines. Before me, down on the road, a Humvee speeds by, and then another. There are people rushing all about the sedative plant, and I wonder if they’ve done anything, if there even is anything they can do. Can they turn it up to 11, pump even more sedative into the thing? Would that even work, does it have a tolerance for it?

The exclusion plate, at least what I can see of it from this vantage, is cracked into three pieces, and beneath is just pale skin basking in the orangey sunset.

As I watch, one of the tentacles shudders and flops to the ground. I can feel the impact throb through my soles all the way from here. A dust cloud rises from beneath it.

I scan the line of intact buildings nearest me and then slowly, unwillingly, I grin and start to make my way down the slope.

For there, just down the hill and across the road, is the ranger barracks. And there, in the third window from the left, a light shines, and I can see Fumi’s unmistakable shaggy silhouette outlined in it.

* * *

When he opens the door after about five minutes of knocking I push in past him and scan the room. “Roan!” he blurts. “What the fuck are you doing here – “

“Fumi, there’s no time. Are we alone?”

“Well, yeah, but –“ he says, and then he breaks off. He’s glimpsed the cuffs around my wrists and I give him a little sheepish grin. “What’s going on?”

“I should be asking you that,” I tell him. “Why’s the Pit freaking out? And why are you in here and not -”

He blows his breath out, and glowers. “Firstly, Makado’s taken a Tunneler down to get that crystal. Those always piss off the Pit and I guess after 2007 it decided to grow some extra appendages near here that we weren’t aware of and now it’s putting them to good use. And secondly,” he shrugs, “I think they just forgot about me. I’ve had my radio on and I’ve been waiting to respond but I never got a call. Not really complaining.”

I hold up my hands. “Sorry – Tunneler?”

“It’s what they used to make a lot of the bigger tunnels in the Pit. You ever seen those big digging machines they use to dig train tunnels and stuff through solid rock? Think that but bigger and grindier. It’s got vacuums to suck away the dead flesh, cauterizes as it goes, the works. Pisses the Pit off like crazy, though, and now that it’s hungrier these days I guess it got mad enough to pitch a fit about it. They still have two or three of them in a hangar, sitting around from the old Anodyne days just in case they ever need them.”

“Jesus Christ,” I murmur. “And they – Admin or whoever – they let her do that?”

Fumi laughs. “I guess,” he says. “I heard she stormed into Admin and raised a huge stink about the crystal, told them this was their last chance before the Leechman vanishes with it, and they signed off.”

“Fuck her,” I growl. Fumi looks a little taken aback at how bitter I sound. He starts to ask something but I shake my head. “There isn’t time. Help me out of these. Please.”

Fumi mutters a curse under his breath and takes the key. The cuffs fall away from my wrists and clatter on the floor and I am so relieved I don’t know what else to do but hug him. He smells of sweat and cigarette smoke but at the moment I don’t care. His hands flutter, startled, before they close around me and he holds me gently. He pats me on the back after a moment, and I draw away from him. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “I was just –“

“I get it,” he says. “Look, why don’t you just get out of here? With all this chaos it’d be easy to –“

“No,” I tell him. “I can’t, I can’t just leave. I have to get back down there.”

“Roan,” he starts. Something about his tone puts pressure on some place in me that’s been bending and bending and finally I snap.

“Fumi,” I say, my voice harsh, “Elena is down there. Maybe she’s already dead, but if she isn’t, she needs me. Nobody else is going down to get her, especially not now.” As if to punctuate my argument, there is another crash from nearby as a tentacle slams into the ground. Fumi nods, explaining that they’ve probably upped the sedative dosage and it’s finally taking effect. His face grows more serious.

“Do you know if she’s still alive down there?”

“No,” I admit. “But if she’s dead I – I have to know. I just have to. Now you can either help me or not, but if you don’t, I’m probably going to end up dead,” I tell him. I marvel at the perfect calmness in my voice. “One way or another, because I’m not experienced enough, because I don’t know the landscape, whatever. But I’m going down there, and that’s final.”

I stand there staring up at him, my hands balled into fists on my hips, and am relieved when his shaggy face breaks open in an unwilling smile. “Alright,” he says after a moment. “But I hope you know a way down, cause there’s no way we can get in through the main orifice now. When the Pit bucked it cracked the plate and wrecked the gantry up here.”

I bite my lip. “Couldn’t we use whatever hole Makado made with the Tunneler?” I ask. Fumi shakes his head.

“No, it’ll be practically vertical. You could maybe rappel down it if you had a whole team to support you but we won’t.”

I utter a mumbled curse. I feel like punching something. If I’ve come all this way and I can’t go back down and get Elena because Makado bored a hole into the Pit and it threw a fit about it –

I stop. Fumi raises his eyebrows. I look over at him and grin. “Fumi, I know how we can get in.”

“Okay, but how - ?”

“There’s no time,” I tell him. I grab his hand and drag him over to the equipment locker in the corner. “Get a suit on and then help me with mine,” I tell him, crouching down to take the boot off. “We’re going to save Elena.”

Continue with Part 30

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#mystery flesh pit #writing #writeblr #original writing #alt lit #mystery #thriller #caving #disaster #romance #Michael Crichton

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my-soul-sings · 3 years

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just my luck: chapter 8

Fandom: Wannabe Challenge Characters: Taehee x Reader

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Chapter 8 (full)

***

It was love and first sight when he met her back then.

He had been out hunting in the woods to practise his archery, and a flash of movement in the distance had caught his eye. Thinking it was a deer, he swiftly drew his bow and aimed his arrow at the moving target and released it.

However, instead of a deer’s cry, he heard something more human; something like a woman’s scream.

Panic had seized him and he’d tapped the sides of his horse with his feet, snapping the reins in his hands to beckon it to go faster towards the source of that sound.

It didn’t take long to find the owner of the voice: a young woman dressed in a blue hanbok. She was lying on her side next to an overturned basket with collected herbs spilling out of it onto the ground. The stray arrow he had shot lay just a few inches away from her, but it didn’t look like she had been hit by it. Taehee was relieved that she was uninjured, until he noticed that she was clutching at her ankle and wincing in pain.

He had apologised profusely to her, although she hadn’t taken as kindly to nearly being killed while collecting herbs in the woods. She had probably been scared, so he didn’t blame her when she started to scold him for being so careless, or when she asked him to pick up the spilled herbs for her. In fact, it was refreshing in a way. He was used to people being wary and walking on eggshells around him. As the eldest son in the family, people often feared that a single misstep would incur his wrath, even though he had never abused his power as other nobles often did.

Her words, on the other hand, were sharp. She would have been considered rude by any nobleman’s standards. But for some reason it comforted him. She was just a commoner, yet she treated him as an equal. They were simply two people who had met by chance in the woods. Here, he wasn’t the man with an entire family’s expectations weighing on his shoulders; he was simply him.

Maybe that was what made him fall for her that day. Taehee hadn’t even realised he was smiling to himself until she started yelling at him for finding the situation even remotely humorous.

Even in her next life, she was the same: strong-willed, stubborn, independent.

And even now, he loved her.

Although, it seemed that she couldn’t believe it for some reason. And here he thought the most difficult thing to convince her of was that he could see the future. He supposed the upside of it was that maybe she wouldn’t have such a hard time digesting the fact that he and his friends were goblins too. That was another headache he would have to worry about later...

“What’s so crazy about it?” he asked her while he parked the car. Her stare was boring two large holes in his head.

“There’s no such thing as love at first sight.” She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on, tell me the real reason you’re helping me. Please?”

The car finally rolled to a stop, and Taehee switched off the engine. “I’m not lying to you.”

“Then, you were mistaken.”

“I’m not.”

She huffed, folding her arms across her chest. This was a lot harder than Taehee thought it would be.

“The first time I met you, I’d literally just rolled out of bed and I looked like hell because I was sick. How could you fall in love with that?”

A smile tugged at his lips when he remembered that day—the day he finally found her again. He wanted to say she was beautiful even then, but she might think he was just bluffing and being glib.

It was hard to pick the right word to describe that first meeting. The regret and shame he had felt for the past three hundred years had melded together all at once. But more than that, there was happiness and joy knowing that he now had a second chance to be with her and make her happy like he had promised a long time ago.

“Seeing you that day was a miracle.” There was no other way to put it.

Her strong front began to falter, but Taehee could still see the disbelief in her eyes. Well, he expected as much. It was sort of like this back then too; in her previous life, she had been just as doubtful of his intentions every time he made up a flimsy excuse to meet her again.

“You know what, I prefer it when you’re cryptic,” she finally said, a sigh escaping her. “It’s better than the cheesy lines. You probably flirt with a lot of other girls like this.”

Her fingers curled around the car door, ready to open it, but he placed a hand over hers to stop her from leaving. “I don’t flirt with other women, I promise,” he told her. “I’m serious about you. You might not believe it now, but I’ll prove myself with time.”

She raised an eyebrow at that. “With time? It’s not like we’re going to spend that much time together.”

He smiled then. “I was going to bring this up later, but... Stay at my place for the time being, until you manage to sort things out. There’s a free room here anyway, so it’s a perfect arrangement.”

***

“We don’t have a ‘free room’ ! Where is she going to sleep?” Hansol hissed. Taehee smacked the blond on the arm, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door in case they were heard.

The three roommates were currently huddled together in Hansol’s room, while they had left the confused woman at the dining table to eat the breakfast that Taehee had prepared earlier. The older man had planned to discuss this matter with them beforehand, but with everything that happened in the morning he hadn’t gotten a chance to do it. As a result, his roommates were understandably unprepared when she asked whether there was really an available room for her to use for the time being.

Hansol had completely failed to hide the shock on his face, until he received a sharp jab to the side, courtesy of Taehee’s elbow. His attempt to play along was commendable, but still it didn’t stop him from announcing that the three men had something to discuss, before dragging Taehee and Biho down the hallway by brute force into his room for an emergency meeting.

“What were you thinking?” Hansol continued, when Taehee returned his attention to them.

“I was thinking… she could take my room. Then I could share with either you or Biho,” he said sheepishly. “Just for the time being until she has to leave.”

Both of his roommates narrowed their eyes at him. “I don’t think you’re going to let her leave,” Biho pointed out.

“I...” Taehee couldn’t refute it—of course he would try as much as possible to convince her to stay with him. The best case scenario would be if they could live together for the rest of their lives. Just the thought of staying in the same house as her, waking up to see her every morning and going to sleep after making sure she was warmly tucked in bed was enough to make him grin like a lovestruck idiot.

It earned him a hard squeeze on the shoulder by Hansol. That brat was misusing his strength now for things like this?

“Hyung, is this funny to you?” Hansol asked, prompting Taehee to immediately drop his smile and smoothen his facial expression into something more neutral. He cleared his throat. “No, not at all. Sorry.”

“I’m agreeable to letting her stay here,” Biho chimed in then. “She doesn’t have anywhere else to go, right?”

Thank the heavens for Biho’s soft heart. It was coming in handy now. Taehee nodded. “Her wrist is fractured too. There’ll be a lot of things she can’t do on her own, so it’ll be good if she stays with us.”

“I’m on the same page as you guys, but we need to figure out the sleeping arrangements,” Hansol replied with a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair and messing it up slightly. “Why did you even tell her we have a free room?”

Taehee looked away sheepishly. “Because… she would have refused to stay here otherwise. She’s a bit stubborn, and she doesn’t like depending too much on other people for help.”

“You do realise she can count the number of rooms we have in this house and figure it out on her own, right?”

“Yeah, well...” Taehee trailed off, racking his brains for any reasonable excuse, but he couldn’t. Why did his roommates have to be right about everything? In any case— “That doesn’t matter. We should just quickly decide on the sleeping arrangement.”

“Why can’t she stay in the same room as you? Your bed is the biggest— Ow.” Hansol smacked Biho upside the head for that suggestion. “That’s indecent!”

Taehee took offense at the insinuation that he would have tried anything inappropriate even if she slept in the same bed as him. With warming cheeks, he butted in, “I would never do anything inappropriate to her. But anyway,” he cleared his throat, “she’s definitely not going to accept that even if I did.”

Hansol cocked an eyebrow at that. “So you would sleep in the same bed as her if she said ‘yes’?” With exaggerated shock, he smacked his hands on both cheeks as his mouth formed an ‘o’. “Hyung, I’m seeing a different side of you today.”

“Stop that.” Taehee rolled his eyes, suppressing the urge to smack Hansol. He would only receive a harder one in return, no thanks to the younger goblin’s superior strength.

“Then, one of us has to share a room with you?” Biho asked, looking grim all of a sudden. Taehee watched realisation sink into Hansol’s expression, and he swore the blond’s face paled slightly. What was that all about?

“Why do you guys look like that?”

“You’ll get offended if I say it,” Biho said bluntly, while Hansol quietly nodded. “Maybe Hansol and I can share a room instead. You can take one of ours.”

Taehee frowned. He was already starting to get offended and it was even more frustrating because he didn’t understand why they were so reluctant to share a room with him. “What’s so bad about rooming with me?”

The duo exchanged nervous glances, and at Hansol’s nod, Biho sucked in a sharp breath and turned back to face Taehee. “Well… you’re a clean freak. You already nag at us every weekend, I don’t want it to become an everyday thing.”

“Yeah,” Hansol chimed in before Taehee could get a word of protest out. “Sorry Taehee, you know we love you, but the nagging…”

Taehee didn’t know if he should be happy or offended that he would get a room to himself despite being the one to suggest this arrangement. He didn’t have the chance to decide, because all three of them were startled by knocks on the door that came in rapid succession.

“I’m coming in,” he heard her say, and then the door opened. She stepped in, surveying the surprise on their faces before releasing a sigh.

“I heard everything. Look, I can just take the couch or an inflatable mattress if you have one. I’m fine with sleeping in the living room. I feel bad enough for imposing; I don’t want to trouble you guys further by making you switch rooms.”

“You’re not troubling us—”

“Taehee, I know you’re just being nice, but it’s really fine. I already appreciate all the help so far. And,” her eyes came to rest on Hansol and then Biho, “sorry to impose for this period of time. I’ll try to find a new place as soon as possible.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Biho said with a reassuring smile. “You’re injured, it’s not good for you to live alone for now. At least with us around we can help you when you need it.”

“Yeah, and you’re not imposing on us at all,” Hansol added cheerily. “We really don’t mind. You can take one of our rooms, it’s no big deal.”

“No, please. I can’t. I want to sleep on the couch.” Her eyes turned to Taehee, and he recognised the pleading look. She wasn’t going to change her mind, and he suspected if they continued to insist on her taking a room, she would simply walk out the door. She was too stubborn for her own good sometimes.

“Alright,” he said finally, “the couch it is.”

She brightened immediately, sending him an appreciative smile. “Thanks. I really mean it.”

“Looks like you gained some likability points with her,” Hansol whispered teasingly in Taehee’s ear. The older man flushed in embarrassment and stepped on Hansol’s foot to get him to shut up. Unfortunately he must have applied too much force, for the younger man shrieked and hopped away, cradling his sore foot.

“Sorry, there was a bug there,” was Taehee’s flimsy excuse. Then he hurried out of the room with the excuse of looking for a spare blanket and pillows for her.

He didn’t miss the amused look on her face as she observed the exchange.

#wannabe challenge #wannabe challenge fanfiction #wannabe challenge fanfic #wannabe challenge taehee #kim taehee #taehee fanfiction #just my luck #my writing

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jaxl-road · 5 years

Text

Hollow

“When I get stressed, I get violent and take it out on myself. I’ve pulled razor blades on myself but then realized that having a scar is more detrimental than not having a stereo. I’d rather kick in my stereo than cut my arm.” -Axl Rose

An AU where Axl changes his mind on that stance.

Pairings: none

***TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM (specifically cutting)***

~~~~~~~~~

There was a clawing in his chest. In his throat, in his stomach, behind his eyes and his teeth. Walking offstage, Axl felt like he couldn’t breathe, too busy focusing on containing the wild, storming beast that wanted to tear him apart.

He needed to get out of here.

The hallway backstage seemed to stretch on forever, staring at the backs of his bandmates as they headed towards their dressing rooms. As he walked, he found himself kicking an empty plastic chair viciously when he passed it.

Slash eyed him over his shoulder, "Jeez, what is your problem?"

Fuck. He wished the guitarist hadn’t asked. His fingers curl, nails biting into his palms as he grinds out, "Were you not listening out there? The audio was fucking shit, there was feedback every five fucking minutes!"

Rolling his eyes, Slash sighed, "Dude, it wasn't that bad-"

But before he could finish his attempt at de-escalation, Steven whipped around and interrupted, "Well maybe if you actually bothered to show up for soundcheck we wouldn't have this problem."

Axl ground to a halt in the middle of the hallway, snarling, “I shouldn’t need to be there for us to have halfway decent tech! All the fucking money we bring in and we can’t get a less mediocre PA system?”

“Guys, hey, let’s not-” Duff tried to intervene half-heartedly, Slash rubbing a hand over his face in the corner. Izzy sighed as he shared a look with the other two, because they all knew it was pointless. Axl was too volatile, Steven was too outspoken, and they were both too frustrated with each other. The match and the kerosene.

“We’d bring in more money if we weren’t constantly paying overtime fees because you can’t get your ass to your own gig on time!” Steven snapped, “I don’t get why you’re making more than me when you’re basically a part-time singer!”

That clawing beast inside Axl escaped. And it had a target.

His hand curled around the back of the plastic chair, blood roaring in his ears as he hurled it at the drummer. Everyone in the hallway ducked against the walls, Steven managing to step out of the way in time as the chair crashed to the ground harmlessly, sliding down the hallway as Axl started screaming.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! You don’t know a goddamn thing! You think you could do any of this without me?! Fat fucking chance!”

Axl could feel his mouth moving, could hear the words distantly, but there was a disconnect. It didn’t feel like him. He could see himself storming down the hallway like a glitching television screen, jumping and skipping, showing him shoving Steven aside and kicking the chair again even harder, everything fuzzy, static in his ears. A door slams furiously and he finds himself standing in his dressing room, and then there’s something in his hands, and then he’s surrounded by broken glass and overturned furniture. There are holes in the drywall and blood on his knuckles.

And he’s breathing. Gasping, actually, and he wonders if he had been holding his breath during the destruction; if the rage in his chest left no room for air.

But it was gone now. There was nothing left. Just a gaping cavern where the rage used to be. He staggered backwards and leaned against the wall, feeling lightheaded, his limbs weightless and shaky. Sliding to the floor, he put his head on his knees, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths.

Fuck.

The last half hour replays in his head.

Fuck.

What the fuck was wrong with him? This was hardly the first time he’d pulled this kind of bullshit, but each time felt worse. Steven didn't deserve that treatment. None of them did, and it was only a matter of time before he broke the camel's back with his fuck ups.

He wasn’t an idiot- he knew his bandmates wanted to fire him, and why wouldn’t they? Maybe Guns wouldn’t be the same without him, maybe they wouldn’t be as successful or popular, but with the amount of money they’d save from cutting out his property damage and late fees they’d probably still come out ahead, and that's not even considering how happy they'd be to be rid of him.

Axl was the one who’d suffer. He had a reputation now, and the bad was starting to outweigh the good. What would he even do, if he couldn’t sing? Couldn’t perform? Turning his head, he catches sight of his reflection in the shards of broken mirror surrounding him.

Reaching out, he picked up one of the larger shards without even thinking, turning it over in his hand. He ran a finger across the sharp edge in contemplation.

There had been a few times over the years where Axl found himself holding a blade to his skin. Everyone only saw rage, and that was part of it, sure, but it was more than that. There was a burning inside of him. Sometimes fire coursed through his veins that crackled and crawled and made Axl feel like tearing his skin off, like he was bursting at the seams, like even his own body didn't want him. Each time he'd reasoned with himself that it was better to scream and trash a room than scar himself. Things could be replaced, after all, so it was clearly the better solution.

Now he was rethinking that.

Something had to give, after all. He was halfway to ruining everything, steadily destroying this fragile life he'd built. If he didn't find a better way to purge this shit from inside him, it was going to crash down around him.

He thinks of bloodletting. He thinks of kneeling before some medieval priest to be drained of the devils and demons running through his veins. He wonders if that was why people were drawn to hurting him- his father, his stepfather, the bullies at school, the creeps who offered him a ride for a price- maybe his disease was so close to the surface that everyone could see it and knew that the only way to help him was to hurt him. Maybe this whole time he’d been flinching away from the cure. He thought of the empty feeling he got after each time he snapped and went on a rampage, and considered that maybe this way he could just bleed everything out- quietly, peacefully.

Sitting on the floor carefully, he slowly pushed his jeans down to his knees. Arms are a big no, he'd never be able to hide it, but legs would be easy to conceal. If he was careful, he could even make sure everything was hidden by shorts.

Looking down at the shard of reflection in his hand, he feels a sense of calm. It's not hopeless. There's still time. He has a plan now. He can fix this.

He pressed the glass against the top of his thigh.

He'll be better.

~~~~~~~~

It’s nearly morning when he makes it back to the hotel. Slipping into his room, he stays there until nightfall when they have to leave for the next city.

None of them talk about his outburst. They never do.

He sits alone.

~~~~~~~~

The night of their next performance, Axl doesn’t make it to soundcheck, but he does arrive before the openers go on.

“Wow, look who decided to show up,” Slash said mockingly, raising an eyebrow as he walked past.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” Duff rolled his eyes in response.

Steven laughed, and oh, Axl wants to scream.

I’m doing what you want! I’m here! I’m trying! This is what you wanted, why aren’t you happy, why isn’t it enough?”

Instead, he presses the tips of his fingers into the side of his thigh and keeps walking.

~~~~~~

It infuriated him, seeing his bandmates strung out when they were supposed to be working.

“Clean up your fucking act before you OD on fucking stage!” he snapped, shoving at Slash’s chest before stomping away.

Back in his dressing room, he tugged his hair in frustration. Who was he to lecture his bandmates? He was trying not to cause trouble, not to get on anyone’s bad side, and yelling at his guitarist wasn’t exactly the way to do that.

God, he was the worst fuck up out of all of them. He shouldn’t have said anything. The anger hadn’t left, but now he felt guilty on top of it. He hated feeling this much. He hated not being able to do anything right. Opening one of the drawers beneath the vanity, he opened a small pack of spare razors.

~~~~~~

Get up.

The room is dark, the curtains drawn tight, only a sliver of light shining through the bottom of the hotel door.

Get up.

Another performance over, another city crossed off the list, and now it was time to gather his things because they had to be on the bus in an hour. But instead he was laying on his side on the bed, staring blankly at the wall.

Get up, get up, get up!

It’s almost funny to him- if someone walked in right now they’d probably think he looked dead, unable to hear the screaming inside his head.

Mustering up as much energy as he can, he reaches over to the top drawer of the side table. Fumbling around for a moment, his fingers finally find the pocketknife he had started keeping there. He flips it open lazily.

An hour later, he is running up to the bus, out of breath, but right on time.

~~~~~~

When he sits on the floor of the generic hotel bathroom, holding a towel to his leg, he wonders if this is a punishment or a reward.

Maybe it’s both.

~~~~~~

“Hey Axl, you coming?”

The singer blinked in surprise at Slash’s question. There was nothing on the band’s schedule for the day, leaving them free to do what they pleased. Duff, Slash, and Steven had been talking about heading to some VIP bar a friend had recommended, Izzy shrugging and agreeing to tag along while Axl sat to the side and stared out the window mindlessly.

It had been a long time since the band had all gone out together just for fun. Lately their outings were specifically a chance to get away from Axl, after all.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” the redhead smiled, standing and following the group out, chatting amicably. He tapped his fingers against his leg.

He must be doing something right.

~~~~~~

Shorts still cover everything, but he’s had to move from the tops of his thighs to the insides.

Then the outsides.

He starts wearing longer shorts.

~~~~~~

When the show ends, Axl throws his arms around his bandmates, pulling them close, waving and bowing for the crows. They seperate, but Steven keeps his arm around him, even when they’re out of sight of the audience, and Axl knows that it’s all worth it just for this moment of not being alone.

~~~~~~

On this night, he wears his rose leggings, as well as black basketball shorts over them. When he woke up that afternoon, Axl had felt a churning in his stomach, felt on edge and jittery and angry, and he refused to fuck up, not again, not anymore. Things were good, the past few months had gone relatively smoothly, he was on good terms with the rest of the band, and he couldn’t afford to mess that all up just because he had a broken, defective brain.

That’s what he told himself, when he pressed the blade a little harder than usual.

So he wore the leggings, and an extra layer, and that was fine. He was on time, and the energy of the show was amazing, and if he didn’t hit a note good enough, or the sound system had a glitch, he could just kick his legs out, leap from an amp, feel the stretch and burn and growing dampness around his hips and legs and everything felt okay again.

By the time the show ended and they made it back to the hotel, his legs stung with every step. But he was so exhausted, he couldn’t bring himself to deal with it. So he simply pulled his shirt and shoes off before collapsing into bed, falling asleep with the familiar feeling of pain comforting him.

~~~~~~

When he woke up, he knew immediately that something was very, very wrong.

The room was dark, so he assumed it was still the middle of the night, but when he turned his head to look at the clock beside his bed the numbers were blurry. He was hot, he could feel sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, making the thin bed sheet cling to his chest, and it felt like his eyes were burning in his skull. The heat was so distracting, making his thoughts fuzzy and muddled, it took him a moment to notice the pain. But once he did, he choked on a cry.

His legs hurt. The right one hurt, but oh, God, his left leg felt like an exposed nerve, every heartbeat sent a pulse of pain that seemed to echo from his thigh through the rest of his body. He felt like he was on fire, he felt like he was being flayed, he felt like he was suffocating.

Something was wrong.

Focusing everything he had, eyes clenched shut, Axl forced himself to sit up and swing his legs slowly over the side of the bed. His stomach lurched, and he took a few minutes to just breathe. When the nausea passed, he began to carefully slip his clothes off, sliding the shorts, leggings, and underwear away at the same time, biting his lip until he tasted blood as the fabric brushed past his thighs. As the garments fell to the floor, he finally opened his eyes.

Axl had to blink a few times, the room seeming to sway around him, and even as his vision cleared, it still took several minutes for his brain to focus, to process what exactly he was looking at. At first, all he sees is red. But slowly he is able to pick up more details- the angry pink that makes up the skin of his left thigh is broken up by lines of dark red, a few of them muted by a dull yellow color.

That’s bad. He knows that- that what he’s looking at is bad- but he couldn’t comprehend why. His thoughts are disorganized and inarticulate, understanding slipping through his fingers like water-

Water, he thinks suddenly, I need to clean this.

It’s the first truly coherent thought he’s had since he woke, and he clings to it desperately. Axl stands with a lurch, gritting his teeth through the pain, one hand held out against the wall to steady himself. Looking around, he feels confused, Where am I?, but he still manages to stagger towards the bathroom on instinct alone. He passes by a minifridge and without thinking shakily reaches in to snatch a small bottle of vodka.

He doesn’t remember the rest of the journey, but the next time he is fully aware of his surroundings he is standing in the shower, clumsily opening the vodka. Bracing himself against the tiled wall, he poured the alcohol over his thigh.

Axl has to bite down around a scream, and suddenly he feels like he’s snapped back into his body, the pain cutting through the fever haze and he gasps as he feels his jumbled thoughts finally click back together.

The cuts are infected, he realizes with dread, I cut too deep, I haven’t been cleaning them. It’s infected now. He looks down at the nearly empty bottle of vodka, his thigh still stinging, Alcohol isn’t gonna do shit now, it’s too late for that, I can’t fix this on my own, he feels his eyes burn with misery, I need help.

Swallowing thickly, the bottle slips from his fingers and clatters to the ground. His hand fumbles as he steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel and clumsily wrapping it around his naked waist. Every step hurts, and he feels the heat creeping back in, burning the thoughts from his head, and he leans heavily against the doorframe as he stares at the table beside his bed in anguish.

The phone feels so far away, and Axl just wants this to be over. He wishes he had never been born. He wishes his father had killed him instead of just ruining him. He wishes his stepfather had finished him off instead of always leaving him on the ground, broken and bloody and breathing. He wishes that stranger on the road had slit his throat instead of crawling on top of him. He wishes someone else would just take control and make it all stop.

Because out of all the things Axl hates about himself, the thing he hates most of all is that he does not want to die. He limps and stumbles towards the phone because he is a coward, and he's scared, and he doesn't want to die, he doesn’t want to go to Hell yet. Oh God, he doesn’t want to go to Hell.

By the time he reaches the other side of the room, he’s panting like he’s just run a marathon, sweat dripping down his face and chest, and all he can do is whimper in pain as he collapses onto his knees next to the bed, leaning his head against the side table. Curling up as much as he can in the corner between the bed and the table, he blindly reaches up, fumbling around until his hand finds the phone and pulls the receiver down.

Everything is swaying, like a boat on the ocean, and the nausea swelled, forcing him to wrap an arm around his stomach in a desperate attempt to swallow back bile. He's dizzy, and shivering, and he's staring at the phone in his hand when he realizes he doesn't know who to call. The front desk? 911? No, no, in either of those situations an ambulance would be involved which would increase the odds of paparazzi finding out. No, he just needs someone to drive him, that's all.

But of course, it's never that simple. Because he realizes he has no idea who is staying in what room- doesn’t think he could recall the information even if he had known it in the first place. They had booked most of the floor for the band and crew, but Axl couldn't remember specific room numbers. Clenching his eyes shut, he took a deep breath. There was no other option but to just guess and hope he got one of the crew members. He didn't want to see anyone- he didn't want anyone to see him- but he figured a tech could at least be paid to keep quiet.

So he punched in a number, any number for his floor, the buttons blurring as he looked at them, and shakily held the phone to his ear. The ringing feels far away, and he can’t decide if he feels cold or hot. He realizes suddenly that it’s the middle of the night, and he wonders what he will do if no one picks up.

But before he can think too long, he hears a click, and he holds his breath.

"Hmmmf, 'llo?" A tired voice filters through the line and Axl chokes out a sob.

Steven.

"Hello?"

Of course it's Steven. Axl hasn't fucked up the drummer's life enough apparently, now he has to wake him in the dead of night because he can't get his shit together. Another cry escapes him.

"...Axl? Is that you? Are you-"

The phone slips from his grasp, clattering to the ground as he leans heavily against the bed and sobs uncontrollably. A small voice chattered from the receiver, but Axl was too far gone to understand it.

He didn't want to hurt Steven anymore. He didn't want to hurt anyone, that was the whole reason he started all this. And why did he always hurt Steven, anyway? Was it because he was an easy target? Because he was so big hearted and forgiving he knew he could get away with it? This was why he was going to Hell. This was why he deserved this pain.

Gasping to catch his breath, his head aching and his whole body weak, he realized that the phone had gone silent. He feels almost afraid to pick it up again.

Maybe this is karma, he thinks. That would make sense. That would be fair. Maybe he can just lay down on the floor, and fall asleep, and not wake up. It’s not like he has the strength to do anything else at this point. Axl didn’t want to die, but he felt resigned. He was scared, but he just didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore.

There is a muffled thudding noise. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but he listens, and it sounds far away, and he wonders if it’s his heartbeat. It gets faster, more frantic, and he thinks he hears a voice. Then he hears a crash.

Then he hears his name.

“Axl?”

Blinking sluggishly, he glances around the room in confusion, and then there is someone rushing towards him. He doesn’t recognize him until he is a foot away.

“Shit, Axl!” Steven's figure was blurry as he knelt in front of him, "Hey, hey, Axl, I'm here, you're okay," The drummer hissed when he pushed the sweaty red hair out of Axl's face, "Jesus Christ, you're burning up!"

“What’ryou…” Axl slurs, confused, Steven going in and out of focus.

Eyes widening in concern, the blonde put his hands on Axl’s shoulders to steady him, “You… you called me. Remember? You were-... you didn’t say anything but you didn’t sound okay. I was worried.”

Oh, Axl swallowed thickly, remembers now, dragging his thoughts back towards something resembling coherency.

Steven was here. Axl didn’t want him here, but he was here and there was no going back, and he still needed help, so even though he wanted nothing more than to keep crying, he had to press on. His thoughts felt shattered, all jagged edges scattering in every direction, so it took him what felt like ages to slur out, “Stevie…” his voice is raspy and raw, “Need you… t’drive me t’the hospital.”

The drummer frowned, “Hey, you’re okay, you’re sick, but we’ll get your fever down, okay? We’ll get you cooled down. If your fever doesn’t go away then we can-”

Axl shakes his head, slowly at first and then more frantic as Steven tries to reason with him, “No, it’s not… ‘m not…” he doesn’t know how to say it, he’s so dizzy, and weak, so he focuses his strength on clumsily pushing away the towel around his waist to just show him.

At some point his eyes slipped shut, trying to alleviate the nausea brought on by the spinning room, and he knows his sense of time cannot be trusted, but it feels like the silence stretches out for hours. The only sound is the rasping of his lungs, and if it weren’t for Steven’s hands still bracing his shoulders he’d assume the man had left. But maybe he was going to, just taking in the trainwreck for one more moment before walking out the door. Or maybe he already left and Axl was just hallucinating the idea of not being alone.

“Fuck, Axl…”

Steven’s voice sounds far away, but his hands are still present on his shoulders, his fingers tightening a bit and digging into his skin in a way that would probably be painful if it weren't for all the pain already drowning it out.

Axl is crying again, or maybe crying still, choking out through a sob, “‘m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay, everything is gonna be okay, man,” Steven rambles, hands releasing their grip and instead smoothing up and down Axl’s arms soothingly, “You’re gonna be fine. Let’s just… I’m just gonna call the guys, and we’ll take you to the hospital and get you all fixed up, yeah? You’re gonna be just fine.”

He reaches for the phone still laying on the ground, balancing it between his ear and shoulder as he snatches the receiver off the side table. Axl doesn’t notice his own hand moving, everything too syrupy and slow, but he feels his fingers curl into Steven’s shirt and hears a broken, wounded whine that he thinks might have come from his own mouth.

Pausing in his fumbling with the phone, Steven focuses on the singer in front of him. Axl is too tired, getting weaker every moment, has no more energy to sob but the tears are still streaming down his face and he wonders if he was nauseous because he was carrying an ocean in his stomach. He opens his mouth and he wants to say no, he wants to say please, he wants to say I’m sorry, I fucked up, please, don’t make me face them too, don’t let them see me, I don’t want to be hated anymore, it’s already too much, I can’t take anymore, please don’t punish me, even if I deserve it, please.

Maybe he did manage to say all that out loud and his own ears missed it, maybe he said some of it, maybe he stuttered and stumbled over fever thick words and somehow got the gist of it. Or maybe Steven just felt the way Axl’s hand shook with the effort of holding him, or saw the words reflected in his glassy eyes, or understood the shuddering of his breath. Either way, Steven set the phone on the ground and cupped the side of Axl’s face with a gentleness that makes it hard to breathe, tilting his head until the red-head is focusing fever-bright eyes on him.

“Hey,” Steven’s voice is soft, but strong, “it’s okay. I’m not trying to hurt you, okay? But if you don’t want an ambulance then I’m gonna need some fucking help. They’ll want to help,” he leaned in, eyes wide and emploring, “They’re on your side, okay? We’re on your side.”

Blinking slowly, it takes a minute for the words to cut through the haze, and then another for Axl to nod in defeat. Steven only has a second to sigh in relief before the singer is suddenly pitching forward, collapsing against his chest.

“Shit!” the drummer hissed, one arm coming around to hold him and wincing as his hand rested against bare skin and felt the heat radiating off his body.

Forehead resting against Steven’s chest, Axl let his eyes drift shut again. The hand on his back feels far away, he feels far away, feels like he’s underwater, everything floating and rippling. Every now and then he breaks through the surface for just a moment.

He hears Steven’s voice frantically saying Slash’s name, words sharp and panicked.

He sees shadows around him, tall and looming, fuzzy around the edges.

He feels hands on him, turning him, pushing his hair back, on his arms and his face and his neck, tugging at something around his hips.

He hears curses and arguing.

He feels fabric secured around his waist and draped over his shoulders. He feels arms around his back and under his knees. He feels a jolt as he’s lifted into the air. He feels a flare of pain in his legs from the movement. He feels himself open his mouth to scream but nothing comes out.

He feels himself sink beneath the surface, and this time he stays there.

~~~~~

Axl wakes up slowly.

Everything feels soft, muted, dulled. Like he’s resting just inches outside his body. There, but not quite. He feels like he’s floating, like he’s full of cotton, and yet his limbs feel heavy. He doesn’t feel tired exactly, but he feels so comfortable and peaceful he wants to go back to sleep, wants to wrap himself in this strange sensation and stay there. When he finally manages to open his eyes, everything is blurred and bright.

For a brief moment he wonders if he’s in Heaven. If maybe he’s been forgiven.

But his vision starts to clear, and he sees fluorescent lights, hears a steady beeping, and starts to feel aching and sore. It’s still confusing, there are bits and pieces of memory in his head but he can’t quite make sense of them, can’t see the image the puzzle is supposed to create. The answer is on the tip of his tongue, it feels like, but he can’t quite grasp it.

Then, as he slowly sinks back into his body, he becomes aware of someone holding his hand. He has to blink a few times before he can turn his head, and then a few more to find details in the dark silhouette sitting at his side.

“Hey,” Izzy’s voice cracks as he whispers, smiling shakily down at him, “welcome back.”

Axl doesn’t understand, just stares blankly up at the guitarist sitting on the edge of his bed. He opens his mouth because he feels like he should say something, anything, but all that comes out is a weak rasp, wincing at the sandpaper feel of his throat.

Izzy hushes him, reaching with his free hand and lifting a cup with a straw to his lips. Axl drinks greedily, the cool water hitting his stomach and making him feel more present. His throat feels better, but when Izzy pulls the cup away, he realizes that he has no idea what to say. So he doesn’t say anything. He simply blinks up at Izzy, and every time he closes his eyes he expects him to be gone when he opens them.

Swallowing thickly, Izzy rubs his thumb over the back of Axl’s hand, “We’ve been waiting for you all day.”

For the first time Axl becomes aware of the three other silhouettes in the corner of his vision. Turning his head, he sees Duff and Steven sitting on the floor, both asleep, the drummer curled up with his head on the bassist’s shoulder. Slash is sitting just to the side, sprawled out in an uncomfortable looking plastic chair, eyes hidden by his curls but the soft, steady breathing suggesting that he’s asleep too. As he looks at them his eyes also catch on machines, and wires, and the IV in his arm, and he finally sees the picture all the little pieces are making.

Hospital, he finds the word at last, I’m in the hospital.

He looks back up at Izzy. He finds the words. I fucked up.

Izzy’s hand grips his a little tighter, and his lips are trembling, and his eyes look watery and scared, and for the first time in years Axl thinks he looks like Jeff.

“You scared the shit out of us,” he whispers, “Fuck, Axl- Bill- Axl,” he takes a deep breath, grips his hand so tight it hurts, “You scared me so fucking bad.”

These words matter, Axl knows that, tucks them in his mind so he can give them their proper respect later, when he’s not dizzy on blood-loss and infection and painkillers and antibiotics. But right now, tears slip down the side of his face, soaking into stringy red locks, streaming silently for no other reason than because Izzy is here.

That’s all Axl can process right now, and even that is almost too much. Izzy is here. Steven, and Duff, and Slash, and Izzy, they’re here, they’re here, they’re here. After everything he’s done, they didn’t leave him on the floor of the hotel, didn’t drop him on the hospital doorsteps and move on, didn’t leave him here alone.

Izzy wipes at his tears, even though more replace them immediately. He stays. He holds Axl’s hand as he cries quietly and strokes his hair, and whispers softly. Axl is so tired, but he’s afraid to fall asleep in case this was all a dream, in case he wakes up alone.

“It’s okay,” Izzy leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Axl’s not sure he believes him, but his eyes are so heavy, and he feels himself sinking. He’s not sure he believes him. But as he slips back into unconsciousness, he allows himself to hope.

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

After sleeping through his first day in the hospital, Axl is released on the second.

Tapping his fingers anxiously, he sits on the edge of his bed, dressed in plain sweatpants and an old t-shirt Slash had brought for him. It’s just him and the doctor, who is monotone and indifferent as he gives the singer instructions. Three of the cuts had needed stitches, so he’d need to come back in two weeks to get them removed and have a check-up. Change the bandages two to three times a day. Take the prescribed antibiotics every twelve hours until the pills were gone, even if he felt better. He handed him a folder with the same instructions typed up, and the prescription, and a business card for a psychiatrist that Axl didn’t bother looking at.

Walking out of the room, he keeps his eyes on the ground. He’s walking stiffly, gauze and bandages thick around his thighs and hips making his steps stilted and awkward. The guys are waiting for him, all of them, still here he thinks, and his heart stutters. But he’s awake now, fever gone and head clear and he feels humiliated.

He doesn’t want them to leave, but he also wants them to have never been here at all.

“Good to go?” Duff asks. The four rockers stand and they look so out of place in the hospital waiting room. Not Axl though. Axl, with his pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, nondescript clothes hanging from his frame, hands shaky and weak. Axl looks like he belongs here. Axl looks like he shouldn’t be leaving.

But he nods, and they walk out the door together.

He doesn’t know whose car it is, but Izzy drives, Axl in the passenger seat while Slash, Duff, and Steven pile into the back.

They’re barely out of the parking lot when Steven leans forward, “How are you feeling?” He tries to keep his voice normal and conversational. He doesn't really succeed.

Axl rests his head against the window, “Tired.”

Steven nods awkwardly and the car falls into silence. Eventually Izzy stops the car by a pharmacy, quietly reaching over and slipping the folder out of Axl’s limp hands. He pulls out the prescription slip and hands it to Slash. There is no conversation while they wait for the guitarist to retrieve the medication, and Axl feels like he broke something. He wants to cry, but he feels hollow and dry and empty. He must have used up all the tears he had.

Slash comes back, grinning as he held up the paper bag, “I think this is the first time I’ve gotten drugs from somewhere other than a back alley,” he jokes. Axl lets out a huff through his nose, the closest to a laugh he can manage, and the others smile stiffly as the car starts again. Izzy turns on the radio to help fill the silence, but it only helps a little.

When they reach the hotel, Axl sits up and grimaces when he sees the grease mark left on the window. For the first time he looks at his reflection in the side mirror and is filled with shame and self-consciousness when he sees how stringy and dirty his hair looks, the dull matted locks only serving to make his pale face look even more sickly. A shiver runs through him at the sudden, overpowering dirtiness he feels, and he feels the urge to crouch under the dashboard, to curl up with his hands over his head so no one can see him. But before he has a chance his door opens, and he finds himself looking up at Slash.

The guitarist tilts his head and asks casually, “You alright, man?”

No, Axl thinks. He wants to scream. He wants to break something and throw a tantrum and snap and refuse to leave the car for anything. He wants to dig his fingers into his thigh.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “I’m fine.”

It’s not entirely surprising when they go into the hotel and lead Axl to a different room than the one he was staying in before- he has no idea what sort of state he left it in- and it’s not particularly surprising when the guys trail after him, either. Axl is still looking at the floor, disgusting strands of hair falling into his face and he feels sick for a whole list of reasons. He spots his suitcase in the corner and shuffles towards it.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he mumbled.

Izzy’s voice stops him in his tracks, “You can’t get your bandages wet.”

He says it matter-of-factly, just pointing out the obvious, but it feels so cruel to Axl that it cuts him to the quick. He snaps his head over, eyes wide with something like betrayal.

“But…” He feels like a child- fragile and hurting and at someone else’s mercy. His head drops back down. He feels so weak and he hates it, but he can’t find anything in him to fight back. There is no rage. Only a bone deep exhaustion.

“I just want to wash my hair,” he says it mostly to himself, voice cracking just slightly and so soft he doesn’t really expect any of them to hear it. One hand raises hesitantly to touch his fingers to the side of his hair, and he wonders if he can die from shame.

He’s about two seconds away from just curling up on the floor in defeat when Duff steps forward, “I’ll help you.”

Axl blinks up at him in surprise, partially from the offer, and partially because out of all of them Duff actually manages to sound normal- like this is any other day, and it’s completely routine for him to help his lead singer wash his hair. He’s even nonchalant in the way he pats Axl’s shoulder, nudging him towards the bathroom.

“Duff…” Izzy starts, a note of concern in his voice, but the bassist cuts him off.

“Izzy.” His voice is clipped, firm, final, and Izzy raises his hands in surrender.

Meanwhile, Axl stares blankly from just outside the bathroom, unmoving and uncertain as he watches Duff snag the chair from in front of the desk under the window. Dragging the chair behind him, he grinned at Axl, waving his hand and guiding him into the ensuite. Once they’re both inside, he closes the door behind them, allowing for some privacy from the three sets of eyes looking after them.

“Here,” Duff placed the chair in front of the sink, facing away, “sit down.”

Staring at the seat though, Axl felt cracked down the middle. Because he doesn’t think he can handle not being clean for any longer, but it hits him like a freight train that what Duff is suggesting involves him touching Axl’s hair, touching the sweat and grime and filth and it feels wrong to subject Duff to that.

He wants to scream. He wants to dig his fingers into his thigh. He wants them to stay. He wants them to have never been here at all.

“It’s okay,” he wraps his arms around himself, shaking his head slowly, “You don’t have to…”

“I know,” Duff's smile never wavered. He leaned against the counter casually, head tilting, “I want to,” his voice softens to almost a whisper, “It’s okay.”

Axl struggles to hold his gaze. It takes a minute, but Duff is patient, and eventually Axl manages to step over to him, turning and sitting slowly on the chair, head hung meekly.

The bassist beamed, squeezing his shoulder comfortingly, “Excellent! Hang on-” he bustled around the ensuite, snatching various items and placing them on the counter. Looking over his loot, he hummed and excused himself briefly. Axl blinked in confusion, but the tall blonde was back in less than a minute, closing the door again and placing a brush and a few bottles on the counter next to the hotel amenities.

“You don’t need all that,” Axl blurted out, feeling a little overwhelmed, “I just-... Just help me rinse it out, that’s all.”

“No way, dude,” Duff grinned, “If I’m doing this I’m doing it right. It’s a matter of pride. My hair routine is impeccable and I’ll prove it to you.” He gives Axl no room to argue, draping one towel around his shoulders and folding another to place on the edge of the sink. His hand smooths across Axl’s shoulders, smiling kindly, “It’s okay,” he assured him, “lean back.”

Doing as he was told, Axl let his head drop back into the sink, Duff adjusting the folded towel to make sure it cushioned the singer’s neck comfortably. Staring at the ceiling, Axl’s arms tightened around his stomach as long fingers swept his hair back into the sink.

“You’re okay,” Duff repeats, “just relax.”

He hears the water turn on, and there is a delay while Duff waits for it to heat up a bit before filling up a plastic cup and carefully pouring it over Axl’s hair.

Something releases in Axl’s chest. Warm water soothes the skin of his scalp, Duff’s hand steadily shielding his eyes and face, fingers carefully running through to try to loosen some of the larger knots. It feels like he can breathe, like something uncoiled around his lungs and they can expand properly for the first time in hours.

Duff hums a tune he doesn’t recognize, and Axl lets his hands unclench. After a few minutes, he sees the bassist reach for one of the bottles on the counter.

“You really don’t have to do all the fancy shit,” he mumbled.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Duff smirked.

Huffing out a laugh, Axl’s eyes slipped shut as Duff started working shampoo through his hair. He tried to remember the last time he was touched like this- gently and peacefully and unconditionally. On stage he was always sneaking for affection, throwing his arms around his bandmates and dragging them close, confident that they wouldn’t shove him away in front of an audience. It was rough and loud and desperate, like it always was, even off stage. But here it was quiet, Duff massaging his scalp and humming and Axl feels like he could fall asleep under his hands.

Coating his hair with a generous amount of conditioner next, the blonde nudged his shoulder lightly, “Sit up for a sec.”

Blinking, Axl straightened, starting a bit when Duff pushed his chair forward just enough so he could stand behind him. He then began diligently brushing the red strands, the conditioner allowing the brush to slide through the knots and matts with ease, though he was still cautious not to tug too hard.

Even when everything wasn’t collapsing around him, Axl doesn’t think he’s ever been this thorough with his hair. Or really with anything regarding his own body. The most he did was the necessary steps to not fall apart on stage- taping his ankles after the third time he sprained one, vocal exercises so he didn’t lose the one thing he was good at, shying away from hard drugs, things like that. Beyond that, he never really cared. He supposed his thighs were proof enough of that now.

But Duff was here, pressing him back to rinse out the conditioner, running his fingers through his hair and checking to make sure the water was still warm. Axl had given him multiple chances to do the minimum, to do nothing, but he chose to do more. He cared enough to do more. Even after everything Axl had put them all through.

The water turned off, and Duff wrung some of the water from his hair before nudging Axl forward again so he could gently rub a towel over his head. It suddenly struck the singer that Duff probably cared more about Axl than Axl did.

He doesn’t notice he’s crying until Duff is kneeling in front of him. It’s strange to have the tall bassist looking up at him. One hand comes to rest on the side of his face, holding him steady while the other softly wipes a wet washcloth over his forehead and cheeks. Axl can’t quite place the look in Duff’s eyes. It’s not worry, or pity, or disdain. He thinks the best word for it is compassion.

“You alright?”

Axl blinks slowly, thinking about the question. There are still tears escaping silently, and he knows that this moment of peace is temporary, that he has shaken the foundation of their group and it will take more than a day for them to find their balance again. But he’s clean, and he can look Duff in the eyes without feeling gutted, and his hands are relaxed in his lap.

So he nods.

“Yeah,” even his voice sounds more steady and strong, “I’m alright.”

~~~~~~~

Izzy turns music on again to try to cover up the awkward silence. They’re all sitting around the room, stiff and quiet, Axl laying on one of the beds and reading in an attempt to ignore all of them. He eyes the second bed suspiciously. When they had first arrived he hadn’t been in the right mind to really think about it, but now it bothered him. The hotel probably just didn’t have any more single rooms available- that would make sense given the last minute room change.

Snapping his book closed a little more forcefully than necessary, the redhead sat up and glanced around at his bandmates, “I’m tired, I’m gonna go to bed early. You guys can go back to your own rooms now.”

Duff, Steven, and Slash exchange nervous glances, but Izzy meets Axl’s stare head on. “We’re staying here.”

“That’s stupid,” Axl snapped back, “I’m just going to sleep. Go back to your room and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I mean, we’re not going fucking anywhere,” the rythym guitarist crossed his arms firmly.

Axl growled, “Why not?”

Izzy softened, just slightly, his voice lowering, “You know why.”

Standing, the singer glared, “I can take care of myself, y’know. Take my pills every twelve hours, change my bandages, blah blah, I don’t need you all hovering around me.”

“Obviously you do,” Izzy snapped, “or we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place!”

“Don’t act like I’m the only one who’s fucked up!” Axl was yelling now. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t seem to stop, his voice only getting louder as the conversation went on, “I don’t remember you all scrambling to babysit Steven after he OD’d,” he snarled.

“Steven didn’t OD on purpose!”

“What, you think I got an infection on purpose?” he asked incredulously.

“Maybe not, but you hurt yourself on purpose!”

“So what, you’re just going to follow me around everywhere? You can’t watch me forever! After all,” He sneered, “You’ll have to go shoot up eventually.” The words are cold and cruel, and he sees Izzy’s jaw tense.

Eyes narrowed and nose flaring in rage, Izzy’s eyes dart down, landing on Axl’s hands, watching his fingers clench and unclench.

“Do it,” He spits out.

Axl blinked in confusion, “Do what?”

“Throw something!” he snapped, “Break something, tear the room apart! Come on, I know you want to!”

“I-” Axl ground his teeth together, fury rising in his chest, feeling cornered and trapped. Everything about this felt like a trap. “I want for you to leave me alone!”

“No you fucking don’t,” Izzy challenged, “If you actually wanted us to leave, then you wouldn’t be trying so hard not to freak out. If you wanted us gone you’d have already destroyed this room, and the last one, and the one before.”

“So, what? You’re mad at me because I’m trying to be better? Fuck you!”

“This isn’t better!” Izzy gestured at the singer as he yelled.

“Yes it fucking is!” Axl screamed, “It’s better! Everything was fucking better until I slipped up! I was being good, I was doing everything right! And I get it, I fucked up, I’ll be more careful now. But don’t you dare pretend like you didn't like me better when I was fucking bleeding!"

The words echo through the room, Axl’s chest heaving, and he can see all the fight leave Izzy on a single exhale. He looks gutted.

Swallowing, body still coiled with rage, Axl can’t bring himself to look at the others. The look on Izzy’s face is painful enough. Turning on his heel, he snatches a pack of cigarettes and a lighter off one of the nightstands before storming to the door.

“Axl-”

He ignores the call, throwing the door open.

“Axl-!”

The door slams behind him, and he runs.

~~~~~

Not that he makes it very far.

His legs and hips still ached, and he was tired, so he found himself stumbling before he even made it to the end of the hallway. Eyes clenched shut in frustration, he limps over to the door leading to the stairwell. Carefully, he makes his way down two flights before finally sliding down to sit on one of the steps.

The cigarettes are partially crushed from the tight grip he had held them in, but not ruined, lighting one up and inhaling deeply. Sighing, he feels some of the tension leave him with the nicotine hit, but even as he relaxes he feels the guilt grow.

Screaming at his bandmates wasn’t exactly better than trashing the room as Izzy had suggested. How many times was he going to mess everything up this week? How was he supposed to even fix this?

Maybe the disease wasn’t something he could bleed out. Maybe he was the disease.

He’s halfway through his second cigarette when he hears footsteps coming down the stairs above him. Closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall, he prays that maybe it’s just some random guest or maintenance person or something.

Still, when the steps come to a halt beside him and he feels a body sit next to him, he’s not really surprised. They pluck the pack of cigarettes and the lighter from his hands, and when he opens his eyes, Slash is casually lighting up.

Axl looks away again, and for a few minutes they smoke in silence.

Eventually though, once Slash reaches the end of his cigarette, he grinds it out on the floor next to him and sighs, “I’m sorry.”

Turning to him, Axl blinked in surprise, “What for?”

There is a long pause, Slash staring down at his hands with a sad look on his face. When he speaks, his voice is almost a whisper, “For not noticing. For not questioning when you started acting different.”

“It’s fine-”

“No, it’s not,” Slash insisted.

“You shouldn’t have to question why I’m suddenly less of an asshole!” Axl snapped, “That’s not your fucking job! The whole point of all this was so that you guys wouldn’t have to fucking deal with me!”

Running his hands through his hair in frustration, Axl put his head against the wall again. He wasn’t sure if he didn’t want to look at Slash or if he didn’t want Slash to look at him.

“Axl,” The guitarist spoke slowly, “I know things were… rough for awhile. I know none of us were really getting along-”

“You were getting along with each other just fine,” Axl mumbled.

Slash ignored him, “-but even if things weren’t great, you’re still our friend. Fuck, man, I still think of you as my best friend.” He hesitated for a moment as he thought through his next words, “Look… I’m going to be honest with you, okay?” His voice was gentle and sincere, “It’s hard sometimes. It can be frustrating when you get into those moods because we just don’t get it, y’know? We don’t understand what’s going on in that head of yours sometimes. But if I had to choose between you screaming at me and you hurting yourself, I will pick you screaming every time.”

“But I don’t want to scream at you!” Axl exclaimed, hands clenched desperately in front of him, “I don’t want to- to break things, or mess up our shows, or hurt anyone, or feel so fucking-” his voice cracked, and he snapped his jaw shut. His head falls forward, hair hanging in his face as he swallows thickly to try to hold back… everything.

It didn’t work though, and when he speaks his voice is a shaky whisper. He sounds defeated.

“I don’t want to be like this anymore, Saul.”

He barely has time to take a shuddering breath before Slash is slowly pulling him into his chest. His arms are warm, and gentle, and safe, smoothing up and down his back. Resting his chin on top of smooth red hair, Slash says with a voice full of understanding, “I know. I know you don’t.” He tightens his hold and Axl shakes harder, “We’ll get you help, okay? We’ll figure something out. We’ll find a way for you to feel better- an actual solution. But in the meantime? We would so much rather deal with a late show or a trashed dressing room than… than find you like we did that night.”

Axl is tired of crying. But Slash doesn’t mind, says nothing of the growing dampness on the front of his shirt, or the way the singer wraps his arms around his back to cling to him desperately.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out, “I’m so, so, sorry.”

There’s so much he’s sorry for, and he doesn’t know if he is capable of articulating it all, but Slash nods, stroking his hair and Axl thinks he understands.

“I know,” he said, and he plants a gentle kiss to the top of his head, “We forgive you.”

~~~~~~~

Axl drags his feet walking back to the hotel room. Slash tries to comfort and encourage him, but he still feels anxiety like a vice grip on his heart. He had messed up so much, and they were all trying to help, even if he didn’t deserve it, and he went and yelled at them. And just because Slash said it was okay didn’t mean it was and he had to fix this, he had to, but he wasn’t sure how. He was scared that nothing would be enough.

When he finally steels himself and opens the door, he barely makes it into the room before a body collides with his, arm wrapping around him and pulling him as close as physically possible, one hand between his shoulder blades and the other cupping the back of his head. Axl feels his breath catch in his throat even as he sinks into Izzy’s warmth.

Izzy’s breath ghosts across the top of his head, and Axl slowly brings his arms up to hold him back. Sighing, he closes his eyes, letting his head rest against Izzy’s shoulder as he relaxes into the embrace. Neither of them say anything.

But neither of them need to.

~~~~~

Axl tosses and turns in bed. He’s tired, but it feels like his brain just won't shut off. He is alone on one of the queen beds, the others giving him a bit of space, which he figures makes sense given that he had tried to kick them all out a few hours earlier. Slash and Izzy are sharing the other bed, while Steven and Duff sleep on the pull out sofa in the corner of the room.

Everything was fine. Axl knew that everything was fine.

For now.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how delicate the situation was- he felt like he was on the thinnest sheet of ice and the slightest wrong move would send him plummeting into the cold and dark. Under the covers, he tapped his fingers against the tops of his thighs, the touch too light to be felt beneath the thick bandages. He wanted to press harder, to dig his nails in, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t betray his bandmates like that, couldn’t disappoint them again.

It wasn’t easy though, and he couldn’t stop tossing and turning and worrying. He was seconds away from raiding the mini fridge for something strong to clear his mind when the bed dipped behind him.

Jumping, he whipped his head around, coming face to face with Izzy, smirking down at him as he pulled the sheets back.

“Izzy? What the fuck are you-”

“You think too loud,” he explained, and Axl’s jaw clicked shut. The guitarist slid into bed beside him, turning onto his side to face the singer and opening his arms, “Come ‘ere.”

Huffing, Axl grumbles half-heartedly even as he curls up in the other man’s arms, Izzy chuckling at him as they made themselves comfortable. It did help, Axl admitted to himself, sighing as he tucked his head under Izzy’s chin. He was still awake, but at least he felt less jittery and tense.

Then, the mattress dipped again, and Axl felt someone crawling over them to get to the other side of the bed. Snapping his eyes open, he saw Slash finally settle on the other side of him.

“What the Hell?”

“Izzy abandoned me,” Slash pouted exaggeratedly.

“Oh my God, you fucking dork,” Axl laughed as Izzy flipped off the other guitarist. The three of them began to rearrange themselves, but as they did, a silhouette made its way over in the dark.

Slash held his arms out, wide-eyed, “No, no, no-!”

But it was too late, and Steven launched himself onto the bed, landing squarely on top of Slash, the guitarist groaning while the drummer giggled madly. Axl and Izzy burst out laughing as Slash shoved the blonde off, the two bickering and shoving at each other. They were so distracted by the chaos Steven had caused, that they didn’t notice another figure approaching until he was crawling onto the bed.

“Duff, no!” Izzy complained, “You're seven feet tall and these beds aren’t designed for five people!”

The bassist gave him the biggest, roundest puppy-eyes, his lip actually quivering dramatically, “So you’re going to all be together except me? You’re just going to leave me all alone while the rest of you cuddle? All by myself? Alone?"

“...Goddammit,” Izzy dropped his head back onto the pillow in defeat, Duff immediately dropping the ruse and bursting into a mischievous grin as he draped himself across the rest of their bodies.

“Jesus Christ,” Axl muttered, “What is this, ‘Kerrang!’?”

“Don’t act like that wasn’t the coziest photoshoot we’ve ever done,” Steven chimed in, still laying half on top of Slash.

It was a tight fit, and it took quite a bit of maneuvering to get them all comfortable, laughing as they shuffled around. Their bodies overlapped, limbs tangling and curling around each other. Somehow though, they made it work, each of them warm and comfortable as they drifted off one by one. It was ridiculous, Axl thought. Utterly absurd.

But he was still smiling, even when he finally drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

#weak ending but eh #my writing #Guns n Roses #gnr #guns n roses fanfiction #axl rose #slash #izzy stradlin #duff mckagan #steven adler #self harm tw #tw self harm #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending #I almost wrote more and included axl going to therapy and getting on medication and stuff #but this felt like a more natural end #so just like #imagine he does all the work and ends up healthy and happy #surprise! Jax rambles in tags

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 4 years

Text

Kissing Dead Pearls (Part 3)

So yeah, this is gonna be my first time writing for zutara, so I have no idea how well that will be received. I know that this fandom doesn’t seem to like zutara so wish me luck lol.

Sokka always liked fish, particularly boop boops because of their silly name. He also liked blue marlin.

She likes stingrays--especially bluespotted ribbon tail--the most but they call her starfish.

She has come to associate her friends with marine life, a habit that formed at childhood. One that she and Zuko have never outgrown. At one point they had addressed each other by the names of sea animals.

Zuko got the name stingray after an incident where he’d jammed a fork into an outlet when Ozai wasn’t watching. It scarred his face and their father was under fire, for the first time, for child neglect.

Sokka was a clownfish because he was the comedian in the group and he had been until his departure. Sailfish has been bestowed upon Katara after dolphin had been taken from her and given to Ursa. Mother was gentle and docile like a dolphin. Katara is too but she is also a fast swimmer. She can swim further out into the ocean than any of them and sailfish are known for their speed. TyLee is also loving and sweet but as kids they had run out of gentle animals to compare her to so they chose the pretty betta fish because TyLee has always been pretty. Eventually they learned about cuttlefish and that became her nickname; it sounds close enough to cuddle for them.

Aang is an obvious angelfish.

Where Katara, Ursa, Tylee, and Aang are kind and caring, Toph is a shark. She’s fun and dangerous and with a razor sharp tongue. She is among Chan, Jet and Roun-Jian who have been nicknamed Hammerhead, Sand, and Thresher respectively. The name Mackerel was afforded to Toph despite her being the smallest of them.

Mai is the piranha mostly because she had been afraid of them at one point and they like to joke that Tom-Tom is a barancel because he clings to Mai like one. Iroh is a serene turtle and Suki is lucky koi.

Ozai is and will always be a crab because is general outlook on life is grumpy. Zhao, the weathered fisherman is a slick and shady eel and their old history teacher Long-Feng is an angler fish; it looks welcoming on the surface but is ugly within. And the bartender is a prickly urchin. They steer clear of he and his wife June, who they have called the Kraken.

It was a fun game and to this day she has a tendency, even if it is out of habit, to try to decide which sea animal a newcomer is.

.oOo.

Azula wakes up on the sofa. It is still raining, fat droplets plop upon the lighthouse. There are less of them but it is still a steady stream. She senses that the worst of it has come to pass and it is probably safe to go outside if she doesn’t mind getting wet. In fact, most people do go out. They emerge skeptically from their homes, reluctant to assess the damage, but eager to just get it over with. It is routine in their little harbor town.

The people of Port Tui-La are slowly awakening, Azula watches them trickle outside of their homes to inspect them. Many of them, the ones who live more inland, skip this and prioritize checking on their shops or their boats. Though boats are almost always a lost cause, hence why Ozai keeps theirs in a boat house. The news of three summers ago was when recreational fisher, Pathik boldly declared that he had found his janky wooden ship fully intact in a rocky alcove while the Cod Man bellowed, “my fishing ship!” to the fleeing grey clouds.

She watches the Cod seller’s car whip down the road, he is always the first to arrive at the docks. Azula rolls her eyes, she can already hear him crying out.

“He must have great insurance.” Zuko grumbles as he groggily wipes his eyes. “I hope he does.”

“Maybe he won’t need it this time?” Azula stretches her arms.

“Ha!” Zuko bursts. “I bet he’ll be La-bsters, crying about it within the hour.”

“If La-bsters is still standing.” Azula says dismally. “This storm was pretty bad.” Her heart sinks for Hakoda and Katara. They have already lost Sokka, if they’ve lost their restaurant too… “We’ll walk over there.”

“Shouldn’t we check on the lighthouse first?”

Azula shakes her head. “It was built to withstand storms.”

“I can get the car started.”

She shakes her head. “Too many debris in the road, it’ll be quicker on foot.”

“We’re going to have to clean this first.” He gestures to the blockage at the door.

Azula rubs the back of her head and grumbles to herself as she begins heaving the furniture back into its place. To the best of their memory, everything is back in order about twenty minutes later. By now the rain is beginning to taper off, but she speculates that it will come back in furious bursts and random intervals.

She shuffles around for two umbrellas and shoves one into Zuko’s arms.

She pops her umbrella as she steps beneath a grey washed sky. Small rays of light break through the clouds, but do little to lift the gloom. The destruction is abundantly apparent as the siblings make their way down the path that leads from the lighthouse to the boardwalk. It isn’t a very long walk but they can see the damage inflicted upon the houses of their nearest neighbors.

The worst of them has a collapsed roof and another has flood damage to the ocean facing wall. Even from this distance she can tell that the boardwalk has been hit hard. After many decades of standing proud and secure, a particularly powerful wave, or mayhaps, a bolt of lightning has collapsed one of the corner pillars. It is splintered down the middle and juts from the lapping water like a broken tree trunk. All around it float planks of wood, chairs, stools, and other buoyant knick knacks. Several of the tourist shops, the ones nearest to the collapsed scaffolding are gone.

Gone in the sense that they are unusable and irreparable. She can see their dilapidated corpses, laying helplessly in the ocean, waiting for the ocean to finish the job. Their rubble will pollute the beaches for days. Likely, the beaches will be closed to the public until the damage can be cleared.

Azula’s favorite jewelry shop, Mai’s family’s jewelry shop, is amid the wreckage and she silently curses to herself, wishing that it could have been that damned pub instead, maybe then her father would be rushing down the street to make sure that she and Zuzu are alright.

It very nearly brings tears of frustration to her eyes. She clenches her fist in her pocket and steps over a broken palm tree, its coconuts roll down the incline of the street.

From what she can see, the La-bster still stands. Though she can’t foresee it opening any time soon. Much like the beaches, it will remain closed until the boardwalk can be repaired and safety secured. Even if the boardwalk were deemed safe enough, the rubble is an eyesore.

The restaurant may stand but they are still going to take a financial hit, losing that much business at the height of tourist season.

Hakoda and Katara are already there when she and Zuko arrive.

“Zuko, Azula!” She throws her arms around both of them at once. When she pulls back, Azula can tell that she has been crying. Her eyes are red and there are tear tracks on her cheeks. Azula doesn’t need to ask her what is wrong but Zuko does anyhow.

“We can’t reopen like this.” She confirms what Azula has speculated. “Waitressing at La-bsters is the only thing that’s kept my mind off of…” She trails off. “Even when the restaurant is super busy I’ll think of him. About how he’d always take the difficult customers from me. Or that one time he threatened to throw a man into the harbor for me.” She wipes at her eyes.

Azula laughs, that sounds like Sokka for sure.

“Need help with cleanup?” Zuko offers.

“That would be wonderful, thanks.”

Azula frowns, she must admit that she hadn’t planned on spending her morning moving heavy planks of wood and fixing outdoor decor. She looks around, there is plenty of that to be cleaned; strings of patio lights are either gone, have cracked bulbs, or are tangled and knotted around palm fronts and rafters in unflattering ways. Outdoor chairs and tables are overturned. Some of them are in neighboring properties and the La-bsters have a few chairs from the Cod Merchant’s Cod Shack. The floor is a mess of glass and broken plastic and Azula has no idea where to begin this task. She has no will power to do it either. Evidently she had just come by to make sure that the place was still standing and that her childhood friend is okay.

Task done.

She retracts that statement. “I’m going to see if I can reach Mai, I don’t think that she knows about…” she jerks a thumb in the direction of the destruction.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Zuko says, “I’ll help Katara, you’re better at breaking bad news anyhow.”

She squints at the wreckage once more, a little ways down the beach, TyLee’s family’s boat rental place still stands. It only does because they have learned from the last time; instead of a small wooden shack on the beach they have built it into the side of a nearby cliff. Their most expensive rentals are tucked away into a garage, also built into the cliffside. But there is some damage to their cheaper rental boats and many of their canoes and inflatables are scattered upon the beach.

Azula picks up her phone and dials Mai’s number, hoping to get a signal.

.oOo.

Katara fixes her eyes on the ocean. She hates it more than anything as it keeps stealing the things that make her feel loved and secure. She loves it more than anything because it makes her feel free and empowered. Such is the duality of the ocean.

Currently she hates it more than anything in the world.

Currently it has reminded her of the last thing it took.

Mai’s jewelry shop is like Sokka, dismantled and being pulled further and further into the water.

She shakes herself, she doesn’t know that he is dismantled.

Yet the hole in her heart is the same it has been several months and it still stings. There is such a vacancy in Sokka’s absence. Anything and everything is at risk of triggering a pang of sorrow; a specific dock post that he used to sit on regularly (she can still see the marks where he’d tagged it), a cluster of shells on a table, certain movies and books. Song are especially provocative; he had always loved reggae. They listened to it together all the time and he had a reggae song for everything, rendering the genre impossible to listen to without crying. There are so, so many songs that she can’t listen to and it is hard to explain why she gets teary eyed when they play on the radio.

Every now and again a customer will walk in who has his hair styled like Sokka had or wearing the same shirt that he had. On one instance, a girl walked in wearing Sokka’s favorite shirt, the one that he’d worn when he went out to sea before he’d disappeared.

She no longer enjoys recreational sailing, and gets tense when anyone mentions that they are going to take a solo recreational trip.

Azula insists that Sokka is still alive but Katara knows in her heart that he isn’t. She senses it in the same way she’d sensed that he’d had an accident while jet skiing with Jet and Chan. The same way he sensed that she’d gotten hurt while surfing.

She knows that he is gone because she can no longer feel him but she lets Azula talk about how she is sure that he is alive. Azula is rarely an optimist and Katara doesn’t have the heart to crush that.

Azula is the only other person who still seems truly impacted by his disappearance. She also tends to turn the radio off when certain songs play, though not as many as Katara. It isn’t for lack of memories with the songs either, it is more that she only turns the music off for songs that have particularly fond memories. Katara noticed that the other girl will grow randomly distant or somber. And Azula still thinks that he is alive. She can’t imagine how Azula will take it when that denial is shattered.

All the same, Katara tries to think of the absolute joy she would feel at being proven wrong.

Not that she thinks this will be the case. Azula has lost her mother already, her father might as well be dead...losing Sokka had done her psyche so much damage.

Damage that her father didn’t bother to tend to.

Damage that Zuko could only do his best to mend.

Damage that had almost killed her too.

And it is no wonder, they had been so close. Of course they were, Katara had caught him kissing her on more than one occasion. It always left her feeling flustered. Especially the night that she’d come across Sokka heavily and deeply lip locked with Azula. She still gags and the sucking sound. And yet, she’d give anything to overhear it again if it meant that Sokka was back.

They had softer moments. Moments where Katara had found them curled up beneath a palm tree, Azula cuddled in Sokka’s arms. They half-sat, half-laid in the glow of the fairy lights that curled around the tree. They nestled in a burrow of a brightly colored bean bag chair. They’d invited Katara to join them as they watched a movie being played on a projector screen across the beach.

Katara can no longer attend those movies.

She feels a hand on her shoulder, “you good?” Zuko asks.

“Yeah.” She nods. “I’m just thinking again.” She looks towards the horizon. She can’t see the sunrise, not that it will bring her any comfort today. In fact, a pretty sunrise would only be mockery.

Just like it had been on the day Sokka was declared dead.

The sky had been so vivid that day, all manners of orange and gold and the clouds seemed to be tinged a deep purple. Really it was the most beautiful sunset that she had ever seen.

And when night finally fell, the animals had been more lively than ever. Under a starlit sky, she’d never seen so many turtles migrating from sand to sea. Never seen so many crabs scuttling across the rocks. So many fish in the waves and starfish in the tide pools.

Tide pools that reflected a sky that looked as though it were painted with pearl powder.

“Sokka laid those out for us.” Kya had remarked, dabbing at her wet eyes. “My baby boy, made this for us to see.”

The sky had been all sorts of mystifying that night.

And yet she could not enjoy it.

Not at all.

The sky...the world had no right to be so beautiful when her brother was dead.

She recalls at once, their old fish game. She wonders if that’s what the afterlife is like; one big ocean where loved ones go. Spectral fish in a perpetually fluorescent sea. She likes to think that Sokka is a clownfish in this phantasmal sea. That one day she will be a sailfish swimming next to him, finally the big sister and not the little one.

Zuko puts an arm over her shoulder.

She gestures to an overturned table. “Can you help me pick this up?”

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Sokka #Sokkla #Zutara #Zuko #Katara #Fanfiction

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foxtophat · 5 years

Link

/pant wheeze etc

sorry about that guys, i was going to post last night but like i keep saying, i got caught up in editing and soooo here we are!! today’s chapter is all about kim, and kim’s teaching a masterclass in being a mom friend in your late 30′s.

as much as i strugged with this chapter i really REALLY like writing kim. she never got enough play in the games, so i guess i take liberties, but there’s something pleasing about writing an exasperated millenial mom going “please, dude, just get some therapy” to a guy like john seed lol.

i guess we’re all probably feeling kind of...uh, not awesome/active these days. which is fine! i’ve touched my face so many times writing this that i’m gonna have to go take a shower when i’m done here. i hope you all are being safe, and i hope you work for companies that will allow you to be safe! if your job is giving you shit about the virus, know that they’re the ones in the wrong, not you for wanting to watch out for your health. oh, and tonight is the democratic debate, so go watch that and see if you vibe with my boy bernie, ok? ok, be safe, i love you, wear a scarf if its cold outside

(below is the chapter text, so you don’t have to leave tumblr if you don’t want to! if you read it on here, could you like and/or reblog for me? i would appreciate it!)

Kim vividly remembers the day she met John Seed, just a few short years before the end of the world. He and his family had been in town all of a month when they had shown up unannounced to a potluck Kim and Nick were hosting, bringing along a last-minute macaroni dish. The three brothers were polite enough, and the big one seemed embarrassed by their offering compared to the other plates at the table, so Kim had let the party-crashing slide. Hell, she'd even let the strange brunette woman that accompanied them walk around her house like a second-rate psychic looking for ghosts. The rumor mill hadn't had time to chew much on them, so all Kim knew about the Seeds was that they were trying to put together a commune and the middle brother was some kind of preacher. It all sounded very tent-revivalist to her, but mostly harmless. Sure, they were weird, but they were hardly the only weirdos living in the county, so who was Kim to judge?

She had been standing alone by the cooler with a beer when John had sidled up to her. His reputation had already gotten a head start, having already stepped on Mary May's toes before showing his face to the town at large, and he was clearly attempting to avoid people who had already heard Mary May's take on the situation. Whether or not he realized Kim had already heard all about his unapologetic come-ons, he sure seemed interested in showing her his good side. He had been all smiles and charm, shaking her hand with both of his own and complimenting everything about the house and party and people. But, even as he coasted through the pleasantries and small-talk, John had eyed Kim like she was a piece of meat, one up for grabs by whoever flagged down the butcher first.

Just when he seemed ready to open his mouth and order himself a bad time, Nick had swooped in beside Kim with his hand extended, wearing his least genuine grin. Committing to another two-handed shake, John made more sweeping compliments and asked Nick a couple of questions about the airstrip. He may have even been genuinely interested in what Nick had to say on the matter, but in retrospect, all Kim can remember is the way he had looked at her. No longer was Kim a lifeless, prime cut of beef — now, she had teeth in the form of her redneck aviator husband, who wasn't buying anything John was selling.

Nick had smiled and waved at John as he excused himself, disappearing in the direction of his brothers. "What a fuckin' creep," Nick had declared through his clenched teeth.

Kim had thought then that they knew what kind of creep John was. By the time he began sending men to the house to intimidate them, she'd realized he was something much worse. He was something out of a schlocky psychological thriller, a sociopath with a rumored body count, who calculated each of his steps with pointed disregard for human life, gleefully buying up land for their cult and chasing all but the bravest away from their homes. There had been rumors about people disappearing, but Kim hadn't wanted to believe them. There had been a whole lot Kim hadn't wanted to believe. It was when John started calling, leaving desperate messages begging them to "just say yes, so I don't have to make you," that Kim had to stop hiding her head in the sand.

Kim barely had time to celebrate when he died the first time, what with Carmina being born and the world ending, and she had much better things to do in the years following than spare a thought towards him. It wasn't until Nick dragged John into their home eight years later that his name had even crossed Kim's mind.

She thinks about John a lot now, for better or worse. At first, all of her instincts had her thinking about him sleeping nearby. How much force it would take to break the bedroom locks. How strong and fast he might secretly still be. She would watch him work and think about all the awful things he would be putting Nick and her through, if their positions were reversed. She would question his every move, tired and sluggish as they might have been.

Nowadays, she mostly thinks about how tired he really seems. She thinks a lot about his eight years of solitude, and questions just how dedicated he really is to waving a white flag. The John Seed she used to know, the one she had underestimated a lifetime ago, he would never have willingly submitted himself to manual labor the way he does now. He would never sit silent and anxious until Nick or Kim bossed him around. At first, she had thought he was doing it out of necessity, being as sick as he was, but now... well, now, she's not so sure.

John is stronger than he has any right to be. Kim never had the opportunity to confront him physically before, so she has no idea if John has always been like this, or if it's something that happened in isolation. After all, eight years by yourself is a great time to workout — at least until your supplies run out, or you catch a sickness that won't go away. It should probably worry her more, but Nick's confidence has rubbed off on Kim, and all she concerns herself with is giving him jobs that measure up to his abilities.

Like today, for example. Nick and Carmina have started on a project together, putting together a hen coop worthy of housing Carmina's first pets, and with planting season practically here, Kim is ready to tackle her own construction project. Somehow, a tractor wound up on the runway, overturned and mangled as if it had been in a car accident — or a nuclear blast — and Kim has a plan for the thing's large, mostly-intact tires. With enough mulch and soil, Kim's sure that she can make them into reliable planters, and she might even manage to grow something worth eating this year. First, though, they have to come off the tractor — and that's where John comes in.

Kim watches John peel one tire off of the crescent-shaped wheel it's clinging to, thinking to herself again that John is stronger than he should be. He rolls the massive tire back down the runway towards her, looking mildly winded from the exertion, face red from the sun. He doesn't look anything like the walking corpse Nick had found a few months back.

Despite herself, Kim is impressed with his progress. When Nick had first brought him in, she hadn't expected him to make it through the night, much less the following day. It had been hospice care to her, at least for the first week — but then John had turned a corner, eating again and managing to stand on his own feet, and all at once Kim had forgotten about reading his last rites.

Slowing the tire to a stop, John wipes his arm across his brow and asks, "Here?"

"Yeah," Kim says. "That's fine. One more to go."

John nods, turning and retreating down the runway towards the tractor's mangled remains. Kim watches him go, waiting for him to realize how easy it would be to get away. She's a great shot with the rifle, but she's only got the pistol with her today, and Nick is all the way on the other side of the hangar. There's no fence on this side of the strip, and the overgrowth is thick enough to disappear into. It would take him a matter of seconds to escape, if he would just try.

But he doesn't. Kim has no idea why not — it's not like they're making much of an effort to keep him locked up. Nick does his best, but they're not a maximum-security prison. Hell, they don't even have an enclosed fence! With all of his experience managing a human trafficking cult, he has to see that they're woefully unprepared to hold him. There's no way he hasn't itemized every hole in their security and how he could use them to his advantage.

The tire has been partially popped off of the tractor wheel, but John's probably going to need a wrench or something to pry the rest of it free. Otherwise, Kim is going to be watching him strain uselessly, and while sometimes it can be gratifying to watch John struggle with menial tasks, Kim wants these planters done as soon as possible.

She marches toward him to size the problem up, only to pull up short as John tears the tire off of the wheel. Metal scrapes against itself as the axle twists, and Kim hears a pop when John finally leverages the tire free, leaving the wheel to hang limply from the axle. There's a long rip in the tire's lip, probably from where a security bolt tore through the old rubber.

"Jesus," she says, not realizing she's close enough for John to hear her until he frowns in her direction. She tries to mask for her concern over his uncanny strength, but all she has going for her these days is motherly frustration. "You could have hurt yourself," she scolds, as if that's going to cover it.

John huffs. "Why does that matter?" he asks.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but we don't exactly have a doctor to take you to if you slice your arm on rusted machinery and contract tetanus."

Considering how passive John's been, it comes as something of a surprise when he heaves a frustrated sigh, bracing the tire with both hands and doing his best to ignore Kim while she stands right next to him. It's just irritating enough that she sticks her foot out to block the tire, eyeballing him defiantly and mentally daring him to keep being a baby. Ugh, as if a man like him could be intimidated by a 40-year-old mom's unimpressed glare.

He ducks his eyes. "Alright, fine," he surrenders.

Kim lets him roll on, following with a furrowed brow as she tries to figure out what his deal is. The John she remembers would never put up with the kind of disrespect Kim shows him. He would be... seething, or something. Planning to murder her, probably. But if he was going to murder them, he would have done it already. He definitely would have done it when Nick let him sleep in their room. But every opening he has, he ignores in favor of the full surrender he'd willingly placed himself under.

Once John sets the tire down, wiping his forehead clear of sweat, he asks, "What's next on your list of petty tortures?"

If John thinks being petulant will get him anywhere with Kim, he is sorely mistaken. She raises an unimpressed eyebrow and asks, "Do you really think this is me trying to torture you?" She can't help but be a little offended — as if she couldn't come up with something worse than household chores if she wanted.

"I don't know what to think," John sighs.

Kim can count the number of times John has been honest with her on one hand, and that's including before the bombs dropped. A few minutes ago, she might've entertained his mild back-talking to dig at his motivations, but she's certainly not in the mood now.

"You don't need to think," she says. "Just do what I tell you."

It's as easily said as done with John, who shuts up with a deep frown and follows Kim mutely for the next hour or two, helping her shovel a mixture of composted leaves and topsoil into a wheelbarrow. They have to make three trips to get enough to fill the tires, which is sweaty, smelly work that Kim won't leave to John alone. Even if she didn't want to get her hands dirty, she would feel guilty if she made him do it by himself, considering it's a job she could easily do alone.

Once they've finished dumping the dirt into the makeshift planters, Kim turns to John with a critical eye. At last, she offers him more than a few curt orders.

"This isn't supposed to be torture, you know," she tells him. "Everything we tell you to do, it's because it needs to be done, not because we want to watch you suffer."

"It must help," John grunts.

"Honestly? Not really." Kim sits on one tire, watching John shift his weight between his feet. He somehow seems small, even as he stands over her. "I've seen enough suffering to last a lifetime. Haven't you?"

John doesn't respond. He turns his head to stare at the hangar — probably wishing he was putting the coop together with Nick, who loves it when John is quietly repentant, and who hates talking about this kind of stuff in general. If Carmina weren't over there, John would definitely be trying to excuse himself to her husband's side.

"I think we're done here for now," Kim says at last. "I'm going to start dinner. You can sit quietly with me, or go help Carmina and Nick with the coop."

She refuses to pick for him, leaving him to look between the hangar and the fire-pit and debate on his own whether he wants to deal with Kim's weak interrogation skills or being in the same room as Carmina for any length of time. Any time she gives him a choice, he usually goes for whatever will keep him busier, but he seems actively repulsed by the idea of spending any time around Carmina.

After a few seconds of consideration, John nods reluctantly. "I'll sit," he says, almost as though he's admitting defeat. When Kim leads him over to the fire, he sits on the same patch of dirt he usually does, even with plenty of seating options. He doesn't talk much, and since Kim has nothing to ask him, she leaves him to his own thoughts while she starts getting dinner ready.

When she catches him starting to doze, she can't help but sarcastically quip, "Some torture, huh?"

John shoots her a dark look in return, but it's going to take more than a mean scowl to bother her.

Nick and Carmina get up early one morning to go fishing. Kim sleepily sees them out of the bedroom, unwilling to face the gray morning chill herself, and wishes them as much luck as she can muster while half-asleep. Nick hesitates a whole lot by the bedroom door, still reluctant to leave Kim alone with John, but he knows better than to make a bigger deal about it than she does. Kim appreciates his concern, even if nowadays she doesn't think it's warranted.

They'll be back a little after noon, and Kim's list of chores has finally shrunk to something manageable, so she lazes for just a little bit before finally committing to the day. It takes her a little longer to commit to utilizing John outside, since she doesn't have any work for him and it would be great to have a morning to herself, but leaving him to stew all day feels wrong.

John's already awake when she goes to get him, dressed and sitting on the pallet-board bed that Nick let him piece together. He only looks mildly surprised to see Kim fetching him by herself, which means he probably heard Nick leave earlier. He isn't very talkative today, resorting to monosyllabic responses to her questions as they eat breakfast downstairs. He sits quietly at the table with Kim, not touching his food until he catches Kim staring expectantly at him. Kim shouldn't be surprised — after eight years on his own, he's probably more comfortable in silence. Either that, or he talked himself out of words down in that bunker of his. She would ask, but John avoids talking about his time underground at all costs, and she doesn't see today being any different.

Kim waits until they've gotten out into the yard to reveal her cigar box full of seed packets. "It's a little early to start planting," she explains, "But I have a good feeling about this batch of spinach."

John waits expectantly, his frown deepening as Kim fails to elaborate on his part in all of this. "You want my help," he realizes at last. "...With gardening ."

He says it with so much disbelief that Kim almost thinks he's making fun of her. "What did you think we were going to do after we filled these things with soil?" she asks. "They needed to sit, and now we need to plant. You're here, so you're helping me."

"I —" John stares at her, biting the inside of his cheek as though he's trying to mind himself. "That isn't going to work. You'd be better off letting me dismantle the tractor for scrap."

"I'm not asking you to do that," Kim points out, "I'm asking you to poke some holes in the dirt. This isn't rocket science. Even Carmina can do it."

"Then have Carmina do it ," John snaps, immediately clenching his jaw to try and prevent another outburst.

"If you're trying to give me trouble just because Nick isn't around, then I'll just put you back in your room."

John sulks for a few seconds, weighing his words now that he's out on thin ice. "Plants and I aren't compatible," he grudgingly admits. "I have a black thumb. And this is important work, I don't — I don't understand why you would risk it."

Kim tries hard to resist pulling on her kid gloves, and yet she still can't help but go easy on him. "John, it's an irradiated wasteland. You are the least of these plants' concerns. All you have to do is follow instructions. You can do that, right?"

She expects him to roll his eyes or get huffy at her coddling him, even just a little, but he only nods in return. "Yes," he says, falling back into what can't possibly be comfortable subservience.

Well, it works for Kim — he doesn't try to fight her as she shows him how to space out the holes, how deep to make them and how many seeds to put in each one. She watches him finish a row before she decides he's got it, and settles in across from him to start on the opposite side of the planter. John looks surprised that she's working with him, but she finds digging in the dirt relaxing, and she's got to pass the time somehow.

Kim enjoys gardening, getting her hands dirty while ensuring she and her family have plenty of food. She'd never really gotten the chance to practice before the bombs, but that didn't stop her from growing some sad looking carrots and potatoes last year. They plant spinach and beets, as well as some carrots that Kim doubts will survive. The other planter stays empty, but Kim has a plan to grow some soybeans later in the season, and if the seeds don't take, maybe corn will.

John is wholly focused on his side of the planter, meticulously careful, like this is some kind of exact science that he barely understands. A city boy through and through, Kim supposes — it isn't like a hotshot lawyer from Atlanta would spend much time at the local community garden, right? His history with gardening is probably littered with dead ferns and succulents that couldn't survive his negligence.

When he sits back to rest a minute, four straight rows like spokes in front of him, Kim throws him a bone. "Looking pretty good."

"Don't patronize me."

Kim rolls her eyes. Of course John would be incapable of taking even the most mundane compliment, no matter how genuinely Kim might give it. "I'm not. You're doing a good job."

John sighs heavily, still very much not believing her, but he doesn't argue the point.

Nick and Carmina return just after John finishes his final row. Usually, Carmina comes back looking pretty defeated, as fishing isn't something she's gotten the hang of yet, and Nick will try not to let on that he did poorly on purpose to make her feel better. Today, though, Carmina marches with a straight back and a big grin, and Nick follows her with a bucket of smallmouth bass.

"Who wants fish?" Nick calls triumphantly, visibly excited for Carmina to finally have a "big catch" story.

Kim stands, knocking the dirt off of her knees, and takes a look at the radial design left behind in the soil. She's going to have to water and keep a close eye on these little suckers, but with any luck, they'll grow at least enough to make for good compost. It would be nice to have some impressive produce to trade, though, so here's hoping that spinach turns out.

"Hard part's over," Kim tells John, who reluctantly follows her lead and climbs to his feet. "Now, it's a waiting game."

"I wouldn't expect miracles," John mutters. Kim pretends not to hear him.

John avoids the garden as much as he can once the planting is done. Kim doesn't need his help, so she doesn't press it, but she notices whenever he surreptitiously checks the progress the seeds are making. He seems happy enough to be done handling them, but Kim bets he's still keeping an eye out for any evidence of failure. Kim doesn't want to take away Nick's extra pair of hands, especially considering how hard work seems to comfort John more than long stretches of silence surrounded by dirt, so for the first two weeks, Kim handles most of the gardening herself.

Nick and him have been steadily chipping away at Nick's list of home repairs, their DIY solutions changing the topography of the family home bit by bit. The roof is dotted with white shingles cobbled together from old siding, the windows have been boarded up with full sheets of plywood instead of haphazard wooden planks, and part of the hangar's exposed roof has been covered by a quilt of stitched together pieces of tarp. They've even managed to clear back some of the vines that have been swallowing every structure in the valley. Nick has pretty much given up on letting John do everything by himself by now, although he definitely delegates the harder work to John and takes the first drink of water whenever they take a break. Nick has always been a hands-on kind of guy, though — sitting by while there's work to be done goes against his nature. It had only been a matter of time before he demanded to pull his own weight.

Kim checks the plants more frequently and obviously than John does. She had been expecting most of the plants to fail, considering the packets they came from are easily eight years old and thrown into an old box with no thought to preserving them, but a week in and they seem to have taken pretty well. Tiny, two-leaf sprouts have started to poke their way through the soil where the spinach was planted. The beets don't seem to have done quite as well, but surviving tiny sprouts have also started to show. Kim doesn't trust the carrots, but it'll be another week or so before they start seeing any results from them, so she withholds judgment for now.

"Been thinking about going into town," Nick mentions one night as the four of them eat dinner at the table. John still seems uneasy sitting with them instead of on the stairs or in his room, but at least he doesn't need someone to goad him into eating.

Carmina's face lights up. "Can I come?" she asks, practically before Nick has finished speaking. From the way Nick smiles at her, Kim's sure he was about to suggest that very thing, which makes it easy for Kim to agree.

"Sure," she says. "As long as your dad promises not to cut across the field this time. No," she scolds Nick as he opens his mouth to argue, "There's a herd of bison out there that are as big as the car, and you are not a matador, Nick."

"What's the point of an apocalypse if I gotta follow all the roads?" Nick complains, relenting with a theatrical sigh. "You're right," he admits, emphasizing for Carmina, "Your mom's right. The roads are a lot safer than any open field."

Kim glances at John, who has his head down over his plate, looking uncomfortable with the conversation circling so close to him. Nick follows her line of sight, frowns, and then asks, "So, uh, John... You got any interest in going into town?"

John swallows the bite he just took, wincing as it goes down wrong. "No," he croaks.

"Okay," Nick says, not at all upset to hear it. "That leaves just you and me, sweetheart."

Later on, once they're getting ready for bed, Nick can't help but circle back, horrified by his own gall. "What would I have done if he'd said yes?" he asks Kim. "He'd incite a riot just by showing his face. The second everybody knows he's alive..."

"It's going to happen eventually," Kim says. "I think we should at least let him make the choice about when ."

Nick accepts her reasoning with a petulant, "I guess, " but he spends another hour or two silently turning it over in his head.

They don't leave until after breakfast, which Nick lets John be part of. He's still sensitive about sharing his family time with anybody, much less John, but he's getting used to it bit by bit. Kim would blame it on the apocalypse if it weren't for the fact that he's always been very protective of his mornings.

John looks uneasy as Nick and Carmina head out, tensing at the sound of the car starting. Kim isn't all that used to it either, but at least they managed to find a car and enough gas to make the occasional trip to town possible.

Well, since there's nobody else around, and nothing left for Kim to do, she decides it time to bring John back to the garden.

"Ready to learn how to weed?" she asks.

To his credit, John waits until they're outside and facing down the lightly weeding planter to argue. "There's still a lot of work to do in the hangar," he says. "Doesn't that sound like a better use for me?"

"No," she replies. "You need to know how to do this." She sighs when he remains standing, staring up at him unimpressed. "Either you help me with this, or you can go pout in your room about it."

Kim waits until John reluctantly sits on his knees to join him. She walks him through the process of prying up the thin, quickly growing stems, tossing them into the bucket between them, and shows him how to pull out the root systems that might get left behind. Most of the weeds that are growing are small, but those pernicious vines have been reportedly growing like crazy in any and all soil and Kim doesn't want to give them a chance to cozy up to her produce.

It's not complicated work, so John picks it up fast, but he goes tediously slow, almost to the point where Kim thinks he's messing with her. Well, the joke's on him — Kim has raised one of the most independent children in the state, and she knows how to deal with petulance. She's fine with long stretches of silence, she's fine with dirt, and she's fine with leaving people to stew.

"Have you always been a gardener?" John asks after a length time, rushing the words as if he'd been chewing them over for too long and he just wants them out of his mouth.

John rarely ever asks questions that aren't about his so-called punishment, so Kim is inclined to indulge him. "No, not really," she answers. "My mom grew flowers, and I would try to keep those little starter herb kits alive every so often, but I never really dedicated my time to it." She hesitates, hopefully not noticeably, and adds, "We had some old gardening magazines in a box in the bunker. They turned out to be a good way to pass the time. You know?"

John hums neutrally in response. Kim hadn't expected much better; even casual talk about life underground shuts John up pretty fast. It's such an obvious psychological scar that even Nick can't miss it, and although the two of them will speculate, neither of them have so far pushed hard enough to find out more. Kim doesn't know if John's trauma is the Pandora's box she wants to open, but she has so many questions and so many worries that could be put to rest if she could just figure out how to interrogate him about it.

She's being too obvious, staring at him like she is, and John is quick to catch her. His brow furrows as he stares back expectantly. Probably waiting for her to drag the information she wants out of him, no doubt, the same way he would rip confessions out of people.

When she fails to do whatever it is he's waiting for, he turns his attention back to the remaining weeds. Frustration colors his voice when he eventually speaks.

"I wish you wouldn't stare at me."

"I usually look at people who ask me questions," Kim replies, trying not to be pedantic and failing pretty miserably.

"Just tell me what you want from me."

Kim sits back on her heels, wiping her forehead with a dirty hand. "I don't really know," she admits. She probably shouldn't be so honest with him, so open about her lack of motivation, but she can't see any reason to lie. Maybe telling him the truth will encourage him to do the same? She knows that's wishful thinking, but it's worth a try.

"I guess I want you to... prove you're trying. That this isn't all some kind of act. But honestly, I don't know what kind of proof would convince me. There's eight years of blank history that might help, but you don't want to talk about it."

She doesn't hesitate to bring up the bunker this time, even when it makes him squirm. She can see him working on a response and heads it off as best she can.

"Look," she says, "You don't have to tell me now. You don't even have to tell me . But eventually, if you're really serious about making amends, you're going to have to tell someone ."

For a moment, John rests his fingers in the dirt as if he might just go back to his work. He's staring at the green leaves, waiting for one of the plants to give him the right answer, the one that will make the conversation end before he has to get involved.

Finally, terribly lost and frustrated at himself for winding up that way, he asks, "Why won't you just make me ?"

His uncertainty settles in Kim's stomach like a lead weight. He refuses to look at her, and somehow that makes it worse. She knows Nick would probably scold her for being overly sympathetic, but she can't help it. She can't hide her worry when she answers, no matter how much it might chafe John to hear it.

"You have to want to get better to do it," she tells him. "Nobody can do it for you."

John doesn't respond. Kim doesn't hold her breath over it, returning to the remaining weeds. But as his silence grows, Kim finds herself checking on him in her periphery. Before the Collapse, John had been easy to read, his reactions unrestrained and sometimes bordering theatrical. These days, Kim can't pin him down.

John treats the fresh sprouts as though they're too fragile to touch, sincerely confused at the progress the garden has made despite his interference. Had he really thought that he could mess them up just by planting them? No wonder he was so sure that she was making a mistake, enlisting his help.

"Things are going well, given the circumstances," she says at last. "I guess you don't have a black thumb after all."

"I stand corrected," he replies. He looks at her briefly, but when he catches her watching him he's quick to look back to the dirt. Kim doesn't miss the way he continues to appreciate the small green stalks.

Later, after the weeds have been eradicated and dinner has been started, Kim hears the car coming down the drive. John is in the middle of dragging scrap metal out of the hangar, so he doesn't notice it right away, but there's no missing Carmina and Nick's raised voices. They aren't quiet by any means as they wander from the front yard to the back, talking enthusiastically about the monstrous bison they'd seen in the field on their way home. When John recognizes them coming into view, he stops working briefly, raising his arm to shield his eyes from the hastily setting sun.

"That's, uh, a pretty wide leash you're giving him," Nick says to Kim, having the good sense to at least kiss his wife hello before he starts in on judging her.

"He knows what you guys are doing in there better than I do," she replies. "How was town?"

Carmina is the one to answer, her excitement hard to contain. "We saw the bison!" she exclaims. "Pastor Jerome let me go to the top of the church tower! We got a bunch of stuff!"

She has a whole lot more to tell Kim, which she does in rapid-fire bullet-points before running off to unload supplies from the car. From all of her talk of apples, Kim hopes that some of them made their way home.

Nick waits until she's out of sight, checking to see that John hasn't yet come to join them, and then offers Kim a helpless shrug. "So, Jerome knows about John, I guess."

The comment shouldn't make Kim as uneasy as it does. "Oh?"

"Grace told him." Nick takes off his hat, tossing it onto the porch and running a hand through his hair. "He said he had to think about it more. But, uh... that he trusts us to do what's right. I dunno, he didn't quote any scripture at me so I couldn't tell how mad he really was."

He's watching John at the front of the hangar like he's surprised John isn't running. "I really thought this was gonna go differently," he says after a beat. "I thought for sure he'd have given us a reason to off him by now."

Kim chuckles. "Yeah, the same way you thought feeding the raccoons would make them go away."

"I couldn't help it," Nick sighs. "They looked so damn hungry."

John finishes unloading the wheelbarrow's contents. For a moment, he stands with his back to them, staring at the hangar. When he turns around, he straightens up, waiting. For what, Kim couldn't possibly say. She wishes he would just tell them what he thinks they ought to do already, but that's not going to happen any time soon.

Nick cups a hand to his mouth and shouts, "C'mon, I got a bunch of supplies you need to unload!"

John puts his hands on his hips, taking a brief rest before starting in their direction. Kim wouldn't believe he's the same man from a few months ago if she hadn't seen the transformation herself. She hopes all this change has been for the better, but she wonders if it's going to be enough.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #fcnd #new dawn #john seed #nick rye #kim rye #far cry fanfic #my fic

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cami-chats · 5 years

Text

My Blood Red Heart

Written for @marvelpolyshipbingo

Rating: Teen

Warnings/Triggers: Winter Soldier/Red Room mentions

Pairings: Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Bucky recognizes his forgotten soulmate while in the middle of a fight. Natasha saves him, they save the day, and Tony invites them back to the Tower. Falling for her was easy, so why not fall for him too?

Square Filled: B2-Murder Strut

Read on AO3 or below

The Soldier watched her run away, but there was no satisfaction in it, not when she was severely outgunned and still had the time to toss that fucking smirk over her shoulder as she went. She was the bigger threat. The target had gone down. He'd get back up, the Soldier knew that, but she could actually stop them if she wanted. She'd tricked him, and the only thing that had saved him was luck. She'd hit the glasses instead of an inch higher; that wasn't because of anything he'd done.

His eyes followed her. She was taking a fairly straight path which would've been a mistake if she wasn't so obviously trying to prevent civilian casualties. "I have her," he said. If they went after her, they wouldn't even make it a full minute. "Find him." He vaulted over the concrete wall and landed on top of a car with a crash that made his legs ache for a moment.

She ducked between two cars before he could raise his gun, and there were more cars on the other side of an overturned bus-- a miniature maze where the prize was pulling the trigger first. He strode to the other side of the road with sure steps, then slowed, glancing back and forth and listening for the smallest sound. She was too good to have loud steps, but he should be able to- he came to a stop. She was talking quietly, but it was enough. Calling for reinforcements wouldn't be enough to save her, but it could save the two men she'd been in the car with if the team accompanying him felt particularly useless today.

He reached to his back with his left hand, fingers catching on a small bomb. He lowered himself and rolled it towards her, then straightened and raised his gun again; there was no way the bomb alone would kill her as she'd see it and dodge, but that would leave him with an opportunity. There was something familiar about her, more familiar than that shield the target had used on the bridge. His handler would mention it during the debrief, most likely, so he didn't need to think about it. The explosive went off and he tightened the gun to his shoulder, only to be thrown off balance when something hit the side of him and knocked the gun out of his hands.

He didn't have the chance to get his feet under him before he heard the quick whir of a garrote wire, and he shoved his hand up near his neck. It just barely caught the wire in time, grinding against the metal of his hand, and as he tried to find his center again, the familiarity struck him again, more distinct than before. He stumbled backward and she hit a car with a grunt, but her grip didn't loosen. For a moment he tried to get the wire completely away, but the angle was bad and she had too much leverage where she was hanging off his shoulders. With his free hand, he reached up and gripped with the intent of throwing her over his shoulder. He started to, and then he froze, memories hitting him straight in the stomach like a brick.

She fell barely a foot away from his aborted move.

"Natasha," he gasped, and she stopped, half a second from throwing something at him. His eyes were wide, and he didn't know- what the hell was going on? He stumbled back half a step, bumping into the car again, and this time he didn't move.

She got to her feet, still holding that small disc in her hands. Her expression was hopeful but her body language was wary, angled so that she could throw it at him and make a run for it if she needed. Smart, but she'd always been smart. "Yasha," she returned evenly.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked, and he didn't even care how desperate it came out.

She glanced over his shoulder nervously, then back at him. "Not now, we need to leave."

He didn't know how to think about where he was or how he'd gotten to this specific point in time, but he could get them out. Leaving was easy. They started to run, moving together like no time had passed since they'd been on the same side. No words were necessary; when Natasha moved one way, he knew it meant they were about to take a hard left, and they moved in tandem. The deafening sound of a mini gun spitting bullets started, but it wasn't at them. She glanced towards the noise, slowly an almost unnoticeable amount.

He grabbed her arm and made her keep pace, gruffly saying, "They'll be fine." The target was up, and without him the others didn't stand a chance. If they took too long, there would be news sites coming to film, and they wouldn't be able to kill him; they would definitely take too long, the idiots.

They made it far enough away, he took off the mask, and she lifted a hoodie for him. In DC, there wasn't really such a thing as 'out of the way'. Where there wasn't video surveillance, there were guards, and most of the time there were both. So when they stopped to try and formulate a plan, it wasn't because they were completely hidden, it was because they were as out of the way as they could be. There weren't any safe houses that would actually be safe. Fury was dead-- god, Bucky had killed him, he hadn't thought about it at the time, but that had been the last major defense against Hydra and he'd shot that chance without a though-- Hill was in the wind likely dead, and Rogers and Wilson were the ones in need of rescue.

Natasha let out a frustrated breath. "We need backup." But there wasn't any.

"What about Stark?"

Natasha looked at him sharply. "We aren't dragging him into this mess."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, staring at her flatly. "Right. Hydra taking over won't effect him at all." He knew it had been a damn long time since he'd known her, but since when did she care about people this way? Stark could more than take care of himself-- the multiple failed assassination attempts by Hydra were proof enough about that-- and if he could take care of himself, there was no reason for her to be worried. No reason that Bucky could think of right now, at least.

"We aren't in New York."

"He has a flying suit," Bucky said drily.

"We have no way of contacting him," she tried.

Bucky held up a phone he'd swiped from someone's bag-- they'd survive, they had another one for some reason. Hoodie pockets were great. He also had a couple snacks in there, but they were for after Natasha made the phone call that would save their asses. He cared about whatever was holding her back, but not more than he cared about their lives.

With a regretful sigh, she snatched the phone from his hand and dialed, the number clearly memorized to perfection even though she couldn't have had much cause to use it.

It was several, long rings before Tony answered, a confused, "Hello?"

"It's Natasha." There was a shy, hesitant quality to her voice, and Bucky wondered when he'd stop being surprised by things now that he was... himself again.

A pause, then, in a tone too casual to be genuine, Tony said, "You know, there was some footage of that epic battle you just got into. I know some drivers can be dumb, but I think you took it a little too hard this time. You gotta learn to take deep breaths and let it go. Maybe we should pencil you in for some meditation time with Bruce. So Steve and that other guy-- you know, the handsome one in the green shirt, he looks kinda familiar, maybe he should drop by when all is said and done-- got taken in by some people in SHIELD uniforms, and you vanished. I'd be offended you didn't call me in to join the party, but I'm guessing that's what this is. Unless you wanted to RSVP for the New Years party. Six months early is a bit much, but you spy types are always on top of things."

Natasha smiled, but her tone was clear of it when she responded. "Not sure about New Years yet, but we could use some support down here."

"Already in the suit. Where are you?"

"What, you can't trace the call?"

"Not while I'm tracking the transport that has Stevie-boy in it. Am I grabbing him or you first?"

"Him. Yasha and I can survive a little longer without you."

"Who the hell is Yasha?"

Natasha's eyes flickered to Bucky. "Long story."

"Okay," Tony said, drawing out the second syllable to show how much he didn't like that brushoff. "This number good to reach you at?"

"We'll hold on to it until we hear from you." Normally she would ditch it right away, but there was no point when they had no other way to contact him.

"I'd tell you when to expect a call except I'm breaking my own safety protocols right now, so maybe I'll die in a fiery twist of metal like my nanny always predicted. Stay safe," he said, then hung up.

"You're close," Bucky noted.

"Not really," she said, but she had to know that he could tell when she was lying. It was probably a soulmate thing that he always knew when she was telling the truth and when she wasn’t, because she'd always been able to fool handlers.

Bucky didn't say anything to that, just pulled a cap from his hoodie pocket and offered it to her.

She put it on and looped her hair through the hole in the back. "I did a profile on him right after Iron Man. We talk, but he doesn't trust me."

"Anyone other than me trust you?" he asked, arm around her shoulders as they started walking again.

"A few people." The one that recruited her to SHIELD. Fury, before he had died, maybe Hill as well. Steve might. He'd seen something about the Avengers before, but they seemed more like individuals with a common goal than a team. The fact that Natasha hadn't automatically called them was proof enough that they weren't a team.

By the time the dust settled, it was obvious that Hydra had counted on Iron Man being out of the way. Bucky could recall some of Hydra talking about the Mandarin and the aftermath keeping Stark busy, but he didn't think that was important to share. Iron Man was there, a hell of a lot more firepower and brainpower than they'd planned for. Fury was alive and Hill was with him, which explained where they'd been at the start of this mess. Well, Fury was barely alive. He'd kind of been shot to hell, and Bucky made eye contact with him exactly once to make sure he wasn't taking it personally. Maybe Fury trusted Natasha, but Bucky was part of the much larger group of 'everyone else' aka 'people he didn't trust'.

It was ridiculously impressive how much everyone trusted Natasha actually. She might think she was untrustworthy, but everyone in the room believed in her. Proof? They'd all given Bucky suspicious looks and Stark had outright asked why they were trusting the guy that had been attacking them a couple hours ago, and all Natasha had to say was, "He's on our side," to shut them up.

"Anyone need a place to stay?" Tony asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, "Of course you do. You-" he pointed at Fury and Hill "-lost your fancy carriers and compromised your entire organization. And you three-" Steve, Natasha, and Sam, but not Bucky since he'd basically been a Hydra attack dog "-lost your homes when they fucked up. C'mon, the tower's great. Pepper won't even be able to get mad at me for inviting all of you back."

"Why would Pepper be mad at you?" Steve asked.

"She doesn't like half of you. Natasha's her buddy, but she doesn't know Sam or Bucky. You SHIELD higher ups though, you're on thin ice. Something about paperwork and an inefficient organization, I don't really know."

As they'd been doing all day, they just listened to Tony and followed after him. It was easy to do that when Tony was constantly proving to make the right decisions. Besides, who else were they going to listen to? Fury? He was the only other one with ideas, but right now he was bedridden, so his usual intimidation tactics didn't work. Plus he had a hell of a lot of work to do to rebuild SHIELD, and none of them needed to be there for that.

Tony decided that instead of flying out to the Tower and grabbing the quinjet to get all of them, they were just going to drive. Bucky wasn't allowed, Sam refused, and Steve was banned from ever driving when Tony was around. Natasha could have, but Tony offered then went off to find a rental. Which meant that none of them got to complain when he showed up in a minivan with a gleeful smile. Of course, that did mean that no one sat in the front seat next to him since Sam and Steve had paired off and Natasha wasn't letting Bucky out of arm's reach.

"This is fun," Tony said. "It's like I'm the mom-friend of the group. Wait until Rhodey hears about this, he'll mock you all silly, normally I'm the one that has to deal with that. And since none of you are in the passenger seat and get to complain, you have to deal with my music." He turned on something with lots of drums and screeching guitars, but after the first song he switched it to only be sounding in the front.

The rest of them were silent for most of the drive. Steve was trying to process the fact that Bucky was alive but was nothing like how he'd used to be. They wouldn't be able to talk about it with everyone here, and that was if they talked about it at all. Bucky was closed off, silent and brooding. Natasha had mentioned the phrase 'tall dark and handsome' before, and he was pretty sure that was the category Bucky fell into now, as opposed to well groomed and a gentleman like he'd been before.

Sam... well Bucky didn't know Sam all that well, but he was probably thinking about how weird it was that one day he'd been having breakfast and the next he was in a minivan with half the Avengers plus a newly retired Hydra assassin. That had to mess with anyone. As for Bucky and Natasha, well, they were used to not talking.

"Sorry I ripped the steering wheel out," Bucky said to Sam.

Sam grunted. He probably wanted an apology for trying to kill him, but Bucky would spend the rest of his life saying that to people if he started now so he didn't care very much.

"He's grumpy because he hasn't had something to eat all day," Natasha said.

"That sounds like an excuse to go to McDonald's," Tony called from the front, opting to yell over the music rather than turn it down. But he did turn it down when he got to the drive thru window because he was a nice guy. And because he was an even nicer guy, he got burgers for everyone, not just himself and Sam. But he was the only one that got a milkshake. Not that Bucky or Natasha minded, but he hadn't even offered. It was the principle of the matter.

"Do they know about you?" Bucky asked her in a low tone. Steve, with his enhanced hearing, would've been able to make out the words if he spoke Russian.

"No."

"You going to tell them?"

"It hasn't come up."

Bucky snorted. Just because no one had directly asked her if she was enhanced didn't mean the topic hadn't come up. She was on a team with other enhanced people, they had definitely talked about it before.

Natasha wrote down a quick summary instead of a full report. "SHIELD has bigger problems than the specifics of how they fell," was her excuse, and Bucky couldn't agree more. Steve, on the other hand, wrote down every little detail. He didn't send it anywhere, so it was likely a way for him to work through what had happened. Not that Bucky was around by the time he finished. Tony went to the kitchen then his workshop, and Sam stuck close to Steve's side. Whether that was because he was nervous or some other-- maybe soulmate related-- reason, he wasn't sure.

Natasha either had a regular room she crashed in, or she just knew which rooms were available for use, because she dragged Bucky off to one of them without checking with Stark. She locked the door as soon as they were both inside, then pointed at a door off to the side. "If you want to get cleaned up."

Bucky didn't, really. He didn't want to do much of anything because that meant dealing with everything he couldn't remember and what he'd missed. But he'd always been able to listen to her, and right now was no exception. He walked towards the bathroom and started stripping off his tac vest. All the knives and guns lined up on a side table by the bed-- less than he should've had, he was running low after the fight-- before he went all the way into the bathroom.

Memories were like sand-- you thought it was all gone until you shifted and found some more. It wasn't much, just the feeling whenever he untied his boots and pulled off his pants; it had been a while since he'd been able to do this in private. After the Red Room, he'd been kept on a damn short leash. Hydra didn't know what to do with him after that. Going on ice had hurt and made it worse for their long term plans for him. Wiping him hurt, but it did help them out temporarily. He'd been a weapon. Not an assassin, not the Fist of Hydra like Pierce had taken to calling him. A weapon, meticulously cleaned and maintained. Slight chinks were overlooked because he had still been the best weapon they had, even dealing with the issues that consistently and continuously cropped up.

The shoes had blood and dirt, and everything had been drenched in water at one point. Air drying was bullshit and made him feel crusty. He didn't really know how good laundry machines were, but the black of his pants covered any bloodstains that were there so it might not matter in the end.

He stepped in the tub and turned on the water. Did he know how to work it? No, but it's not like hot water from a shower faucet could burn him. When the water first came on, it was freezing, but it turned warm quickly. Perks of using a rich fella's shower. He saw Natasha come in, and she closed the bathroom door. Her clothes really were ruined. She hadn't had her suit, so she was in the same clothes that she'd had on the interstate. Civilian clothes couldn't take a pounding for shit. The mud probably wouldn't come out, and the blood definitely wouldn't; as she undressed, she tossed the clothes directly into the trashcan.

There was dirt crusted into her hair. She probably wasn't happy about that, said it reminded her of wading through a sewer-- Bucky never had asked why she knew how that felt when she'd been in the Red Room since she was eight. She joined him in the shower, sliding the distorted glass door across so they were closed off. She leaned her forehead against his back, neither of them moving.

"Do we have any clothes?"

"There are extras in the closet."

She hadn't checked since they entered, so she must have known that from past experience. Bucky sighed, grabbing the soap and rubbing it quickly across his chest and under his arms. It smelled pretty and floral, and it felt far too expensive. In the past fifty years, he'd had the type of soap that his healing factor had to work on. Effective in cleaning, but it stung like hell.

Natasha helpfully moved her head from where she'd been leaning against him, but otherwise she did nothing, enjoying the steam and the company.

A minute later, Bucky tried to move out of the way for her, but she stopped him with a hand on his waist and a raised eyebrow. "You're not getting out with your hair like that."

Like what? His hair was fine.

Natasha rolled her eyes like she'd been able to hear that and grabbed a blue bottle from the shelf. She squirted some of the shampoo-- also floral, dear lord, Bucky was going to smell like a fucking bouquet when he got out-- into her hand and started lathering it into Bucky's hair. He closed his eyes, ostensibly to make sure none of it got in, and leaned into her hands. She spent more time massaging his scalp than was strictly necessary, but he wasn't going to complain and she wasn't going to mention it either.

"Rinse," she said, so Bucky tilted his head back and started to work on getting all the suds out.

And after that, it was only fair to do her hair for her too. They stayed in there for a long time, but the water didn't turn cold-- perks of staying with someone rich. It was a good thing that they had nowhere to go, because now he didn't have to ask Natasha if they could stay; they had to.

Bucky dried off then collapsed on the bed without bothering to look for those clothes Natasha had mentioned. Chances were they wouldn't fit anyways. Natasha got under the covers next to him. Then she sighed. "I left the light on."

Bucky got up before she could do more than start to move, and he turned the light off before going back to bed. The mattress was like a goddamn marshmallow, the sheets a higher thread count than anything he'd touched before, and the blanket was already warming him up. It would be wonderful if it wasn't so different that it threw him off kilter. He didn't bother staying there for long before he got down and laid on the floor.

"Mm Yasha, what're you doing?"

"Sleeping," he grumbled.

She pushed herself up and scooted more towards his side of the bed, peering over the side at him. Enhanced eyesight was a perk of the serums they'd both been given. She couldn't make out his expression or exactly where his nose was, but she could see him. He was on his side, looking just as at ease as he'd ever been. Natasha liked the fluffy bed. What she would like even more, was to be next to Yasha while she slept; she always slept better when she wasn't by herself. So even though she'd been looking forward to an overly comfortable bed after months on SHIELD standard bedding, she got to her feet, pulling the blanket with her.

Bucky lifted his head when he saw her moving, and he snorted when she laid down next to him. She was even nice enough to share the blanket with him. She wrapped an arm around his waist after she got all her hair out of the way. "Get some sleep."

Tony felt like pounding his head against the wall. So he did. He was an absolute, complete, total idiot for falling in love with Natasha. The only interest she'd ever shown in him was when she'd been undercover, and she hadn't trusted him for the longest time after that. He tried so hard to let her know that she could ask him for anything, and he didn't even care that it came off as desperate because he was and she certainly knew that.

The long lost Bucky Barnes and assassin for Hydra was her boyfriend. That was not as big a surprise as the guy being alive in the first place, and he cared more about the first part than the second because he'd already known that he didn't stand a chance with her.

Thankfully, everyone had come back to the Tower with him, so he didn't have to do anything pesky like stalk them to ask what he wanted to know. He was going to make breakfast as a peace offering (and also bring Barnes clothes because he definitely did not have a bag with him, and no way in hell was he going to be able to fit in what Nat had).

The only problem with this plan was that it was nighttime. Tony sighed and headed to the workshop. "J, set an alarm for six thirty tomorrow morning, I need to remember to order breakfast."

"Of course, sir."

"Thanks buddy." Tony walked through the doors, and DUM-E activated from his charging station, wheeling out with a questioning beep. "Don't worry, kiddo, daddy's going to get some work done. Back to sleep with you."

DUM-E, of course, didn't listen, and instead went to finish arranging the spare parts Tony had around for the cars. Since he wasn't going to be in the way doing that, Tony let him have his fun and opened up a few internet windows. Time to get to work on that mess Hydra had made.

The time flew by when JARVIS gave him the set alarm, and even though Tony wasn't anywhere near done, he figured a break to recharge couldn't hurt, especially when the dealings with humans were more time sensitive.

They woke up when someone knocked on the door. Natasha groaned, then yelled, "What!" in the direction of the door.

"It's Tony! I was hoping for a little breakfast, maybe some juice, maybe the explanation about how you know Cap's old buddy!" A pause. "Or how he's alive, that would be good too!"

Natasha groaned, then yelled back, "We'll meet you in the kitchen!" She planted her face against Bucky's chest for a moment, then pushed herself up. "Do you have answers for him?"

"You know as much as I do," Bucky mumbled, rubbing at his face.

"Great," she said, stretching. There were clothes around here somewhere, she just needed to find them and hope they were big enough for Bucky to fit into. If not, well, he'd dealt with far worse than walking around in tight pants. As it turned out, there were only clothes fit to Natasha's size, and he wouldn't be able to squeeze into any of that. "I'll go ask Steve for some extras," she said, opening the door, only to pause. Right outside was a stack of jeans and a t-shirt. "Nevermind." She picked them up and turned back around, kicking the door shut. She tossed them at Bucky and he caught them, then slid them on.

"I don't really remember Steve," he said, zipping up the pants. "I don't remember what I was doing on the bridge."

"What do you remember?"

"The Red Room. Some of our missions afterwards. I... remember they-" he stopped. They'd found out about him and Natasha, and they'd sent him away because both of them were too valuable-- too well trained-- to kill. After that, just shadows of what he'd done. It was like trying to remember the details of a book he'd read years ago. He remembered a chair with jolts of electricity, he remembered the new order of Hydra and how they'd tried to convince him he was one of them, and he remembered ice. Flashes that didn't make sense. He didn't really remember Steve. More like a memory of a story he'd heard once. That wasn't what Steve would want to hear, he knew that much. "I don't remember anything important," he ended up saying.

She looked at him for a minute; she knew he was holding something back, but she didn't press him about it. And that, right there, was why they got along so well. He didn't want to talk about it, and she knew that if she waited long enough, he'd bring it up again. Not that he wanted to admit that he'd bring it up again, but, well, they both knew better. "We might as well go to breakfast before Tony thinks we abandoned him." She opened the door and Bucky followed her automatically.

Tony was munching on toast when they came in, and he pushed the massive jug of orange juice towards them. "I always thought one vintage super soldier was enough for a group, but I guess I'll have to reconsider."

Bucky shrugged as he picked up the jug. Natasha put a glass between him and the orange juice, so he redirected and poured some in the glass. "Hydra experiments," he said nonchalantly. He drained the glass, then refilled it. "Fucks with your mind sometimes." And that's all he was going to say about it.

Tony must have picked that up, because he accepted it. "Yeah, fuck Hydra, I think that's something we can all agree on. Not that I really care," he lied, "but how do you and Natasha know each other? She never worked for Hydra."

"A lot of organizations help Hydra without working for them," Natasha said, and that was all she planned on saying too.

"Do all spies have trouble answering questions like normal people, or is it just the two of you?"

"When was the last time Clint answered a question straight that wasn't about food?" Nat countered.

"You've got a point, but it doesn't match my annoyance with you so I'm going to pretend it's not true."

Bucky snorted. No one bothered to tell him the really good things. Natasha was here, and obviously that was nice, but couldn't she have mentioned that Tony was funny? He'd kinda thought coming here would only lead to avoiding Steve, not actually enjoying anything else.

Tony had ordered in, so he uncovered one of the breakfast platters and took a little for himself, then pushed the rest towards Nat. Then he opened a completely full one for Bucky. He haphazardly tossed forks into the containers, but it didn't look like he'd be surprised if they shoved their faces straight in. Whatever, he was starting with bacon anyways, he didn't need a fork for that.

"Steve's not an easy person to keep out," Tony continued between new bites and half chewed food. "You don't have to talk to him today, and not about anything important, but when he starts cracking heads in, mine will be the first to go. You may not care about that, but I don't have a healing factor so I'd like to avoid all this possible damage."

"He wouldn't hurt you," Natasha said, rolling her eyes.

"That's what you think; he likes you."

"He likes you too."

"Not as much. I think it's the hair, he prefers long and luxurious over well sculpted beards. I think it's a bullshit forties thing."

"It's not," Bucky said. He didn't have any evidence for that, but he was pretty sure Steve had been unable to grow a beard for a while. After the serum that was probably fixed, but he wasn't over it. Or at least, that was his leading theory. Personally, Bucky had always liked a little facial hair.

"Oh yeah? You like the beard?" Tony asked with a wink.

"What's not to like?" he responded, and maybe it was a little too easy for him to say that. Natasha was too good to stare at him straight out for it, but he could tell that it perked her interest.

"You like him," she said as soon as they were alone, back in the relative privacy of their room.

"You love him."

They stared at each other.

"I have a crush," he said softly. "He's handsome and doesn't look at me like he expects something."

More silence. This should be the part where she admitted why she loved him. Bucky had never been the jealous sort, if only because that wasn't the sort of relationship they'd had. It had been intense and all consuming, but when she was working missions there wasn't room for that shit.

"I don't care." It doesn't matter if she loved someone other than him, they were still together. Another bedmate, another partner... they still had each other at the end of the day, and that was the only part he cared about. "You love him," he said again, more gentle than before. Gentle was never something he'd been good at, but it felt like what the situation needed so he tried.

Natasha swallowed. "Love is for children." And she'd never thought she had enough innocence to make it work. She didn't seem to realize that there was more to it than that. Oh when dealing with other people, she knew, but when it came to herself, it's like she forgot all the facts, all the statistics, all the reasons people behaved the way they did-- why she behaved the way she did. He understood it all too well, but that didn't mean he knew how to help.

"Is that what we had?" he mused. "Love?" Like jealousy, they hadn't worked in terms of 'love', but that was a different time for them. Already, he was settling into old patterns. He didn't quite remember why or what those patterns were, but he could feel himself sinking into them.

"Had?"

Bucky shrugged. "Have. You can't tell me you know what we're doing."

"We're... existing."

"Then why would I have a problem with you 'existing' with Tony too?"

"You're not jealous," she snorted.

That didn't even require a response; of course he wasn't. "That's my point."

She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head.

He didn't bring it up again. Not later that night, not the next day, not the next week, and not at any point in the next month when they stayed at the Tower without really meaning to. It's just that leaving would mean having to figure out what-- if anything-- they wanted to do other than clean up after Shield. Staying meant Natasha could go about her life almost as if nothing had changed, and Bucky was able to catch up with Steve and work out the stupid amount of energy he had; staying on ice and being half starved meant he was never restless, but Tony kept insisting that he eat until he was full and this was the result-- fuck Tony.

So when Bucky finally got an official answer from Natasha, it was over a month after he asked. Bucky was sharpening knives in the living room, all of them spread out on the carpet next to him on the ground. She sat on the couch behind him and said, "You're right."

Of course, he had no fucking idea what that meant, because they hadn't been talking about anything this could apply to today. "About?"

"Tony."

Unfortunately, that didn't clear it up for him. He said a lot about Tony, and he already knew he was right about all of it.

They sat in silence for a minute before she elaborated. "How I feel about him."

"Yeah." A month wasn't that long for an admission. Tony might disagree if they ever got around to telling him, but he was what, forty? Natasha was twice that, and Bucky was maybe older, depending on how you calculated it.

"You like him too."

"Course I do, I already told you that."

"You said it was a crush," she said, and the implication hung heavy in the air. It had only been a crush when he said it, because he was Tony fucking Stark, and he was Iron Man, and he was gorgeous, and he'd seen shit but still grinned every day like it didn't matter. Tony made everything easy but let you pretend it wasn't, and Bucky fell for him in the same way. Cause honestly, who the hell saw the Winter Soldier and decided they could force him to go to a carnival just to hold all the prizes they won? Tony, that's fucking who. Not that Bucky had gone alone, he'd dragged Natasha along, ostensibly so he wasn't suffering by himself but she'd definitely known better and Tony probably had too.

The slight tightness in his chest was completely irrational; Natasha already knew what it had become, and she was just as okay with it as Bucky was with her own feelings. It was a conditioned response to admitting anything he cared about though, so he swallowed past it and said, "Was."

"Are we telling him?"

The knife made a clear sound against the stone as he slid it along the edge. "Why bother?"

"He... might be interested."

Bucky hummed noncommittally. It's not that he thought she was wrong, but he didn't think it would go anywhere good. Tony was... different. He wasn't like them. He was a hero, they were ex-Soviet assassins that did good things mostly by accident-- well, he did, Natasha actually tried. And if he was interested and they did end up with it going towards a future together, Tony was still going to end up dead long before both of them. That wasn't something he wanted to get caught up in. It just... wouldn't be worth it. Tony was worth a whole goddamn lot, but Bucky didn't want to invite that kinda heartbreak.

Sometimes it felt like Natasha could read his mind, because she leaned forward, hair swishing against his ear and pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "You-" another kiss, this time to his cheek "-are so-" a kiss to his jaw "-stupid."

"Thanks?"

"If you don't have a good reason, we're telling him."

"And if I say it makes me uncomfortable?"

She kissed his cheek again before leaning back to her former position. "I would say you're lying and that means I don't have to listen to you. So don't try that."

"Could I say anything to stop this?"

Natasha curled a hand up his next to tangle her fingers in his hair. She scratched lightly at his scalp, and he stopped trying to sharpen his knives to enjoy it. "I'm not trying to force you into this. But I thought it was something we both wanted. I've seen the way you look at him, and there's no reason he wouldn't fit between us."

"Don't say it like that or he'll think you mean sex."

"Is that a yes?"

"You know it is."

Natasha hummed. "I suppose we'll have to plan how to ask him."

He picked his hands back up and went back to work. "You're overthinking it. We ask him to dinner as a date, and that's our answer."

"Tony, would you like to go to Geraldi's tonight?" Natasha asked. Tony was hunched over the shop's table working, Bucky was working on one of his cars, and Natasha was stacking the items in the fridge until Bucky wanted help.

"Sure."

"As a date?"

Tony's head popped up, frowning. He looked at her, then Bucky, then back to her. "Uh. Did I miss something?"

"Not as far as I know," Bucky said from where he was putting a muffler together.

"Okay," Tony said slowly.

"Great! We'll leave here at seven."

Tony opened his mouth to say that that's not what he'd meant, but he closed it a moment later, frowning. "Seven, got it." He'd figure out what was going on later. For now, he was going to finish what he was doing. As for later, he was going to enjoy dinner when it happened because he fucking loved Geraldi's, and he wasn't going to let the impossibility of it being a date ruin the food.

Bucky said something, but it was in Russian, and all Tony knew in Russian was 'more vodka' and 'take me home'; it hadn't really been a problem until now. "That wasn't very clear."

"It was clear enough."

Bucky snorted, and Tony looked over in worry. "Not you, doll. Tricking him into saying yes does not count."

Natasha scowled at him. "I'll make it clear over dinner."

"I thought we didn't want him to misunderstand. He'll think that's sex."

Her scowl deepened.

"Is something wrong?" Tony asked, concerned.

"No," they said together.

That did not make him feel better. He sighed and went back to what he was doing. It wasn't exactly soothing, but it was something to do other than worrying about whatever the hell they were talking about.

Tony drifted off to sleep, and Natasha looked over to see Bucky glaring at her.

"What?" she hissed.

"You said he wouldn't misunderstand," Bucky accused. Quietly, of course, because he didn't want to wake Tony up.

"And he didn't!"

"You're not supposed to have sex on the first date, even I know that."

"Don't be so judgmental, lots of people do that. And we've known him for a while, so it's hardly a first meeting. We went on a date and then we came home and had sex, that's a perfectly reasonable first date when we've been friends for so long!"

Bucky's glare deepened. "Wait and see, tomorrow he'll wake up and try to sneak off."

"No he won't."

"He will. He thinks it was a one night affair, you don't stick around after those."

"We're in his bed!"

"And that won't stop him!"

They stopped having a whispered argument over his body as they switched to just glaring at each other over his body. If he woke up right now, he would get quite the view.

"Go to sleep, Yasha."

"We fucked this up," Bucky grumbled.

"If he tries to leave, lay on top of him."

"What? Why can't you do it?"

"You way a hundred pounds more. Don't be a baby," she said, then laid down so Bucky couldn't argue with her further.

"Hmph." He laid down, curling into Tony's warmth. It was easier to do with Natasha since she knew he wanted that and could accommodate it, but after curving in as much as he could without achieving his goal, he hoped Tony wouldn't mind if Bucky rearranged him a little. Pick up an arm, slide under it, wiggle a leg between his, and Bucky finally felt situated enough to relax.

Unsurprisingly, he was right, and he gave a pointed look to Natasha-- that she rolled her eyes at-- before dragging Tony back down onto the bed. "Where ya goin'," he mumbled.

"Uh," Tony blanked at first, clearly not having expected to be caught, "the 'shop? I've got a couple projects I need to work on-"

"Liar," Natasha muttered. Her voice was low, but still loud enough that Tony could definitely hear. "You were running away for no reason."

"Oh there's a reason, and I think it's pretty obvious what that is. So if you'll just," Tony trailed off, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge Bucky's arm around his waist.

"As the one that got us into this mess Natasha, you have t' fix it." Plus he was tired and words were hard to form. He could totally kill someone right now, but have a heart to heart? That was beyond what he could do this close to waking up.

"If 'fix it' is code for kill me, you really really don't Natasha. We're friends, aren't we? You wouldn't kill one of your friends." Tony's voice was half joking half panicked.

"What the idiot means is that last night was a date. As a precursor to other dates until you're comfortable with letting us call you our partner."

Tony blinked. "What."

"Like dating one person, only instead of one person, there's two of us."

Bucky snorted. "Eloquent."

"If you're not going to do better, shut it."

"Three person relationship instead of two?" he offered, then yawned.

"This isn't a joke, right?" Tony asked. "Cause if it is, it's mean and you should confess right now before I get it into my head that this is actually happening."

"It's happenin' now will you go back to sleep?" Bucky grumbled. He only wanted one more hour, that wasn't so much to ask in his opinion.

"What Bucky means is that no, it's not a joke. It's a serious offer, and you can think about it for as long as you want. If that includes some time alone right now, you can take it. If not, then pull the covers back up because it's getting cold."

Tony did nothing for a long moment, then pulled the blanket up. "You are two very confusing people." Another pause. "I feel like I'm going to regret this, but not as much as you fuckers will."

Natasha smothered her laugh, then spread her hand over Tony's chest. "Noted."

"You can't make me regret anything more than I already do," Bucky claimed, yawning again.

"I was making a joke, and you just break my heart," Tony said.

"I'll try not to."

#marvel #fanfic #winterironwidow #tony stark #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #my writing

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ryanmeft · 5 years

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MCU Phases 4 and 5 Wishlist

Last night at San Diego Comic Con, Marvel dropped their pants and coated the audience in a thick, rich layer of big-and-small screen announcements. Briefly recapped: across Phases 4 or 5 (not that that means anything), we’re getting Black Widow, The Eternals, Shang Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, Doctor Strange and the Multiverse of Madness, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3, Thor: Love and Thunder, Black Panther 2, Captain Marvel 2, the Fantastic Four and Blade. On the streaming front, the previously announced series were all confirmed, and in a move most probably didn’t see coming, Marvel added a series based on their often bizarre What if? Series, which speculates on what might have happened had some element of continuity gone a different way (and which has become a bit moot in the comics in an era where continuity is gleefully mixed and nixed whenever an editor wants a sales boost).

As folks might be aware, I’m not a huge fan of Disney, skipping almost all their movies, but I have a severe weakness for the MCU. There’s a lot of wish lists going around as to what we want to happen in these movies and series, but as you know if you’ve read my blog before, the correct answers are mine. Since you can rest assured these answers are the best, I graciously share them with you now. Remember, I’m never wrong.

Mjolnir Gets Retired

I am totally down with Natalie Portman’s Jane Foster as the God of Thunder. There will be those who call to give her the same powers and weapons Thor had, but why would we want to do that? In the comics, she’s still Jane Foster while Thor is still Thor, and with Chris Hemsworth also in the film, there’s no reason to think that won’t be the case here. Instead of simply “Female Thor”, she needs her own set of traits and skills. Start with giving her a new weapon; a magical spear would be just right. Mjolnir got its greatest moment of glory in Endgame, and from a sheer story perspective, it is time to retire the venerated hammer.

Rebellion in Wakanda

I’m going to be in the minority on this, but: the Dora Milaje have gotten shafted in the MCU thus far. In the best of the comics, they are the king’s guard, but they are also a group of women with independent minds and goals who don’t always agree with the king. In fact, members have rebelled several times. In the movies to date, they exist to devote total fealty to T’Challa, never once seriously questioning anything he does. This is a terrible fate to befall an actor with Danai Gurira’s fire. Instead of existing merely to poke holes in things on behalf of a (male) ruler, it’s time these ass-kicking ladies got to play a more important, and complex, role.

Christoph Waltz as Doom

This idea isn’t mine, but was passed on by a friend who is clearly brilliant. There’s not much to say about this one: the actor who made his reputation playing two very different roles in Quenton Tarantino films is the perfect choice for the literally tin-plated dictator. As for the rest of the cast, Keanu Reeves is the favorite for Reed, but I have another idea in mind for him...

The Master of Time

That said: it’s about time to get Kang involved in this universe. When it became obvious that Endgame was going to involve time travel, I slapped together what I thought was a pretty good post-credits tease that would introduce both him and the Fantastic Four side of the universe. Obviously, nothing like that happened, and there were no Avengers movies or mass team-ups of any kind announced at SDCC. Yet with time travel established, the potential to bring in this reality-warping mega-baddie is always there.

Don’t Undo Iron Man 3

Yes, fans are shooting their shorts over the fact that the real Mandarin will be the villain of the Shang-Chi movie. But those of us who don’t rub the comics on ourselves regularly recognize the truth: Iron Man 3 had a great twist that was one of the few truly creative decisions in a modern blockbuster, and it would be a shame to overturn on the whim of a handful of hardliners. Have a “real” Mandarin, but keep Ben Kingsley’s washed-up, hedonistic actor on the books. Maybe even give him a cameo.

Unrelenting Nightmare

Director Scott Derickson has already said he wants to use Nightmare, a being who feeds off his namesake, in the Doctor Strange sequel, and given that it is apparently multiverse-focused (and that Strange has few interesting villains), this is probably a given. Marvel has been after Keanu Reeves for a long time; most people seem to want him for Reed Richards, but may I humbly suggest we go against the hype and cast him as a dimension-devouring trickster deity instead? As a side note, please, please follow up on Chiwetel Ejiofor’s Baron Mordo. He was the best part of the first film, and it’d be a shame to let him trail off into the ether.

Take Some Risks in Captain Marvel

Captain Marvel was fun. It was not the kind of movie that took risks, however, or blew anyone away, despite amazing box office numbers. CM will be an idol for little girls; it’s time to think outside the box, utilize the oddness of Marvel’s galactic properties, and make her next movie one that can rival the time-hopping chances DC has taken with Wonder Woman. Brie Larson needs more to do than pose heroically and hit things.

Where’s Spider-Man?

More of a question answered than a wish: a lot of people are freaking out because Spider-Man was not mentioned last night, despite a post-credits tease that’s impossible to ignore. Relax: the deal between Marvel and Sony likely just means Sony has to finalize plans and sign off on the next film before Marvel can announce it. Far From Home cracked 800 million at the box office, and the refurbishing of Spidey’s tarnished reputation by Marvel is one big reason Sony’s own dull, uninspired Venom series is now a viable money-maker. It would be the height of stupidity for Sony to pull out of the deal now; expect Spider-Man: Homeboy or whatever it is called to be announced for 2021 before much time passes.

Make What If? Truly Bizarre

As a series, What If? wasn’t always great, but it was always interesting. There are some obvious concepts they could include in the series, and probably on the top of most people’s lists is “What If Iron Man had survived Endgame?” Old Man Tony would be absolutely delicious, but we can get stranger than that. This series should be a chance to explore concepts that would never fly in a massive, internationally-marketed blockbuster movie. Think stuff like “What If Loki had been Thor?” or “What If Peggy Carter had been Captain America?” Get wild up in this.

Make Loki a Reverse Doctor Who

Loki became a far less evil, far more complex character by the time he was dispatched in Infinity War. The Loki that will star in the series, however, is the one from Avengers, before all that character development. Audiences didn’t truly and completely fall in love with him until he went from evil god of chaos to a more ambivalent trickster figure, so pulling off sympathy for this older Loki across an entire series will be difficult. The obvious answer is to make him a sort of reverse Doctor: instead of an eternally-helpful alien who influences everyone he meets for the better, he’s an alien out for himself who is gradually influenced by those he meets to be (a little) better.

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ghost-nabbers-imagines · 5 years

Note

💀 with either Sal or Larry, maybe so gets bit after saving them

I did both Sal and Larry but Larry's is written for a fem reader because I really liked the idea for his.

Sal

Considering it was the apocalypse Sal made sure you guys had plenty of supplies in the beginning to avoid confrontation with the outise and long as possible.

But of course you'd eventually have to go out and savage for more food.

He insisted on going out but you insisted on tagging along. After about an hour arguing over whether you were staying or leaving with him he finally caved. You two spent a long while going over a plan.

When it came time to go out you were both nervous but Sal more so. He really didnt enjoy being bitten by a dog let alone a zombie.

He grabbed his handgun and a machete, while you had a crossbow and a katana as well as you both having knives.

You both piled into his car and drove to the grocery store where Sal and Larry used to have part time job. Luckily the shutters were still down and the door was still covered meaning no one had been able to get in.

You guys unlocked the door pulling the can as close to the door as you could leaving the back open.

Both of you grabbed shopping carts and began making your way down the isles unloading the cart each time one got full.

You were in one of that isles grabbing as many canned goods as you could fit in the cart.

"So I'm thinking we can probably fit another cart full in after this one and then we can just leave the door open when we leave."

"Yeah good idea love we have more than enough food here. I'm gonna go grab a couple can openers since they're on the end of this isle."

He walked down a little ways while you returned your focus to the canned goods. A few minutes later you heard him yell.

"N-no not you. No!"

You flipped around to see the zombified corpse of Larry stumbling towards Sal.

He sight of him practically broke your heart. He was still dressed in his uniform of khaki pants, the blue shirt, and the neon vest with a now very faded smiley face. His clothing was tathered and dirty. Some of his hair covered his face hiding away his rotting skin. He had a chunk of flesh missing from his shoulder where he had been bitten.

Knowing that Sal wouldn't be able to kill even the corpse of his best friend you took off towards to the two shoving the cart into your old friend's corpse knocking him into the shelf.

You went to grab your knife from your packing only for it to get caught in a tear in the bag.

You struggled to pull it out only for Larry to knock you to the ground pinning you there. You felt your knife go flying in the other direction.

Larry chomped his teeth snarling above you. Sal was trembling trying to force himself to help.

You pushed with all your might trying to get the lanky corpse off of you.

Before you could move him too far you felt his teeth bite into your upper arm.

Letting out a scream you felt your flash tear between his teeth ripping a hole in your flesh. Blood poured down from the would and out of Larry's teeth.

Seeing you hurt Sal jumped into action he took one one of the cans to Larry's head knocking him off you. Once he was off Sal kept swinging till the corpse was no longer moving.

You moved your right hand to the gash in your left arm. You were bitten like for real. This was it.

"B-baby I- I'm so so sorry. This is my fault."

He crouched down to your level.

"No love it's not your fault."

Sal kissed you tears falling down his face.

"What if we cut it off?"

"That might work you dont think it's too late?"

"We have to try I'm not losing you too. I can't lose you. I can't."

He helped you move to the first aid isle laying you down on a sleeping bag hed found in the store.

You pulled off your shirt while Sal cleaned his blade with shaky hands. Once it was disinfected he gently kissed your forehead taking a deep breath.

Even though your arm was burning with pain you forced a smile.

"I love you Sal."

"I love you too."

He got ready to make the first cut but you stopped him.

"Wait wait!"

He looked at you with teary eyes confused as to why you were prolonging this further.

You painfully moved your engagement ring and wedding band over to your other hand.

He smiled weakly with a small sniffle.

"Dont wanna lose those."

He swung the machete cutting deep.

You let out a loud painful scream.

With his second hit you had fainted. Once the arm was off he began applying pressure to the wound with the sterile pads.

When you woke up you were in pain still but no fever. You reached your hand up to feel where your arm had been only to feel an empty space.

You forced your eyes open to see the ceiling of Sal's place. The place was dark telling you it was late. You could hear soft snoring coming from your side. Each snore was followed by a sad whine or sob. Sal was no doubt having a nightmare about what had happened and was crying in his sleep.

Slowly and painfully you moved your arm over to where his head was rested next to your stomach from sleeping sitting up on the floor. You moved your fingers through his soft blue locks making him stir in his sleep.

He shifted so he was sitting up. Once he rubbed the tears and sleep from his eyes he noticed you were in fact awake and not a walker.

"Love you're ok!"

"I think so babe!"

He hugged you tightly but carefully holding you close.

Larry

You two were in the middle of a run when you had gotten over run by a smaller horde.

You ducked behind a car door readying your barbed wire covered bat. At least Steve Harrington had taught you a few pointers in all those Netlfix binge sessions.

You jumped up swinging knocking one of the roaming corpses to the ground. You dodged around the body taking off in the direction of the apartments.

"(Y/n) love over here!"

You spotted Larry with his back against an overturned uhaul truck. Weaving in between cars and taking out a Walker or two you made your way to your fiance. You could feel the baby kicking in your much larger stomach hinting that he or she was just exhausted of running as you were.

You placed a hand on your growing belly taking a couple deep breaths now that you were back by your husbands side.

He hugged you placing a quick kiss on your cheek.

"We're almost home love. Just another mile or two."

You nodded but you couldn't say you were ready to run another 2 miles especially not in this weather.

After another breather you two set off again taking out a couple more of the living dead. After another few minutes you both stopped in order for you to catch your breath.

You let your back rest against a car.

As you struggled to catch your breath you felt a sharp pain Rip through your stomach. You knew for certain it was a contraction.

"Shit not now!"

"What's the matter love?"

"I think I'm in labor."

"Shit fuck! Not now! Are you sure?"

"Yea I think I can make it to the apartments."

You kept running but after a few minutes you felt a worse sharp pain making you scream out in pain leaning against a car. You grabbed onto the open window squeezing it in pain. Your water broke with this contraction.

A moment later you felt something tear into your wrist making you scream out in pain.

"No!"

Larry pushed you out of the way stabbing his knife into the skull of the Walker.

You looked down at your wrist shocked. You were bitten and in labor.

You had been bitten right at the wrist so your arm was bleeding heavily, considering the physical strain and the heat it just took everything out of you. You fainted falling right into Larry's arms.

When you woke up you were back in what looked like the apartments. You had woken up to that ceiling and poster covered wall everytime you spent the night at Lisa's place.

You could feel throbbing burning pain in both your arm and a dull burn in your stomach.

Even though it was muffled and fuzzy you could hear Larry talking to someone near by.

Once you slowly forced your eyes open completely you were met with the rest of Larry's room.

You moved your arm over feeling the space where the rest of your right arm should be.

Next you moved your hand to feel your stomach. You slowly moved Larry's Sanitys Fall shirt up tracing your stomach where there was a giant stiched up wound.

"She has her moms eyes."

"I know shes beautiful just like her mom. Wait till she wakes up and meets you kid. You're gonna love her. And she's gonna love you so fucking much."

"Want me to hold her while you go check on (y/n)?"

"Sure. Here (daughter name) go see grandma for a minute."

A moment later the door opened up to an exhausted looking Larry.

His eyes were sad and tired his hair a mess. His hands were slightly still colored red from what you could assume was your blood.

Once he saw you were awake he jumped to your side.

"Holy Fuck knuckle love you're awake!"

"What happened?"

He stroked your hair moving it from your face while holding your hand.

"You got bit and we. We were so far from home. I -i had no choice. I c-cut it off and carried you the rest of the way. You weren't conscious to push but thankfully that doctor Morrison showed mom and Todd how to do a c section just in case before he left."

Larry let a few tears fall down his cheek as he talked.

"So the baby is ok?"

"Not only is she ok but she's so beautiful and happy already."

"Can I see her?"

Larry got up kissing you sweetly before going to the door and calling his mom in.

She came in smiling handing you your daughter.

"Shes beautiful."

"I told you just like you."

"Fortunately for her she pulls off Larry's nose a lot better than he does."

"Fuck off little dude!"

Everyone shared a laugh happy that everyone was ok.

Later that night you two laid in bed the baby between you both wide awake Larry's arm draped over both you.

"I love you so much. I was so scared I was gonna lose you."

"I love you too Larry. You saved me. Both of us really."

"I cant take all the credit. You fought for keeping our baby alive even if you didnt know you were doing it. I need you to do me a favor ok?"

"Sure what lar bear?"

"That you won't go out as much anymore. I need you safe and she needs at least one of us alive. At least take it easy for a little while even after you've healed."

"Ok love I'll try."

He leaned forward kissing you then your daughters head.

Lex💛

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tuwam · 5 years

Text

brick by brick.

@consilian }

minjae has known hyuck for quite some time. some time being that the only time when time mattered was the minute the two crossed paths. life became increasingly more exciting since the day minjae helped hyuck swindle a merchant through a game of jacks. life became worthwhile. sneaking past palace guards and frolicking forests with childish tales and age-old warnings. nothing was too adventurous, too far-fetched. there was no such thing as a limit, just the fear of humanity. and humanity was not something they often touched. humanity was not something they easily reverted to.

minjae has known hyuck enough that their ideas were often the same though never said. it was a glance between one another, silent agreements and rambunctiousness enough to cause the courts a headache. and that’s exactly what they did. they were loud, unapologetic youth for all of their youth that was stolen away. they were blessed rebellion that no one could touch, that no one could blame even as they shook their heads and whispered curses under their breaths.

minjae has known hyuck long enough to know that there’s no one he’d rather walk a cursed path with. a hopeless path, a tale-ridden path. that’s why he doesn’t flinch as he relays his ideas to the other, hands sharpening the blade in his hand. all that echoes through the palace is the sound of metal against metal, scraping, reaffirming his resolve. he doesn’t flinch when hyuck repeats the words, wide-eyed and hands in his hips.

‘you want to what?’ his face has blossomed red, and if it weren’t for the sun shining through the cracks in their roof, minjae wouldn’t be able to see the blue-bruised marks indicating he’s just came from ahyeon. minjae doesn’t acknowledge, the tone rather he picks up another knife and dips it in the purple liquid as he begins to fasten it to his belt.

“we - are going to kill a seelie king.” ‘you want to kill a fae? are you crazy?’

minjae pauses at that. he is crazy, he’s been told, been testament to it on several occasions. going up against a vampire with nothing but a baguette and a badly disguised plan. entering blindly into werewolf territory smelling of said vampire and not heeding the warning their rather gorgeous supervisor had told them about the coven leader. facing the most dangerous of shifters with an enchanted mirror pawned from a merchant he’d swindled on several occasions. that ended well. he’s crazy. he’s also clever. he never does things without reason, even if the reason is one as simple as boredom. legends he sets out to break, knock to size.

hyuck knows him better to tell the difference in the look in his eyes. he burns with repressed desperation, knuckles white on the grip he has on the knife. the purple salve starts to shine with the incantation that’s been placed on it. he should thank yeonhee ( seoyoung too ) later. but right now, he evens his gaze as it settles on his friend.

‘minjae...’ “not just any fae. the southern king.” ‘minjae that’s suicide.’

hyuck’s arms cross and the sun dances around his bare skin. new runes from their last mission still burn clear and blue on his skin, not yet healing into the coveted black that they proudly display. minjae recalls that this particular rune is all thanks to his research, hours spent trying to find a coven old enough to know the incantation, and taking down the coven had been a pain in the ass. hell - getting soyeon to give him the permission to even carry out the mission had been a pain. he owes three missions in exchange for her grant to go to paris. all so that hyuck could get a rune to prevent vampire poison from ripping through his body. minjae bites his tongue.

“you don’t have to come with me.” is all he says. the last of the knives is dipped in the poison. there’s no known rune for fae poison so all he can do is hit them before they hit him, and that’s the plan. hyuck’s sigh is audible over the sound of the salve bubbling as it settles into each blade, sizzling into the material until each color back to gray. he’s packed almost enough for an army, because even as he talks, he doesn’t count on hyuck saying no.

‘what happened?’ because hyuck knows him too well. ‘we came back from paris,”

“we came back and she was gone.” minjae remembers the memo. he remembers the look on kae’s face when he’d entered the portal to the headquarters. he remembers soyeon trying to calm him down as she called him to the office, hyuck going off to get his rune etched in. he remembers running to mina’s room first, remembers the tape, the rubble and the guards holding him back from looking at his sister’s room. empty, overturned and nothing like the pristine conditions she’s always scolding him for messing up.

he remembers the hole in the wall that led to nowhere, paint broken and cracked revealing the old brick of the building and the use of a portal. only one portal looks like that, an ugly twist of green blue and gray, vines that shouldn’t grow, entering in and out of the brick. starting nowhere and heading nowhere but coming from one place only. only one man is foolish enough to leave the tag of his home in his escape.

“he took her.”

yunho is the fae king of the south. cold, playful because of his power. because of how people suffocate in his lands, go mad at the extremes, as the wickedness of his court corrupts them after a few breaths of air, a few sips of nectar. nectar that burns blood down throats. minjae’s heard. he fastens the chains around his waist and slips his staff behind his back.

“he took her and i’m going to get her.”

he’s well made up his mind, gear already fixated around his body. it’s plated under armor, preventing nasty fae-folk arrows and knives from making a scratch. the ones that can get past his own that is.

‘what does he want with her?’ hyuck sounds exasperated, but he sounds like he’s losing his will to fight. good, minjae’s not in the mood to argue. once he got past soyeon he was sure he could get past anyone. even someone who’s probably the best to tell him when he’s out of his league. in this instance, even if hyuck did, minjae would still go. “does it matter?” his voice raises, he’s been holding in for a while, so hyuck allows him the outburst. allows the way his hands pin to his sides, balled into fists. allows him to work through his breaths, his fear, his real fear of losing not to life, but the only other thing that makes life worth living. mina. a couple more breaths and he makes eye contact with his friend once again. “i’m going.”

he gets two steps after he’s jumped down from the makeshift throne they often sit on. mismatched, twice-broken rocks and all old greenery, a testament to their own adventures. two steps past hyuck before there’s a hand on his shoulder. hyuck doesn’t stop him per say, doesn’t hold particularly tight, he just rests his hand. he rests and minjae feels the breath hyuck takes before he speaks.

‘we’re going. you definitely don’t have enough there for an army.’ “don’t need to, you have the other half of the army don’t you?”

minjae’s cheeky, his first smile since the news broke. since just last week when they were partying in paris and celebrating a mission well done. hyuck’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes but it’s genuine enough. it’s enough.

‘yeah yeah yeah, you knew i wouldn’t say no.’ “tell your lover girl you’ll be back in about a week.”

hyuck scoffs, probably at the notion of this taking only a week and instead is counting all the weapons he’s seen minjae ready, so he can get his only pack ready.

“i’ve already packed yours, junsu’s, myungsoo’s and jaejin’s.” ‘was everyone in on this?’ “they’re less likely to say no if it’s the two of us leading.”

which is true. the fact itself has hyuck grinning wider, childishly so. ‘no jaehyun or june?’ “soyeon said and i quote ‘they remain in training, if you pull them i pull your runes from your skin’ so, yeah.” both visibly shiver at the thought. though it makes sense, the gravity of the mission forcing soyeon and seojun to take extreme measures in case, well, in case none of them make it back. minaje licks his lips as hyuck processes the information - then he continues. “hanbyul has knowledge of southern fae territory, he’s gifted me what maps he can. worst case scenario jaejin’s not completely hopeless.” yeonhee and seoyoung cooked up some pretty good basic antidotes and poison strong enough to at least neutralize the fae in the south. he tries desperately to remember all kae’s training about how to fight the fae, specifically the southern ones. they’re taller, bulkier to accommodate their conditions. he supposes they can go over it on the trip there. hyuck’s busy, probably texting ahyeon the plan and minjae heaves a sigh.

“we’ll leave tomorrow, so you have time.” he does feel bad but he also feels better about having hyuck with him. it wouldn’t feel right, minjae would dare say it wouldn’t succeed. it’s necessary.

he will get her back. he will kill the southern king.

#{ w: minjae. }#consilian #au.

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myhauntedsalem · 4 years

Photo

Robert the Doll

A wealthy family moved into Key West, Florida in 1896-1897.

Mr. and Mrs. Otto were well known to be cruel and abusive to there servants.

There youngest child, Robert Eugene (Also called Gene and born in 1900) was always watched by a certain older Behamian servant girl.

This girl was treated the worst of all servants, because Gene adored her and thought of her as a best friend. Because of the abuse, the girl was planning revenge on the Otto family.

She stayed up late at night, secretly creating a special “present” for Gene for his 6th birthday.

The Otto family didn’t know that this servant girl practiced voodoo.

And this is were Robert the doll was born.

The servant girl sewed the doll by hand and adding a porcelain head to it.

It was believed she has put a curse on the doll.

Filling the doll with evil relics and very tiny animal bones.

At the time, it was a very nice doll.

New, shiny, and sewn with a lot of craft work.

The next day, she gave Gene the doll with hugs and smiles, and Gene was very happy for the wonderful gift. He was after all, a playful little boy.

Gene decided to call the doll by his real name. Robert. And the name has stuck ever sense.

As time went on, the Otto’s noticed something very strange and wrong with there son.

Gene was so fascinated with his new doll.

Gene would spend hours long in his room, all alone, talking to Robert.

What puzzled the Otto’s even more, was that they could hear answers.

A voice that was completely different from there sons.

When Gene went to sleep in the evening, he would always awake the family with his screams of fright.

When Mr. and Mrs. Otto got to his room, they would find Gene’s furniture overturned, and Gene in his bed, trembling in the center of it all. Robert, would be sitting upright at the end of Gene’s bed, glaring at Gene’s parents.

The little boy shouted:

“Robert did it! Robert did it! Robert did it!”

Then, things got worse.

As conflict became frequent in the house, or if Gene ever misbehaved, the little boy would always have the same person to blame.

“It was Robert,” he sobbed. “Robert did it! Robert did it!”

When Gene’s father died, Gene got the will of the house and he moved into his family home.

He got married and had a wife named Annette, otherwise known as Ann, and becoming a famous artist. Now just calling himself his middle name, Eugene Otto.

Eugene Otto always preferred to do his artwork alone, secluded, with Robert at his side.

Talking to it as if the doll could speak back.

Eugene’s wife, Ann, never liked the doll from the first time Eugene introduced it to her.

It gave her the chills just to look at it, and she hated how obsessed her husband was with it. It frightened her in some way.

Eventually, even though it deeply upset Eugene, Ann told her husband she was going to give Robert a room of his very own, in the attic.

Which is were he stayed for a few years.

Those years later, Eugene spoke up. He repeated over and over again. Warning his wife “how angry Robert was.”

Eugene even demanded that Robert have his own room. A proper room with a view. The guest room that looked out above the street. Ann disagreed greatly, but gave up the fight to please her husband.

Kids walking by Eugene’s house to school always looked straight ahead.

For each day, they saw Robert leaning face down up against the guest room window on the 3rd floor. Glowering at them, mocking them, and dancing around!

Inside the house, Eugene and Ann’s marriage was slowly deteriorating. Eugene was screaming and lashing out at his wife. Smashing things and running around the house like a mad man.

And then…all of a sudden he was fine, back himself again. And he always apologized with the same statement.

“It was Robert, Ann. Robert did it!”

Ann had finally began to question her husbands sanity.

A plumber working on the house, who was allowed to take a rest in the upstairs guest room, ran screaming from the house.

He said he heard “the doll giggling and saw him scowling at him.”

In the early 1970’s, Eugene became ill. Instead of spending time with his wife and excepting her comfort, he locked himself all alone in the guest room.

With Robert by his side.

In 1972, Eugene died. In the guest room. Obviously, with Robert beside him.

Ann, relieved but heartbroken, quickly sold the house, and left. But not before leaving Robert behind stored buried under what seemed like a million boxes.

Several years later, another family bought the home. Shortly after moving in, the new family discovered Robert. Nearly squashed beneath the boxes. Which probably resulted in one of his broken off ears.

The couple of this new family took one look at Robert and knew that they didn’t want something like this in there new lifestyle and home.

The 10 year old daughter of the family, surprisingly, liked the doll and added it to the collection of her china dolls and stuffed animals!

It didn’t take long for the family to realize that was obviously something very wrong with the doll.

Like, Eugene, the little girl would wake up in the middle of night screaming a crying. She said she saw Robert running and jumping up and down around her room. Then climbing on her bed and attacking her.

To his day, after more than 30 years, this woman now in her 40’s still claims “that the doll WAS alive and wanted to kill her.”

Shortly after this occurrence, the family got rid of it for good and brought it to the Key West Florida Martello Museum. Now, Robert is displayed in a glass case for all visitors to see his scary face.

Robert is still at the museum, in his little sailor suit, holding a little stuffed lion that he, appears to be attached too. Employees always remember to introduce new recruits of the museum to Robert. Some visitors laugh at the stupidity of being afraid of a stupid doll, but many change there mind….when they see Robert’s angry look starring back at them.

Others try to take pictures of Robert in his case, and there cameras will not turn on. They replace the batteries thinking that was the solution, but the new batteries are not working either! When they leave the museum, there cameras turn on and the batteries fully charged.

One male visitor, who didn’t believe the curse was true, videotaped his entire day at the museum. When they got to the area were Robert was, the sound on the camera turned off and couldn’t be turned back on! He turned around to talk to a employee close by, and the sound on the camera was turned up all the way. Blaring in his ears.

Ann’s ghost has been sighted in Eugene Otto’s old house. Guarding the house in case of the return of Roberts evil spirit. A man who dose the tours of the house claims he has seen her. He says she frequently descends the staircase to the attic. Were Roberts evil form was stored for so long.

Other employees say that when they lock up for the night, they leave peppermint candy’s in his case as if to bribe him to be good and not disturb anything during the night. They swear when the return in the morning the wrappers are left behind at Roberts feet.

The guest room where Eugene died is haunted too. A large bluish-green orb is seen floating throughout the room. The tour guide believes its Ann.

A psychic who visited the museum tells the employee’s and manager that the energy of the spirit inhabiting Robert is slowly dying. Maybe she’s right. Because Robert appearance is indeed becoming worn and old. As I said before, one of his ears is broken off, his face has chips and tiny holes from being moth bitten, the paint that was added to his lips and eyebrows has faded drastically, his hair is actually turning white!

#Robert the Doll #haunted dolls #paranormal #ghost and hauntings #ghost and spirits

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forthelulzy · 5 years

Text

Heaven By Violence: Chapter 6

When there's nowhere else to run Is there room for one more son One more son If you can hold on, if you can hold on Hold on — “All These Things That I've Done”, The Killers

To put it mildly, Dorian Pavus is up to his well-groomed mustache in it.

He knows. The Elder One knows by now that they ran, knows exactly who betrayed him. Well, never let it be said he is a coward. He was never on their side. Felix and Gereon Alexius are dead, having outlived their usefulness. There is nothing for him now but warning the Inquisition.

The south is bloody cold, but Dorian can’t feel it now. The horse’s sides are heaving; it will collapse any moment. He reaches down and presses his palm to the beast’s flesh. A burst of light and Haste takes hold; the horse whinnies in fright but keeps going, the snowy countryside turning into little more than a blur. Thank goodness there aren’t any trees nearby—

The horse drops out from under him and he’s flying, head over heels in a bundle of robes. He doesn’t have time to make a peep before he’s tumbling down, rocks jabbing into his sides. Tacere yelps somewhere, and the horse screams. It feels a frightfully long time before he hits the bottom of the hill. He lands in a pile of snow, at least. Small victories.

He stares up at the sky for a moment, the sky that now only contains traces of the Breach that has been there for months. Green clouds swirl around the area where the hole to the Fade used to be. The Herald — and her templars — closed the Breach an hour or two ago, while the two of them were running. Yes. He was running.

Tacere’s pointed face blocks out the sky above. Those amber eyes reflect any amount of light in the dark. They almost seem to glow now.

“Come on,” he hisses in his strong Orlesian accent, uncharacteristically grim. “Haven’s that way. We can make it ahead of the army if we get moving.”

Dorian takes the offered hand and the elf helps him up. The horse is to his left, all four legs broken and throat cut. The wound steams in the cold, but the beast is already dead. Tacere’s work.

His ankle twists unnaturally and he stumbles with a curse. He knows only enough healing to take the worst of the pain away, and he bites down hard on his lip as he follows Tacere into the darkness, heading towards the light in the distance. Haven must be celebrating the Herald’s victory. They won’t be for long.

***

“Why exactly are you here?” he had demanded the day he met Tacere in Redcliffe. The rogue had materialized one day in the tavern and acted like he’d always been there. It would fool most people but not Dorian, who had used the same trick himself when forced to interact with the locals. He avoided them in case Alexius caught on, but a few cases demanded it.

“Darling!” Tacere had said, and if he had a scarf he would have fluttered it in shock. “I am here for the same reasons you are. Mostly.”

Neither of them had been in Redcliffe for long, but already Dorian knew he would have to leave, warn the fledgling Inquisition. Word was the Herald of Andraste had ignored the mages’ plight and gone directly to the templars, who didn’t even want her help. But he felt it his duty to at least let her know about the Venatori and the Elder One behind them.

“Oh, really? And what might these other reasons be, hmm?”

Tacere had smirked, which then grew into a wide grin. “Oh, just looking for someone.” The words were innocent but the grin was not. “Why so suspicious, mon chéri? I could ask you why you’re here, but I won’t because I already know.” He winked and slipped away, fading into the shadows before Dorian could hunt him down and force him to explain what that meant. Now they are crashing through the forest (why is there suddenly a forest?), within fireball distance of Haven, and he still doesn’t know what Tacere wants. He would have thought murder or espionage, but he doesn’t want to suspect the elf of something he will probably be accused of as a ‘Vint’. Dorian can feel the army behind him, the impending doom. He loves dramatics, but this is ridiculous.

Tacere has broken through the treeline up ahead, and a moment later Dorian does as well, emerging onto a well-trod path. The elf looks back at him, then his eyes are drawn to something above Dorian’s head and the look on his face really doesn’t belong there, it just doesn’t—

“Run!” Tacere seizes him by the arm and then they are sprinting for the gates of Haven. A sprawling camp is set up outside, but everyone must be celebrating within the village. Or maybe not — a watch-bell rings somewhere, and shouts of alarm reach Dorian’s ears even through the blood pumping furiously to keep him at pace with Tacere. The elf is not injured, but he is shorter, and that is the only reason Dorian isn’t left behind in the snow.

They reach the gates and Dorian fully intends to ram into them, making a suitably dramatic entrance, but the doors hold tight and both of them bounce off, Dorian landing on his back — the slush seeps into his robes in an instant — and Tacere doing a rather impressive roll to pop up a few paces away.

He scrambles up, muttering a curse. “If someone could open these, I’d appreciate it!” There is no response from Haven, and he turns to stare at his rogue acquaintance. “Now wha—”

He’s talking to the Venatori sneaking up on him, apparently, and he squeaks and dives out of the way before the zealot’s sword comes down. He conjures a fireball; the Venatori drops without a sound but for the crackling of his burning clothes. Dorian grimaces — the smell — and looks for Tacere. Time for another plan.

The vanguard is upon them, and the elf is currently weaving around no less than six of them, dodging blows and sliding his daggers into flesh with wild abandon. Dorian could swear the little elf is laughing. He picks off the ones on the edges of the fight; though Tacere is in his element and doing just fine, and Dorian is a bit unnerved by the bloodthirsty way he teases the Venatori, he would be remiss not to try to help.

He doesn’t hear the doors open behind him, doesn’t realize the templars have come out to investigate until his magic cuts off and he is seized by a full-body spasm. He collapses, frothing at the mouth, and twitches as his vision fades and returns, fades and returns. Was that… a smite? He’s never been smited before — how dare they!

Gradually regaining control of his limbs, he pushes himself up, gets his face out of the slush and spits out pink-tinged foam. His whole body aches, like he’s run out his mana over and over for hours. His head spins, but at least they haven’t killed him yet. He can be grateful for that, if nothing else.

“Dorian? Dorian!” Tacere’s lilt echoes over the sudden silence, and then the elf is kneeling beside him. He’s drenched in blood, hands covered in the stuff reaching out to Dorian’s face, and the mage pulls away. Tacere drops his hands. “What the fuck did you do?” This is directed at whoever is standing behind Dorian, but the mage doesn’t turn to look. He’s having trouble keeping his stomach from crawling up through his mouth, thank you. At least he didn’t piss himself.

“Fletcher, help the townsfolk get to the Chantry. We will have words later,” growls a man. Fereldan, from the accent. A clank of armor as someone leaves.

Then a woman’s voice — at least he thinks it’s a woman, but it is very deep — says, “Tac? What in the world are you doing here?”

Tacere smiles through the blood and ichor on his face, and it reaches his eyes for the first time Dorian has seen. “Ree-Ree! Sorry, love, but there’s no time. Dorian and I came to warn you. The rebel mages were taken over by a Tevinter group called the Venatori. They’re under… well. He’s up there.” Tacere points back the way they came, to where two shadowy figures stand on an outcropping. The army streams down the valley on either side.

“The Elder One,” he supplies in an embarrassingly unsteady voice, since Tacere is being coy with his information. “The other is Calpernia, who commands the Venatori at the Elder One’s behest.” He struggles up, letting Tacere and the Fereldan man help him, and leans on his staff. “Fine, I’m fine. Exhausted, but— it is supposed to come back, isn’t it?”

The Fereldan nods, opens his mouth to say something. But then the woman Tacere called ‘Ree-Ree’ — and she can only be the fabled Herald of Andraste, Irene Trevelyan — barks, “Cullen, get everyone out here. We have to use the trebuchets, stop as many of them as we can. Tac, you and Dorian get up to the Chantry. You can— oh, shit.”

“What? What is it, Herald?” Cullen says, even as he motions to the people gathered just inside the gates to come out and fight. They rally at his command, charging out of the village. Most of them haven’t had time to put on armor, but they will give their lives for this cause.

Irene shakes her head, looking at Tacere. “Julien,” she breathes. “He’s in the infirmary. He won’t be able to move on his own.”

“On it, love,” the rogue says, and salutes. He tugs Dorian towards the doors to Haven. “Come on, we’ve got more heroics to do.”

***

Tacere leaves Dorian in the Chantry and runs off to find Julien — whoever that is — but Dorian can’t stand the looks the people already gathered there are giving him. He feels impotent, even with his mana slowly returning and the dizziness gone. He has to help. The Venatori haven’t breached the walls, so everyone is either on the front lines outside or huddled inside the Chantry. He still looks for stragglers. Not that they’ll listen to him, but if he can save someone—

He’s near what appears to be a tavern, light still spilling out from the open doors. Everyone left in a hurry. He draws even with the building, watching the walls — the battle does not sound good out there — and stops short.

He sees the lantern first, overturned on a table. Then he sees the flames, merrily eating the alcohol-soaked surface and making their way towards the walls and floor. The wooden walls and floor. Then, and only then, does he see the woman, frantically scooping bottles into her arms from behind the bar. She hasn’t seen the fire. (He doesn’t want to think about her possibly having seen it and deciding to ‘rescue’ the inventory anyway; he has enough to weep over in regards to the intelligence of the average denizen of Thedas.)

“What are you doing?” he shouts, and she whirls around, bottles slipping from her arms to shatter at her feet. “Get out of there!”

She gasps and edges around the bar, away from him, towards the fire. He’s about to shout again when the flames make the leap, consuming a banner on the wall and spreading to the thatch roof in a matter of seconds.

“Kaffas!” Dorian launches himself towards the woman — or where the woman had been, as the tavern has filled with choking smoke — and reaches out, finding her flailing arm. He tugs her towards the door, out of the path of a falling beam, which crashes down right where she had been standing. The heat is overwhelming, the smoke clogs his lungs and renders him blind as his eyes water. He’s wanted to return to blessed warmth every day since he arrived in Ferelden, but this is not what he meant.

It is pure, dumb luck that he manages to stumble out the door with the woman in tow, as he can’t see it. He releases his death grip on her arm and collapses again in the snow, coughing up bile. He’s done his part, and could happily live the rest of his life never diving into another burning building ever again. The smite’s lingering effects don’t help.

Still coughing, but with rather less disgusting results, he unhooks his staff and uses it to haul himself up. He finds the woman behind him, watching the tavern burn with a hand on her mouth and no care for the heat radiating off the doomed building, or the sparks leaping off to fizzle in the snow. She turns around slowly. “You… what do you want?”

It takes a lot of willpower not to sneer; his father would sneer, and Dorian Pavus is not his father. It is that thought that makes him say, as gently as he can, “Get to the Chantry. Everyone is gathering there.” He half expects her to think it a trap, but something comes over her face then, some steely determination, and she nods at him before taking off up the hill at a sprint.

Dorian sighs. Well, he never did think it was going to be easy. He turns back to the hunt.

Just over the walls, a flaming rock hurtles toward the mountain pass the Venatori are undoubtedly still swarming over like so many ants, cracking against the steep slopes. A moment later the side of the mountain breaks off, starting an avalanche that will bury the main part of the horde. A cheer rises from the front lines, the sound faint to his ears but still bolstering his spirits. They could win this.

That, of course, is when the archdemon appears.

***

The Chantry man — and Dorian really must get his name at some point — stumbles towards the doors, waving in the last of the front lines. It’s just Irene, Cullen, and a few people he vaguely recognizes as being there at the gates, including four soldiers in the Inquisition uniform. Nine total of the dozens who defended Haven.

“A fucking archdemon, Cassandra,” Irene spits out, tugging at her hair. Her face is flushed from battle, her greatsword still covered in gore. A fresh cut slices across her temple, dripping blood down her cheek. She turns around mid-stride to continue talking to the stern-faced woman behind her, but stops in her tracks when she spots the Chantry man. “Chancellor Roderick, are you…?”

The Chancellor wobbles and keels over. Dorian is the closest, so he hooks an arm around him and drags the man to the side. “He bravely stood against a Venatori. For me.”

Irene blinks.

“Briefly,” Roderick gasps. “I am no… templar…”

Irene gapes.

“Herald!” Cullen turns from where he’s been holding a whispered conference with a woman in purple — a stylish outfit, Dorian thinks absently — and shakes his head with finality. “We can’t hold out much longer. That thing more than makes up for those you managed to kill with the avalanches.”

“No demands, no communication at all,” the woman says, soft Orlesian lilt ringing out in the suddenly-silent Chantry. “Whatever they want, they aren’t telling us.”

Dorian settles a panting Roderick into a chair. “It was the same with the mages. This Elder One just swept in and took them. It’s marched all this way for your Herald, too.” That was what he had gathered in Redcliffe, anyway, before he and Tacere had to flee.

Tacere. Where is he, anyway?

“I don’t care if it wants me, I’m not letting it destroy Haven,” Irene snaps.

“If I knew how to prevent that, I would not keep such information to myself,” Dorian says. Whether or not they believe him, he has to get that out. But Irene seems inclined to trust him, which is decidedly strange. “And the landslide went so well, too.”

“The landslide…” Irene repeats. Dorian enjoys watching the gears turn in her head — she is so bad at hiding it. “Cullen, there’s one left, right?”

“Yes.” Cullen sighs, looks around the Chantry, at the wounded and wondering. “We could turn the last one to the mountains above us. You saw — we’re overrun. The only choice left is whether to be spiteful in how we go down.” His voice is low, but Dorian doubts the onlookers are oblivious to the decision being made for them.

Dorian can see his point — he also saw the archdemon — but Cullen is making last stands too quickly for his liking. He’s seen this behavior before, in the cornered. “That’s unacceptable,” he says mildly, leaving Roderick’s side to confront them. “I did not ride double with that elf just for you to drop rocks on my head. You have no idea how clingy he is.”

Irene startles at the mention of Tacere, but Cullen speaks before she can. “Are you suggesting we let them kill us?”

“Suicide — dying at all — shouldn’t be the first resort! Kaffas, man, you’re thinking like a blood mage!”

Cullen doesn’t just flinch at the jab, he recoils. The triumph he feels at a particularly clever jibe is quickly overtaken by guilt at the stricken look on the other man’s face.

“There is a way.” A pained voice cuts through the tension, and Dorian turns around to find Roderick struggling to sit up in the chair he’s slumped over in. He goes to help automatically, easing the Chancellor upright. “The summer path, behind the Chantry. I made the pilgrimage… she… Andraste must have shown me just for this moment. So I could tell… you. Herald…” With a sudden burst of energy, he stands up, sways on the spot, and doubles over. Blood leaks from his lips. He wraps the Chancellor’s arm around his shoulders and whispers, “Hold on, dear man. You need to show us the path, remember?”

Roderick nods.

“Go,” Irene orders. “Everyone, go.”

Cullen pales. “But Herald, how will you—”

She half-grins, half-snarls. While not many things frighten Dorian anymore, this does. This woman is a force to be reckoned with. “Don’t worry. I’ll make him work for it.”

Then she is gone, bursting out the doors with a roar. Alone. A few of the gathered people step forward as if to follow, but the woman in purple waves them down. Roderick shuffles towards the back of the Chantry, Dorian supporting him but letting him lead. Cullen remains, staring at the doors, and as they pass Dorian hears him whisper, as if in prayer, “Let that thing hear you, Irene.”

***

It has been hours since Solas sent up the signal flare as they left the treeline and looked back at Haven. Hours since the trebuchet launched and the village was buried with the Herald in it. Hours of trudging through the wind-whipped snow in no discernible direction, though the sun has risen on a new day.

Hours since Dorian realized that Tacere had been right behind him for some time, face flushed not from the wind but from excitement. He had one hand on the side of a bronto, one of three some intrepid person managed to get out of Haven, and strapped into the beast’s saddle — along with supplies — was a man swaddled in so many blankets he was probably suffocating at that very moment. “Dori, love, meet Jule,” Tacere had said with a laugh, patting the fellow’s thigh. He was unconscious, and Dorian wondered how Tac had managed to get him up there. “He’s Irene’s brother.”

“Brother from another mother. He was always kind to her, even when he joined the templars and she didn’t. Funny that he would live longer.”

“Hush, Cole darling.”

Hmm. Dorian remembers this Cole’s words but not their voice. He can still recall Tacere’s. Strange. The more he thinks about it the worse his head feels, and Dorian quickly decides it’s not important. They’ve made camp now: a haphazard collection of tents and a central firepit. The storm has stopped, for now. Cullen and the purple woman — Leliana — have set up guard rotations and scouting operations for the area, but they, like everyone else, are going through the motions.

The Herald is dead.

Worse, the Elder One is alive. Dorian saw it for himself: the archdemon flying away as the avalanche swept into Haven. Everyone saw.

He sits and watches Roderick cling to life in the makeshift infirmary. The Chancellor is stubborn as well as brave. The Inquisition’s days are numbered, too, but they seem content to lie down and let death come early. Roderick is only lucid a fraction of the time, but when he is, he whispers his faith into the air, and it reaches Dorian’s ears. It’s not the Chant, though that comes too. It is when the dying man says that he must stay alive to witness the Herald’s return, that he has to look away.

A whistle sounds from back the way they came. Dorian looks up in time to see a streak of blue light shoot up into the sky and burst, lightning shooting out in all directions. It dissipates before it gets anywhere, but the thunderous bang echoes through the mountains.

Instantly the camp is on alert. Dorian leaps up too, dashing for the firepit. The advisors are there, barking orders, and he skids to a stop in front of Leliana. She seems the most sympathetic. “I know that magic! It’s Tevinter in origin, but used to signal rescues.”

“Rescues?” Leliana repeats, sharp eyes flicking towards where the flare disappeared.

“Yes. Purely cosmetic, designed to draw attention without setting anything on fire.”

“It’s Irene,” Tacere says, appearing behind him. “And a friend.” The rogue is grinning, hands tucked into his armor. “We should probably go find ‘em. Takes a lot to get him to admit he needs help.”

“How do you—” Cullen starts, but Tacere is already zipping off with a giggle. Cullen and Cassandra exchange looks; Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and runs after Tacere. A hopeful smile — that he’s probably not even aware he’s making — spreads across Cullen’s face, and then he is following too. Dorian throws up his hands and rounds out the search party; someone has to keep an eye on these idiots.

***

No more flares come, but after a few minutes dashing through the snow, Dorian spies a faint green light ahead. It can’t be a rift, there weren’t any on the way up. Cullen and Cassandra slow down when they see it, but Tacere speeds up, laughing with abandon. They lose sight of him around a sharp bend in the slot-like mountain pass.

Dorian draws level with the Commander and the Seeker, and unhooks his staff. Anything that makes Tac happy is probably a day-ruiner at the least.

They turn the corner and nearly run straight into the most powerful ward unaided by blood magic that Dorian has ever seen, a bubble that looks more like green-tinted glass than a magical barrier.

And surrounding the ward is a pack of over a dozen wolves. Thin and mangy, drooling from their desperation, they circle their prey.

Cullen and Cassandra have their swords drawn in a blink, while Dorian throws a hasty barrier over them. Tacere — where is that blasted rogue? — Tacere has disappeared, but Dorian wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still around somewhere. A figure is barely visible in the center of the ward, and Dorian only sees him when he shifts slightly and calls out, voice muffled, “Who’s there?”

Cassandra opens her mouth to answer, but then the first wolf spots them and lets out a growl. The others turn as one, eyes glinting in the pale light of the ward.

Dorian lobs a fireball straight at the closest wolf. It leaps back, but not fast enough to avoid the fire catching on its legs, and the rest of the pack spreads out as it howls in agony. They don’t run, however, and he curses. Normally, any amount of fire is enough to scare wolves away, even when they have the advantage of numbers. Something is wrong.

The pack splits, circling, and Cullen and Cassandra move to put Dorian between them. For a few seconds all is still, then something ripples through the pack. A signal.

A whip-thin wolf leaps straight for Dorian, and he steps back only to feel another behind him, snapping at his robes. He turns to keep his back to Cullen’s, lightning arcing from his hands to either side. Smoke from burning fur chokes the air.

Cullen bellows a war cry, bashing one in the snout with his shield. Cassandra’s sword flashes, face set in a snarl of her own. Wolves crowd their legs, biting anything they can. Dorian kicks one latched onto Cullen’s forearm, and it drops with a yelp, only to be caught by the Commander’s sword. Cullen nods at him and spares a glance at his dented bracer before launching himself back into the fray.

“Mon chéri!” Tac trills, and Dorian glances up. One wolf has hung back, lingering by the ward. The leader. This one is huge, larger than the others by far, and even across the battlefield Doian can see that its eyes are no normal color, but red as fresh blood. A crimson sheen shimmers over its fur.

It’s possessed.

And then it’s not, as Tac reappears from stealth above it, mid-leap, and drives his dagger into the back of its skull.

It crumples, and as the red dims in its eyes the remaining wolves each shudder and cry out, coming back to their senses. They flee down the mountain, toward Haven’s smoking ruins, like the wrath of the Maker is upon them.

“Was that thing… possessed by a demon?” Cassandra asks. “How?”

The mystery man inside the ward, who Dorian had quite forgotten about, answers. “Lots of weird things have been happening of late, haven’t you noticed?” He pauses. “Now, who are you?” Dorian squints through the barrier, but can’t make out anything beyond a fuzzy outline of someone who is either very short or kneeling.

Cassandra scowls and opens her mouth to reply.

“Ah, mon trésor! I’ve brought help!” Tacere calls, tugging his dagger out of the alpha wolf’s head.

“Tac?” the man asks, voice a mix of revolted and unsurprised. “Of course it is.” The ward contracts, the mana sustaining it petering out, then pops as the energy cuts off entirely. The man — a thin, sharp-boned, and decidedly unfashionable Tevinter mage in brown traveling leathers, carrying a staff that is little more than an oversized stick — is kneeling over Irene, who lies still as death on the snow. His ink-dark hair is long, held in a ponytail at the base of his neck. Icy blue eyes flick towards them, narrowing suspiciously.

Dorian feels he should know him, but he is only barely familiar.

“My darling, my love! These are members of the esteemed Inquisition,” Tacere trills after a beat, clapping his hands and skipping over. The mage rolls his eyes but shifts back, letting Cassandra approach — though she does so carefully, watching his hands — and bend to examine the fallen Herald.

Dorian and Cullen drift closer as well, and that is when the mage looks up and sees the Commander. He tenses, nostrils flaring. At that moment, Dorian is very glad looks can’t kill, or Cullen would be dead on the spot. And that would be a waste. Cullen stops short, brows drawing down when he notices the open hostility on the part of the as-yet-unnamed mage.

“Do you… know each other?” Dorian says at last, when the staring contest — confused memory-searching by one party, simmering rage by the other — has dragged on far too long.

“I don’t—” Cullen starts.

“Of course you don’t,” the mage scoffs. He turns to Cassandra, who is gathering Irene in her arms. “Tac and I are old… acquaintances. Extended family.” Cullen starts forward to help Cassandra, but the mage leaps to his feet and points at him. He stops. “You,” the mage snarls, “are Knight-Captain Cullen Stanton Rutherford of the Gallows, the templar who stood by while Meredith stole the souls of innocent mages and looked the other way while Hawke gave us all a bad name. Now do you remember?”

Cullen opens his mouth and closes it again several times, and a strange wave of outrage washes over Dorian. For his fellow Tevinter mage, yes, but mostly for Cullen — and Dorian has no idea why he feels the need to protect the Commander of the Inquisition like a kicked puppy. “Now now,” he interjects, “we can all gleefully unearth each others’ sordid pasts later. Our dear Herald doesn’t look well.”

That would be an understatement. As Cassandra carries Irene past them, intent on the camp, Dorian realizes the situation is a great deal worse than he thought. Irene’s face is bloodless, her nose has a blue tinge, and there’s a scrape on her right cheek ringed with frost. Purple bruises in the shape of unnaturally long fingers decorate her left wrist, where the mark flickers dully. Something sundered her chestplate, too, and the hole’s edges are blackened, burnt by magefire. But she is alive, or Cassandra would not be so determined. She is alive.

Cullen looks at her and discards whatever he had decided to say, charging ahead toward the camp without a word. Cassandra follows, a great deal slower from her burden, but she still leaves the rest of them in the dust. Or rather, snow.

Some of the tension dissipates. Some.

Dorian glances back just as his fellow mage Fade-steps to his side. The spell is notoriously difficult to master, but his technique is precise, controlled. It jogs his memory, but he has to be sure.

“Ah, hello,” he says, keeping his tone light. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da:i #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #heaven by violence #lulzy writes

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archaeopter-ace · 6 years

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ok you seem like a rlly good person to come to for arcadia meta. so. Unless it's been addressed in canon and i just forgot it, do you think trolls tried to remain hidden from human society still after the eternal night? Personally i can see that even if they TRIED, they'd fail because well. literally everything about that brouhaha was absurdly attention-grabbing. not to mention all the changelings over the world suddenly poofing back into trolls after their familiars were retrieved.

Aw, thanks! ;D What a good question! We see that the people of Arcadia, at least, are not going to be able to stick their heads in the sand regarding the swirling vortex of doom and the gumm-gumms and all the structural damage done to the town. But we don’t know anything about how much attention the rest of the world was paying to them on the Eternal Night. The eclipse Morgana created was not global - it was more like some intense magical cloud cover, as we see from some aerial shots when Darci was lifted above it by a stalkling. Do magical clouds show up on doppler radar? Probably - but that wouldn’t immediately lead people to think ‘trolls,’ just that Arcadia was meteorologically interesting for a day. Similarly, the tremors could be dismissed as earthquakes, and while seismologists might be scratching their heads over the fact that none of their instruments gave them advance warning, it too could be brushed under the rug.(that’s if the shaking in Arcadia even registered as an earthquake at all. Maybe the Darklands don’t have an actual ‘depth,’ being a different dimension, and all the shaking was only at the surface. And while they could certainly be felt by townspeople, the quakes themselves hardly did any damage. A shallow earthquake might occur at a depth of 20 km; a deep one might occur at 500 km. If the shaking in Arcadia only happened at the literal surface, perhaps the vibrations didn’t radiate outwards very far)Social media is another matter. We could imagine that the magical energy in the air interfered with cell signal, but it would be a herculean effort to then convince everyone in town not to say anything about it. On the other hand, the Arcadia Museum openly displayed paintings of trolls in their gallery, so maybe Arcadia has a bit of a reputation not unlike the Bridgewater Triangle (200 square miles in Massachusetts where a lot of paranormal activity is said to occur), and people outside of town are more willing to dismiss the claims coming from the town as nothing more than a media stunt.

The fact that almost all the trolls have left would help. Aaarrrgghh could help clear the gumm-gumm rubble out of sight (maybe drop them into the giant hole in the ground?), at which point, nothing in the town says ‘trollpocalypse,’ specifically. Just general weirdness.

There’s just so much that needs to be swept under the rug, though - one or two things I could imagine, but not everything. Like, maybe we don’t know how many surviving changelings there are after Gunmar’s massacre, and maybe there were few enough left that they coincidentally weren’t out in public when the familiars were rescued. And maybe the whole town does agree to keep the secret. And maybe FEMA does give the town disaster relief to get themselves back on their feet and for some reason does not conduct any sort of investigation (Also there’s a doctor with a thousand babies???). The trolls, being unaware of how human society operates and observes things, would definitely assume that humans don’t know about them, until proven otherwise.

All that being said, from a showrunner point of view, they very rarely overturn the status quo so completely, especially in children’s shows. Kids are smart, and deserve more credit than they often get, but they aren’t usually the ones picking apart what the appropriate disaster response would be to an explosive show finale; they just roll with it. Two exceptions that come to my mind are from the Daredevil comics, and the Gargoyles tv show. In the Born Again storyline way back in 1986, Daredevil’s secret identity gets outed - and notably, this doesn’t get retconned or reversed or otherwise undone as happens so often in comics. Instead, writers have to deal with with a superhero whose identity is an open secret, a rarity.

More relevant to our Trollhunters case, the Gargoyles cartoon is an interesting example to look at to see what might happen when a nocturnal group of monster-like creatures is discovered to have been living under everyone’s noses. Now, the third season of Gargoyles is not considered canon by fans or by its creators. It suffered from a low budget, executive meddling, poor continuity, and from having most of the staff who worked on it replaced (including creator Greg Weisman). It was a hot mess, that could have had so much potential. But it did at least try to address the question of how the revelation of the existence of gargoyles would unfold. Step by step, how the information would spread, and how people would react in stages. How the media would hype it, the protesters and the counter-protesters. How gargoyles would have to defend their personhood over and over and over again to hysterical people who would rather see them rounded up. And it’s been too long since I’ve seen it but I’m sure the government was pulling strings in there somewhere.

It really comes down to what story the creators want to tell. If digging into all the ramifications of Trolls Becoming Known would sidetrack them from whatever awesome plot they’ve got planned for Wizards, if it would bog them down too much from a different story they’ve maybe had planned since before the final details of The Eternal Night were hashed out, then I think they’d gloss over the fallout from that night and let the rest of the world remain ignorant.

A part of me would like to see the trolls get to keep their secret, because I love them and don’t want to see them harassed. The realist side of me says there’s no way the town would be able to keep a lid on that secret for long, not when that funnel cloud would have been visible from miles away (and ‘tornado-slash-meteor shower-slash-earthquake’ just doesn’t sound like a very probable explanation). The part of me that tries to guess what the show’s writers are thinking gives it 50-50 odds that the trolls just carry on as they have been.

Thanks so much for the awesome question!

#trollhunters #tales of arcadia #meta #headcanon #ask reply #gargoyles #commentary #longpost

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brideofviolets · 6 years

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What Only You Can Provide (2)

Cross posted here cause Tumblr appears to be hiding my posts on my other blog even though I’m not flagged.

Prompt Firsts | Lasts

Also on A03

Content Warning at the end of post

Three weeks after Catra and Adora defect the Whispering Woods leads them to a village coated in a thin layer of ash. Adora has seen ruins in the woods before, but all of them within the woods that they are consumed by the trees. The roots pierce through everything when given enough time. Like river water, they find any and all cracks and fill and stretch and open and enter. Every ruin they find is nothing more than crumbling walls half-buried under the ceaseless advance of the woods. The woods remind her that this is how it expands itself, by taking the old wreckage of war burying it deeper and deeper into the soil. With each, it blocks another path to Bright Moon. And takes another of the world’s scars into its greenery.

The Whispering Woods asks her to follow it from their home, claiming that it was time that she saw something that could no longer be hidden from her. Dread follows the words, making her feel ill with tension long before they see the first grey and black structure in the distance. They slow, walking between the quickly spreading roots to see the span of it all. She cannot help but note how small the village seems. From her best guess looking at the burnt-out structures and toppled roofs of the porous buildings these are little more than the homes of those who lived in the village. The outskirts are bare of any defense. No perimeter fences. No guard towers. No installed weaponry. Nothing here is or was defensible.

It couldn’t hold up to cannon fire. The first building Adora sees has an entire wall blown away, the edges of it blackened from the heat of what could only be the discharge of a laser cannon. To its left she spots what must have been a small hovel or perhaps a storage shed that has exploded outward, its roof gone completely and the very bottoms of its walls were all that still stood. Artillery. And with just a measuring stick she could find what class it was and how big the shell would have been.

Adora walks quickly out of the tree line and Catra is quick to follow, dashing up to her and pushing her into the bushes around the edge of the village.

“What are you doing!” she hisses, “Did you even check to see if there was anybody still around?”

Adora shrugs Catra’s hands from her shoulders. “There’s no one here besides us.”

“How do you know that for sure?” She says, scanning the buildings around them.

Adora brushes her hand against the leaves of the bush and they curl around her fingers, affectionate and gentle as the whispers fill her mind in clearer detail. She closes her eyes, shuts out the world for a moment and breaths in the world through the woods’ lungs.

“The closest person to us is a mile away, headed away from here towards Bright Moon,” she says, without opening her eyes, “and the closest animals are only a few birds and squirrels. Catra, we are the only ones here. The woods doesn’t lie.”

Catra growls softly, “I hate it when you do that. Fine. But we can’t stay here too long.”

They exit the bush. The leaves slowly uncurl from around her finger tips and through her own eyes she inspects the damage. She looks into the collapsed wall, sees the exit hole on the other side. The shot cleaved some kind of furniture in half, leaving multiple drawers on the ground and one hanging by a caught wheel in the middle row. Clothes are strewn about on the ground, intermixed with bits of shattered glass from a mirror that fell from the wall. There are two beds she can see, on either side of the room, and the covers are lightly tossed. She steps inside, careful of the glass and walks over to one of the beds. It is small, barely four feet on the long side. The covers are a light blue with swelling aquamarine waves that fold seamlessly into the cloth. She rubs the fabric between her finger and her thumb and the feels the grainy ash between the fibers.

“Adora,” Catra calls from the hole in the wall, “come on. There’s nothing in here for us. We need to find whatever’s still useful in this place and go.”

Adora balls up the cloth in her hands, and tries to wipe out some of the ash. Catra huffs and enters the room with her, stepping lightly around the glass.

“Come on, Aodra,” she urges her, leaning her head into view, “that blanket’s filthy. Just leave it alone.”

She sets the blanket back down on the bed, and meets Catra’s eyes. Her own are watering, she can feel the sting. And the way Catra’s face goes from hard to soft to hard tells her that she can see it too.

“Why would they do this, Catra?” The other girl doesn’t respond, unable to meet her gaze. “This is a civilian town. There’s no way they could’ve been a threat to the Horde. They don’t have any weapons here. It’s not a major trade route or part of any kind of supply chain. These people didn’t have anything to do with the war. This doesn’t make sense.”

Catra crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the still standing portion of the wall. “Since when did the Horde need a reason to blow something up?”

“We always had a reason, Catra! Tanks and artillery of this caliber are strictly for use when confronted with armored enemy units or where siege tactics are necessary not for occupations.” Her voice carries as she speaks, a shrill note, “We don’t just blow up towns for fun! We were supposed to be brining order to Etheria not murdering innocent people!”

“And how do you know that’s true?” Catra says, glaring. “Because Shadow Weaver told you so? Did you just believe everything Shadow Weaver told us?”

“Shadow Weaver was our mentor, Catra. She was teaching us the right way to—”

“Shadow Weaver isn’t here, Adora!” Catra approaches, hands at her sides clenched and trembling, “and she was never teaching us the ‘right way’ to do anything. Of all people she’s probably the one who planned this attack in the first place.”

Adora pulls the blanket to her chest, “She couldn’t have. I-I know she didn’t. I asked her and she said we would offer villages that couldn’t defend themselves a home in the Horde and they always said yes.”

“She lied, Adora. She was lying to us from the very beginning…I thought you knew that.” Catra takes her face in one hand, forcing Adora to look her in face. “Did you never think about what might happen if someone said no the the Horde.”

“They wouldn’t.” Her words are steady, but she can no longer believe them as she speaks.

“Look around you, Adora. They did. And this is what they got.”

Catra releases her, and its as if her touch was the only thing that kept Adora on her feet as the moment her fingers break contact Adora falls to the ground, fighting back against the feeling welling in her throat. Catra spares her a brief glance before she turns, tail brushing against her head as she walks out of the hole in the wall.

“I’m going to take a look around. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

Time passes. She isn’t sure how long she stays there on her knees clutching the ash covered blanket but by the time she looks up the sun is making its way back towards the tree line on the other side of the village. She catches a glimpse of herself in a piece of shattered mirror. Her eyes are puffy and her cheeks are red but she did not cry. She couldn’t. To feel sorrow here would be a betrayal to all that she ever knew. This was the Horde’s work; the evidence was all around her but this couldn’t be what she was meant to do. This wasn’t what they trained for and it wasn’t what Adora trained for and Shadow Weaver would never let something like this happen.

Right?

She walks out of the building and makes her way further into the village with the blanket in hand. The damage is worse on the outskirts where the artillery hit. The central buildings were mostly intact though all of the walls were striped with black scorch marks from laser blasts. From the angle of entry, the size of the marks, and the partial disintegration she can infer the model of laser baton they used. Horde standard is for laser batons of a stun grade be used in cases where they are expected to be discharged at civilians, unarmed combatants, and their own personal. Those batons aren’t strong enough to disintegrate any organic matter, like those that would have made these marks on the walls. She studies the pattern for a moment. In the Horde, batons are typically fired in volleys when a squad is together and facing a unified enemy. They have a tight pattern, that accounts for aim and the movements of a target or group of targets to ensure that there is no escape from the volley. Should a soldier fall, the pattern changes to accommodate. She counts three complete patterns of eight that are present on the side of one building.

All the rest have gaps.

Adora enters a medium sized building near the center of town. It is two stories tall, with a green tint to its outer walls. Above the door there is a sign in the shape of a swan with its wings outstretched and beak open wide. Below it, in simple letters, is written “Laughing Swan Inn”. She opens the door, and the rancid smell reaches her nose. She peaks her head in, holding her hand over her mouth and nose as she looks around the interior. She finds nothing inside but overturned chairs and shattered bar stools. The smell comes from a door to the left of the bar, and she spots a coppery stain peaking from underneath the door frame. She does not open it. She cannot open it.

She looks behind the bar and finds a large book stashed near the register. It is a ledger of sorts, though the figures are strange to her. She does not know what it means for each of these names to be assigned a value though she assumes from the convention that it must be some form of debt that each person owes the inn. In the back she finds a list of addresses, which include the inn’s. She learns that this village is named Thaymor.

Thaymor is a military stronghold for the rebellion, one of the few remaining gaps between the Horde and their inevitable victory over the rebellion.

Thaymor is a civilian village on a road that will be swallowed by the Whispering Woods, far out of the way of the Horde’s quickest route to Brightmoon and the inn keeper of the Laughing Swan Inn dismissed the tabs of two people and listed the reason as a simple act of good faith.

She exits the Laughing Swan Inn, ledger in hand and her knuckles turn white from the strain she places upon its spine. It does not take long for her to find Catra, who is on her way back to the ruined house where she took the blanket. Upon seeing her approach Catra turns, shifting the bag she holds over her shoulder.

“I thought I told you to stay put, Adora. Why do you still have that blanket and what’s with that book.”

Adora thrusts the book at her, pages open to the very back and she points to the address of the inn. “Thaymor. This is village is Thaymor.”

Catra pushes the book aside, eyebrow cocked, “Yeah, and?”

Adora steadies herself, bites into her lip to keep the stinging pain in her eyes back. “My first assignment. When Shadow Weaver promoted me to Force Captain. My first assignment was to destroy the rebel fortress Thaymor, Catra. This is Thaymor.”

“Adora…” Catra says softly, setting the bag aside and all the fire that had filled her eyes in that ruined building is absent as she grips Adora’s arms. Adora realizes then that she is shaking.

“I was going to lead this assault, Catra.” She says, and she can no longer hold it all back. “This, all of this, Shadow Weaver wanted me to do this. She told me Thaymor was a fortress Catra…. And she lied to me.”

Catra says nothing as Adora collapses against her. They fall to their knees in the ruined streets of Thaymor and Adora sobs, deep and mournful into Catra’s shoulder. She chants, between the hiccups and the sobs, that she is sorry. And she is unsure if the words are for the people of Thaymor, Catra, or even herself. She is lost, utterly so, and for the first time she cannot see the way forward. But despite that, she can feel the warmth in the arms around her and the gentle tug at her hair that releases it from the tie and soft feeling of Catra’s fingers running through her hair. It is not enough to soothe this hurt. But it is a comfort all the same.

CW: Mention of blood and reference to an unseen dead body

#catradoraweek2018 #catradora #she-ra #catra #Adora

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carlylexwheeler-blog · 6 years

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The Chaser I Seek

Summary: Muggle-born Anne Wheeler is thrilled when she receives her Head Girl badge in the mail the summer before her final year at Hogwarts, and so is Pureblooded Phillip Carlyle when he discovers he is to be Head Boy. Neither Phillip or Anne knows much about the other, except for what they have learned from afar. Phillip has been watching from the Slytherin side of the stands for years as Anne leads the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team to victory after victory. Anne, on the other hand, has listened to the whispers about the Carlyle family and their obsession with Pureblood lineage, and she knows along with the rest of the school that the Carlyles are instrumental in Voldemort's slowly gaining success.

Neither is prepared to be jarringly thrown together their very first day by a food-fight blown out of proportion.

As both students struggle to balance new responsibilities, they will begin to see new sides to one another-- sides that Phillip has been taught never to look for, and sides that Anne is not ready to explore. But with the wizarding world taking new steps every day towards war, Hogwarts must cling to unity stronger than ever... Especially the two students who are the face of it all.

Word Count: 3,084

Warnings: Language, Food Fights

Chapter: 1 of ?

Read it on Wattpad or AO3.

Playlist

Song of the Chapter: "Start a War" by Klergy and Valerie Broussard

Chapter One: The Battlefield

Anne had been hoping for a memorable first day as Head Girl, but now she was wondering if she should have been a tad more specific.

Things had started out fine. Perfect, even, which is probably why the universe decided to deal Anne the disastrous scenario that followed. On the train, she had arrived early enough to meet all of the prefects, and so she had begun to divide the job of monitoring the various cars among everyone. By the time everybody was there, there was a set plan on how they were going to approach it, and it was being carried out perfectly. Phillip Carlyle, the Head Boy, had arrived about ten minutes into the planning. This had been slightly concerning for Anne, who had only communicated with her partner in stiff, unsure letters of congratulations over the summer. Neither seemed able to find the right words all summer. She supposed it was natural, seeing as they had never interacted before. The two of them had classes together, yes, being two of the brightest students in the school. But with advanced classes focused heavily on independent study and neither knew the other well enough to pair up for the few projects they were assigned.

That was the least of her worries, though she tried not to think about it. The Carlyle family had a reputation, and it was not one that painted a hopeful picture of Phillip's respect for a Muggle-born. The past few years had seen a palpable increase in the tension between Muggle-borns and Pureblooded wizards as You-Know-Who grew more and more powerful. Not all Purebloods held the supremacist attitude towards Muggles, of course. But the Carlyles were one of the most notorious families for this attitude and had been for generations, and Phillip Carlyle was the only heir to this legacy of hatred in a time when such superiority was thriving. The thought of what might happen while they were forced to work side-by-side had caused her more sleepless nights than she cared to admit.

However, Phillip's arrival on the train had brought no ominous thunder or sudden chill, so that had been a plus.

Really, Phillip was nothing but supportive of the orders Anne had given. He assumed the role of enforcing her plans rather than trying to make his own, which Anne discovered when she heard him instructing some of the new Fifth Year Prefects.

"She's the one running the show right now," he had informed them, and there was no malice or sarcasm in his voice as he said it. "That's good for you, because she's going to give you a little part of the plan to work with. If you do your job well, then everyone else will be able to do theirs, and we'll be able to get this train to the station without burning it down."

The two Fifth Year girls he had been speaking to had burst into giggles at that, but Anne had found herself feeling just the slightest bit flattered. She had considered going over to greet him, maybe thank him in a professional manner, but it was at that moment that a Third Year boy burst into the compartment, saying, "Umm... So, we were just sitting there, right, and then the seat started smoking, and we don't know how it happened, but there's a small hole burned in-"

"How small is 'small?'"

"I dunno, I mean, most of the seat is gone, but-"

Neither had spoken to the other after that, for as the Prefects began to do their jobs, various situations arose that demanded each of their separate attentions. This was a development that Anne did not mind, and she was happy to keep busy on the ride to the castle. By the time that the Hogwarts Express had pulled into Hogsmeade Station, Anne had successfully handled a game of Exploding Snap gone wrong, a misfired charm that caused the snack trolley to overturn, and a mess made of a pair of robes during a game of Gobstones. As she watched the students leave the Express, Anne was aware of the fact that her face was flushed and her curls were escaping her buns in wisps. But she also felt proud, like she was beginning to live up to the shiny badge pinned to the front of her worn Ravenclaw robes that were a few inches too short.

It did irk her slightly that Phillip Carlyle looked as unruffled as ever from where he stood across from her, making sure that all of the students made their way out.

After that, things were a blur. Anne and the Carlyle boy were tasked with making sure that students knew where to assume their seats since Professor Lutz was unable to do so while she was tending to the First Years. After the majority of the students were seated, Anne made her way to the Head Table to ask any of the professors what they should be doing next.

"Excuse me," she called to the nearest teacher, the blonde Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. Professor Barnum glanced over at Anne with a kind eyebrow raised. "Is there anything else that we can do, Professor?" Anne queried, hopeful. She needed something to busy herself with, or else she was fairly sure her energy would fall flat.

Professor Barnum hummed softly, appearing to think. "Erm... I don't think so, no," she replied, smiling apologetically as she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "But I am sure that Phineas said something about the Sorting starting soon. You two have done more than enough for now, I think, so you can go enjoy the festivities with the rest of us."

Anne nodded, offering the professor a polite smile that hid her disappointment. "Thank you, Ma'am," she murmured, inclining her head respectfully. She was fairly sure that she felt Professor Barnum's motherly gaze upon her back as she weaved between students on the way back to the Ravenclaw side of the Great Hall.

As Anne left the table, she saw that Carlyle had already taken this advice. He was seated in the middle of a group of affluent Slytherin students, and he was laughing at something the brunette girl across from him had said. It did not set in until that moment that Anne did not have anyone to sit with now that W.D. had graduated.

Her brother was working in the Three Broomsticks in order to support them, and Anne knew about the second job that he was hiding. She had noticed the owls coming at odd hours of the night to their tiny flat in Hogsmeade, and she had even managed to sneak one out of the trash, from which she deduced that he was doing some translation of Runes for scholars in Albania. Anne's heart ached that her brother, a brilliant Runes translator who could have found a prestigious job anywhere in the world, was slaving away at a pub for her sake every day. When she graduated, Anne was determined to pick up and leave to start a new life with W.D. They would go somewhere, anywhere, and Anne would get a job researching advanced potions until she was accepted by some major Quidditch team. But until then, Anne no longer had anyone to sit with.

She took a spot at the very end of the Ravenclaw table where no one else sat, fiddling with the napkin on the table absently. She could feel eyes on her, now that she was Head Girl... And she knew those eyes came along with whispers. They did not linger too long, as people had better things to talk about, but she still looked down at the hem of her threadbare sleeve to avoid seeing the brief glances. Anne had never been particularly popular. People knew she was brilliant, they knew that she was one of the best Chasers that Hogwarts had seen for decades, maybe even a century. But for as many acquaintances as Anne had, her dedication to her schoolwork and Quidditch performance did not leave much room for any real friends.

A few moments later, an ample distraction came to turn any unwanted attention away from Anne. Headmaster Barnum rose, and with a wave of his wand, he magicked away the tables. The Headmaster's skinny, slightly mousy appearance was deceiving, for this man was a master of the classes of illusion and enchantment. He was renowned for it in many circles, and Anne was fascinated by the slight flair for the dramatic the man had. She had always been attentive to his words, respecting the air of mystery that clung to him like cobwebs.

The Sorting commenced thereafter. It was a short one, with a particularly small incoming Year. However, there was a noticeable disturbance throughout the ceremony. Anne noticed almost immediately that whenever a surname that was well-known and respected in the magical community was announced, it was greeted with full applause. There were several surnames, however, that were known to be traditionally common in Muggle communities. The cheering following these names was weakened as if at least a third of the students had dropped out. Anne's eyes narrowed, and as soon as any student with a name such as her own was announced, she could be observed to be cheering twice as loud as normal. Several of the teachers picked up on the incident as well, and Anne was fairly sure she caught a glimpse of Professor Barnum and her husband murmuring sonorous charms so that the cheering of the teachers was magnified.

By the time that Zabel, Francine had been sorted into Hufflepuff, Headmaster Barnum had summoned the tables again out of thin air. Gasps filled the room from the First year students who had not been there to see it the first time, and Anne felt a little smile play with her lips. The Headmaster gave a quick speech, and then with a flourish of his wand, the platters before the students all became filled with enough food to feed a small army. Chatter rose to mingle with the cozy sounds of clattering forks and knives, and Anne felt herself visibly relax. Maybe she wasn't exactly a part of it, but this was the part of Hogwarts that she loved. Moments like these, where so many students just existed together, made it feel like home.

Of course, the day chose that moment to turn for the worse.

Anne had only just begun to pour a goblet of pumpkin juice when she first noticed the disturbance, coming from one end of the Slytherin table. Three boys, Fourth Year students, Anne guessed, were using their wands to send little chunks of candied carrots flying to hit a pair of Muggle-born twins across the aisle. Anne set down her goblet, preparing to rise to call the students out. Before she had managed to extricate herself from the table, however, one of the twins had turned and fixed the Fourth Years with a smirk. Anne hastened her efforts to reach the students, but it was much too late. An entire bowl of steak and kidney pudding flew across the aisle to splatter the three students and anyone in the immediate vicinity. For a moment, all conversation fell silent, and there was a moment of hollow space.

And then, the shouting began.

Wands flew out, and Anne fumbled to keep her own in her hand as she desperately scanned the room, trying to see where she was most needed. Anne's ears were overloaded with a tangle of layering spells, most of which sent various trays and plates of food zooming through the air. At first, Anne struggled to appeal to the casters of the spells, but there were far too many. She cursed under her breath as she began to nonverbally cast as many shield charms as she physically could. Invisible barriers sprung up between the attackers and their intended victims, and they effectively stopped the food from flying any further. Unfortunately, this mostly resulted in whatever was being thrown being propelled back towards the attacker, spreading still more food everywhere.

A plate of treacle tart whizzed past Anne's head, and she narrowly dodged it only to be met with a full tureen of chowder. The soup drenched her and a pair of First Years from head to toe, and a shocked gasp left the lips of the children behind her. Anne winced and quickly darted back, gripping them by the hands and pulling them under the table. "Stay here until it's over," she instructed the shell-shocked girls before sliding out from underneath again, leaving them gaping at her retreating form.

Anne fought to move forward, doing as much damage control as she possibly could. Dodging food became completely impossible at this point. What might have been an entire ham narrowly missed Anne's head, shoving her hair out of her bun and getting the soaked curls everywhere. Several pastries were hurled at Anne and smashed into her shoulder, her arm, and her chest, smearing all down the front of her robes. A bowl of lukewarm porridge dumped over her head, and the Head Girl fought to wipe it out of her eyes as she forged forward. All she could do, at the moment, was vanish whatever flying food she could hit. Luckily, Anne had fairly decent aim, and she managed to completely remove several large platters of turkey, ham, and chicken from the air before they could actually hurt someone. Through all of the fighting, she could barely tell who was who, until she stumbled into a form slightly taller than her. Anne whirled around with her wand out, ready to stun the perpetrator if need be.

Instead, she found herself coming face-to-face with a thoroughly flustered Phillip Carlyle.

He looked absolutely ridiculous, with what must have been half of a pudding plastered to his hair and the side of his face. What Anne guessed was chocolate syrup dripped down the side of his face, and what had been his pristine, brand-new robes were covered with mashed potatoes and pumpkin juice. There was a determination in his eyes that was rather comical, seeing as his normally perfect hair was in a cowlick that looked like something from a cartoon. However, as he raised her wand at her, she did not find it hard to believe that he might stun her.

"Carlyle!" she called, over all the noise. "Stop, it's Anne Wheeler!" He froze for a moment, blinking, and Anne remembered that she probably looked equally ridiculous. But then, relief spread over his food-covered features.

"Thank Merlin," he exclaimed, gripping her by the arm and yanking her to the side to avoid a flying sponge cake. "Are you the one who's been vanishing things?"

"Yes," she called, tugging her arm free from his grip immediately. She did not have time to be flustered by the sudden, unwanted contact. "This needs to stop, now, before it gets out of hand!"

"I think it's a bit late for that, as I think I just saw Headmaster Barnum quite literally pie Professor Barnum in the face."

"Are you certain-"

"I would testify to it before Wizengamot."

Anne gritted her teeth and glared at nothing in particular. "Maybe if we can get to Professor Lutz, then-"

Behind them, there was a massive boom, and Anne cried out. Carylye was touching her again, pulling her to the ground with him. She landed sprawled rather uncomfortably on his solid chest, and quickly Anne moved to haul herself off of him. As if that was not enough, a bowl of tuna salad shot by them, effectively covering the both of them in creamy goop.

"Sorry, sorry," Carlyle panted, looking up at her with blue eyes that were as wide as the saucer that broke against the wall behind them.

"What was-"

Just then, a rancid smell filled the hall, and Anne clapped a hand over her mouth and nose. Carlyle did the same, not before Anne caught a glimpse of a gag.

"Dugbob," Carlyle's muffled voice reached her ears as the disgusted coughing of many students filled the hall. Anne felt her level of frustration skyrocket.

"Dungbombs?" she spat. "For the love of all things holy, who the-"

Another boom, and this time Anne was ready. She ducked her head under the nearest table, but Carlyle was not quick enough. Mud flew through the air, hitting him square in the face. Immediately, the Head Boy turned and began to cough, attempting to get out whatever he could from his mouth. Anne stood, trying to locate where the Dungbombs were being set off. The smell was crippling, but she kept a hand clapped over her mouth as she struggled to make her way forward, leaving Carlyle behind. Another detonated, and Anne felt the mud splatter her, too. But she managed to keep it out of her eyes, and that was all that she needed. She pushed her way forward, and through the cloud of brown smoke, she spotted the Fifth Year who was detonating them crouching over another one.

"Evanesco!" Anne shouted, taking aim at the bomb. The boom still set off, but only a little bit more filth flew through the air like projectiles. The rest vanished, along with the bomb, and Anne aimed a silent 'Petrificus totalus!' at the single figure she could see in the center of all of the smoke. She heard a crack that meant that the charm had met the intended target, and then, in the haze of the smoke and the break in the fight, Carlyle climbed onto the Slytherin table, almost slipping in the spill of soup on top of it. Anne pointed her wand at him, murmuring a breathless "Sonorous."

And then, above everything, Carlyle's voice boomed, "The next student to use food as a projectile will personally volunteer to work in the kitchens for two weeks, after they clean all of this up!"

The hall was silent, and Anne let out a soft groan as she leaned against the table at his feet. No noise could be heard except for the labored breath of the students and the dripping of food off of robes. Carlyle let out a massive breath of relief as Anne rubbed her temples and stared at the growing pile of porridge and tuna fish chunks at her feet.

Anne was fairly certain she would not be forgetting her first day as Head Girl anytime soon.

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