#those gangly knees say we’re not done yet

[kangals]

every day it gets harder to fit this dog fully in frame

[divagonzo]

The Incident - Romione +

Ao3

A/N: Thanks to @vivithefolle​ for getting through my enormous writer’s block to inspire me to write this story. It’s angst filled Hurt/Comfort/Family with many triggering aspects for those who are ND. I apologize for it but the story wouldn’t leave me alone.

Given the nature of the subject matter, I’m personally rating this M rated - and because of the troubling aspects of the story, especially for those who would be triggered by what the story entails.

CW: child bullying, child injury, being bullied for being neurodivergent

Give me my demarcation line, damn it!

The Incident

Once more, with Feeling

Hermione took her reading glasses off of her nose and rubbed her eyes. She was absolutely at her wit’s end with the bloody bureaucracy of the Wizengamot and why they refuse to do things her way when it’s the best for everyone involved. But No, that sod Purifoy has to put in his Galleon and derail everything and cause a ruckus in the chambers.

“Mrs. Granger?” Hermione’s executive assistant Miranda Blunt stuck her head in the office. “Mrs. Potter is calling, says it’s an emergency.”

“Put her through,” Hermione got up from her vast oaken desk and went to the fireplace. The flames in there turned green from the warming orange from the chilly August morning.

“Hermione,” Ginny’s voice came through crystal clear. “We need you at St. Mungo’s immediately.”

Her heart lurched to a sudden stop. “What’s happened? Ron?” Hermione rose from the fireplace and went to collect her purse from the secure drawer in her desk. “If it involves Harry he’s going to catch an earful.” She pulled the compact mirror from her pocket and opened it, waiting the seconds for her assistant to open hers. “I’m going to St. Mungo’s. I’ll check back in as soon as I can.”

“Understood.” Miranda broke the connection. 

“What’s happened?” Hermione reached for the urn on the mantle. 

“It’s Hugo,” Ginny didn’t elaborate. “We need you immediately.”

Hermione froze. Her baby. Well, not a real baby anymore, not after the growth spurt he had this summer and seemed to stretch out by inches, taking after Ron, but still such a sweet boy. She enjoyed snuggling him when he would allow it, but he couldn’t fall asleep unless Ron was holding him in his arms, holding onto him awkwardly until his soft snores told everyone that he could be gently placed in his own bed.

She shook herself from her stupor and reached into the urn for the Floo powder and threw it in, stepping through the few blocks to the Auror waiting area. She saw Ginny sitting there with Rose, James, Al, and Lily Luna. Harry was nowhere to be found. Rose had her hand wrapped up, like she’d broken it and James was sitting on the other side of the room, two black eyes and a blood crusted nose that looked like it hadn’t been treated yet. 

“Where – 

“The nurse will see you back,” Ginny said stoically.

Hermione ran from the room to the admission desk and saw the Nurse. Hermione knew her well enough by face and first name but wasn’t much beyond that. “I was told my son was admitted. Hugo Weasley-Granger.”

“Yes, you’re needed.” The nurse left the window and met Hermione at the doors, walking briskly into the various hallways that hadn’t changed much in the last 20 years. “Mrs. Potter brought your son in about twenty minutes ago and we said we needed you immediately. He’s been hurt but there’s something else going on, something we don’t quite understand, and you might be able to shed some light on the situation.”

Hermione went into the area and saw her son sitting in the corner of the room, rocking back and forth with his arms wrapped around his knees. There was some crusted blood on his neck, below his ear, and a huge bruise on the side of his face. 

“He won’t let us near him, Mrs. Weasley,” a medi-witch spoke up first. “Any time any of us even gets within a meter of him, he screams.”

“I am going to sit on the ground. Every time I finish a sentence, move me six inches closer. His therapist has things in place to help him when he gets like this.” Hermione dropped her purse and put her wand down. She knew about these behaviors and she’d read up on how to help him cope as well. 

“Hugo, Mummy is here.” Her voice was so flat to her own ears it frightened her – but she knew from Audrey that it would be soothing for her son. “You’re safe. No one else is going to hurt you,” She felt magic surround her, ever so slowly shifting her forward towards her son. “Aunt Ginny told me you needed me. I came straight away.”

She repeated the mantra until she was sitting right in front of her son. While he looked somewhat like Ron, being gangly and with auburn hair with ginger strands and streaks through it, it had her texture, along with freckles across his nose and on his neck. But he took after her in personality, temperament, and how he saw the world, but only more intensely. She understood him, when he would be quiet for hours at a time, or completely engrossed in something that interested him.

She suspected he was much like her by the time he was a year old, with some behaviors she had been watching to see if they manifested. As soon as they started, she took him to a Muggle doctor who recommended her to a specialist who made a tentative diagnosis. He had a cadre of therapists to help him with his speech and role playing so he wouldn’t have a meltdown for any change in his daily schedule.

She knew. She didn’t need it to be tentative, from how much he’d get overwhelmed at Sunday lunches at the Burrow to not liking being hugged or easily frustrated to even the texture of his clothing, which she understood far too well.  Yes, he was much like her so seeing him like this was painful. But while her parents struggled for so long, she fought like hell so he wouldn’t struggle as much as she did growing up.

“Hugo, I am right here. I’m not going anywhere. No one is going to hurt you.  When you are ready, you can crawl into my lap. Take the time you need.”

Ever so slowly, in what felt like hours was probably seconds, Hugo slowly ceased rocking before crawling into her lap, right before he started rocking hard yet again.

He settled in and she took a deep breath, knowing that the first giant hurdle had been passed. 

“Love, the medi-witch is going to use magic to put us up on the bed. Close your eyes and bury your face in my chest. They won’t be using magic on you, only me.” He did as instructed, burying his head into the flannel of her jumper. She looked at the Medi-witch.  She watched the non-verbal incantation wand movement and braced slightly. Magic enveloped her again, levitating her from the very cold tile floor up onto the gurney. 

“Sweetie, will you hold my hand? I don’t want you to talk but I do need you to communicate with me and I know this way is much easier for you right now.” She opened her hand and waited for him to put his in hers, squeezing it hard. 

“That’s terrific, love. Now you don’t have to talk at all the rest of the time we’re here, only answer my questions by squeezing my hand.” Hermione stared over his head at the Medi-witch and watched her procure parchment and self-dictating quill. She nodded once for Hermione to start.

“Did Rosie hurt you?” One squeeze. “Rosie didn’t hurt you. That’s good. I’m happy to hear that.”

“Did Lils hurt you?” One squeeze. “Al?” One squeeze. “So Jamie hurt you?” Two squeezes.

“Could you tell Aunt Ginny what happened?” One squeeze. “You hurt too much, doesn’t it?” Two squeezes. “I thought so. Are you still hurting?” Two squeezes. “And you don’t want to tattle on Jamie?” One squeeze.

“Was Jamie playing Quidditch?” Two squeezes. “Was he chasing a snitch?” One squeeze. “Throwing a Quaffle?” Two squeezes. “The bludger?” two squeezes.

“Were you on your toy broom outside, playing?” Two squeezes. “Was Aunt Ginny watching you?” One squeeze. “Jamie convinced you to go play outside with him and Rose?” Two squeezes. “And then you got hurt and saw Aunt Ginny?” Two squeezes.

“Jamie convinced you to come outside and ride your broom without an adult.” She sighed. “Jamie means well sometimes but he doesn’t quite fathom why the rules are in place for Hugo.” She turned back to her son. “I’m not mad at you, sweetie. You love your older cousin and want to be able to play with him and Rosie and you hate being left out.” Two squeezes. “Yes, I figured as such.”

Hermione looked at the other medi-witch. “Have you asked Mrs. Potter what happened?”

“She said that she found two bludgers flying around their pitch and Hugo on the ground crying.”

“Did Jamie hit the bludgers at you?” Hugo started rocking. “More than once?” The rocking grew frantic and she felt her shirt getting damp.

The door crashed open, and Ron stood in the doorway, seeing his wife and child on the gurney. Hermione slightly shook her head before seeing his ears turning red. Right now she couldn’t cope with Ron and Hugo so Ron would have to deal with it, for now at least. 

He closed the door softly while Hermione rocked Hugo in her lap, letting her son have his silent meltdown without him noticing everyone in the room watching him. People watching him meltdown always made it worse. 

The Healer pulled his wand and handed it to the medi-witch, showing Hermione without his wand that he wanted to charm Hugo to sleep so they could tend him. She nodded and watched the healer gently apply the charm to her son and felt him drift off to sleep, like he’d fallen asleep in her arms which he hadn’t done since he was a toddler. He always preferred his Daddy once he could make his wishes known. She wouldn’t complain, even if her heart had been beating out of her chest entirely too hard for her continued good health.

She stood and gently placed her son on the gurney, feeling a sob try to erupt. She stifled it, knowing she’d pay for it later on but Hugo came first.

“Now that he’s asleep, we can check him. We did not want to do that without a parent’s presence and their permission. But his behavior was so queer that – “

Hermione turned and if she’d had her wand in her hand, she couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t have hexed the healer tending her son. “His behaviour is not queer,” Hermione growled. “My son is Autistic. He’s been diagnosed by Muggle doctors and has Healer Reeves as his Magical counselor. He takes after me that way and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t refer to my son that way.”

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley,” he retorted instantly. “He got upset and we didn’t know how to help him once Mrs. Potter had left the room.”

“Now you know,” she snorted, “and now you can tell me what happened.”

Hermione stepped back to the side of the room and watched the Healers and multiple medi-witches work on her son, using magical diagnostic charms and spells to work. They worked efficiently, silently, with a medi-witch dictating the medical records.

Seconds passed that felt like days, with the Healers finally turning back to Hermione, seeing her. “He will be OK. From what Mrs. Potter told us, along with our tests, he has a concussion from getting hit with a bludger. There is also a huge bruise on his back from what looks like another bludger impact. I’d almost say that someone was hitting them at your son, but I don’t like to make assumptions. Bruise paste will fix the back but for the head, he will need time at home, with little in the way of lights and noise. It’s not severe, not like Quidditch players get from time to time, but he will require some time to rest and recover.”

“There’s nothing you can do for him?”

“These things are tricky when it comes to the brain. Even Muggle Medicine has limitations when it comes to this kind of brain injury. But at his age, he needs rest and quiet and darkness to remove stimulation for him. It would probably benefit him in the long run, too, given what you’ve said.”

She sighed, trying to take a deep breath that just wouldn’t happen. Her precious son, her sensitive child, was bullied by an older cousin. That was bad enough. That would be dealt with as soon as Hugo was home and asleep in his bed.  But to add a possible traumatic brain injury to it, at his age, was a bit too far. Fortunately, she had ample time accrued to take off and spend it with him, or work from home given everything going on. However, seeing to what happened took priority after tending Hugo.

“When can we take him home, since my husband is probably out in the waiting room?”

“We shall be finished shortly, maybe a few more minutes, and then take him home straightaway. No Floo travel for at least a month. No Portkeys either since it might aggravate any sort of injury. Apparition or Muggle transport only, and then keep it as minimal as possible, for his benefit.”

Hermione understood that all too well. She tended Harry and Ron occasionally after mishaps with the Aurors.  “Please keep him asleep until I return. I need to go speak with my husband.” She collected her purse from near the door and slipped out, knowing that Ron would be mad with grief. Instead, she found him pacing the hallway around the first corner.

“How is he?” He raced up to her when he saw her, embracing her like she desperately needed. She didn’t realize how much tension let go with his hug. “I didn’t want to come back in and upset Hugh. I knew you’d have it under control.”

Hermione explained what happened as well as what caused it. Ron’s face grew even more pale than normal but his ears and neck grew intensely red. 

“I’m upset too but we will handle it later, once we get Hugo home and in bed resting. And it’s not like Ginny probably hasn’t tended to things by now.” She slumped back into her husband’s arms. Who knew that her heart would have two distinct beats from her own, and stress hers when anything happened to either of her kids. She hadn’t realized until now how much her children’s welfare meant to her, especially when it came to the treatment by the family. “We need the healers to check on Rosie. She had a wrap around her wrist when I rushed through the waiting room.”

“You go get Hugo and take him home. I’ll tend to Rosie and we’ll be home straightaway. I also will need to speak with her and find out what happened.”

Hermione took a deep breath, relaxing her back and shoulders. “I’ll see you when you get home, Love.” She stood on her tiptoes and brushed a kiss across his lips. The privacy of the hallway would suffice, given the overwhelming adoration she had for her husband. He was her rock, her foundation, rarely getting inside his head too much now, but also giving her subtle direction and taking the mental load on what needed to be done without being boorish like she could be. He never demanded, and never expressed disappointment when she made a different decision but, most of the time, his wisdom was exactly what she needed when she felt lost and drowning in indecision.

She turned and went back to the room to collect her son and take him home.

*****************

“Hermione, we’re home,” Ron bellowed into their residence outside of Cardiff. “And Ginny will be over as soon as the Healers tend Jamie.”

Hermione came out of Hugo’s room, closing the door without shutting it completely. “I have it dark and quiet in his room, and the potion the healers gave him should let him sleep for hours. They said he needed to sleep and rest as much as possible for the next two weeks, minimum. I’ve already spoken to Miranda and set the owls to come here and she will pop over after work to bring today’s docket and tomorrow’s as well.”

“Mum, I’m sorry,” Rosie chimed in. “I saw what happened and instead of running to get Aunt Ginny I got upset and hit Jamie. I know it was wrong but – “

“What happened?” Hermione tried to keep her voice neutral for her older child, who was just like her Dad with her underlying temper. She wasn’t mad at Rosie and she needed to keep her temper in check with her child, who might mistake that Mum was mad at her, and not frustrated with the situation.

Rose looked at her Dad and he nodded before she turned back to her Mum. 

“Everyone went outside to play, with Aunt Ginny watching us. Al and Lils were inside coloring and Hugo came out to fly around. Lils yelled and Aunt Ginny went back inside.” Rose looked at Ron and he nodded, prodding her gently to continue.

“Jamie and I kept playing Quidditch out back, throwing the quaffle while dodging the bludgers flying around while Aunt Ginny was inside making Lunch. It was so much fun, and we were laughing when either of us missed the Quaffle or got bumped by the bludger. I thought Hugo had gone inside with Aunt Ginny since I didn’t see him. Jamie flew down and plucked up a beater’s bat out of the box and said he’d take a swipe at them while flying and I said OK since it’s good practice for me, too.”

“You know how I feel about that,” Hermione said, “especially with Aunt Ginny not keeping a close watch on you while you’re doing it.”

“I know,” Rose replied. “I thought she’d be inside only for a few moments.”

“Ok, go ahead.”

“So the bludgers were flying around and Jamie had his beater’s bat out while also throwing the Quaffle at me from time to time. Anyway, I told Jamie to wait a moment because I wanted something to drink. I heard him laughing and then I heard a thump and saw Hugo on the ground and his broom broken. I didn’t know Hugo had come back outside to fly some more. I looked up and saw one racing for Hugo. I ran towards him but couldn’t stop it from hitting him in the head before bouncing off. I ran back for my broom and raced up to where Jamie was. He looked boggled that another bludger had hit Hugo. I… I flew into him while on my broom before taking his beater’s bat and hitting him with it. 

“Aunt Ginny came outside and saw Hugo on the ground. She dropped the tray of sandwiches and pumpkin juice and ran to him, yelling at us to get down on the ground, that we needed to go to St. Mungo’s.” Rose held her head down. “I know I should have gotten her first, but I was so upset that Jamie did that, and laughing about it.”

“I don’t fault you for being upset but you know better. No quidditch this weekend for you. A small consequence for how you acted instead of going to get Aunt Ginny should be sufficient punishment. Besides, your wrist will be sore for a day or two anyway, I reckon, hitting Jamie with the beater’s bat.”

“Yes, Mum.”

Hermione looked up at her quiet husband. “What are we going to do about Jamie? This isn’t the first time he’s been a toerag towards Hugo.”

The fireplace roared to life and Ginny was inside the flames. “The Healers are finished with Jamie. Can we come through? He needs to know what his punishment is for what he did today.”

Ron and Hermione shared a look, not bothering to look at Rosie. “Come on through,” they said in unison. 

The fireplace roared high inside the hearth and Albus stepped through first, followed by a tidier Jamie, followed by Ginny holding Lily Luna to her chest. His face was still bruised but his nose was fixed and the blood removed from his shirt. Within moments they were all free of dust and so was the den.  “We won’t be staying long. Jamie has a very long list of things he has to do as punishment for what happened today.”

“It wasn’t intentional. I was aiming for Rose. I -“

“Enough, James!,” Ginny’s voice was quiet, dangerous, and one that no one wanted to cross. 

“Did you tell Hugo he could come outside with you?” Ron asked first. 

“Well, yeah, at first. Mum had been outside and it was nice and then mum went inside for a minute and Hugo was having fun on his toy broom while Rosie and I were playing Quidditch.”

“He’s six years old, James.” Hermione’s voice brooked no insolence. “He isn’t to ride his broom without supervision, ever. Did you not understand that?”

“No,” his voice grew quiet. “Mum said it was OK. I didn’t think – “

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t see Al or Lils on their brooms, did you?”

“No,” he said again. “But he had been riding earlier so I thought it was ok.”

Ron stood before James, towering over the lad. He was in his Auror stance, looking like he was ready to fight with his bare hands. “Why did you hit the bludgers at Rosie? I gave your parents that set, as a gift when you turned two.” Ron huffed. “I know that set. Grandpa, Uncle George, and I charmed it so the bludgers wouldn’t be brutal unless you hit the bludger with a bat. The first time you hit that bludger with a bat, it disabled the charm.”

“We’ve done it before. No one got hurt - “

“It’s no excuse, James,” Ginny said. “You know the rules - no beater bats unless an adult is outside with you. It’s one reason why you’re being punished - for being reckless while playing.”

“Didn’t you bother to see that Hugo was in the way?” Ron’s Auror voice had come out. “Do you think it’s funny picking on him? We know this isn’t the first time he’s not tattled on you. He’s six years old. He’s a child compared to you.”

“I wasn’t aiming at him. It was an accident - “

Ron took a step forward. James backed up into his Mum, standing almost as tall as her at 11. “An accident is you falling off your broom. An accident is dropping a glass of pumpkin juice because you weren’t paying attention. No, you chose to swing the beater’s bat and hit it at Rosie, even if you didn’t intend it to hit Hugo, it did, and it hurt him terribly.”

“I didn’t mean to! He was having fun with us, playing Quidditch.”

“Bollocks, James.” Ron’s temper seemed to be erupting. “He’s never expressed a moment’s interest in Quidditch, unlike Rosie. Didn’t you realize that?”

“No,” his voice was whiney. “We thought he - ”

“There’s no we to it, James,” Hermione cut in. “She says she told you she was landing to get a drink of juice and heard you laughing and saw the bludger hit Hugo in the head.”

“Bullying kids is never funny, James. Ever. It’s unacceptable behavior from anyone, much less you. I’d have thought better of you when it came to being kind to your cousins.”

“He doesn’t know,” Ginny said under her breath. “We’ve not told them.”

Ron crossed his arms but stood there looking ferocious. He spied Rose at the edge of the hallway, listening intently. Al and Lils were there with her. 

“I’m sorry,” a small tear leaked out.  He refused to look at any of the adults but stared at their shoes. 

“I don’t think so, James,” Ron interrupted. “I don’t think you’re sorry for hurting Hugo. I know you’ve done it before and you were let off with a warning. But not this time. No, this behavior is unacceptable in this family, but especially from you. You’re eleven and starting Hogwarts in a month. You’ve gotten your letter and are expected to have some level of maturity, even for your age. Mistreating small kids is behavior that other toerags do,” Ron snorted before hearing Malfoy under Hermione’s breath. 

“He’s already grounded for the next month, Ron,” Ginny added. “But beyond that is up to you and Hermione.

“What do you think, Hermione?”

She turned back to her Godson. “James, look at me.” He looked up but refused to make eye contact. “I said look at me, James Sirius Potter.” He finally did and Hermione saw the fear on his face. “You hurt Hugo. He’s in his bed asleep and can’t come to play at all for the next two weeks because of your mindless behavior. He might need longer to recover from your thoughtless actions. You picked on him for whatever reason, after we as a family have told everyone that he’s to be treated a certain way. And yet you, for some reason that isn’t important now, decided to be careless  around him. We already know he’s not told on you for previous things because he adores you, or did, and didn’t want you to get into trouble.

“But you are in deep trouble now.” 

He shuddered slightly. 

“But I also think that you aren’t sorry for what you did, only that it was worse than you expected and got in trouble for it. No, you chose to hit those bludgers in his direction intentionally. Whether you were aiming for Rosie or Hugo doesn’t matter. Your impulsiveness hurt someone. I’d be furious if you had hurt Rosie, too.”

‘I’m – “

“Don’t say you’re sorry until you actually mean it,” Ginny spat. “You’re only sorry for the consequences impacting you.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “Go home and get me your broom. Now.”

“Mum?” James looked at her.  “My broom? What are you going to do?”

“You’re already in trouble. Questioning my judgment will make it ten times worse. Go get your broom, now, James.”

He ran for the fireplace and tossed floo powder into it, disappearing in the green flames.

“What do you have in mind?” Ron asked. 

Ginny stood there pondering a moment. “Until he shows some real maturity, I think losing any and all flying privileges on his broom will suffice. He will hand over his broom to you and so he can’t nick it like I used to do when no one was looking.  I also think that it might be smart that he is not able to try out for the house team for a couple of years.:

Ron took a deep breath, like he’d been holding it in. “If he thinks he can get away with tosser behaviour this should break it for good. Merlin knows how relentless Fred and George were to me.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s make it two years.” She turned to look at the window next to the fireplace. A small sigh escaped. “I’ll owl Minerva this weekend and let her know. Not being allowed to try out until he’s a little older would be a benefit. First years aren’t allowed to try out anyway so two years will make him the start of his third year so he should be mature enough. If not we can have it extended.”

“Ok.” Ron slumped slightly. “Hermione can decide on when he’s allowed to use his broom again. I won’t interfere.”

“Neither will I,” Ginny added.

James ran back through the fire to where he handed it to his Mum. Ginny turned and handed it to Hermione.

“James, for hurting Hugo – “

“I didn’t – “

“Yes, you did. I’ve seen it before. I watched you with Fred laughing when Hugo was being picked on.”

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.

“No, if you were you’d have not done it.” Hermione’s fierce stare made him bow his head. “We’ve discussed what is acceptable and what isn’t.”

“You don’t pick kids younger than you. I know we’ve taught you better.” Ron’s disappointment was evident. 

Ginny stood there, resolute. “You’re grounded from flying for the rest of the summer. You’re also losing your broom until Aunt Hermione says you can have it back.”

He spun, facing his Mum. “No! That’s not fair!” He turned back around and saw his Uncle staring him down. 

“Fair is following the rules set down – and that was that Hugo is to be protected, not picked on.” Ron gave a piercing look, freezing James’ protests. “Aunt Hermione and I will keep your broom, until you prove to us that you can follow the simplest of rules, of which is You don’t pick on Hugo – ever. You hurt him, James, and that’s not something that a mere I’m sorry will fix. So, until you prove it to us, you’re grounded from your boom. I know Rosie won’t share hers, not with what she’s heard.”

“No! Not my broom. It’s mine!”

“No, now it’s ours, until we decide to return it to you.”

“I am writing to Headmistress McGonagall, to tell her you will not be allowed to try out for the house teams for an additional year, since first years aren’t allowed to try out.”

“Two years!”

“You hit him twice, this time. The consequences for hurting Hugo and laughing about it should be severe.”

“We think that you need time to learn empathy, to treat those who you don’t respect with kindness, and respect, by not bullying them, ever.”

James let a sob out before covering his face and running for the fireplace. It flared for a moment before settling down.

The adults stood quietly for a moment with the rest of the kids present. “Rosie, go back to your room. We’ll be in shortly.” Rosie nodded before doing as asked.

“She was punished too, right?”

“We have. She’s grounded from her broom and quidditch, too. Just not as long, but for hitting Jamie afterward and not running to get you first.”

“Sounds fair,” Ginny looked at her other two kids. “How about we head home and the two of you can play more. Jamie will be grounded for quite some time.  But you two know better than to pick on Hugo, right?” Two very enthusiastic nods were her answer.

“We’ll see you Sunday, even if you don’t come for Sunday lunch. Harry and I will pop over to have a few with you and bring leftovers if you don’t show.”

Ginny gave Hermione a hug and received a light pat on the shoulder from Ron before stepping to the fireplace hearth. “I am sorry for James’ behavior. He knows better and I know when Harry finds out, he’s going to blow his stack over it.” She looked at her two younger children. “It might also be time to sit this bunch down and explain a few things.” The adults shared a look.

“I’m sure once he knows everything about the consequences of the incident, he’ll calm down. We don’t want James turning into a toerag like Dudley was growing up.”

Ginny shook her head. “No, we don’t. Love to both of you and my nephew, too.” Al went first through the fireplace before Ginny pulled Lily Luna close to her and spun away in the flames. 

After they left, Ron went to the cooling cabinet for a cold pumpkin juice and brought Hermione some water. “You think we were too hard on him? Two years is a very long time when you’re that young.”

“No, I think it’s just right. Ginny only banned him from Quidditch for the Summer and she only banned him from trying out for the house team until the start of his third year.  She didn’t say he couldn’t fly on a family broom, only that we would hold his broom until he proved he’s mature enough to get it back. He’s free to fly but not on his prized possession or playing the sport he loves.”

Ron necked the bottle of his juice. “You think it will work?”

“I think it’s a fair and just punishment for hurting Hugo, even accidentally. We don’t want a repeat of the incident ever again.” Ron opened his arms and Hermione melted into the embrace, finally feeling the tension from everything that happened today melt. She stifled a sob but felt Ron’s arms tighten around her. 

 “Everything will sort itself out, Hermione. You’ll see.”

“I know.” They stayed hugging for a long while, both lost in their thoughts on their precious son.

[insomniac-dot-ink]

things I don’t know

Genre: wlw slice of life

Words: 1.4k

Summary: Two girls come back from college and reunite to stargaze and see if they still know each other. A love story of waiting and finding.

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The things I don't know: I don’t know how rockets function or how birds fly home for winter or how adjectives in other languages work. I don't know why we know more about our moon than our oceans. I don't know how time and space are actually the same thing. Time doesn't exist, not really, but maybe I know that when I look over.

You are laid back on the roof all long legs and loose limbs like the city made you edgeless instead of full of honking cars. A dull ache spreads through my chest and that list of “Things I Don’t Know” is longer than ever.

We sit apart, knees almost touching, and enough room for sneezing and not mush else. We don’t look at each other, not yet.

“There’s something about the stars here,” you say because we were waiting for something to say. “You know?” I know. I knew it in the way I know nothing else.

“It’s the rabbits . . . Allota feet hopping around out here. Gotta be lucky.”

“I was going to say it’s the lack of pollution.”

“Nah, we’re just God’s favorite.” I scratch my chin and try not to think about how little I know what to do with my hands. I don’t know how to fix a sink. I don’t know how to change a tire. I don’t know how to hold a baby or build a house—the list was endless.

“You still kicking a ball around?”

“Not since it kicked my ass first.” I gesture. “Ankles still wrong.”

“Aw. Grade 11, right.” You say softly and get lost somewhere in your head, you do that sometimes. We’re both looking up again.

The sky is velvet black, spread thick like jam, staring down with diamond eyes, and there we were, on the roof of a building not cleaning. We were supposed to be inspecting and helping make the place presentable for the church. It could be a day-care or meeting space or maybe just a storage shed, but first we needed to dust and mop and check the roof for leaks. Which we weren’t doing, but maybe this wasn’t why I went to church anymore.

"You still sing?" I basically grunt.

Your smile is a curved sickle, it punctures.

"Sure, in the shower every morning."

“Not out there in the world?” I snort. “Waste a water.”

“You kidding me? You’re the only who thought I could hit high notes. Pastor Dave asked me to stop doing Silent Night last Christmas.”

“Tell ‘em the high notes aren’t the point.”

“What’s the point then?” You tease. My smile returns sloppy, no edges, just dull hills to fall off of.

“All the other ones.”

You run a hand through your short hair, it’s short now, I’d never thought it could do that; I try to know you again. You are tall, and wiry and the divot above your eyebrow is fishhook-shaped. The fishhook scar looks the same, white and curved and deep, but it’s different now, unhidden by bangs.

I sit there, trying to figure it all out. We both flew away, both to college and bigger places, maybe that made our movements slower and more deliberate. Maybe breathing in the Oklahoma City air had worked its way into my joints and bones and tendons and shifted their weight. It pulled my ligaments into new orbits and other directions.

I don’t know how bodies work though, I don’t know how joints stay put or knees hold up all that weight or how bodies come together—what a frightening thought. And yet I’m still looking at you.

“How have you liked it?” I ask deliberately, or try to at least. “Really.”

“How is it really?” You tease, again.

“Yeah, Sammy, really.”

Your little grin fades. A long pause follows, thoughtful, you’re always thinking and going places I can’t follow. “I like it,” you say in that simple way. “It’s different.” I nod and ache and do all those other things without names. “I think good different. Maybe.”

I gesture to the jewel-knitted above. “But they don’t got this.”

“Oh no, God no. They don’t have this.” You shift, I feel the ghost of you there even without touching. “How about you? How is it really?” You’re never done teasing me, but luckily, I’m never done being teased.

“You know me . . . Though, I dunno, I wish, I wish some,” I swallow thickly, and let my heart squeeze in several languages I can unfortunately understand. My gaze darts over, quick and guilty, and then away again. “Stuff.”

“Yeah?” You blink at me, leaning forward. I inhale like I can’t get enough of the stuff. “Come on, Tricky.” You called me Tricky since we were 6.

“I just wish,” I whisper, eyes fogging over, “I wish I had known some stuff sooner.”

“What kind of stuff?” It’s gentle, gentle as a mended bone, and your knee touches mine.

“Lots of stuff . . . That’s all.”

You seem to frown and nod and think all at once. It’s something you did since 3rd grade before every spelling bee; and time right then is a patchwork, existing and not existing all at once. A series of tiny moments of belly-hurt laughter, tickling breath against my ear, secrets told, and hands clasped together under blankets. I don’t say it of course, I don’t say: you never left me, you never leave me, even when you’re not there. Time is a jumbled mess like that.

“And there’s a lot I still don’t know . . .” I find myself mumbling.

“Alright, what do you know now? And don’t just say stuff.” You slow-grin, it punctures, I turn to face away and try not to shrink and disappear under it.

“Well for one, my brother was right about 8am classes. It is the work of the devil.”

“I could have told you that,” you chuckle.

“Oh yeah? Never pegged you as know-it-all.” I wink and you roll your eyes. “So then what did you learn in Boston, Miss Ivy League?”

“Not much.” You run a hand through your hair again, and I can see the edge of that fishhook working into your thoughts. “Not enough.”

“Guess that’s disappointing. Lotta money to learn nothing.” I sniff.

“I think that’s what I’m paying for.” You shrug. “Plus, it’s not over yet. I just . . . there’s so much. You know?”

“Too much,” I agree softly.

The silence between us dries like paint on the wall. I can hear you considering something, turning it over and over to find the seams. You turn to me glacially, like you’re moving through cement. I could always tell when you found something after all that digging.

“I feel it though. I feel like . . . like maybe I missed out.” Our eyes meet when you say that, and maybe it feels like the first time. Had I ever been looked at before that moment? I didn’t know.

“It’s not too late.” I say it, I do. "I learned in physics . . . time doesn’t exist. So nothings too late, it can’t be.”

You chuckle and it’s sparkling and young, just like 5 and 13 and now. “I’m not sure that’s how physics works.”

“It could.” I almost pout.

“Well,” you stare down at your lap like your legs might leave. “I’d like it to work like that.”

“It really could,” I say again this time, but dangerously.

My mouth is dry and empty and I’m leaning forward like the fool. The fool doesn’t know when to stop, the fool doesn’t know when she's going to ruin everything, a fool doesn’t know a damn thing. I am the fool.

But maybe even Harvard lets in fools as well.

You follow, trailing down until our foreheads touch, sweaty and delicate. I’m at your mercy, stopping right before your big brown eyes and feeling the breath hot on my cheek. You could have killed me right then and I woulda done nothing.

I gulp though, cheeks heating up, and remembering all the things I don’t know. I kinda wish I was dead.

“I’m not sure how to. . .” I search the air. I search every part of myself.

You grin, feral and terrible and close enough to kill. You take my face between your hands. 

“You think too much.”

I stop breathing. I don’t know what to do with my hands, but maybe I don’t need to. We close the gap, desperate and opening; we come together.

Your mouth tastes like cherry jam and summer heat. I can feel you there, all gangly limbs and damp skin. I kiss like I want to know it. Your lips press warm and urgent to mine. Your hands are all familiar ridges and rough pads and your soft skin flushes splotchy as we meet and meet again.

The list of things I do not know is longer than God’s sin list and a rabbit hole with no bottom. The list of things I don’t know is too much to handle, vast as skies, but there is one thing: I know you. I know that first kiss in the way physicists understand rockets. I knew it in the way birds know true north and the moon knows the weight of the ocean.

I know it in the way you learn new languages: all taste, clumsy and earnest, trying to savor every new word.

We kiss on that roof with the stars bursting in the Oklahoma summer, because there’s just enough rabbits to make me that damn lucky. And maybe time is just a little less real.

-------------------------

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[whiskeynward]

fortunate sons

when: late night 24 june 1980 into early morning 25 june 1980, london content warning: death, blood, mild & nondescript violence

The world was silent. There was only a faint, high pitched tone that hung in his ears. Was that what the absence of noise sounded like? Was there ever such a place where true silence could be achieved? Hayden was positive this was it, because even as he opened his mouth and yelled and cried out into the night, everything remained quiet and still around him. 

Hayden was collapsed on his knees. The smell of blood hung in the air, clung to his hands, his face as he ran his palms over his head. The tears that moved down his cheeks created red streaks. 

The sound of police cars wailed in the distance. 

Hayden didn’t move. “No, no, no, no, no.” His entire body shook as he was trying to give chest compressions now, pushing down on the ribs with all his weight, already knowing it would be useless, that he wouldn’t be able to do anything. 

The flash of red and blue made it harder to see through his tears. The life was completely drained from, what could only now be called, the corpse. Hayden could hear shouting in the background as the police were pouring onto the scene, but he had no idea what was being said. It didn’t matter. 

Nothing mattered. 

It all happened in slow motion. Hayden was draped the body. The police approached him and he was being handcuffed, a motion he didn’t protest as he heard the click of them being locked around his wrists, behind his back. He was being picked up, dragged from the cadaver, medics surrounding it once he had been cleared by the authorities. 

Time suddenly stood still as he sat in the back of that police car, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing. Even as he closed his eyes, the usual starbursts he might have been able to see didn’t happen. It was a blank nothingness.

Hayden blinked and he was being pushed down into a chair in a small room at the police station. His hands were still handcuffed behind his back He didn’t try to fight it as he was shoved down so hard that he almost was knocked back with the chair, however, after a moment of uncertainty, the chair fell forward, steady on all four feet. 

Hayden didn’t look up, but was staring determinedly at the top of the table, eyes unable to look anywhere else. Even if he wanted to, the lighting was dim, the corners darkened and the only place he could see was the table, a single bulb illuminated it from above.

A detective sat across from him. He looked at Hayden, carefully, surveying the young man in front of him. “Take off the handcuffs,” he said to a pair of officers that were still there. Hayden could hear the movement around him, could feel the click as he was being released from his restraints, arms falling forward now that they were no longer being held together. His gaze didn’t move from where he stared at that one spot on the table.

He could hear the shuffling around him as the additional policeman left the room and he was left alone with just the detective and silence fell between them. 

“What happened?” 

Hayden didn’t speak. 

“Did you know the victim?” the detective went on.

“He s’my—“ However Hayden stopped himself. He could no longer speak in the present tense, could he? “He was m’brother.” 

Hayden folded his bloody hands on the table in front of him, this way he had something to look at. He swallowed as the memory flashed in front of him. 

—

Hayden found them with his brother. It was a deserted and empty flat, at the address he had been sent by owl. His brother was bound and gagged by magical means, utter terror in his eyes as three of them stood by him, guarding him. Hayden pulled out his wand, snarling, his stance wide as he held out his wand in front of him. “You sick fucks, I swear, I will—“ 

However, before Hayden could finish his words he was ambushed, bound and gagged by figures in the shadow, brought to his knees, held by invisible restraints. 

“I’m sure many of you remember our friend,” said a tall and gangly figure as he stepped forward. “Many years ago, we had our fun with him, Hayden Ward.” He smirked. “If I remember correctly, he may still have the scars from such an event.” He cocked his eyebrows, looking around at his friends. Hayden counted about six of them. “I figured this time, why not try our hand at a different kind of fun. Mix it up. We always take physical pain for granted, but there’s something to be said about the mental aspect of it. Mental torture.” 

—

“What happened?” the detective asked. 

Hayden didn’t answer. He couldn’t simply volunteer the truth. It wasn’t because he wasn’t willing, but because it would never be believed. Muggle policeman being told that magic was involved? Not to mention that would involve breaking the International Statute of Secrecy, but Hayden was hardly worried about that. Muggle and magical law enforcement couldn’t both have him, but he would end up in one place or the other. 

He looked at the detective, simply shrugging.

—

“I want to test a theory,” Elias went on. “I want to test if psychological or physical torture is worse.” He walked over to Hayden now, grabbing a fistful of hair to pull his head back as he bent low. “What do you think, Ward?” he whispered into his ear. 

Hayden couldn’t answer, not that he would if he could speak, but he did try to jerk his head out of his grip. 

“Guess he hasn’t got much to say, has he, lads?” he said and looked around as the others snickered.  “See, my sister, Merlin bless her,” he whispered into Hayden’s ear, “has a knack for creating spells. Thought we’d test a few on your brother. You can watch.” 

—

“So, he was tortured, mutilated and then killed or died of his injuries,” the detective finished recounting his version of events. “That’s what we’re assuming from the scene. Autopsy will need to be done. However, you are welcome to fill in the gaps for us.” 

The detective gave Hayden a good hard and long look. “It doesn’t look good for you. Nothing to say?”

Hayden still remained silent. He didn’t care. 

—

Hayden fought with everything he could to escape his magical binds. There had to be some way to break it, sheer force of will. He had magic running through his veins.

He stopped for a moment, closing his eyes. He couldn’t bare to look at his brother, wounded and bleeding from several gashes and mutilations that had been inflicted on him, all while they laughed. 

He opened his eyes as he tried to figure out which one of them had actually put the spell on him, which one of them had actually been the one to silence and restrain him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Hayden spotted the wizard. He had his wand held, pointed at Hayden as if holding onto the spell in that moment. He was busy laughing at the scene, however, not paying any mind to him, and so Hayden took his chance. 

He jerked his body in his direction as hard as possible. Hayden fell over but it worked as he rolled and rolled straight into the wizard, breaking his concentration and thus breaking his spell. At that point, Hayden didn’t hesitate as he was quick to grab the wizard bringing him down and grabbing his wand. He held it up as he lunged for his own wand, having laid forgotten on the floor when they had ambushed him. 

Hayden held up his own wand, snapping the other in half. It all happened in quick succession as he stunned wizard after wizard, dodging other spells and attacks as he dove towards his brother.

—

“I see here,” started the detective as he looked at a file he had been brought, “that we have priors for petty theft as a juvenile, car theft some months ago as well as destruction of property. Not exactly the marks or records of a murderer.” 

Hayden gave him a look. If the detective wanted to think him a murderer, he was more than welcome to do so. If he ended up in prison, all the better. 

—

Hayden didn’t even know how it had happened. 

It was three of them left and him. He held out his wand, swearing that he would kill them all if he had to. He would kill those who were simply stunned, even.

Hayden aimed his wand, aiming his spell. There was shouting on all ends as they all sent off various jinxes, hexes, and curses. Hayden dove and dropped his wand as a huge blast happened when the spells collided. Some stray bits of magic rebounded and smoke filled the room. 

But just as quickly as it filled the room, it also cleared and Hayden could see that all life had been drained from his brother. Eyes wide, and unblinking, Hayden rushed forward, not even caring what happened next. They could kill him for all he cared. 

He heard their shouts and several pops as they apparated away, taking the unconscious bodies of their stunned friends, sirens wailing in the distance.

—

“Well, I think that’s all the question we have. We’ll take you back to a cell while we wait for the autopsy results. We’ll make sure you have sufficient counsel as well.” The detective looked at him. “You’re not hurt, are you?” 

Hayden didn’t respond. He didn’t say anything and instead held his hands behind his back so he could be handcuffed and led away. He heard the familiar clicking of the handcuffs around him as he was then pulled up and standing. 

Grief. It was something he had not-so-long ago discussed. It was a feeling he had opted to remove himself from knowing he could never understand until he felt it, and yet even as his own grief filled him completely, he wasn’t sure he understood it at all. It was like he was drowning, suffocating and yet he was filled with an unspeakable rage. A desire for vengeance that mingled with his sadness, a feeling so overwhelming that that Hayden wanted his own existence to cease so that he might feel peace. 

Prison would have to suffice, though. As he was brought to a cell and locked up, Hayden almost welcomed the gray, stone walls and iron bars that surrounded him. He also knew that for the outside world, they were better off. 

[setaripendragon]

Trapped in the Amber - 1x01

I promise I’m not dead! I know I haven’t been posting anything lately, but that’s because what I’ve been writing is mostly... well, this. The most ridiculously self-indulgent bullshit I’ve written in a long time, and it’s also the longest thing I’ve ever written, and it’s still not even half way done. I admit, I’m very self-conscious about this, because the nastier side of fandom has infected me with some bullshit prejudices that I haven’t completely managed to exorcise yet, but... I’m tired of being worried it’s not ‘good enough’, and maybe, if people do like it at all, it’ll motivate me to pick it back up. So, here I am, retelling Supernatural right from the start, with a next gen OC tagging along, fixing things here and there. (...Yeah, god, I know how that sounds...) It’s going to start out... sticking pretty close to the Supernatural script, although I tried to limit the amount of times I quoted the show verbatim, it still happens sometimes. The story will diverge from canon more and more as the little changes start piling up and having an effect, but... That’s a long way off, tbh. (For anyone who cares and doesn’t know me well enough to guess, the primary future!ships are Dean/Cas/Gabe and Sam/Mia, but apart from the main character being a Dean/Cas/Gabe baby who loves her parents, there really isn’t that much more focus on romance than there is in the show. For now.)

Blackwater Ridge, Lost Creek, Colorado – Friday 11th November 2005

Landing in the past feels like hitting the emergency stop on a bullet train, like she left her internal organs behind somewhere on the timeline. Meira knows it’s the past because the timeline had felt thick and gooey as she fell. Falling in the other direction would have felt worse, but that doesn’t mean she enjoyed the trip. Add that to the sensation of her grace suddenly retreating to coil up under her skin like a wounded animal, and she thinks it’s no surprise that the first thing she does once there’s solid ground beneath her feet is throw up.

“Oh, son of a bitch.” She groans once her stomach feels like it’s settled mostly back where it’s supposed to be. She braces her shoulder on a tree that’s conveniently nearby, and tries to get her bearings. She’s in a forest, she sees, as she looks around. There are a lot of forests on earth. There are forests elsewhere in the universe too, but she’s… pretty sure this is earth, anyway. And she’s somewhen in the past, although she can’t get any sense of where she actually is on the timeline, and when she tries to reach out with her grace to find out, a sharp, awful pain lances through her soul. She groans and staggers, leaning more of her weight against the tree and forcing her knees to keep her upright out of sheer force of will. She is not trying that again.

The thought that there might be something wrong with her grace is terrifying. She’s stranded, and she can’t get home. She thinks she might be able to manifest her wings, she can still feel them, after all, so they’re not gone, but she wouldn’t be able to fly on them. She can’t fly. She can’t fly.

The panic sits sharp and cloying in the back of her throat, and she swallows hard, as if that might get rid of it. It doesn’t. “Motherfucker.” She swears, and hates that it comes out more reedy than fierce. She has no idea how this happened, either, which doesn’t help. Well, she has some idea, because Heaven, Hell, and everyone in between has been trying to get rid of her for her entire life, and if whatever’s wrong with her grace is why she fell into the past, then she’d say someone finally succeeded. Dad’s going to go ballistic, she thinks, not sure if it makes her want to laugh, or cry.

“Hey, lady.” Someone barks, and Meira flinches so hard she nearly falls over. It’s only a decade of various combat training that saves her from ending up on her ass in the dirt. She has never in her life been unable to sense the people around her before. She’s always felt the shades and shapes of people’s souls. Until now, apparently, with her grace trapped under her skin and unable to reach out to feel the nuances of her environment.

The man standing a little ways off is fairly nondescript, with short-cropped light blonde hair and a touch of stubble, wearing what looked like wilderness gear. Meira has no idea what lies beneath his face, whether she can trust him or not and it makes her uneasy. “What’re you doing out here?” He demands.

“Getting lost?” Meira sasses, because nervousness has never helped shut her up.

And then, another man steps out of the underbrush, but this one, Meira recognises. It’s her dad. Even though he looks so baby-faced and young, she’d know him anywhere. The relief is like a physical blow and she sags against another tree. “And my name’s Meira.” She adds. “Not ‘lady’, thanks.”

Dad quirks a grin, enjoying her sass, and then says, with every ounce of cocky bravado she’s ever seen him use and then some; “Nice to meet you, Meira. I’m Dean.” He glances over at the other guy. “And this is… I’m sorry, what was your name again?” The question is so obviously insincere, and Meira chokes on an incredulous laugh, because she’s seen her dad playful before, even bordering on mean when he’s trying not to admit something’s wrong, but that was something else. It’s macho-posturing, she realises, with a mixture of hilarity and dread. He’s showing off, like a twat, for her.

Oh, god. She’s going to have to nip that right in the bud, or she’s going to throw up again.

“Roy. Roy Roberts.” The other guy replies through gritted teeth, glaring at Dad – at Dean, she’s going to have to get used to that, or she’s going to slip up, and things are going to get awkward real fast – with enough venom to bring down an elephant.

“Hey, mind if I tag along with you guys?” Meira asks, to diffuse some of the angry tension in the air. Absently she wonders if this is before Dean has admitted that he’s into guys, too, because that might explain some of that. Roy is a fairly good looking guy, after all. He reminds Meira of that guy who played Bond in those movies Dad likes from before she was born. That… probably haven’t even been made yet. Damn it. She’s going to have to be careful with things like that. “I have no idea where I am right now.” She adds, because Roy does not look convinced.

“We’re heading further in, not back out.” He warns her.

Meira shrugs. “You’re still a better option than trying to make it by myself.” And she has absolutely no intention of going anywhere without Dad. It’s not really very rational, but he’s her only point of reference right now, and until she can get her feet under herself and figure out what the fuck to do, she could use the illusion of support. So she grins into the face of Roy’s unimpressed glower. “You know I’m just asking as a formality, right? If you say no, I’ll just follow you anyway, because what the hell else am I gonna do?”

Roy’s glower shades towards resigned, and Meira knows she’s won. Her grin sharpens, and he rolls his eyes, but nods his acceptance. “Come on, then, if you’re coming.” He instructs, heading back the way he came without any further ado, leaving Meira alone with her baby-faced father.

There’s a brief moment where they stare at each other, both of them at a loss, and then Dad – Dean – jerks his head towards the bit of forest Roy disappeared into, and Meira takes that as her cue to fall into step with him. “So, before you were getting lost, what were you doing out here?” Dean asks, looking at her with open curiosity. Then his eyes flicker down and up again, and Meira catches herself before an Enochian exorcism can fall out of her mouth on instinct.

Instead, she switches to the first lie she can come up with that might make her dad stop looking at her like that. “I was running away from a dickbag who wouldn’t take no for an answer.” She says without looking at him.

There’s a beat of silence, and a glance shows Meira that Dean is grimacing. “What an asshole.” He comments, just as they catch up with the others again. Roy looks sour, but he’s attentive, scanning the surroundings with a keen eye, which Meira appreciates, and standing nearby is Uncle Sam. Only he’s a squishy-cheeked, smooth-faced, gangly-limbed baby-Uncle now. Meira has to bite back the urge to coo and possibly pinch his cheeks.

The other two in the group are people Meira doesn’t recognise, a teenage boy with close-cropped hair, and a young woman with cute dimples that show when she smiles at Meira in greeting. Meira smiles back with extra warmth. “This is my brother, Sam.” Dean says, taking it upon himself to do introductions. “And this is Haley and Ben Collins. Their brother’s gone missing, which is why we’re here, looking for him.” He explains, gesturing.

“I hope we find him.” Meira says, specifically to Haley. She’s just decided that Haley is her salvation, and she offers her hand to the other woman to shake. “I’m Meira.” Haley takes her hand with just a hint of befuddlement.

“Alright, let’s keep moving.” Roy calls, before Meira can add anything else. She does let her hand linger, though, just a touch, before she retracts it. Their group moves off again, and Meira makes it a point to walk beside Haley.

“Tell me about your brother?” She asks, just to strike up conversation.

Haley glances at her sideways, but obliges. It’s clear she loves her family, just the way she talks about them, and Meira catches herself smiling for real, and not just as a flirtation, although it’s that as well. She does make a point to tell Haley how admirable she thinks it is, that sort of devotion to family, and Haley ducks her head with a rueful smile, bashful.

Behind them, Sam snickers. Meira glances back and catches a disgruntled pout on her dad’s face before he smooths it out into something more neutral once he realises she’s looking. She makes a bit of a show of glancing between Haley and Dean, and then grins, unrepentant, and shrugs in faux-apology. Dean snorts and waves her off, conceding defeat gracefully enough.

When Meira turns back around, Haley is watching her, one eyebrow arched. Meira refuses to feel sheepish at being caught out, and just nudges her with her shoulder, gentle and teasing, and asks her another question about her life. Haley rolls her eyes, but answers.

The conversation carries them on through the afternoon, until they reach a point where Roy stops. It’s almost a clearing, if it wasn’t for the waist-high undergrowth. “This is it.” Roy says, looking about them. “Blackwater Ridge.”

“What coordinates are we at?” Uncle Sam asks at once. Roy answers, and Meira aches a little at just how incomprehensible the numbers are. Before, she would have just known where she was, and she feels a little sick, being made aware of just how little she can tell about the world around her now. She looks around, hating how small she feels, how muffled everything is. She doesn’t dare try to reach out with her grace again, but she wants to, just to make that feeling of wrong go away.

“I’m going to go take a look around.” Roy announces.

Meira whips around to give him an incredulous look. He might not be in the know, might not realise that Sam and Dean are probably on a hunt right now, but even so, it seems reckless for anyone to go off on their own. “You shouldn’t go off by yourself.” Sam points out, so Meira doesn’t have to.

“I’ll go with you.” Meira offers, since no one else seems like they’re about to.

It earns her incredulous looks from all quarters, and a disparaging one from Roy. Meira gives him a hard look in return, the sort of ‘do you really want to try me, bitch?’ look that Pabbi has always told her makes her look like her qaada. And she might not be able to bring her grace to bear along with it like she usually does, but she is still an angel, no matter how constrained, and it would take a tougher man than Roy Roberts to not even blink in the face of heavenly wrath.

“Look,” he says in a carefully reasonable tone, “I know these woods, and I’m just going to have a look around, see if I can find any signs of people. I’ll be fine. You’ll be safer staying here.”

“You’d be safer staying with the group, too.” Dean interjects, making no effort to sound inoffensive. Roy gives him a sour look.

“Why don’t we all go?” Haley suggests, all false brightness and impatience.

Roy raises his hands in frustrated surrender, and heads off into the woods. The rest of them follow along like good little ducklings. They do spread out a little as they go, looking for any signs of other people in the area. Meira is not an expert woodsman, but she’d learned a few things growing up with a hunter family, and she tries to pay attention, to be helpful.

“Haley! Over here!” Roy shouts suddenly. Everyone bolts towards the shout, and they come out in a clearing with three tents lying there in mangled wreckages, blood-splattered and torn. “Oh my god…” Haley breathes, sounding horrified. Meira doesn’t blame her. She feels a little bit sick, too, and it’s not her brother’s campsite. The thought of something like this happening to Jace makes her want to smite something, and her grace roils under her skin, pushing at the boundaries of her physical form and aching every time it brushes against the inside of her skin.

“Looks like a grizzly.” Roy remarks, cool and practical.

Meira thinks not. Not only because if it was, it’s unlikely her dad and her uncle would be here, but also because there would be more blood and less wanton destruction if it had been a normal animal. If a bear had been hungry enough to hunt people, there would be a lot more blood, at least, and if it was pissed at them being on its territory, there would be bodies. But there aren’t. Just a bit of blood splattered about here and there, and a lot of claw marks.

Haley begins shouting for her brother, and Meira grabs her arm before she can walk any further into the camp. “Don’t.” She warns, eyeing the surrounding woods warily.

“What?” Haley demands, eyes a little wild. “Why not?”

“Something might still be out there.” Sam interjects, giving Meira a respectful nod. She tries to smile back, but she’s not too proud to admit that she’s scared. She ought to be able to tell what did this, to feel the spirits and souls around her and know. But she can’t.

“Sam!” Dean calls, and Sam heads off at a brisk clip.

Meira heads after him on instinct. Haley follows her for about three steps before Ben calls out in a voice that wavers despite his best efforts, and she turns back to him without hesitation. Meira catches up to Sam just in time to hear Dean saying “-tell you what, it’s no skin-walker or black dog.” Then Dean turns and stalls at the sight of her. “Uh…” He says, staring at her like a deer in the headlights.

In other circumstances, Meira might glory in making her dad look like that for once, instead of the other way around, but she’s still feeling unnerved enough that it’s hard to wring any humour out of the situation. “Why are we ruling out skin-walkers and black dogs?” She asks, propping her shoulder on a tree and crossing her arms. It looks less pathetic than curling her arms around her sides, but it still serves to make herself feel better. What would be best would be a hug from her dad, but there’s no way she’d ask for that when he’d probably just take it the wrong way.

“You-” Sam begins, realisation dawning in his expression.

“You’re a Hunter?” Dean demands.

“More or less.” Meira agrees. It’s never been a title that sits right on her shoulders. Not when she’s spent her whole life surrounded by people who actually dedicated themselves to the job, while she’s always felt more like a kid mucking about with a hobby. At Dean’s sceptical, bordering on suspicious look, she elaborates. “I was raised to it, but I’ve never… dedicated myself to it.” She hedged. “I just help out here and there when something crosses my path.”

“Right.” Dean acknowledges, and then jerks his head towards something behind him. Meira comes closer to look, and Dean explains the tracks. It’s almost like being a kid again, with Dad schooling her on this or that aspect of hunting.

“A skin-walker or a black dog could drag a person away, but you’re right, the tracks just stopping like that is weird.” Meira acknowledges, wracking her brains for what could do this. “A phantom cat could, too. Or a wendigo or a moonfiend. Or a harpy, maybe. It’s too early for a werewolf.”

“Werewolves don’t tend to drag their victims off, never mind vanish with them.” Dean points out.

“What’s a moonfiend?” Sam asks.

Meira blinks, reminded suddenly that this is not really her uncle. “It’s a… It’s kind of like a mothman, but less aggressive. They’re mostly harmless, actually, really shy, but if they’ve staked out a territory, you don’t want to go wandering into it.” She explains absently. “It’s just that they can fly, which would explain…” She gestures at the vanishing tracks. “Like Harpies. Wendigos are strong and agile enough to lift a human body, and phantom cats are spirits. It’s possible a phantom cats could transport a victim that way, but they don’t tend to drag people off, either.”

“Phantom cat. That’s the animal version of a poltergeist, right?” Dean checks.

Meira nods. “Yeah, pretty much. Although normal poltergeists generally just want to hurt or kill you, but some legends suggest that phantom cats steal souls.”

“The pattern of attacks would suggest it’s hunting, not protecting territory, so I don’t think it’s a moonfiend.” Sam adds with a grimace.

The three of them look at each other, all of them coming to the same conclusion, none of them actually willing to say it out loud. Before someone can muster their courage, the forest air is shattered with a shout.

“HELP!”

Meira startles, and then lurches into a run before she’s had time to think. Of course, Dean and Sam are already on the move, too, even as a second, and then a third cry echoes through the forest. They converge with the others, a wordless scream that sounds closer than ever egging them on. Then the forest goes silent, and they slow to a stop, wary and alert, listening hard. “It seemed like it was coming from around here, didn’t it?” Haley asks.

Meira feels painfully vulnerable, and she tests her grace, to see if she can conjure her blade. It’s made from her grace, and it’s still there, so the blade should be there, but when she tries to manifest it, a lance of white-hot pain ricochets through her, and she clutches at her wrist, gritting her teeth against the agony.

“Everybody back to camp.” Sam orders, and Meira obeys on instinct. She’s never felt so vulnerable before in her entire life, and it only gets worse when she realises they’ve fallen for a trap and all their gear is gone. Before, she wouldn’t have worried. She’s an angel, she can survive off the ambient energy of the universe if she needs to. It’s not fun, but it’s possible. But now, she has no idea what she can and can’t do. Her grace is still there, warming her bones, but every time she reaches for it, all she gets is pain.

“Alright, listen up.” Sam says briskly, looking around the camp with a tight expression on his face. “It’s time to go. Things have gotten more complicated.”

“What?” Haley asks, incredulous and irritated.

“Kid, don’t worry. Whatever’s out there, I think I can handle it.” Roy says, and Meira’s tempted to deck him for the condescending arrogance in his voice.

“If you don’t even know what it is, you have no idea whether you can handle it.” She snaps. It seems to startle everyone, but Meira doesn’t care. Yesterday, a wendigo wouldn’t have frightened her. She could move faster than it, could burn it to death with just a touch of the holy light in her soul, but today, she’s as helpless as Roy Roberts, and it pisses her off that he’s not as scared as she is.

“Sweetheart, when you’ve been hunting as long as I have, there isn’t much the woods can throw at you that you can’t handle.” Roy retorts smugly.

Meira scoffs incredulously, suddenly hating him. “Oh, that’s what this is. Did Sam taking charge just now wound your fragile male ego? Are you really going to put everyone here at risk because of your god damned pride?”

“How dare you suggest-”

“Hey, relax.” Dean interjects. Even though it isn’t directed at her, Meira can’t help but subside, too used to Dad mediating arguments between her and Jace, or her and Rob, or her and Pabbi that way.

Apparently, Uncle Sam hasn’t gotten the memo, though. “She’s right.” He says, as if Dad hadn’t said anything at all. “You have no idea what’s out there, what it can do. I’m just trying to protect you.”

“You, protect me?” Roy scoffs. “I was hunting these woods when your mommy was still kissing you goodnight.” He spits, getting into Uncle Sam’s face.

“Isn’t it about time you retired, then?” Meira snarks.

“You shut your mouth.” Roy barks, rounding on her.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Dad snaps, getting between them with both his hands out as if to physically hold them away from each other. “Just chill out, okay?” He prompts, giving Uncle Sam a pointed look. Meira tucks her arms around herself and tries not to freak out any more than she already has. Haley putting a hand on her shoulder makes her jump, but the comforting squeeze she gets helps a little.

“We don’t have time, Dean. We have to get these people out of here before this thing eats them alive.” Uncle Sam protests furiously.

“Look.” Haley speaks up, interrupting whatever Roy had been about to say in answer to that. “Tommy might still be alive.” She states, and Meira knows what’s coming next. She knows, because it’s what she’d say if it was Jace out here, in the claws of a wendigo. It’s what Dad would say if it was Uncle Sam. “And I’m not leaving here without him.”

“Then we’re going to need fire.” Meira says. “Lots and lots of fire.”

Blackwater Ridge, Lost Creek, Colorado – Saturday 12th November 2005

They build up a large campfire, and several smaller fires, too, and Meira helps her dad draw protective symbols around their camp. And then they sit and wait for morning or the wendigo, whichever comes first. The hours draw on interminably, and Meira sits right by the fire, close enough that she feels a little feverish with the heat baking her face, but it’s close enough that she could grab one of the big branches out of the fire if she needed to.

Sitting and waiting isn’t the best plan though, she thinks grimly. For morning, yes. Wendigos don’t really like bright sunlight, so they’ll have that small advantage once the sun rises, but after that? Haley isn’t leaving without her brother, and her brother, if he’s still alive, will be in the wendigo’s lair. Which they’ll need to find, and get into, and get out of, without dying or getting caught themselves.

“What’re you thinking?” Haley asks quietly, nudging her.

Meira glances at her, sees how worried she looks, and musters up a smile. “I’m trying to figure out how we’re going to find Tommy.” Haley blinks, then almost smiles, except not really. Meira knows the feeling, and goes back to staring at the fire. “Even if we kill this thing, we’d still need to find him, and… Shit, that’s a lot of wilderness to comb through.”

“We’ll do it.” Haley insists stubbornly. “I’ll do it.”

Meira smiles, slanting a fond look at her. “I know.” She assures her. “I have a little brother, too. I’d take on a wendigo for him, too.” That wouldn’t really have been saying much before, but now? Like this? She still means it.

“A…” Haley falters, frowning. “I’ve heard of that before. Isn’t that some sort of Native legend or something?”

Meira nodded. “Algonquian peoples, primarily. They tended to live more northward, where the long, lean winters often led to starvation. And starvation sometimes led to people who who looked at their families and friends, and saw not people they loved, but food.” Haley shudders in distaste. “And once they’ve eaten someone, they start craving it, and every time they eat someone else, they turn a little bit more monstrous.”

Haley gives her a sharp look, fear buried under anger. “You mean this thing’s going to eat Tommy?” She demands in a harsh whisper.

“It’s planning to, yeah. But it probably hasn’t yet.” Meira reassures, reaching out to put an arm around Haley’s shoulders. Haley grabs her other wrist in a desperate, unthinking motion, clinging to hope. “Wendigos are born of deprivation, they know what it’s like to go hungry, and they hate it. They tend to hunt in spurts, and hibernate for long stretches of time in between, but they don’t gorge themselves. They’ll take people alive if they can, so they have food for later.”

Haley squeezes her eyes shut. Then she sets her jaw and nods. “How can we kill this thing?” She asks in a hard voice.

Meira looks away. “I’m starting to wonder if we should.” She admits.

“What?” Haley asks, so sharply that Sam and Dean look over at them from where they’re sitting together across the fire, heads bent together and discussing something.

Meira opens her mouth to explain what she’s thinking, what she doesn’t want to be thinking, but before she can, someone out in the woods calls for help. She cringes, even as everyone else leaps to their feet, those with guns aiming them out into the night. She knows that it’s the wendigo, knows that it isn’t some poor bastard getting chowed on, but… well, before, she would have known, would have felt it, would have been able to tell for sure that, no, the only soul out there is the corrupted one of the wendigo. Now, all she has to go on is cold logic. It’s enough to convince her head, but not her soul.

Some part of her still feels the need to go and check, to be sure, because what if she’s just sitting here, listening to someone die when she could have helped them? Then the gunfire starts up. “I hit it!” Roy shouts suddenly, and Meira’s head jerks up just in time to see him dodging around one of their extra fires and rushing out into the woods.

She’s on her feet before she can think about it. Then she hesitates. What is she going to do, without her grace? But she can’t just leave him to his fate, either, no matter how much she doesn’t like him. “Don’t move!” Her dad orders, right before going after Roy himself.

That cinches it, really. Meira’s not leaving her dad out there with a wendigo. She snatches up one of the burning sticks, and bolts after them. “Meira!” Uncle Sam shouts, reaching out to try and grab her, but Meira’s played that game a million times, it’s habit to flex her grace to give herself just a little bit more speed so that she’s not where he expects her to be.

And this time, it works.

It’s such a relief she nearly stumbles, but she doesn’t have time to waste, so she catches her balance and runs on. She’s right behind Dad, and Roy is up ahead, and she can hear the wendigo in the trees. “It’s over here!” The wendigo calls with someone else’s voice, and Meira can see it reaching for Roy. The world blurs as she lunges, practically tackling Roy out of the way just as the wendigo’s hands flash out and the claws sink into her face.

She could retaliate, she has her stick, but she remembers the thoughts that had been plaguing her earlier, and doesn’t.

The wendigo jerks her, hard, but Meira’s grace isn’t gone. It’s just trapped, which means that when her neck snaps, it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Painful, sure, but her grace heals the damage almost as soon as it’s been done. The wendigo gives her another shake, nearly breaking her neck again, and then wrenches the burning stick away from her, tossing it back down to the ground. She lets it, because she doesn’t want to have to heal being eaten, and then plays limp ragdoll as the wendigo darts off through the trees with her. It won’t fool it forever, but it should fool it long enough for it to take her back to its lair.

They drop back to the forest floor eventually, and then further down still, underground, Meira realises. A cave, or an abandoned mine, perhaps. She’s tossed into a larger cavern, lets herself roll limply along the floor, and the wendigo retreats. Meira’s just going to have to hope that her dad and uncle can keep Haley and Ben alive through the night.

“Ugh.” She groans and sits up, rubbing at the back of her neck. She’s human enough that that sort of damage is still unnerving, and leaves her feeling vaguely squeamish for hours afterwards. So worth it just to know her grace still works, though.

“Holy shit!”

Meira stills, looking around. The cavern is not, in fact, pitch black. There’s faint light seeping in from somewhere above her head, moonlight, and it’s just about enough for her to see by. There’s a man strung up from the rafters that looks enough like Haley and Ben that Meira feels pretty safe in guessing “Tommy Collins?”

“Yeah.” Tommy says breathlessly. “I thought you were dead.”

“That’s what I wanted it to think.” Meira tells him with a shrug, clambering to her feet and dusting herself off. “Now, let’s see if we can’t get you down.” She wishes, briefly but intensely, for her blade. It’s right there, sitting inside her soul, and she can’t manifest it. Instead, she casts about for something in the cave that they’re in, and settles on a broken shard of rock from the floor of the cave. It worked for prehistoric people well enough.

“How- how’d you know who I am?” Tommy asks after Meira’s been sawing at the ropes for a few minutes. They’re starting to fray, finally, which is a relief.

“Your brother and sister have come looking for you.” Meira tells him. “Brought me and a couple others along with them.”

“Oh, god.” Tommy groans. “Are they okay?”

“Worried about you, but otherwise, yeah. Last I saw, anyway. And D- Dean and Sam know how to handle a wendigo. They’ll look after them, I promise.” Tommy lets out a shuddering breath, nodding to himself.

“I think this is backwards.” Tommy says in a tone of forced cheer. Meira hums curiously, scowling at the rope as she continues to work at it. “We’ll the beautiful damsel is rescuing the handsome knight from the monster.” He points out.

Meira snorts her way into laughter, and leans back to get a better look at him. “You are cute.” She acknowledges, and in other circumstances, she might have flirted back, because she’s gotten the feeling that both Haley and Tommy are straight. “But your sister’s cuter.” She adds, going back to her work. The rope gives way before Tommy manages to muster up a response to that. He staggers when he drops, having been strung up for so long and deprived of sustenance that his balance is shot to shit. Meira catches him and slings one of his arms over her shoulder. “Do you know if your friends are still alive?” She asks him. There’s no one else in this cave, she doesn’t think, although she can’t be entirely sure of that with her grace locked down like this, but she’s pretty sure this won’t be the only place the wendigo has to stash its snacks.

She feels more than sees Tommy shake his head. “N-no, it-” He stammers out. “Oh god.” He says, and Meira recognises that tone well enough to shift the way she’s supporting him so that when he doubles over and retches, she doesn’t get covered in bile.

“Easy.” Meira soothes, rubbing a hand over his back. He dry heaves a few more times, but manages to regain control of himself after that. “Yeah, I can’t imagine watching something like that was any fun.” She muses, tugging him back upright and setting off. She hopes she can remember the way out. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“What about- about that thing?” Tommy asks her as they stagger along, into the first of several pitch-black tunnels.

“It’s almost certainly out in the woods right now, hunting the others.” Meira tells him, which she is aware is not as comforting as it could be, given that ‘the others’ includes family for both of them. Tommy swears, and Meira grimaces, figuring she can at least help a little bit. “Sam and Dean know how to handle something like this.” She assures him. “And they have plenty of fire. They’ll keep Haley and Ben safe. And I’m going to keep you safe.”

“In normal circumstances, that would sound ridiculous.” Tommy mutters.

“Don’t be sexist.” Meira chides, but she keeps her tone light, and gives him a gentle little jostle with her shoulder to let him know she’s mostly teasing. Then she sobers, because short of actually eating her alive, which admittedly is a possibility, the wendigo can’t kill her, but it could definitely kill Tommy, and if he’s going to play machismo bullshit because she’s a lady, she really does need to nip that in the bud. “But I’m serious. If it does come back, if we run into it, don’t you dare try to play the hero, alright?” She puts a touch of divine command into her tone. “I am not your responsibility, do not wait for me, do not come back for me, do not try to throw yourself into harms way to protect me. Am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tommy mumbles, resentful and bewildered.

The rest of the slog out of the mines is made in silence, save for Tommy’s ragged breathing and Meira’s occasional curse when she makes a wrong turn and they have to double back. Finally, though, Meira picks out a hint of light and follows it to the exit. It looks like it might have been boarded up once, but the wendigo has made a neat little opening for itself, and she and Tommy stagger out into in the dim grey-blue light of false dawn.

Tommy chokes back a sob of relief. Meira grins at the sound and shifts him higher on her shoulder. “Come on, we don’t want to get caught here if it comes back.” She points out, and that convinces Tommy to pick up his pace. It’s still slow going, because he’s still pretty unhealthy after two days chained up in a cave with minimal sustenance. The wendigo probably wouldn’t have fed him, but they had been known to give captives water. They also have undergrowth to contend with now, and Meira might heal a broken ankle, but Tommy won’t.

“Where… are the others?” Tommy asks.

Which is a hell of a good question. “I have no idea.” Meira tells him, feigning cheer. “Right now our priorities are water and some way of making fire.” She informs him, and Tommy drags them to a stop.

Tommy clearly knows more about wilderness survival than she does, because within a few minutes of her pointing out a need for it, Tommy has somehow managed to get a small fire going. They’re still too close to the wendigo’s lair for Meira’s comfort, but having a weapon that might actually do something to it is more important than trying to escape something that could outstrip a bullet. They build up a campfire, draw some protective sigils, and Meira fashions them both makeshift torches, wishing bitterly that she wasn’t reduced to such primitive tools all the while.

Meira risks leaving Tommy alone with the sigils to protect him just long enough to see if she can find any hint of running water nearby. She does, so they relocate, going through the whole process of warding all over again, this time closer to the water. Tommy looks a lot better for the chance to drink and wash his face, and then they have to figure out what the hell to do next.

“Finding the others ought to be priority over killing the wendigo.” Meira muses. “There’s just the problem of how to actually go about that.”

Tommy nods grimly. “If it wasn’t for the monster out there that wants to eat us, I’d say set up a base camp, search outwards, leave signs.” He summarises. Meira is about to suggest that they should do exactly that, then, when a furious snarl echoes through the woods. Tommy flinches so hard he falls over where he’s sitting, only barely catching himself with one hand in the dirt.

“Think it noticed we’re missing?” Meira asks rhetorically.

They sit, tense and wary, in the ensuing silence, waiting for something to happen. It doesn’t for long enough that Meira begins to wonder if she should do something. Then the yelling starts. “Help! Help me!” Meira clenches her hands into fists, heart squeezing.

“You know that’s not going to work, right?” She calls, standing slowly and bringing two of their burning sticks with her, one in each hand. Tommy hisses at her, grabbing at the hem of her coat as if that might make her sit and stop baiting the monster. A snarl answers her words, echoing oddly as the wendigo moves mid-sound and the doppler effect turns it multi-toned. “What? Pissed because you couldn’t kill me? We’re pretty tough prey, I bet you’ve figured by now. All this exertion must be making you kinda hungry.”

The roar that follows shakes the forest, full of fury and malice, and Meira nearly giggles hysterically. She only has the barest idea of what she’s doing, and her hands are shaking with the terror of having a predator that’s bigger than her focused solely on her, but she knows, she knows from painful, bitter experience that making someone angry makes them sloppy in the short term. And any advantage she can wring out of this situation, she needs.

Tauntingly, she steps a little closer to the edge of the protective sigils. And there it is, sprinting too fast for the mortal eye to catch, close enough to make the underbrush rustle right next to where Meira is standing, but not quite close enough for her to hit with one of her torches. Meira doesn’t want to start a forest fire, but oh, boy, is she tempted right now. “Is that supposed to scare me?” She mocks.

The wendigo rushes by again, and then- stops. In plain view. Not even looking at her. Tommy makes a choked noise of horror, and the wendigo doesn’t even twitch. Meira is so tempted to lunge out of the sigils at it, but it’s too easy, and she hesitates. She hesitates like an idiot until it’s suddenly gone, bounding off into the forest, and she realises what must have happened.

It heard something she couldn’t. Something that was easier prey.

“For fuck’s sake!” She explodes, and goes after it, even though it’s probably going to get her eaten.

“Hey! Hey, wait!” Tommy calls.

“Stay in the circle!” Meira calls over her shoulder. “If it comes back, set it on fire!”

The wendigo appears in front of her in an instant. Meira swings on instinct, a little too slow because she’s so off her game right now, but a little too slow is still something, because the flames pass by the wendigo’s emaciated flesh with inches to spare, and it must feel the heat, because it shrieks, an awful, too human sound of pain. A huge clawed hand strikes out, and tears right through the sleeve of her leather coat and into the flesh beneath. “Shit!” She curses, pained and indignant in equal measure, because if she’s guessing right about the limits on her abilities, she’s not going to be able to fix that.

“Meira?!” Uncle Sam’s voice shouts.

The wendigo ignores him, which means Meira succeeded in pissing it off. She ducks the second set of claws aiming for her throat, and then swings both torches up and in. They crash into either side of the wendigo’s head, and the smell of scorched flesh fills the forest just as Sam skids into view. The wendigo screams, rearing back and disappointingly not dead. Meira gears up for another swing, and the wendigo bolts. It’s gone in a flash, and Meira is about to go after it, to press her advantage, but then Uncle Sam is right in front of her, eyes wide. “Are you alright?” He demands, looking between her face and her arm.

“I’ll be fine.” Meira assures him, lowering her arms and hissing when the wound pulls. “My jacket on the other hand…” She bitches, tugging at the shoulder to get a better look at the tears. She whines when she gets a proper look at the damage.

“You bitch-slapped a wendigo in the face with a medieval torch, and you’re just upset about your jacket?” Sam asks incredulously.

Meira considers that. “I… huh. That was pretty cool, wasn’t it?” Sam snorts, shaking his head like he genuinely can’t believe her. Meira grins, before the situation catches up with her, and she jerks her head back the way she came. “We should get behind the wards I set up if we’re going to catch up.”

Sam, though, shakes his head. “I’ve gotta-” He gestures after the wendigo. Meira is just about to point out that running off half-cocked is going to get him dead, despite the disorientation of having to tell her Uncle that, when he goes on. “It took Dean and Haley.”

Meira stares at him for a long moment, then tips her head back. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!” She whines at the sky. “I just got Tommy out!”

“You got Tommy?” Sam echoes, brightening.

Meira nods, and realises there’s really only one thing for her to do. “I’ll wait with him while you go help the others?” She offers, and Sam nods once, sharp and decisive. Meira thrusts one of the torches at him. “Here. Take that.” Sam does, muttering a quick thanks before he’s rushing off again, and Meira goes back to sit with Tommy.

It’s not even half an hour later when she hears footsteps, people moving through the woods, and then the others appear through the trees, all of them in a straggly exhausted group. Haley and Ben both let out cries of relief when they see their brother, and stumble into a sort of run while Tommy clambers to his feet in order to embrace them.

“Wendigo’s dead?” Meira checks.

“Yeah.” Dean confirms. “Shot it point blank with a flaregun.” He adds proudly. Meira whistles, impressed. Dean grins back at her. “Heard you hit it in the face with a torch?” He asks, jerking his head at Sam to indicate just where he heard that. “Pretty awesome.”

Meira shrugs, grinning bashfully. “I did what I could.”

Then she realises that Roy is watching her very intently. He looks more than a little worse for wear, something a bit wild around his eyes that suggests he’s not taking the existence of the supernatural very well at all. “You’re alive.” He says when Meira catches his eye.

“Yeah.” Meira confirms.

Roy swallows. “Coulda sworn that thing broke your neck.” He says, all of a sudden not quite able to look at her and instead staring somewhere over her shoulder.

“Oh, man, it tried.” She replied, grinning in a strange, giddy relief at the memory of how easily her grace had healed her. “Shook me like a ragdoll. But I’m fine.” She adds to reassure him, because he still looks a bit haunted.

Roy nods. There’s a long pause, and then he clears his throat. “You saved my life. When I was being an idiot.” He adds briskly, grimacing at himself. “Thank you.”

Meira shrugs, smiling ruefully. “Just because you’re an asshole, doesn’t mean you deserve to die.”

Dean snorts in amusement at that, and interrupts before Roy can say anything else. It doesn’t look like he knows what to say in any case. “Come on, let’s get back to civilisation. I don’t know about any of you lot, but I’m getting a little sick of these woods.”

No one’s going to object to that, so they get themselves organised, and follow Roy’s recovered GPS out of the forest. Along the way they discuss what, exactly, to tell the authorities, getting their stories straight. Meira’s mostly quiet as they hike, trying to figure out what she’s going to do now. Ideally, she wants to stick with Dean and Sam, but she isn’t entirely sure how to go about inviting herself along. She knows from her dad’s stories that he and Uncle Sam had been kind of codependent when they were younger, and trying to insert herself into such a close-knit dynamic is going to difficult.

She still hasn’t come up with any good ideas when they get back to a road and call the paramedics. Then it’s all chaos as everyone asks questions and gets medical attention. Sam tries to point the paramedics at Meira, but Meira dodges them with the excuse that it was just a scratch, she’ll be fine. “Hey.” Someone says behind her, and she turns to find Haley standing there, looking exhausted and overwhelmed.

“Hey, you alright?” Meira checks, touching her lightly on the arm.

Haley nods. “Thanks to you.” Meira shakes her head, but Haley presses the point. “You saved Tommy. You saved my brother.”

Meira relents with a smile, and shifts her hand up to brush her knuckles lightly over Haley’s cheek. “I’m glad I could help.” She says sincerely. Haley huffs, smiling incredulously.

“You never let up, do you?” She asks.

Meira shrugs and retreats. “I do mean it.” She points out.

Haley considers her for a long moment, then nods. “Yeah, I got that.” She acknowledges. Then she glances over to where Dean is finally escaping the paramedics himself. “I should go and say thank you to them, too.” She says, and Meira nods, watching her go. She watches them talk for a moment, before an idea occurs to her, and she hurries off to pickpocket a ranger, talk to Roy, and then circle back around to Haley. She gets there just in time to hear her say “Must you cheapen the moment?”

“Yeah.” Dean replies, as if it should be obvious.

Haley shakes her head, catches sight of Meira, and rolls her eyes. “The pair of you, I swear.” She huffs, and Meira grins. She’s heard it before, mostly from Qaada. Dad always protested that she’s way more like Pabbi, but given that the pair of them are the same flavour of irreverent flirt, she figures that’s one and the same.

Meira flips her stolen pen over in her fingers and proffers it to Haley. Haley takes it with a quizzical expression, while Meira shoves up her sleeve and presents her arm to her. “Gimme your number, and once I can get my hands on a new phone, I’ll text you.”

Haley narrows her eyes playfully. “And why should I?”

For once, Meira doesn’t rise to the bait. “Because then if you get into any other trouble, or if you see anything else weird, you can call me.” She explains. Haley’s eyes widen a little, and then she nods and scribbles a phone number onto Meira’s arm.

“Smooth.” Dean comments, half complimentary, half resentful, and Meira elbows him in retaliation. He elbows her back.

Haley shakes her head at both of them again, and then, surprising the hell out of Meira, she leans in and kisses them each on the cheek, Meira, and then Dean. “I hope you find your father.” She says to Dean, who sobers at that, and then Sam and Ben amble over and Haley guides Ben off to go to the hospital with their brother.

“You going to be alright getting home?” Dean asks, startling Meira out of watching the little family leave in the ambulance.

Meira winces, trying not to think too hard about exactly how far away from home she really is. Dean catches it and raises his eyebrows at her. Over his shoulder, Sam is frowning in concern. “Don’t really have one of those anymore.” She admits quietly, since it’s mostly true. She’s just muddling her tenses a little bit. She swallows and glances sideways at Dean. “Mind if I hitch a ride with you guys?”

Dean glances back at Sam, who shrugs. “Sure.” Dean says, a little uncertainly. “I guess.”

Relief makes Meira’s shoulders slump. “Thanks.”

“You really don’t have anywhere to go, huh?” Sam asks, sounding sympathetic.

Meira gives a slightly bitter laugh at that. “No, I don’t. It’s… it’s all gone.” She raises her arms a little in indication. “This is everything I have right now.”

“Shit.” Dean breathes. “What happened?”

“What always happens to hunters.” Meira hedges, tucking her hands into her pockets and hunching into her coat uncomfortably. It’s not even entirely a lie. “They missed one, and it came back to bite them.”

“Well, you can stick with us for a while.” Sam offers.

“Thanks. I don’t mind helping you look for your dad for a while as repayment.” Meira replies, and they both nod their acceptance. Then Dean tips his head towards the Impala, and Meira goes, aware of the pair of them following along behind her.

She’s pretty sure she’s not really meant to hear it when Dean says, in an undertone. “Sam, you know we’re going to find Dad, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam agrees heavily. “But in the meantime… I’m driving.”

There’s a long pause, long enough for Meira to reach the back door of the Impala and turn to look at them. She’s just in time to see Dean flip the keys across to Sam, and she ducks her head on a smile. As long as she’s stuck here in the past, this is exactly where she wants to be; with her family.

[thedistantstorm]

Project Compass 36

Read along on AO3 here

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This time: The confrontation aboard the Compass reaches its peak.

Next time: Victory has a cost.

-/

When confrontation arose, Vah'nya danced through it. She'd seen it coming, her Sight strong and sure, leaving her aware of her enemy long before it had ever laid eyes upon her. There was a tempo, a rhythm to the altercation that only she knew.

The Grysk was easily four times her weight in their armor, dwarfing her thin frame in width though they were only slightly taller than her in height. They swung at her menacingly, but she saw the move before it happened, ducking under a thick arm to slip both behind and further away.

As her enemy staggered forward empty-handed, bending awkwardly to keep their balance as the deckplates beneath them rumbled and shifted from external plasmasphere impact, Vah'nya spun to face their back and extended her hands. The Grysk spun around as well, putting their back to the rest of their enemies, but it was too late. As if seeing the space between atoms, she charged the air with elemental energy. Ions rearranged themselves and the bolts that coalesced in the expanse between them glowed a searing blue- white, crackling ominously with contact.

Vah’nya’s foe dropped, their body seizing with electricity that ricocheted through the gaps in metal armor. It was a force of nature, a seemingly unnatural thing, and yet the Navigator glowed in its wake. Her skin held a healthy, cerulean-cream shine, her eyes were sharp and ethereal: cognizant of what she'd done, but aware that protecting the lives of her people had been far more important.

Un'hee hadn't needed to see it. Not with her eyes. She could see it in her mind, feel the way Vah'nya's spirit sang as she moved, the absolute sureness of her actions. She understood that there was more to it than sight. More to it than the Sight, in any form.

Vah'nya had instilled sureness, had always led by example. Un'hee might bicker with her ceaselessly, but they were sister-Navigators, and Un'hee could admit her admiration and awe. She should have known that she would not be the first.

She was relieved, if she were to be honest with herself. And that relief felt refreshing, awakening. This great and terrifying power she had discovered was not just her own. All of their sisters could be capable of this. And like she had been shown, after she had seen the way to help save Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Vah'nya would again guide her. Guide them all.

Eli, too. She could feel his heartbeat, muted through his armor, but steady: like a wardrum within his chest. He was calm. This was no surprise.

Of course, she thought. Because Eli had known as long as Vah’nya had. And, more than Vah’nya, Eli knew- No. That line of thought wasn't important, she told herself. What had happened was over now. He had recovered. They both had, and they were here now, fighting.

She could fight, too.

They needed her. Though Eli and Vah'nya were calm, they were the only ones. She sensed panic and fear like a tangible thing. Awe and terror, pride and uncertainty, all of it so very unsure. They had found others, she realized. She, Eli, and Vah’nya were not alone.

Had they found-?

Her memory, momentarily fragmented, disoriented by the subconscious use of her Sight, returned to her swiftly. Eli had helped her. She remembered him triggering Somnia, remembered him saying it was alright, but she needed to know. She needed to see for herself. She wouldn’t forgive herself for killing them, not even for killing the Grysk if it hadn’t been enough to save Thrawn, too.

"Thrawn," She called to him quietly, voice hoarse and dry from disuse and unconsciousness. They couldn’t hear her over the sounds of the dying Grysk and awed Chis. They must have rescueded others, though not many. Strange, it felt so loud to her while everything else was still so muted. She considered that it might be Eli. His close presence was soothing, enough to lull her back to a comfortable state of half-wakefulness, but she needed to come back now.

The thin black material - some synthweave blend that was soft to the touch - was balled in her hands. It took effort to twitch them, to force her tightly curled fists to relent. They did. She focused, looking for Thrawn without her eyes.

He was near to her - to them. Close enough to touch. In the space between awake and unconscious, she sensed his… Apprehension. Acknowledgement. A fear that was almost reverent. Something warily respectful.

Thrawn had seen this before, Un’hee remembered. It was not entirely the same - she’d heard the story of the creature he’d shot down from the sky, a being who called upon a great and terrible storm that did not distinguish between friend and foe - and yet it was. She felt him tense, closing himself off, and twitched again in Eli’s hold like an answer. Thrawn didn’t notice.

But Eli had. She carefully peeled back her covering, finding the halls of the Compass to be darker than she expected. Eli’s tan-skinned features were awash in the ambient glow. His lips curved into a half smile when he met her gaze. She could see the relief war with worry and anger. No doubt she was in trouble with him. She didn’t care right now, squirming, seeing fit to tell him so-

The human didn’t coddle her though. His expression - those deep, dark expressive eyes - showed understanding that outweighed his emotions. He eased her to the ground, assuring himself she was able to support her own weight before letting go.

Eli’s emotions were important, yes, but she had more pressing concerns in that moment. She took a wobbly step to the side and slipped her much smaller hand into Thrawn’s loose fist, half-clenched at his side. Her cold fingers uncurled against his palm, seeking purchase. He did not flinch. His fingers clasped hers in a gentle squeeze before relaxing, but to her surprise, he did not let go.

She looked up to him as he looked down at her, as stern and stoic as she’d remembered the first time they’d met. His eyes were different now. It was as though there was some shroud had been pulled back, though he was no easier to read this way. He felt worried, yes - she could imagine what he’d seen in his mind’s eye watching Vah’nya vanquish their shared enemy - but beneath that, there was something else. He felt balanced now. Balanced I'm no a way that someone didn’t know they could be until they achieved it. It wasn’t feigned or forced out of some sense of duty. It just was.

Un’hee was pulled from her thoughts by Vah’nya. Vah’nya, who refused to acknowledge her quarry beyond confirming it no longer drew breath. She rose to her feet and stepped around gangly, still-twitching limbs and immediately crouched in front of the young girl.

“What were you thinking?” The Senior Navigator bellowed. “You could have been killed!”

“I had to,” Un’hee said, pushing out her chin, her tone increasing in pitch with every word. “I knew I had to just like you. They would have killed him, and I-”

“Not now,” Ivant cut in, extending both his hands in a placating gesture toward the enraged woman. Un’hee couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen true fury in Vah’nya’s eyes. She barely kept it in check, but Un’hee knew fury was easier to channel than fear. Fear would drown them, if they let it. “Later. Mission first.”

Thrawn’s fingers tightened around Un'hee's hand again briefly before he let go. If he was concerned that she stayed all but leaning against him for the moment, he said nothing. She watched him meet Eli’s gaze over her head, saw the way they spoke without words in the two seconds that passed.

To Vah’nya, he began, “Are you able to call upon this... lightning,” He didn't stumble over the word, but the pause was obvious to Un’hee, “On demand?” That rerouted the conversation, the tension, all of it, in a matter of seconds.

Vah’nya pushed a flyaway piece of blue-black hair behind her ear and settled back into the coolness of militant discipline. She explained, “Yes, though truly controlling it is another story. I can see the paths it can take, but it is not a foolproof thing.”

Un’hee only realized that Eli had moved from beside them when she heard the clanging thud of the Grysk’s body being rolled over with his boot. He took a knee and inspected the corpse. Un'hee's forced herself not to look away. She'd done this, too. “It works just fine in close range, and when you focus,” Eli clarified.

Vah’nya inclined her head. "True, but ultimately it is more of a destructive power. It cannot manipulate fragile electronics."

Eli muttered something unintelligible. Not so loudly as to interrupt their exchange entirely, though he did draw Thrawn's sharp gaze. Eli didn't speak up or voice his opinion to the group, so the conversation moved on.

“And I would not not ask it of you,” Thrawn affirmed, shifting his gaze back to her. “But I would ask you to take an alternative route to the bridge.” He considered, “I believe the way you traversed the ship without detection.”

“Not a bad plan if we have something ready on the other end,” Mused Eli, who confirmed Vah'nya's cooperation with a swift nod. Then he rose from beside the body and addressed Thrawn, making it clear that he was the leader, not Eli. Un'hee had wondered. “Another grunt," He said. "I don’t think there’s any high-ranking ones beside that commander who demanded your presence." He toed at the dead alien's armor. "Worst of all, there's nothing we can tie back to our people. We're flying blind on that end.”

"Perhaps," Thrawn considered. “Their liaison with our people is too new for them to rely on a single individual or reveal their cards entirely. Subjugation was hardly their goal in this venture, nor was returning me to Emperor Palpatine, though both would undoubtedly be useful to their cause.”

“You’re right,” Eli agreed. He did not hide his anger now, Un’hee noticed. It was smooth and slick and mostly unfamiliar to her. She knew he did his best to mask his temper, especially with her sisters, and thus was not used to seeing it so close to the surface. “They’re just doing this to show they can. To show how deep they’ve inserted their influence.”

“It will not be tolerated,” Thrawn swore, like a vow. Un’hee believed him. His disdain curled like a predator beneath his skin, though she did not fear the violence he'd bring. Unlike their enemies, his anger and Eli's had a sharp edge. They cared little for conquest. They were driven by their desire to protect.

-/

There was only one way onto the bridge. As such, it had been a no-nonsense, straightforward approach. It has been an offensive that started as stealth, making as little noise as possible, then turned into an all-out assault as they reached the last stretch and passed the point of no return.

Ezra had been surprised by the amount of resistance, and even more surprised by the number of drab-looking Chiss that fought with the same cold fury that his own allies did. They had passed several Grysks that were not the commander. Ezra's allies had keen eyes, but through the Force he had sensed a sort of blank servitude within them as well, so similar to the enemy Chiss forces. It was disturbing.

Even more disturbing was their present situation. Approaching the bridge head on - as was their only realistic option - had left them trapped between the majority of enemy forces aboard the Compass. Ahead of them, the larger contingent fired at them indiscriminately. Behind them, a slow trickle of support crept in to pick them off. Ezra tried his best to see them coming, but they were so flat and unobtrusive, in addition to that usual slippery feeling Chiss had in the Force.

The Chiss beside him, the small team who had suffered losses and were supposed to be better protected because they had his assistance, were tired. Ezra was tired too. They'd been in this killbox for a while now, their enemy just waiting for them to make a mistake. Though he didn't know them well enough to get a good read on them, they were far more open to him in the Force - accepting, perhaps - than their enemies. They were grateful for his intervention, albeit rattled by his abilities. They had never fought with a Jedi. And Ezra hadn't fought like this since he was a rebel and Thrawn his greatest enemy.

He clenched his fists. He missed his lightsaber and its protective hum. There was nothing for it now. He didn't need his lightsaber to be a Jedi.

Reaching out, he felt for the incoming blaster bolts that targeted his comrades and nudged them to the side. He felt something else, too. Something directly above him.

Vah'nya.

She wasn't like Kanan or Ahsoka, wasn't like a Jedi at all. And yet, whenever he extended himself mentally, especially after they'd taken to meditating together on occasion, she always reached back. He wasn't sure if she knew she was doing it, but it didn't stop him from sending his own feelings - relief especially, that she seemed to be alright - her way.

She didn't answer. She could project emotion, any being could, but she couldn’t pointedly target him in the Force. It simply wasn’t like that for her. He shifted focus. Beside him, one of his allies paused, their eyes briefly pausing on the grate that covered the life-support's ventilation shaft over the enemy's head. Chiss could see in the infrared, Ezra knew. If there was someone up in that ductwork, they'd be obvious against the cool backdrop of silver-blue.

They couldn't draw attention to her, and he didn't dare mention that he suspected it was her aloud. Still, he had to do something. He raised his hand to jerk their enemies by their weapons, anything to keep their attention away from what was happening above them.

The first stun bolt nearly grazed his cheek. The coils of overwhelming energy expanded as they traveled over his shoulder, striking one of their assailants in the chin and dropping them with a strangled hiss of contact. More followed, sailing by him and his allies.

Footsteps followed and Ezra picked out at least five pairs of footsteps. “Set weapons to stun,” Called the familiar, authoritative voice and Ezra felt himself relax ever so slightly.

Beside him, one of his allies tipped their head to look behind them with hardly any concern for the rank of the one they spoke to. “Are you crazy, sir? They’re shooting to kill.”

“Hardly,” Thrawn’s voice came again, as Ezra flicked the mechanism on his own blaster to follow Thrawn’s instructions. He grew louder with every word, the sharpness of his command tone leading one of his other allies to toggle the stun setting on their weapon as well. “If the need to take life arises, so be it. Now is not that time. There are enough of us to neutralize this offensive.”

The captain did not retreat into cover when the shots came again. Athletically, he dipped and side-stepped them. They were coming slower now, the enemy forces slightly dismayed by the development and weakened significantly with the first round of the newcomers’ incapacitations, but it didn’t detract from the skill the older Chiss exhibited amongst mostly younger comrades. He raised his blaster again and took out two with pointed stun bolts to the chest before they could lock onto their target’s quickly shifting position.

Ezra stepped out of the hatchway he’d been using as semi-decent cover and took a lower stance, firing in tandem as the rest of their forces fell in. The already accumulated forces stayed low, firing from their positions dotted along the hallway in similar doors and ancillary alcoves like Ezra had been while Thrawn’s people stayed predominantly in line of sight for their enemy, providing heavy rings of cover-fire.

Ezra let Thrawn step in front of him protectively as he dropped his depleted blaster pack and took the one Thrawn indicated on his belt. He recognized the weapon and its backup and had to ask, “Where’s Captain Ivant?”

“His portion of the plan is in motion.”

“Oh good,” Ezra breathed in relief, then added, “Hopefully it’s a better plan than your last one. No offense, but that one was kriffing stupid.”

Squeezing off another shot, then three more in quick succession, Thrawn said, “It is good to know you are uninjured as well.” It looked like he might have made another statement, or possibly asked a question about the status of their remaining troops as the battle began to turn in their favor, but his head swiveled quickly, his expression changing from one of untouchable stoicism to a stern frown.

“What?” Ezra scrambled to his feet. “I don’t like that look,” He said.

“The ship is moving.”

“Moving? How can you tell?”

Thrawn’s concentration was absolute, though he was still able to multitask. “I can tell.” He looked to their comrades. “They’re engaging the Steadfast. We must move quickly to retake the bridge.” He plucked a comm from his belt and brought it to his lips. “Navigator Vah’nya, do you have confirmation?”

The sound of the comm device was muffled and metallic sounding. “Confirmed. Proceed as planned.”

“Very good.” Thrawn stalked up to their defeated enemies. Most were dead, but there were still some who might be saved. Though he did not prefer casualties, Ezra could see the flare of his nostrils, the utter contempt he had for them. “Set up a defensive perimeter to the sides of the blast doors. They will explode outward. Drag any prisoners who are alive out of its direct path.”

The questions came quick, albeit with more respect than the original outburst.

Thrawn confirmed his orders, “The Commander will not seek to harm themself, but those not sealed in with will be considered acceptable collateral. The doors will be rigged to damage any approaching forces in the event that the remaining crew attempted to thwart their plans.”

“I liked the Grysk better when they offed themselves before we got information,” The smart-mouthed woman who had sassed Thrawn earlier said.

“Only the lower-level Grysk do that,” A quieter voice came. Ezra didn’t recognize the man, but judging by his bloodied, disheveled uniform, he’d already been aboard the Compass. “This one wants to live.”

“This one wishes to take this ship as a trophy and display our vulnerabilities, both on a military and personal level,” Thrawn corrected. “Whether he desires to live is irrelevant. Our duty is to regain control of our vessel and neutralize the insurgent threat.” He looked at the group. “Once the doors are blown, you will wait for Navigator Vah’nya’s signal to storm the bridge.”

“What signal?” Another of Ezra’s comrades asked.

“You’ll know,” Thrawn said darkly.

Yes, Ezra supposed they would.

-/

Commander Faro jumped up from her console, already sending the communiqué to Admiral Ar’alani’s datapad and the Steafast’s bridge speakers even as she spoke. “Admiral, I have Captain Ivant.”

“The encryption?”

“It’s secure, ma’am.”

The admiral whirled around from the command walkway to face her. “Send it through, Commander.”

“Sent,” Faro confirmed crisply.

Ar’alani barely heard her, focused on the man aboard her rogue capital ship. “Ivant,” She demanded.

“Admiral. I have Un’hee in custody.”

“And the others?”

“It’s a bloodbath,” He said seriously, voice offset by static. “Captain Thrawn was kept with Un’hee. At last check, the survivors indicated one navigator and Senior Captain Khresh were still alive.” He paused, breathing hard. He’d likely been running, Ar’alani suspected. They were all running out of time, both literally and figuratively, she supposed. “Have you gotten anything from our friends?”

It was a crude but inconspicuous way of asking if House Chaf had provided them with any information. She appreciated his discretion. “It is too soon,” She said tightly, then redirected, “I am more concerned with the field of battle. Your former ship is being brought to bear against mine.” Her annoyance was obvious.

“Captain Thrawn is working on that.”

“Captain Thrawn,” She said carefully. She knew his objective, but refused to satiate her curiosity on the subject. There were more pressing matters to be discussed. “And what are you working on?”

“Leveling the field.”

Scoffing, Ar’alani said, “You sound as though you intend to do something foolish.”

“You might say that,” He supposed. “Can the Steadfast run interference?”

Snappish, she retorted, “You understand what you are asking me to do?” Ivant’s request would put her between a confirmed enemy Commander with his warped mockery of Chiss warriors and a Grysk capital ship that could have even more Chiss with inside knowledge of their ships, their tactics, everything. If the Compass wasn’t brought under control within minutes of Ar’alani turning her back on it, their enemy would know victory.

“I know it’s a risk,” Eli agreed. “But I need a guarantee that our enemies cannot escape. There is security footage that cannot fall into enemy hands. External comms should still be down, but there’s no way to confirm at this point without retaking the bridge. Thrawn will come through with his half of the plan,” He said confidently. “We will disable the Compass by any means necessary.”

Growling out a sigh, Ar’alani turned to her bridge crew. “Helm, take us in,” She demanded of them before speaking to Ivant once more. “If the Compass rams my ship, it will be your head, Eli’van’to.”

“I accept full responsibility,” He confirmed with confidence. He had the presence of mind not to comment that if the Compass got that close, there was little chance any of them were going to make it out of this engagement alive. “Thank you, Admiral.”

“Do not make me regret this,” She said, and ended the transmission. A glance at the tactical made her snarl beneath her breath and look to the helm. “Bring us to full speed,” She urged them. “It won’t do us any good if they’re too fast for us to catch.” Then, to the sensor officers, she commanded, “You will report any fluctuations in the Compass’s readings directly to me.”

The officer flushed, untested and timid, but set his jaw and inclined his head. “Yes, admiral.”

-/

She didn’t like this. She looked down at the scene - what she could see of it, anyway - and it only made things worse. Ke’hala was crying. She could hear the girl’s tiny snuffling sobs interspersed with the sound of wet, strained breaths and knew without any shadow of a doubt that it was Khresh, bloodied and propped precariously against one of the monitoring stations. Taking great care to remain quiet, she began loosening the bolts that kept the access register locked in place.

The bridge was a hub of activity, the Grysk commander standing boldly on the command walkway while meek, out-of-place Chiss carried out orders. Very few of the Chiss here wore CDF uniforms. And even if they did, she swore it felt like a tangible entity sucking the free will from them.

How could they think this was right? They were engaging in open warfare against their own brothers and sisters, slaughtering them openly. Would she and Un’hee be enough to convince them? Vah’nya knew she could kill a Grysk, regardless of their rank. She didn’t care about killing a Grysk. She cared about her people, about making sure this never happened again. About making sure those who thought this was an acceptable practice, a way to make some political statement or another saw that they did not need to enter into the service of an enemy to recognize their full potential.

It was already at hand.

She clenched the bolts in her fist, twisting the final one free. She just needed to move them all to her belt pouch where they wouldn’t make sound and she would be ready when the time came. She could hear the commander snarl over the reports that their forces outside the bridge had been thwarted. She just needed to see the explosive device pressed against the blast doors.

At this angle, it was nearly impossible. Carefully, she shifted in the metal shaft, doing her best to angle herself away from the slotted vent to avoid enemy detection, especially in the infrared. It was no use.

She pushed herself flat against the bottom of the narrow shaft and listened some more to the crew's off-putting chatter. The Steadfast was changing course, effectively trying to cut them off. They recognized the potential for a multi-faceted attack, and wanted to root out the remaining opposition aboard this ship first. Good.

Cautiously, Vah'nya chanced another glance down through the grate, eyeing the commander from behind. Something nagged at her. She was missing something.

Navigator Ke'hala wasn't crying anymore. Vah'nya swung her gaze back to Senior Captain Khresh. She couldn't see more of his face than the curve of his chin, tucked against his chest. But she could see his hands. They were redirecting the crying Navigator's face away from her, and she could see his chin move as he said something she couldn't hear.

There came a dull scrape against the bottom of the ventilation shaft. Ke'hala was not the only one who noticed, Vah'nya realized, as it steadily grew louder. The durasteel was too thick to be penetrated by blaster fire or even the concealed knife she knew the commander wore, but the infrastructure of the ductwork had its own disadvantages.

Most pressing of those disadvantages was the quiet snick and rising beep of a magnetic grenade not far from where she was concealed. The tucked her head beneath her arms and drew her legs up beneath her as the grenade blew. Her ears rang, though it wasn’t nearly as loud as the blood pumping furiously in her ears, warning her of danger.

The warning came too little, too late. There was a thump that she felt through the vibrations of her compromised vent shaft. Then, a large hand wrapped around one of her ankles and yanked.

Vah’nya twisted her body, kicking with her other leg, seeking out her assailant. She heard Navigator Ke’hala let out a strangled cry, turning into a sharp gasp when Vah’nya’s boot met the temple of the Chiss that had pulled her from the blown-out section of ductwork. She lurched sideways, back hitting one of the consoles. She didn’t have a blaster, but she did have something else.

She slammed her hand against the nearest enemy’s thigh, digging her fingers into their grayish coveralls and letting herself feel that white-hot fury. It would be excruciating, she knew. But she’d seen the path the current took, following flesh and bone only from the leg down. It wouldn’t be fatal. They cried out in agony, jolting upright before falling to the ground, making several others nearby reach for their blasters as they twitched and screamed.

It didn’t matter. Vah’nya saw their blows coming with the kind of awareness that, of those among them, only Navigator Ke’hala could fathom. She twisted her torso, ducked, stepped back to miss the assault with a poised grace that left them cursing her.

Good, she thought, taking the holstered weapon from the belt of the client she’d injured. The Grysk was making their way toward her from the other side of the bridge. She met his dark, beady eyes, raised her pilfered blaster, and fired.

[hookedontaronfics]

A (Not So) Secret Crush - Prompt fic

Title: A (Not So) Secret Crush Pairing: Taron x Reader Rating: T Warnings: None (Just some cursing but we’re all adults here, right?) A/N: I just had so much fun writing this imagine; it really flowed from my fingertips with ease and I hope you enjoy reading this super sweet fluff as much as I enjoyed writing it! x Prompt: Could you possibly do an imagine where the reader is drunk and leaves a voicemail for taron saying that she’s falling for him? then he confronts her? SUUUUPER FLUFFY

Here was the scene: Another Friday night at a loud bar, drinking with your friends, some who had been your mates since your RADA days, others who had been brought into the fold because they knew someone who knew someone. Either way, your group had been hosting these Friday night get-togethers for as long as you could remember, and whoever could make it showed up. The mix of friends changed time to time but the fun never stopped. 

You truly loved these people and you were grateful you had made friends for life. You’d been through every heartbreak and every victory together - new jobs, losing parents, getting engaged, getting married, getting cancer, having babies, getting promotions, losing jobs, shitty breakups, you’d seen it all together, and you’d been there for each other through thick and thin, plenty of tears and plenty of laughter.

One of your closest friends had drifted away from the group slightly, not because he didn’t care but because he was just so exceptionally busy. Taron had made quite a name for himself lately, and was constantly running the awards circuit as of late. You couldn’t help but admit you slightly envied him. Out of your entire RADA group, he’d been the most successful. Some of you still did civic theater or indie film projects, but nearly everyone had gone on to normal plebian jobs. But Taron had been incredibly talented from Day One; how he hadn’t made it into the school on his first audition was beyond you. You knew he’d go far and you were pleased to see your predictions had been right. Of course he’d always brushed you off when you’d tried to tell him that all those years ago; he was almost annoyingly humble.

Look at him now, you thought, racking up awards buzz for his latest project as Elton John, sitting there downing his pilsner and laughing like he hadn’t a care in the world. He’d decided to join your lot finally after months of half-promises or apologies, and you couldn’t help staring at his fine-cut suit… or that jawline. He’d just come from some banquet or another, you’d lost track at that point, but boy did he look fine.

You weren’t sure when the crush had started really. Maybe you’d always found him attractive, but he had been your friend so you never really dwelled on it. Plus, as gangly young adults, you all had had some growing up to do. But Taron had aged like a fine wine, and only gotten more handsome as the years passed, and so your crush had slowly become more than just a spark. But you’d never tell him that, you couldn’t. You felt like it would ruin your friendship, a friendship you both had come to rely on over the years. He’d called you in tears when he and Emily had broken up, and you’d brought over frozen pizzas and let him cry on your shoulder while they baked in the oven. That kind of friendship wasn’t worth ruining over your silly crush.

But at this moment, as the alcohol you were drinking was working its way through your system, you couldn’t help but wonder what could come of it all if you just told him the truth. You were both single at the moment now, and every time he smiled at you you felt your heart leap into your throat. It was getting kind of annoying, to be honest. Taron with those intense green eyes and that boyish grin and that hair you wanted to run your fingers through. But you never would, because you loved him too much to trip over the line and cause an irreparable rip in the fabric of your friendship.

The night wore on, and so did the drinks, shots and cocktails and a beer to chase it all down. As you were nursing your Firestone ale, Taron finally slid over on the booth next to you. The conversations had died down mostly into private talks between couples, and you’d been sitting by yourself, aware of how that branded you in your singleness.

“You shouldn’t be sitting by yourself, love,” he grinned at you, tossing an arm casually on the back of the booth behind you, but not touching you. Still, you were all too aware of his presence now. He smelled of alcohol but also vanilla and sandalwood; it was a bit heady to you, and you had to take a steadying breath before you answered him.

“Everyone decided to couple up,” you laughed, the sound too loud and bright to your own ears. “And I am definitely… uh.. Single,” you added for good measure.

“Suppose that makes two of us, eh?” he smiled gently at you. You could only nod at that.

“So, I feel completely rude in not asking what you’ve been up to these days,” he said, taking a sip of his own beer, your eyes trained on the way his mouth worked the rim of the glass and giving you a thought you instantly banished from your mind. You suddenly felt quite warm and adjusted the collar of your blouse.

“Just work, you know, the usual boring adult shit. My life is not nearly as exciting as yours, Mister I’m Winning All The Awards,” you said, giggling slightly at your own dumb joke.

“Oh please, that’s not even remotely true,” he chuckled, but you could see a bit of blush creeping up his neck. You had to admit, it didn’t look bad on him at all.

“But really, I just go to work and come home and veg in front of the telly and do hot yoga and drink with this lot and that’s about it. I guess I’m waiting for something more exciting to come along,” you shrugged slightly.

“Or someone?” he asked, turning his full gaze on you. You couldn’t decipher the meaning behind his words, though, so you just took another drink of your ale.

“I guess you could say that but who knows if that will ever happen, T. You’ve seen me go through it so many times before. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s such a thing as true love, or if life is just really about settling for someone you at least can tolerate,” you sighed heavily.

“Hey now, no reason to give up just yet,” he said, tilting your chin up to look at him. You’d hugged him many times over the years, even tackled him full-on during a friendly rugby match, but for some reason his touch on you now sent shivers down your spine.

“I’ll believe you when you find me a match,” you teased him lightly, and he chuckled.

“Alright, well, let’s start with this here bar, right now,” he smirked sideways at you as you slid down in the booth to try and hide. “Ohhh that one over there, in the chummy corduroy jacket, he’s got nice eyes. Or the biker jacket by the window, he could take you for a wild ride,” Taron snickered and you slapped him playfully on the arm.

“Taron, stop,” you said, hissing in your attempt to not laugh.

“Hey, what about Mr. Silver Suits over there, 9 o’clock?” he said, sweeping his arm over to point and accidentally knocking you in the back of the head in the process. “Oh my god, I’m so so sorry!” he said, pulling you to him and holding you tightly against his chest. You couldn’t breathe in this close proximity to him, and he must have interpreted your silence as pain. “Please tell me you’re okay,” he pleaded slightly, his alcohol breath on your cheek not unpleasant.

“I’m fine Taron, but you’re squeezing me a bit,” you laughed, as he quickly loosened his arms around you and you sat back up.

“I’ve totally gone and messed up your hair,” he said, trying to help you rearrange it, his fingers whispering slightly over your cheeks and shoulders and making you suck in your breath slightly. You were far too drunk to think about this rationally. He was drunk too, though, you realized, and couldn’t possibly be meaning anything about this.

“It’s fine, T, you’ve done enough,” you said with a smile, as he withdrew his hands and looked slightly embarrassed at himself.

“Sorry, I’m a bit drunk?” he offered, and you just laughed at him.

“Not the first time I’ve seen you pissed,” you giggled, and he grinned at you.

“This is not untrue,” he smirked. “But we should maybe call it a night?” he said, loosening his tie slightly and drawing your eyes straight to his neck, where you wanted to kiss him. Fuck, you really needed to stop thinking those things. You were going to go home to your quiet, lonely apartment, by yourself, and probably crash and sleep off your hangover. Taron was no part of that reality and the thought sobered you up a bit.

You both ordered Ubers and finished your drinks while you waited, chatting about nothing of consequence. He walked you out the door, his hand at your lower back, and made sure you got in the Uber safely.

“Text me when you get home, yeah?” he said, slurring his words only slightly.

“Of course,” you said sweetly at him as he closed the door behind you. The Uber driver was rather chatty but thankfully didn’t seem to mind that most of your replies were “uh-huh” and “yeah” and you were grateful when you got home, a small headache beginning to work its way into your brain, and also a slightly painful longing in your heart.

You had once again walked away from Taron without telling him how you felt, and tonight he’d even slightly made you feel like maybe he felt something too, the way his gaze had landed on you often when he didn’t think you were looking, the way his fingers had always found your knee under the table, the way he leaned into your shoulder when he laughed. Boy, you had it bad, and you didn’t know how to stop. Maybe you didn’t want to stop feeling this way about him, but you could never have him either.

You hopped in the shower, hoping that would calm you down, before realizing you’d completely forgotten to text Taron that you’d made it home safely. You quickly grabbed your towel and wrapped it around your dripping body, hair still full of shampoo, before pawing through the contents of your purse for your phone, where you found several <are you home yet?!> texts from Taron.

Rather than text him back this late, you just decided to call since that might be quicker in reassuring him that you were safe. He didn’t pick up the call though, and you half-imagined him crashed out on his couch, still in that suit coat, now rumpled, mouth hanging slightly open and the couch blanket tossed haphazardly over himself. The image made you smile as his voicemail beeped at you.

“Hey, Taron, it’s me. You would have known that if you’d been looking at your phone, of course. But you’re probably asleep already so… I’m just letting you know I-” you said before the phone service cut you off. You sighed and dialed again, waiting for the beep before trying again. “I made it home! Thought you should know that. Because you left me like 18 texts asking me if I was home yet. I had fun tonight with you, really. It was great to catch up. I hope we-” you rambled into the voice message before getting cut off again.

You hoped what? That you could fall in love and get married and have his babies? The thought was absolutely absurd, and you laughed out loud at how ridiculous you were being. You dialed his number one more time, hoping to leave something semi-coherent. “Hey, sorry I’m really drunk but if I don’t tell you how I feel now I never will. I think I’m falling for you and I know if this ruins our friendship I’ll forever regret it. But I just needed to tell you that, because I’ve known it for a long time. I think I love you, and I-” You were cut off again, and suddenly lost your courage too. You threw your phone on the bedside table and wished you could take that message back.

“SHIT!” you yelled out loud, standing in the puddle of water you’d left on your hardwood floor. What have I done, you thought, feeling like you might cry. Well, it was all in Taron’s hands now, really. You felt sick to your stomach as you went to finish your shower, and afterward stood staring at yourself in the mirror for a long moment. There was no way he could possibly feel the same about you. He probably only thought of you as a sister, nothing more. You brushed the tears away from your face and sighed before collapsing in your bed, not even bothering to dry your hair, the water soaking into your pillow as you passed out.

When your alarm went off the next morning you batted half the crap off your bedside table before finding your phone and silencing the alarm, groaning slightly at it before sitting bolt upright and opening your phone. There were no return texts, no return voicemails. Nothing at all. Maybe he was still asleep, you told yourself, though it was already nearly 11 a.m. Maybe he just didn’t know how to respond, because you sure as hell wouldn’t if he had left you messages like that. Maybe he’d just chalk it up to drunkenness and let the whole thing pass like a bad dream. Or a kidney stone. Painful, but forgettable. Because that’s exactly how you felt about yourself in that moment.

There was no way you were getting back to sleep, so you got up and went about your Saturday, tidying up your apartment, going to the grocery, chatting with your mum, watching some telly, and jumping every time your phone chimed with a text. But they were never texts from the one person you needed to hear from, and when the sun began to sink toward the horizon with still no response, your heart sank to your toes right along with it.

You slept fitfully that night, before spending Sunday as a nervous wreck, pacing your apartment and debating whether to ring him. You settled on a text message, typing it and deleting it and retyping it again. <I think we need to talk. But I just want to know you’re okay. Please text me back.> You paced some more before you finally received a text back.

<Everything’s alright, just been busy. We can talk at some point but I’ll be in the States for a while coming up so don’t hold your breath.>

“Don’t hold my breath?” you asked out loud, a wee bit shocked as it sounded rather rude, coming from someone you’d known the better part of 10 years. Someone who had cried on your damn shoulders just a few months ago. You huffed slightly and tossed your phone on the couch, staring at it and sighing. You figured the conversation would probably end up with you conceding just being drunk and an arsehole and both of you agreeing to forget it ever happened. 

But could you live with your unrequited feelings for the rest of your life? Could you stand by Taron’s side when he married another girl, knowing how you felt about him? Or would this truly be something neither of you could get over? Could you live with never talking to him again? The thought made you feel sick to your stomach; you’d rather deny your feelings for the rest of your life than lose him completely, you decided. You spent the rest of the night on the couch with a tub of ice cream, eating your feelings and trying to not so subtly ask your friend group if they’d heard anything from Taron, but no one had. At least he had kept your secret admission to himself.

Weeks passed and you didn’t hear anything from Taron. You attended the next several Friday outings with the group and even though you enjoyed your time with everyone else, the lack of Taron’s presence was a glaring hole in your mind. Don’t hold your breath, he’d said, the phrase stuck on an endless loop in your mind. It distracted you in your daily life, and even your best friend at work called you out for it. You came up with some lame excuse she saw right through, figuring it was “boy trouble” and wondering when you’d ever manage to find a decent man. 

The problem, though, was that a decent man had been right in front of you, so close to you but so far out of reach. Maybe Taron had ruined you for everyone else, you thought to yourself, laughing at that but half-wondering if it was true. No one ever measured up to the man you knew he was, the man you’d spent countless hours beating at Mario Kart, he was so laughably bad, the man who’d helped you memorize your monologues, who sent you funny gifs when he knew you were down, who always took you to lunch after a bad breakup. He knew more about your life than most anyone else.

And you’d gone and thrown it all away.

On a particularly stormy day, six weeks later, you were sitting on your living room floor, surrounded by half cut-up magazines, the scattered images of people’s faces and flowers and animals and the words you’d cut out. You were dressed in a pair of floral leggings and a white sweater, your hair up in a messy bun with a cute headband holding your bangs out of your face. You were tapping your scissors against your lips, deciding how to arrange your collage, when a loud crack of thunder made you jump, your lights flickering slightly. “Jesus,” you breathed out, your heart racing slightly before a knock sounded on your apartment door.

You almost thought you’d imagined it, not expecting anyone, when it sounded again. You quickly put the cap on the open glue bottle before unwinding your legs and standing up, stepping carefully around the scattered art. The insistent knocking came again, and you sighed. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” you said even though they couldn’t hear you. It was probably just a neighbor wondering if your lights had flickered too.

You popped the door open and gasped slightly, an entirely-soaked-to-the-bone Taron standing at your door, rainwater dripping off the tip of his nose and chin, his wet hair plastered to his forehead.

“Taron!” you said in surprise, your hand still on the doorknob.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked, his voice a bit hoarse.

“What do you mean?” you asked softly, knowing full well what he meant.

“Your voicemail that you left me. When you said you were falling for me,” he said, still dripping onto the floor outside of your apartment.

“I- … was drunk,” you started but he shook his head.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked again, his gaze looking vulnerable and a bit tortured too.

It really was now or never, you thought to yourself. “Yes. Yes I did,” you replied, a bit faintly.

“How long have you known?” he asked, his own voice failing him slightly, cracking a bit.

“Years, Taron. But don’t stand out there, you’ll catch your death,” you said, gesturing for him to come inside. He stepped across the threshold gingerly, awkwardly, as if he hadn’t been in your apartment before. You quickly went to get him some towels and took his sopping wet coat and did your best to wring it out in the bathtub before hanging it up to dry. You couldn’t help but hide a laugh behind your hand at his appearance; he looked like a drowned rat, but it was somehow adorable.

You sat a stack of towels on the couch so he could sit and not worry about getting it all wet but you could tell he wasn’t comfortable in the least. “Why did you never say anything to me?” he asked after a moment, as you paused in the middle of your attempt to sweep up your collage work into a tidy pile.

“I knew it would ruin our friendship. I knew it would make things awful and awkward between us, and it has,” you admitted, peering over at him. He seemed lost in thought, wrestling with something, his face an open book.

“I’ve only been awkward and distant because I … I’ve had trouble coming to terms with how I felt about you. I don’t think I’ve had nearly the same courage, drunk or not. But I’ve done some thinking, and I started to realize that, y/n, it’s really always been you. You were always there, for my smallest victories to my biggest heartbreaks. You were the one tipping back a beer with me every time I landed a role. You were the one encouraging me when I felt like I wasn’t good enough. You went shopping for my first real suit for my first real awards show back in the day,” he grinned, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the memory with him.

“You were so nervous, it was darling,” you giggled.

“The hem! The hem!” he chuckled, shaking his head.

“All the pants were too long on you,” you giggled lightly as he gazed at you, biting his lip slightly.

“I don’t think we have to lose this at all,” he said softly. “I think we can make it even better. I at least want to try, because I fell for a girl a long time ago who’s been right in front of me all along. And I know that sounds super cliche, like one of those cheesy romcoms you love so much, but it’s true,” he said sweetly.

“They are brilliant pieces of cinema and you will never change my mind, Taron David Egerton!” you laughed, but your heart was also falling open at that moment as you heard the words you’d been wishing to hear for so long. You almost wanted to pinch yourself to see if this was just a dream; that’d you’d wake up tomorrow and all of this would have evaporated like mist on the wind. Before either of you could say another word, your lights went out accompanied by another loud clap of thunder, and you groaned loudly.

“Well shit,” you said, going to check the breaker box but the lights were truly out. You rummaged around under your sink and found a flashlight, flicking it on and setting it on its end so the beam of light hit the ceiling and scattered around the room, drawing weird shadows on the walls. You noticed, suddenly, that Taron was shivering quite a bit, but you weren’t sure how to solve that until you remembered you had borrowed one of his sweatshirts eons ago.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” you said, as you went to go dig the sweatshirt out of your closet. You kept your eyes trained on the ground as you handed him a blanket and the sweatshirt, and it was enough to hear his clothes rustle as he presumably wriggled out of them, considering his jeans looked tighter than your leggings.

“I’m decent,” he chuckled once he was settled on the couch again, the blanket tucked over his lap and the sweatshirt on. He looked almost boyish now, a crooked smile on his face and his hair, which had gone fluffy as it dried, a total bedhead mess. You hung his wet clothes up on the shower rod, since the dryer wouldn’t work without power, and then sat primly on the couch next to him. He was presumably still in whatever he wore beneath his jeans, but the thought still made you blush and you were grateful for the semi-darkness now.

“So now what?” you asked quietly, feeling awkward and like you were twelve again and trying to discuss your first crush with your “bff.” Only your bff was the man you had fallen in love with.

“Oh I know how this next bit goes. You see, usually in these cheesy romcoms there’s some sort of cutesy music in the background and then the couple with all of their newly discovered attraction kisses,” Taron smirked at you, and your breath sort of caught in your throat.

“Taron, that isn’t even remotely practical!” you said, trying to laugh it off. “It’s storming like crazy outside, you’re half-naked-”

“Only half,” he interjected in a teasing manner.

“- on my couch and we don’t even know exactly how we feel about each other!” you protested, barreling through his comment.

“You so sure about that?” he asked, pulling you to him suddenly. You squeaked in surprise but didn’t pull away as his eyes searched yours for a long moment. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this,” he said, cupping your face in his hands before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, kissing you in a way that very much could have been described as “romantic.” It opened a whole new world of feelings to you, feelings you didn’t have to pretend away anymore. You were completely head over heels for this man, and as he ran his fingers through your hair, and gazed at you in that loving way he had, you felt so totally undone but somehow put back together in all the right ways too.

You dared to kiss him back, and it was just as good the second time around, like a nice bowl of chili that warmed you all over, from the inside out. You pulled away for a moment, almost feeling shy, and settled your head against his chest instead. He instinctively wrapped his arms around you, and you could hear his heart hammering away. Just knowing you were the reason for that made you smile to yourself.

Neither of you said much as you cuddled in a way you had never done. Sure, you’d laid in each others’ arms before, half-drunk or sick or sad, but this was a new level, a mutual and deep caring for each other that went further than your friendship ever had. Or maybe it really had been leading up to this all along; you both had just never seen it until now. One thing you were certain, though, was that you could never go back now. One little taste and you wanted so much more, in its time and place, of course. You had adored him from afar for so long, and now you had the chance to show him just how much.

Just then your lights clicked back on, and both of you blinked in the sudden onslaught of light at each other.

“So what happens in the dark… stays in the dark, right?” you joked lightly, sitting up again and noticing that the blanket on his lap had shifted rather low. Your face went completely red then, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, my dear, there’s no keeping us in the dark any longer,” he said, kissing you again but with gusto this time. You melted into him again, letting the rush of feelings wash through you, but neither of you let it go too far. There would be time enough for that in the future, a future that stretched out long ahead of you.

“I thought I would forever regret that voicemail but now it’s the single best thing I’ve ever done in my life,” you smiled at him as he sweetly brushed his thumb over your lips.

“I’ve listened to it every day since, just to make sure it was real and I hadn’t imagined it,” he said cutely. “I mean yes, I was confused and maybe even a little angry at first but mostly at myself for not seeing it sooner, for not admitting it sooner. For wasting so much time,” he said, his eyes so soft and light despite the harsh glare of your lamps.

“Time spent with you, even as just your friend, was never a waste to me,” you said quickly, squeezing his hand. “I’m just lucky, and grateful, for this now.”

“As am I,” he said, lifting your hand to his lips and placing a sweet kiss there.

“And Taron, I’ll be sure to leave you more voicemails in the future,” you said cheekily, your heart feeling so full of promise.

“I shall count on it,” he grinned back, and you would forever be able to lose yourself in that gaze. “But the best voicemail of all, was the one that brought us together.”

You nodded in agreement and sighed softly. “The one we’ll never forget.”

[dyscrasia-eucrasia]

<<Prev | Next>>

Part 26

"So what do you do if someone sees you out in a national park?" Angel asked as he turned onto the road at a wooden sign that ready 'Wayne National Forest'. 

"Tell people that we're doing a photoshoot," Demie replied. "Doing that thing those hardcore nerds do when they dress up like anime characters and run around." 

"You mean cosplay?" 

"Yeah, that. Just lie and say I'm playing that guy in the Chronicles of Narnia." 

"Oh, that's right! There was a goat dude in that movie, I totally forgot. God, James McAvoy was so gorgeous in that role." 

"He did alright, I guess," Demie mumbled. "That movie was so fucking Jesus-y for having so much pagan shit in it." 

"Wait, really? What part of it was Jesus-y?" 

"The whole lion sacrificing himself for the little girls and then coming back to life. Which, again, Christians stole from the Greeks. We did the whole god dying and coming back thing first." 

"Really? I didn't know that about Greek mythology - which god?" 

"My god. Dionysus. That's the whole reason we worship him, him and Orpheus are the only two people to go to Hades and come back. He represents rebirth." 

"I had no idea," Angel said as they pulled up to a small dirt parking lot. "That's so cool." 

Demie cringed as he looked out the car window. He should've told Angel to go further into the park. There was one other vehicle already parked there, a large black SUV. 

"We can turn around and go back," Angel said, and Demie kind of wanted to punch him for it. He'd been so nice and understanding the entire day, even though this was most definitely a waste of time and gas, not to mention the money that went towards the festival tickets. He wished Angel would get angry, or at least annoyed. As it was, Demie just felt like even more of a selfish prick. 

"No, it's fine, let's do this," Demie said, opening the car door and stepping out before he could change his mind. Angel quickly followed suit. 

A trailhead marker denoted the path that spread out from the lot as Symmes Creek trail. 

"You know this trail?" Angel asked. 

"Yeah," Demie replied. He'd done it once with a few cousins, as a backpacking trip. Well, as close to backpacking as they got with their limited equipment. It had been a two-day trip, though, and they had hiked at night and slept during the day to avoid detection. 

With his cousins, that felt natural and freeing, a way of really getting back to nature. But that didn't sound like something Angel would be up to. Not to mention they didn't have food or even water. 

"We'll just go a little ways down the trail," Demie said. 

"Whatever you want, man," Angel replied, putting his hands in his pockets and following after Demie as he made his way to the trail. 

Having lived around forests his entire life, Demie didn't particularly understand the appeal of national forests, outside of the need to protect wildlife from the encroachment of human cities. That said, Wayne was a little different from the forest he lived in. There were different plants, more wild animals, lots of cool old bridges and rock formations. Everything was lush and green and when he listened really closely, Demie thought he could hear rushing water far off. 

They walked in silence for a while, which Demie appreciated. After all that singing in the car without any vocal warm-ups, his voice was weaker. Not to mention, he'd had to exert extreme amounts of self control to hold himself back and keep from letting Angel get taken over by the Frenzy. 

He realized he'd probably have to tell Angel about that sooner or later. He couldn't keep him in the dark forever. At this point, he was pretty sure that Angel was his friend voluntarily, but bringing him into the loop may very well help him resist the Frenzy in the future. 

Not that Angel necessarily needed to resist it. Demie actually felt like Angel could stand to cut loose a little. He just seemed so… perfect. He was ripped, he had a nice car, he had incredibly straight and white teeth, all of his clothes looked good (even if he did seem to only wear shirts that were a size too small and which strained against his biceps). 

It was so perfect that it seemed a little fake, all except for those times he'd called crying. He hadn't been trying to make himself seem cool then, and Demie had… well, 'liked' wasn't the right word, but he'd appreciated it. He didn't think men should cry, but when Angel cried, he was showing an unfiltered version of himself. That was the version of Angel that Demie wanted to be friends with, not the endlessly patient one that kept telling him that they could turn around if he was uncomfortable. 

They came across an old stone bridge, and Demie lifted his camera to take a snapshot. Angel apparently hadn't noticed, because he walked right into frame before spotting the camera. 

"Oops," he said, stepping back a few feet. "Sorry, don't wanna ruin your shot." 

"It's cool," Demie said, taking a photo without any people in it. The camera spit out the photo and he waved it gently and watched it develop. 

"Hey," Angel said, but stopped. 

"Hay's for horses," Demie muttered. Angel snorted, and the edges of Demie's mouth ticked upwards.  

"Hey, so, can I take a picture of you?" Angel asked.

Demie looked over his shoulder at him, the small smile on his face quickly turning into a frown. 

"Not, like, with my phone," Angel continued. "But with your camera. You can keep the photo, I just… it would be cool, I think." 

"Um…" Demie looked down at his camera, thinking it over. He had virtually no photographs of himself. He had plenty of Elaine and Marius, but he was always the one behind the camera, never in front of it. 

Yet Angel had already taken a picture of him that day. And had saved it. Demie didn't particularly feel like he had anything to worry about - he didn't feel like Angel was going to go showing that photo off. It was a friends photo. It had felt private. 

"Yeah, sure," Demie said, handing the camera to Angel. 

Angel took a few steps back, lifting the camera, but not looking in the viewfinder yet. 

"Go, like… stand on the bridge," Angel said. 

Demie stepped over onto the bridge, turning back to look at Angel. He lifted his hands slightly and then let them fall to his sides. "Like this?" He asked. 

"Yeah, but like… maybe pose somehow? Like… you think you could climb up on the rail and crouch down?" 

Demie did as he was asked, stepping up onto the raised stone sides of the bridge and crouching, resting his elbows on his knees. 

"Hm…" Angel lowered the camera to tap his lips with his fingers. "Would you be willing to take your shirt off?" 

"Why?" Demie asked, furrowing his brow. That sounded kinda gay to him. 

"I promise it's not for, like, spank bank material," Angel said, as though he were reading Demie's mind. "I just think that, like… a satyr in nature, it would make the photo cooler if you weren't wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt. It would look more timeless, y'know?" 

Demie frowned. It didn't feel like Angel was trying to pull something, but at the same time he was a little surprised at essentially being directed for a photo. Photos were snapshots of memories to him - to be posed made it feel less intimate. 

Well, maybe that was okay. He wasn't sure if being super intimate with Angel was something he necessarily wanted. 

He pulled his shirt over his head, taking care not to catch the stretched out neck hole on his horns. Once the shirt was off, he felt self-conscious. Nudity wasn't a big deal for him typically, but he couldn't help comparing himself to Angel. He'd never even seen Angel fully shirtless, but the glimpses he could see through the too-tight shirts showed a body that looked like it could be made of marble. By contrast, Demie was scrawny, built like a narrow rectangle, with gangly arms and a veritable carpet of chest and stomach hair. 

"Catch," he said, tossing the shirt towards Angel. Angel managed to grab it one-handed right before it hit the ground. 

"Okay, ready?" Angel said, draping the shirt over one shoulder and lifting the camera to his face. 

"Yeah, sure," Demie said. 

"Say 'cheese!'" Angel said. Demie didn't change his facial expression at all. 

The shutter clicked and after a moment the camera spit out the photo. Demie got down from the rail and walked back over to Angel, who was rapidly shaking the photo. 

"Don't shake it that much," Demie said. "You'll mess up the development." 

"Oh." Angel held the photo still, holding it out so Demie could watch as it developed. 

Demie had to admit, it was a good photo. Angel had a good eye, framing Demie in the lower right of the photo and capturing the empty wash and trees behind him. Something about it did, indeed, feel timeless. 

"Here," Angel said, offering both the shirt and photo to Demie. Demie just took the shirt. 

"You can keep it," he said, nodding towards the photo. He trusted Angel. 

[raging-violets]

“I know you still love him/her.” + your choice

Criminal Minds: Because of You / Prompt / JJ, Spencer, and Averey

Based on: 15x04, “Saturday”

Authored by: Rhuben

Standing side by side, JJ and Averey took in the sight of Spencer Reid. He was tall and gangly as he always was. But, he was in a sweatshirt. A sweatshirt. Ever since she had met him, she hadn’t ever seen Spencer in anything casual. Not even jeans. Except one rare occasion they tried hard not to bring up. Not even a t-shirt. Never without multiple layers. He was the physical embodiment of “dress to impress,” if his big brain wasn’t already doing so.

“Whoever this conversation was with,” JJ said with a knowing smile, “she’s put a smile on your face I haven’t seen in a long time.”

Spencer pressed his lips together, pursed them, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He bowed his head. Then, his eyebrows furrowed together, and he looked JJ in the eye. “Wait, ‘she’?” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t say who I had this conversation with.”

Averey rest her arm on JJ’s shoulder, using her hand to cover her smile, scratching around her mouth. “It was definitely a girl, mate,” she said, her nose wrinkling as she smiled. “Clearly. JJ’s right, the only other time I’ve seen you smile like that is Halloween.”

“Because it’s the greatest holiday of the year,” Spencer said, lighting up. “It’s the strangest, most mystical day of the year. You get to dress up as whoever you want, watch scary movies, go door to door to get candy, carve pumpkins – you can take the time to remember those who’ve passed. I mean, it’s great. And…” He cleared his throat, his smile shifting to one side of his mouth, “and for one day, I wasn’t the weird kid.” His smile returned, and he shrugged. It was gone a moment later, a troubled expression suddenly appearing on his face. “Hey, so let’s go see the new baby.”

“Not so fast.” Averey stuck out her hand as Spencer moved to pass them. JJ followed her lead and the two of them pushed him back. She squinted, scrutinizing him. “What’s that look in your eyes?”

“What look?” Spencer asked.

“Spence.” JJ’s eyebrows shot upwards. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Spencer replied. “Just, uh, anxious to go see Simmons’s new baby.”

JJ and Averey exchanged glances. “Well, you know there’s only a certain amount of people they can have in the room at one time, it’s probably already too crowded,” JJ said. Averey nodded emphatically. “In fact, I remember when I just gave birth to Henry – phew – it just about wore me out.”

Averey waved her hand in the air. “Yeah, and, really how big is a baby going to grow in a few minutes, or hours, or days?” Averey asked. “They all look like potatoes, anyway.”

“Well, with women only being dilated ten centimeters, it’s not uncommon for people to think newborns are ugly,” Spencer quickly explained. “In fact, most newborns have a point to their heads because of all the pressure and the muscles forcing it out of the birth canal for hours.” He started nodding his head, slowly stepping around them. He started walking backwards, nearing the Simmons family’s hospital room. “It would even be more defined if the baby needs to be taken out by suction because the fontanelle hasn’t all fused together yet because baby’s bones are softer, to allow for more flexibility in the birth canal. It could take as long as four months or so before the baby’s skull is fully formed.”

“JJ,” Averey said, “You mind if I talk to Spencer alone for a few minutes?” She turned towards JJ, pulling her mouth to one side. She tapped her bottom lip with her index finger before she pointed at Spencer. “I think I know what’s up.”

“Sure, of course,” JJ said with a nod. “I’ll just be at the vending machines. I practically had Will buy out all of the Hot Cheetos in the hospital after both my pregnancies.”

“Ooh, if they have any Cheese Curls, get some for me, please?” Averey asked, giving JJ a toothy, pleading smile, clasping her hands together.

“You’ve got it.”

“You know, it’s been found that the chemicals that make the spicy powder on Flaming Hot Cheetos has been linked to many hospital visits,” Spencer said. JJ lifted her eyebrows, giving him a close-lipped smile as she turned away from him, clicking her tongue as she did so. “It can lead to ulcers, intestinal erosion, and gastritis.”

“Spencer, sit down,” Averey said, putting a hand to her forehead. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Hmm?” A confused look crossed Spencer’s face. “What?” He used his thumb to point over his shoulder. He pulled is lips downwards in the corners. Widened his eyes in innocence. “I’m just going to see the baby. And saving JJ from severe abdominal pain.”

“Right. Fair go, Spencer, but you’ll have plenty of time for Matt and Kristy to pawn the baby off on you,” Averey said, swinging her arm in a circle, pointing towards the empty seats in the waiting room. “You can help accelerate her reading level, teach her the wonders of the world, and all of that. She’ll be graduating secondary in no time. And if a little pain is a result of those Hot Cheetos, I’m sure JJ will enjoy herself in the meantime.” She pointed to an empty chair. “Sit.”

Spencer darted his eyes back and forth before doing as he was told. Lowering himself into a hard, plastic seat, he placed his hands on his knees, drumming his fingertips on his kneecaps.

“Spencer, you don’t have to beat yourself up for enjoying a conversation with a woman,” Averey said.

“I-I’m not,” Spencer said. He stopped tapping and rubbed his hands on his thighs before clasping his hands together.

“Ok.” Averey let out a soft sigh before leaning forward in her seat. “Maeve wouldn’t want you to hold yourself back from being happy.”

“I’m not doing that, either.”

“Then why are you still here?” Averey asked. Spencer looked startled, his face scrunching into a look of confusion. She tilted her head to the side, holding it up with her index finger, elbow resting on the arm rest of her chair. “Mate, your face was lit up like a Jack O’Latern when you walked in here. Just because you spent the afternoon talking to someone you just met. Why aren’t you still talking with her?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “It wasn’t easy for me to feel like I was ready to start dating after Noel died. I felt like I was cheating on him in a way.”

Spencer blinked. He swallowed. Sat up straight in his seat. “You did?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. It sucked,” Averey said bluntly. “How do you not feel like you’re doing something wrong? I thought Noel would be the only bloke I’d ever spend the rest of my life with. It felt weird to find out I could have the same strong feelings for someone else. Anyone else.”

Spencer bowed his head for a moment, before looking back up at Averey. “Maeve made me feel like I was normal,” Spencer replied. “Even when I worried I was having a psychotic break. She made me feel like I wasn’t weird for knowing so much, because she was intelligent, too.”

“Being an intellectual isn’t weird, Spencer,” Averey reminded him, “it’s who you are.”

“That’s what I mean,” Spencer said, his voice cracking slightly, “Maeve made me feel…like me.”

“Believe me,” Averey said, slowly blinking, “I know the feeling.” She watched as Spencer’s eyebrows pulled towards each other in the cute confused face he always made. She cleared her throat, leaning forward in her seat to rest her forearms on her knees. “Does this other girl give you that same feeling?”

“Well,” a thoughtful look came across Spencer’s face, “my therapist asked me to have a normal conversation with someone today. And we did. We—we had a nice conversation. Not about work.” Averey lifted an eyebrow. “Well, maybe a little bit. But we also talked about everything else.” He blinked. “And then she pushed me into the sprinklers.”

Averey snapped her fingers. “That explains the civvies,” she said with a smile.

“Yeah, and then I carried her through the sprinklers in retaliation,” Spencer said with a nod. A sly smile slowly spread across Averey’s face. “She was talking about decency and then turned right around and did something not decent.”

“So, you were flirting?”

“What? No, I was…”

“Flirting.” Slack jawed, Spencer’s gaze darted around the room from object to object. Averey hid her smile, and a small laugh, behind her hand as she watched him. “You know all Maeve wanted was for you to be happy,” she said as soon as she managed to get control over her laughter.

“I was happy with her,” Spencer replied.

“True,” Averey agreed. “But who said you could only have one thing, or in this case, one person in your life to make you happy?” She leaned forward and gently hit Spencer’s knee with her hand. “I know you still love her but take it from someone who’s done this; don’t ever let your happiness be determined by one person. No one’s asking you to forget Maeve. And knowing that you have an eidetic memory, I reckon you never could, anyway.”

“Thomas Merton,” Spencer whispered with a smile.

Averey’s nose wrinkled as she did a double take. “Who?”

“Maeve knows,” Spencer replied. His smile widened.

JJ slowed her footsteps as she neared them, arms filled with bags of snack foods. “Is it ok for me to come back?” she asked, making a show of extending her footsteps. “Everything ok over here?”

“I don’t know,” Averey said, slouching in her chair, albeit with a grin, “with a big brain like that, it’s hard to know if it’ll understand such simple topics.”

“We’re ok,” Spencer said to JJ.

“Good,” JJ replied. “So now you can get out of here.”

“But…” Spencer grabbed the arm rests of his chair and lifted himself to his feet. “I still haven’t seen the baby.”

“She’ll still be a baby whenever you see her,” JJ replied, handing Averey a bag of Cheese Curls (“Yay!” Averey cheered, grabbing the pack and hugging it to her chest). “Matt will understand.” She fixed Spencer with a hard stare. “Go, Spencer.”

“Run if you have to,” Averey added.

Spencer lifted himself up and stopped part way between standing and sitting; an odd squat. “But, maybe I should—”

“Go,” both girls said in unison.

With that, Spencer jumped to his feet and ran out of the hospital wing. “Oh my gosh,” JJ whispered, sitting down next to Averey. She set the bags of snack foods down into the chair next to her before pulling open a bag of Hot Cheetos.

“Jayje.”

“Hmm?”

Averey used her hands to indicate between herself and JJ. “We both know that Spencer was able to skive the physical tests at the Academy,” she said. JJ nodded, popping a Cheeto into her mouth before licking the powder off her fingers. “But that,” she pointed to the spot Spencer was just standing, “was the worst running form I’ve seen in my life.”

“Yeah, uh,” settling the bag in her lap, JJ used her free hand to push her fingers into her hair, scratching at the back of her head, pulling her hair to one side of her neck. “I can’t explain that. Stick a gun in his hand, and he follows through with the correct form; finger off trigger, down at his side.” She lifted her hands and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t think anyone can explain that,” Averey said, settling back in her seat, laughing quietly. She was silent for a moment before saying, “Hank Spencer Morgan for Spencer, Rose Mary Simmons because ‘it’s close to Rossi’, what do you reckon I have to do around here to have a bloody baby named after me?”

-

[ Random Angst Starters | Ask Box ]

[babywarg]

ironstrange multipart fic: Settling for a Miracle [6/?]

Chapter Summary: Stephen stops drawing power from the Dark Dimension a second time, out of concern for a friend with something to hide. Things are said over the phone.

Chapter Notes: Still takes place during Avengers: Age of Ultron. Man, a lot of things happen during that show!

Originally on AO3.

“...Stephen?”

When Stephen drifted back to attention, he found Christine’s hand on his.

Christine was seated beside him at a table in the hospital cafeteria, while Christine’s on-call neurologist, Nic West, sat across from the two of them, and was staring at him expectantly.

“Were you even listening, Stephen?” Nic demanded. “I mean, you know, it’s no big deal, it’s just a human life we’re talking about here.”

“Of course he was listening,” Christine retorted, doing her best to sound like she believed it.

Stephen gripped Christine’s hand momentarily, before releasing it. She withdrew her hand, satisfied with the acknowledgement.

“Okay. Sorry, Nic.” He passed a hand over his brow. “Truth is, I didn’t get enough sleep last night. It’s messing with my concentration.”

Nic didn’t seem impressed, or convinced. “You’re going into surgery like that?”

“Nic,” Christine again. Her voice was firmer this time. Nic rolled her eyes at her.

(Stephen understood. “Tired” was never an excuse among his colleagues. It was a mild gripe, at best, but never a way to get out of things.)

“I’ve gone into surgery in worse states, my patients still made it out of the operating theatre minus their tumors.” It was a bad, bad argument to make, but Stephen was in knee-jerk defense mode and was in no mood to keep his mouth in check. “Look...I’ll take a look at his records and get back to you. I just can’t be pressured into giving an opinion right now.”

“Yeah, guess that’s the best we can hope for.” Nic glared at Stephen. “It’s funny, though - back in the day, you gave your opinion whether or not it was solicited.” He stood, sighing loudly. “Next time, I’m consulting with someone who gives a shit.”

Nic left without another word. Stephen let him go, feeling like he deserved to be walked out on.

He stood to leave. Christine stood and kept pace with him.

“You do give a shit,” she said quietly to him. “We both know this. So what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.” He was aware that he sounded as tired as he felt.

“If it’s a problem with a patient, you can tell me.”

“It’s not.”

“Or with the super-secret Stark project?”

Stephen mirthlessly chuckled. “I’m fine, Christine. I just haven’t had enough sleep.”

Christine stopped him from walking by laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Stephen, I hope I know you well enough for you to let me say this,” she said in the same low, careful voice, “but something’s been different about you these past few months. You’ve changed for the better, for the most part. I think you’ve met somebody.”

Stephen scoffed, “I think I’d know if that were the case...”

“But have you?”

Stephen held his tongue.

“Met” isn’t quite the right word for it, I’m afraid, Christine. “Thrown together” feels more accurate.

By fate or by something else, I still can’t tell.

Christine sighed, took her hand off his shoulder. “Okay, you don’t have to tell me. I just want you to know...if this person ever gives you something to lose sleep over, you can talk to me.”

She sounded so sincere. Of course she did. Christine never faked affection.

“I can always talk to you, Christine,” he said to her with a smile. “Thank you.”

He was about to say more, but his cell phone rang. He took a look at the display.

Tony.

“Gotta take this,” he said apologetically.

“Go for it.” Christine punched him lightly in the arm. “Make sure to tell them they’re answerable to me.”

She left Stephen’s side to check up on some of her patients recovering in the wards nearby.

Stephen accepted the call.

“Hi, I’m returning a call from Dr. Stephen Strange, genius neurosurgeon and future hottest piano bar player in New York?”

“Very funny.” Tony sounded fine: a fact for which Stephen was genuinely thankful. “Sorry about that, Tony. I think I butt-dialed you at around 2 AM this morning. Fell asleep with my phone on my bed and rolled over on it by accident.”

“Is that all? Good. I was afraid you were partying too hard without me, got wasted, fell into a gutter somewhere and needed someone to drag you out.”

Also funny. They’d mutually agreed that they were done with their share of hard partying. They were seasoned professionals; there were more productive ways to get their adrenaline fix.

“Actually, it’s a good thing you called,” Tony continued before Stephen could speak. “I wanted to tell you I’ll be heading back to New York soon, but I may not be coming back to the apartment. Something came up. I’ll be staying in the Avengers Tower until it’s done.”

Stephen had to admit to himself he was mildly disappointed, but he decided not to let on. “Not a problem. I have my hands full here with new patients, too. I guess our research will have to be stalled a bit longer?”

“Yeah...I think that’s going to have to take a backseat. What I’ve got on my hands now - much, much more important.”

He recognized that confidence - it was the same as the one Tony employed when speaking to him about his med-tech projects.

Whatever this new project was, Tony was fired up over it. It must really be huge.

And, Stephen guessed: Tony wasn’t up to discussing the dream with him. In that case, he wasn’t in a position to push.

Thanks for robbing me of sleep for nothing, douchebag, he thought fondly. Keep this up, and I'm telling Christine on you.

“Wish I could say you’re welcome to visit,” Tony continued, “but I can’t promise I’ll be able to entertain you. This thing is probably going to take up all of my waking hours.”

Christine passed Stephen by, on her way to another ward. As she caught his eye, she pointed to the back of her wrist, as if pointing to a wristwatch.

Stephen nodded at her and waved distractedly to show he understood.

“But I’ll definitely, definitely want to see you when I’m done. In a few days. I hope you’ll free up your schedule.”

“Sure thing,” he said, still looking after Christine to make sure he hadn’t missed any more non-verbal cues. “Let me know when you’re available, and take care of yourself. Lots of water, no skipping meals. Love you.”

As soon as the last two words left his lips, his hand shot up to cover them.

His eyes went wide.

His face started to slowly, thoroughly grow hot and red.

“What?” the voice on the other end of the line was tickled pink. “Say again? I missed that last part.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He’d hissed the words out. He was blushing. He was painfully aware of it. He hid his face from people passing by even if he didn’t know them.

There was a loud, hearty laugh on the other end of the line.

“Okay, then, guess I’ll just drink the water and not skip the meals.” Tony’s voice held a happy lilt. “Love you, too. Asshat.”

Any hyperventilation that was starting in Stephen was arrested by the casual tone with which those words were spoken.

He replied with a grateful chuckle.

Then he ended the call, to spare both of them any further awkwardness.

Stephen wondered if, on the other end of the line, Tony was blushing, just like he was.

He rather liked thinking about that. He’d seen Tony blush, after all. Under more considerate lighting.

He took a moment to compose himself after the call. Then he went off to prep for the upcoming surgery. There would be time to bask in this game-changing moment later.

It was amazing, how a few minutes on the phone with Tony could turn his whole day around.

He’d been feeling light-headed from lack of sleep earlier. Now, after that one call, he was wide awake and ready for anything.

***

“So you carry this over to here,” Stephen droned, “and when you’re done, you - Peter, are you listening?”

The boy’s mind was clearly far away. Stephen had brought it back to earth with those simple words.

“Huh?” Peter’s hand had been propping up his chin. He brought down that hand guiltily. “Oh...sorry, Dr. Strange. Yeah, I was listening. I swear.”

The irony did not escape Stephen; he’d been too distracted to listen to Nic West earlier in the day. Peter being similarly listless now must be some sort of karmic payback.

“In that case, please show me how to balance this equation, per what I just said.”

Peter made a show of knitting his brows in concentration. Approximately 24 seconds of pretense later, he wrote down the correct answer on the practice sheet.

But the thing was, Stephen hadn’t even taught him how to do the equation correctly yet.

In short, Peter didn’t really need a tutor.

Stephen put down his pen.

“Peter,” he said in a low, serious voice, which he hoped did not sound threatening, “I want you to tell me what’s really going on.”

Peter Parker stared at his brand-new science tutor with alarm and trepidation. Like a deer in headlights.

“I-I don’t know what you mean, doc,” he said softly. He folded his arms over his chest protectively - a move that, unexpectedly, reminded Stephen very much of Tony. “Did - did I do it wrong? Maybe we can go through it again? I’m sorry, I drifted off a bit back there. I know you’re trying your best, but science is just - “

“Is someone hurting you?”

Peter’s motor mouth stopped abruptly, and Stephen made a sincere effort to sound gentler.

“Maybe someone at your school? A bully, or an authority figure, someone you trust...”

“No,” Peter quickly answered. “Why - why would you think someone was hurting me? Do I look - do I come across as someone who was...hurting?”

“Not exactly,” was Stephen’s straightforward answer. “If anything, you look...like you’re in better shape. And more confident. Like whatever had been hurting you before, had stopped hurting you all of a sudden. But something’s bothering you, and I’d like to understand.”

As Peter scrambled for an answer, Stephen took stock of what was right in front of him:

Peter was always a gangly boy, initially fated to grow lanky and thin, like someone Stephen knew (he’d gone through his own high school years teased for having a “giraffe neck,” among other hurtful things).

But this current Peter seemed...different. Bulkier.

Stephen always did his best to stay up to date on the newest medical technologies. And, as far as he knew, a child didn’t change from a thin frame to a well-muscled one nearly overnight. Not even with Stark tech.

Maybe Peter had been secretly going to the gym? Taking vitamin supplements, protein shakes?

Or...worse?

It would make sense if he had a health problem: that would mean Peter came to Stephen simply because he needed a doctor. An expert who would be able to tell him if he was taking drugs that weren’t good for him.

It made him feel a bit sad. He’d accused Tony once upon a time of wanting to get close to him just because he wanted a personal physician. Tony had shot him down.

Now here was a young man who was, by all appearances, doing exactly that.

Stephen brushed the disappointment aside. He was not inclined to refuse help, if he could give it. He was going to help Peter however he could.

“Pain’s an old friend, Peter,” he assured the boy. “I can tell you’re in pain. I just need to understand what kind of pain it is and how you got it. You can trust me.”

Upon hearing this, Peter clammed up, quite visibly. Stephen hoped that meant he had gotten to the heart of the matter.

“I...” He wanted to talk. Stephen could tell that he did. He wanted to trust Stephen, very badly.

But in the end, he chose not to.

“...I have to go, Dr. Strange. It’s late. May’s gonna worry.” He gathered his books, notebooks and pens in a clear hurry, stuffed them back into the backpack he’d brought them in. “I’m really sorry. I can’t...maybe next time.”

He all but fled Stephen’s apartment.

As he heard the door close, Stephen sighed and leaned back in his chair.

Kids were never his forte. He wondered if perhaps Tony, with his more easygoing air, would have gotten farther with Peter...

Whatever it was that was bothering the boy, it seemed serious. And urgent.

Stephen could only see this one way: if he could do something about it, and he didn’t, he was at fault.

He had to do something.

At the very least, he had to find out what was wrong.

***

So, late that night, when he was sure most everyone else in the immediate vicinity was asleep, he projected his astral form into the Parkers’ apartment.

(It was the second time in a week that he’d had to end the dark ritual to perform a standard spell. Stephen knew the occasion merited it, but he sincerely hoped it wasn’t becoming a habit.)

He’d never been invited into the Parkers’ apartment, and it felt like an intrusion - a necessary one, but an intrusion nonetheless.

The place was...cozy. Cozier than his current residence, certainly. Stephen had always hired designers for his previous homes, but he couldn’t exactly afford one now even if he wanted one...and looking at other people’s apartments was a surefire way to remind himself that he couldn’t DIY his own apartment’s interior worth shit.

His first objective was to check on May. She was peacefully sleeping in her bed. Not that it mattered if she was sleeping or not, because he would remain invisible to her, unless 1) she was psychically sensitive, 2) she was specially trained to detect spiritual anomalies, or 3) Stephen wanted her to see him.

Stephen noticed the framed photo of May and a man on her nightstand. Perhaps her departed husband?

He decided not to think too much about it. Satisfied that May wasn’t going to pose a problem, he moved on to Peter’s bedroom.

There was no one there. The window was open. A light breeze blew through the thin curtain. Had Peter snuck out?

It was past midnight, and an empty bedroom that belonged to a teenager would normally be cause for worry.

But Stephen decided to treat it as an opportunity. He looked around for clues that might lead him to understand what was going on.

On the walls were pretty standard, down-to-earth stuff - vision boards, dream colleges, dream travel destinations, band posters, post-it “notes to self” on a pinup calendar - and in one corner was a janky old-school desktop computer with a CRT monitor.

It didn’t seem like a store-bought model - in fact, it seemed highly customized, made up of very well-used and not-quite-rust-free parts.

Peter built his own computer. Stephen wondered if Tony would be interested to know that.

One of the “notes to self” on his calendar said “Apr 25 - first session with Dr. Strange” and beneath it, in tinier, barely legible scrawl, was: “he’s awesome. if anyone can help, he can. DON’T CHICKEN OUT.”

That wasn’t very helpful. It just confirmed his observation that Peter was hiding something.

As he was thinking, he heard a scratching sound from outside.

It sounded...like something big was making its way along the exterior wall, toward the window.

A window that was seven stories off the ground.

Stephen scowled, stepped back into the shadows on impulse. He knew he couldn’t be seen, but he also knew there was no harm in taking extra precaution, in case the intruder happened to be psychic.

From the shadows, he watched as a human being crawled into the window.

CRAWLED.

Stephen was morbidly fascinated. It reminded him of a horror movie he’d seen once - where a long-haired ghost crawled out of a well, and out of the television screen.

But this wasn’t a ghost. This was a human - a young person - who crawled on hands and knees into the window, up the wall and across the ceiling - then flipped and landed neatly on his feet as if he weighed nothing.

Like a skilled gymnast.

Or an insect.

If this was a thug or a robber, he wasn’t dressed like a typical one. The getup looked like a costume of sorts, with black goggles over the red cloth that covered his entire face. (Could he even see with those?)

He was also carrying a backpack.

The same backpack Peter had carried into Stephen’s apartment earlier.

There wasn’t much Stephen could do as an astral projection. He could move light objects and make himself visible - but that was it.

It occurred to him to spook the intruder off the premises, but he decided to wait and see what he was going to do first.

The intruder, obviously completely unaware that he wasn’t alone in the room, set down his backpack, and took off his mask.

It was Peter.

He didn’t even seem out of breath. Stephen imagined that making one’s way up seven stories and across a ceiling would take a lot out of a person, even a young person like Peter - but the boy showed no sign of tiredness or distress.

It was as if he’d just stepped out, bought something from the store, and come back indoors. No big.

Still wearing his baggy, multi-colored costume, Peter unloaded the contents of the backpack. Most of it were vials of a shimmery, milky liquid that Stephen couldn’t identify on sight.

But Stephen’s first instinct, as a doctor, was to think it was something recreational and not quite legal. It was, after all, snuck into a young person’s bedroom in the dead of night, while his guardian was fast asleep.

Oh, Peter...

But to his relief, Peter showed no signs of ingesting the liquid, or taking it into his body any other way. He had a makeshift device of some sort hidden in a dresser drawer. Peter carefully installed one vial into that device, then just as carefully fitted the device around one of his wrists.

It didn’t look to Stephen like the device had a way of injecting the liquid into Peter’s bloodstream. It looked completely external.

Peter took a deep breath.

“Here goes,” he said softly to himself.

He lifted his arm, palm up, and pointed the device toward a blank spot in his vision board wall.

He bent his wrist backwards and pressed down on a button on his palm with his middle and ring fingers.

(Stephen noticed with some amusement that this gesture was similar to one commonly used by Masters of the Mystic Arts for spellcasting. He doubted Peter knew that, though. It was simply the easiest way to firmly press down on a button on one’s palm.)

A stream of white liquid shot out from the device on Peter’s wrist.

It landed on the wall and formed -

- a web?

Stephen didn’t know how else to describe it. The liquid scattered against the wallpaper and solidified into an intricate pattern that looked very much like a spiderweb.

Impressive.

Peter let out a joyous whoop.

“Oh my God,” Peter whispered breathlessly. “Oh my God, it works! It works, I did it, I -- “

He clamped his hands over his mouth. He jumped up and down in place and soon, around his room, careful not to make too much noise as he celebrated.

Stephen still wasn’t sure what was happening. But he was sure of one thing: Peter definitely didn’t need help with “science and stuff.”

Peter dropped onto his bed, still giddy. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling he had just crawled on, breathing hard as the excitement wound down.

Stephen then understood what kind of pain Peter was suffering from:

It was the pain of having to keep a mind-blowing secret to himself.

Peter wasn’t in trouble - not yet, at any rate. He was just dying to tell someone about his newfound powers, but was still a little overwhelmed by them.

Perhaps he was afraid of the repercussions of telling someone - like how his and his aunt’s life would change, how his friends would see him, how his schoolwork might be affected...

How he could be seen as a freak. Something to be feared.

Peter shouldn’t be hurried. That much was clear to Stephen. The boy had to decide for himself whom to tell and when.

But there was one thing Stephen could do to help that along...

He waved his hand once, and a post-it note detached itself from Peter’s wall calendar.

It was the one that said “first session with Dr. Strange.”

Peter jumped up out of bed as soon as the note peeled off. He caught it before it hit the ground.

Stephen’s eyebrow rose. The boy’s senses and reflexes were amped up. Part of his newfound powers, no doubt...

For a long time, Peter stared at the note on his hand thoughtfully.

Stephen had already dropped his hint and learned enough: it was the right time to make his exit.

Peter’s bedroom faded from view. Stephen returned to his tired body and his shaking hands, and willed himself to rest.

***

He would hear about it on the morning news a couple of days later: the top floors of the Avengers Tower suffered major damage from a terror attack that occurred late the previous evening.

Manhattan residents were assured, however, that the terrorists had fled, the city was safe, and that the Avengers were on the case.

Commentators on Stephen’s news feed said it was likely not a simple terror attack. Insiders reported that Tony Stark’s Iron Legion and a deadly "programming bug" were somehow involved, stoking paranoia on the airwaves.

But “terrorists” was all the news would say.

“Need to be out of town again for a few days,” Tony supplied over the phone, sounding snippy and rushed, and even less willing to give out hard facts than journalists were.

“I know the work, Tony,” Stephen answered. “But I hope you also know I can’t help worrying about you.”

“I don’t need you worrying about me. Everything’s fine.”

It was an unexpectedly hostile response. Stephen didn’t answer.

He heard Tony draw in a long breath. He imagined Tony hanging his head apologetically.

“Look. I’m sorry. It’s just...to be honest, things are bad. And I don’t know how they got this bad. It’s pissing me off, but I can’t afford to let it get to me right now.”

“You can’t even tell me how bad things really are, can you.” It was an accusation, and it probably came across to Tony as such.

“Why would I do that?” was the cold response. “If you knew, what exactly can you do about it?”

Oh.

That stung.

Instead of dragging the conversation out into what was likely going to be their first full-blown fight, Stephen decided to end the call as civilly as he could. Though gruff, Tony still sounded somewhat apologetic as he said goodbye.

A few days ago, they had professed their love for each other over the phone.

And then, before they could say the words to each other in person, terrible things happened and suddenly the distance between them became very real.

Tony was off to another life-threatening mission. Another one that Stephen was not welcome to be part of.

And couldn’t be part of, even if he was.

It was amazing, how a few minutes on the phone with Tony could turn Stephen’s whole day on its head.

He had never before felt that way about anyone.

And a part of him was terrified.

[seducing-mr-perfect]

Like A Bullet to the Heart (Robin x Min-June)

Pairing: Robin Heiden x Kim Min June

Movie: Seducing Mr Perfect/Mr Robin Kkosigi

Summary: Somehow, the words that hurt the most almost always make their way back to you. Set after the bar scene and June’s conversation with her father. Features June’s nightmare which involves her three ex-boyfriends.

Note: Since we’re never told what the other two men were called, I took the liberty of naming them myself, as well as Robin’s ex.

–

You bastard.

Surprising how easily the words come to her now, when he’s just a picture trapped in a frame - all smiling and bespectacled and sipping beer from behind her, his eyes only on her, even when they were just posing. It’s always been this way with Ju-hyeoung. She’d have the choicest words to fling his way in the privacy of her bedroom, but in front of the man she was a confused, stuttering mess.

Even today. She should’ve ended it in sass and style, strutting away from him like a queen. She should’ve been the one to end things. Should’ve given him a kick in the shins - or higher. definitely higher - while she was at it. What did she do instead? She begged.

Come home, Ju-yeoung. Please. You can’t leave me like this.

What hadn’t she done right? Hadn’t she said all the right words, done all the right things? Made herself different from every other girl he’d ever known (those greedy, gold-digging bitches, always looking out to suck a man’s paycheck dry, he’d complain), paying her own way, buying her own things? Dressed up the way he wanted her to, had sex the way he wanted her to, worried and loved and cared the way he wanted her to?

She almost wants to pick up that goddamn phone and force him to explain. To hell with “don’t contact me again”.

She’s almost about to do it, when a low, familiar chuckle stops her.

She turns around. Closes her eyes. Opens them, closes them again. Perhaps if she does this often enough the sight before her will seem less real?

Jae-won perched on her bed. Min-ho in his slate-grey suit, standing next to her bedside table (you’d better not topple over my favourite lamp, Min-ho, or I swear to God…). Ju-hyeoung lording it over her treasured armchair, as if he owned the damn thing. All of them staring back at her, amusement and judgement glimmering in equal parts from their eyes.

Jae-won still hasn’t stopped laughing. After all these years he’s still all bravado and bluster and bad-boy leather jackets bought with HER goddamn money. Why did I like you? Because you’re nice. Why did I stop liking you? Because you’re nice. You see, nice people get boring after a while.

Min-ho shuffles his feet uncomfortably from his place at the back of her room, his suit hanging over his frame like an overcoat on top of a mouse. He’d always insisted on wearing it, even if it was three sizes too big for him. When did I ask you for an allowance? (Three months before this conversation) Getting meals from you is embarrassing enough (but that never stopped you from asking, asshole!) Who do you think you are, my mother? (I was perfectly content being your girlfriend. Not my fault you turned into the worst kind of manbaby instead)

Ju-hyeoung’s eyes are black coal, cold and lifeless, but the words he says still sting. She isn’t sure if it’s because of the eerie calm with which he delivers them, or the fact that she’d heard them from him just a few hours ago. Give me some space. You’re the one who made me do this. (Stop asking for space while you’re sitting in my bedroom like you own it then!)

They’re almost three feet away from her but she can almost feel their breath on her neck. Her room is hot, too hot, with too little air and she’s suffocating. Can’t…breathe…need…to…leave…

Her feet are lead but she manages, inch by inch, to move towards the door. And stops.

It’s him.

Min-june prides herself on being slightly taller than the average woman in the office, and since Mr Heiden has arrived they’ve commented more than once how even without heels she reaches as high as his chin.

It makes no difference tonight. In this moment, blocking her way out the door and pushing her back to her room and bitter reality, he towers over her: tall and terrifying, a black hole threatening to suck out every tiny ounce of faith she has left in love.

You’ll always be treated like trash by men. Like a showgirl.

She wants to bar his entry, to push him out, get him as far away from her room as she can. But her feet act like they don’t even belong to her anymore. With every step forward he takes, they move back, granting him access.

And then you will grow old. All by yourself.

The other men stand up too, advancing towards her. Closing in on her, creating a fortress of misery and betrayal and bad intentions. Their whispers form invisible chains around her, so she has no space to move, no space to breathe. She looks to Mr. Heiden for help, but he has her trapped too.

All by yourself.

All by yourself.

All by yourself.

She wakes up in a cold sweat. Slowly, slowly, her eyes adjust to the darkness, noting with a heady relief that she is the only person in the room. No men. No horrible boyfriends. No Mr. Heiden. She is alone.

Only his words, ringing through the deafening silence in her house. Make me beg for you.

It’s been five hours. Five hours, and those words stick to like gum to a shoe - only letting go in bits and pieces. She’s as flushed with anger now as she was when she first heard them, so much so that she has to remind herself to breathe. In…out. In…out.

If there is a peculiar warmth settling in her belly when she hears those words in his voice, she won’t quite admit it. Not yet.

Her eyes glimmer brimstone and steel in the night. Manipulation and power-play and games…is that what he wants? Then she’ll make sure he will regret the day he asked.

“Just you wait, Robin Heiden,” she whispers, still catching her breath, “I’m going to make you beg to me. On your knees.”

Mr Heiden wants this to be a game? She will give him more than he bargained for.

She will give him war.

–

Late nights aren’t new to Robin Heiden. He’s been known to go for days on end with just three hours of sleep some months, surviving on nothing but adrenaline and coffee and sheer grit. It’s what’s gotten him this far.

He’s always been a man of extremes. Either he’ll spend the whole night buried in work - looking more rested than ever the next morning - or he’ll crash as soon as his head hits the bed. Disturbed sleep, random waking moments, scattered dreams that he can’t seem to remember the next day…none of this has happened for a while. Not for the last ten years.

In fact he isn’t quite sure when he last had dreams at all.

Not until tonight.

He’s twenty-one here, all long legs and messy hair and gangly frame. He’s lying on a picnic mat with a girl on his arm, counting stars. They locking gazes from time to time and share earphones, mouthing the lyrics of an old Queen song, and the space between them is so miniscule an ant could either give up walking through the gap, or die trying. His fingers gently tap the song’s rhythm on her hand as she sings.

Open up your mind and let me step inside

Rest your weary head and let your heart decide

It’s so easy

when you know the rules

It’s so easy,

All you have to do

is fall in love

Play the game, everybody play the game

of love

He imagines kneeling before her in this very lawn, his shins sinking into the mud and the grass as he holds out a ring. He imagines a single diamond, shimmering like teardrop in the moonlight. He imagines her in a pretty floral dress and tiny, perfect pearls - the kind she loves, the kind he hopes to gift her one day. He imagines she will hold out her hand. Her eyes glimmering as he says the words. Nadine Spencer, will you marry me?

He knows what everyone else will say. They’re too young. Too different. He’s too much of a dreamer, she’s too much of a realist.They’ve got futures, careers, whole lives ahead of them. Neither of them know what they want yet.

Still. He dares to hope.

He imagines she will say yes.

Click.

They’re twenty-two and joined at the hip, people say. Robin and Nadine, together everywhere, his friends at Harvard say. But only his. Hers’, he hasn’t even met in the three years they’ve been together, and he’s resigned himself to the possibility that he never will.

Still. He tells her he loves her every chance he gets. Tells her he worries about her, everyday. Cares for her when she’s sick. His friends have begun calling him mother hen.

He loves being with her, he tells her one day. He just doesn’t like being hidden away like her little secret. He wants desperately to meet everyone, to experience her family and upbringing and friends and life, to get know her better. He wants her to be proud of him, to puff up her chest when she introduces him to the people she loves, and yes, yes Nadine, of course he knows he’s not quite there yet. She’s told him so enough times, of course she would, isn’t it the truth? She’s told him to establish himself in the meantime, to wait for when things were just right.

He’s willing to wait forever if that’s what it takes.

Click

They’re twenty-three and in a club now, waving away the coloured smoke and squinting at the bright lights ahead. He wonders if it was a mistake, bringing her here. Nothing he does seems to make her happy anymore. The local bookstore doesn’t stock up on the things she likes, the gift shop is tacky, the park offers her nothing but ducks in a pond swimming all day and the nightclub has drinks that taste like floor cleaner. When he points out that she’s had three refills of the same drink so he’s sure it can't be all that bad, she dumps the rest of it on him. Great. It took me ages to pick out this suit and now it’s ruined. He feels terrible and awful and petty for thinking such superficial things after he’s practically ruined her night.

She sets the drink on the table, declaring she has had enough. Complaining that she’s tired of paying for everything, everywhere, Robin who else are you spending your money on if you have none left for me.

He’s taken out his credit card before she’s even begun speaking, and a whole pile of the entire week’s bills - all spent on things Nadine wanted - spills out.

She says nothing. Does nothing.

He picks the bills up and stuffs them back in his wallet as if nothing has happened.

Click.

They’re twenty-four and by now he’s learned to listen for sounds. For the click-clack of her heels on linoleum floor, marking her territory. For the slow dangerous rise of her tone, indicating he’s done something wrong. For the china that he’s now kept on the topmost shelf in case she’s in a bad mood. For the taste of fear, heavy and sour and acrid on his tongue. For the times he’s unable to tell anyone else how this feels because she doesn’t hit, she doesn’t attack, she doesn’t insult. She just slowly chips away at his self-confidence, one word as a time.

Yes, Nadine, I’m pathetic. Yes, Nadine, you lowered your standards to be with me. No, Nadine, I never did have a lot of self-respect to begin with. No, Nadine, you’ve never had to say these things to me. I understand anyway.

For the sweeter moments, when she almost lulls him into forgetting what life with her has become. And he almost believes things will get better.

He almost believes he will give her that ring one day.

Click.

He’s twenty five and he doesn’t know where he stands with her. Not after she’s thrown him out of their home and her life, not after he has seen her with another man. Not after she has gone away from him, and returned, and gone again, and returned, telling him she’s missed him each time. Not after she has told everyone she knows about the stalker ex-boyfriend who won’t take no for an answer. He says nothing because no one has ever really believed him before, so how would this be any different? The only person who seems to think any differently is his best friend Jennifer, and he’s already heard the rumours doing the rounds about the two of them. Great, Jen quips, so now they can’t decide if you’re a clingy bastard or a raging Lothario.

Still. There are days she comes back. Acts like she did in the old days. But he’s never sure when that will change and the prospect of seeing her go back to hating him again makes almost wish she would just hate him and leave it at that, instead of dangling him on a thread like this. It’s a dizzying rollercoaster ride of break-up-get-back-break-up-get-back, except this one never seems to stop, and now he feels sick in his stomach and wants to get off but doesn’t know how anymore.

He doesn’t know what a life without her looks like anymore.

Click.

He’s in the same grassy lawn again. They’d agreed to meet here. She said she had something to give him. He told her he has a gift to give her, and brings the promise ring he’d had made for her all those years ago. Keep it, it’s yours, I don’t want to have anything to do with this anymore.

But he doesn't have to. Because for the first time in this twisted relationship, Nadine decides to pass on her gift first.

He smells rather than feels the blood spilling from his chest, soaking his shirt. He registers faintly the sharp click of her heels on gravel as she leaves. So this is how it ends, huh? This is how I end. He half-expects Jennifer to arrive, screaming and crying and administering first aid with trembling hands. But she doesn’t. Not here. It’s someone else altogether.

The woman in front of him right now isn’t Jen. Or Nadine. It’s…

“BAM!” she yells, pointing two fingers to his bloodied chest and yanking them away, “like a bullet straight through the heart, sa jang-nim*. You know the feeling?”

…June.

“BAM,” she strikes again, grinning brightly, her eyes like great big black opals. Shining in the moonlight. Her teeth shine, pearl-like, as she grins. Or is she merely baring them? Is she another hungry lioness, pouncing on her prey instead? BAM. BAM. BAM.

It’s a miracle he doesn’t wake up screaming.

Robin jerks awake at 3 in the morning, his breathing heavy and laboured. It’s been so long since he’s had a nightmare at all that he’s almost afraid it’s real. He runs his hands over his neck, finds it slick with sweat. He looks around. No Nadine. No Jen. No June. No promise rings. No grassy lawn on a sunny day in July. No bloodsoaked mud.

He is in a hotel room in Korea, as far away from Nadine and her mind games as he can get.

Slowly, carefully - so carefully his footsteps can hardly be heard, he’s had enough practice - he makes his way to the bathroom. He doesn’t care how hard he splashes the water on his face, or how much, or how wet half his body has become. All he wants is to forget the last few hours ever happened.

He takes one last look in the mirror before he leaves, taking in the sight his assistant must have been confronted with tonight. A jawline that didn’t know what it meant to relax anymore. Cold eyes, dead eyes, eyes that told you nothing, gave away nothing. A mouth that didn’t know anymore whether to curve into a welcoming smile, or purse itself into thinner, crueller lines. A mouth that spat out uncomfortable truths today - about her, about himself. A voice that hurt her in the softest, calmest tones possible.

But the truth hurts, doesn’t it, he tells himself, if I didn’t hurt her by saying it, someone else would, by doing it.

Funny that on the day he wanted most to help someone, he wound up sounding exactly like Nadine.

Funny how the last words he hears before he returns to bed, don’t belong to Jen, or to Nadine. They belong to June.

What’s wrong with admitting that I love him, huh? What’s wrong with calling him or visiting him if I’m that worried about him? What’s wrong with wanting to give him all I have?

He swallows the sick, cloying, metallic taste in his mouth as he recalls those words. He closes his eyes, then opens them, then closes them again. He knows the answer to June’s question. It lies in an old bullet scar, constant and puckered on the left side of his chest.

Everything, Ms. June, he wishes he could say, Everything.

–

Sa jang-nim: Term of address, mostly used for your boss.

[funkymeihem-fiction]

Meihem- First Kiss

“I told you, you should not have been following me! Those awful bombs of yours ruined the inside of that poor bakery!” Mei sat leaning against a brick wall in one of the far back alleys of Dorado, her boots off and one of her leggings pulled up as she applied bandages to some of her scrapes and bruises.

Junkrat sat across from her, back hunched like an angry cat as he tended to his own minor cuts, though with less anti-septic and more ‘spit and dirt’ techniques. He glared back at her, snorting a bit. “And I told you, I just happened to be going in that direction at the same time. We’re both backlines, darl, get used to the idear of having me around. And I don’t believe I’ve gotten a thank you, yet. So I’m just gonna say ‘you’re welcome’ in advance.”

“Who are you expecting a thank you from, the nice family whose building you blew up?”

“So you’re not even going to mention the what, four or five mercenary blokes what had you cornered in there? I saw you ducking in that bakery to reload. What were you gonna do in the meantime? Bash ‘em with baguettes? Sock ‘em with sourdough? Pulverize ‘em with…with…”

Mei thought for a moment, “Pumpernickel?”

“Yeah! Thanks, love.” He spat on his gloved palm, wiping away a rivulet of blood from his knee. “And again, you’re welcome, for getting those drongos off you.”

“I had it under control, actually. You didn’t even bother to ask before you set them off,” she huffed, wincing a bit at the sight of him tending to himself. His knee was still bleeding profusely, and the spit certainly was not helping. “Would you stop that? It’s unsanitary. Here.” She ignored his grumbles as she pushed at him a little, shooing his hands away as she knelt in front of him, rummaging through her belt and pulling out more fresh gauze. Ripping open the packages, she began winding it around his leg, the white staining slowly with pink as it settled over the gash. Wiping at her hands, she sat back to inspect her work “There. Why can’t you just be more careful? With everything.”

The bleeding junker folded his arms petulantly. “Well excuse me, your hoity-toity highness, but I’d rather have seen a few knocked over chairs and some spilled dipping sauces, than seen your beautiful brains splattered all over the menu signs. You’re welcome.”

She scowled back at him. “Well maybe I don’t want to see your other leg fall off because your idea of medical treatment is smearing saliva into everything! This should at least help until the others arrive. So…you’re welcome.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re welcome!”

“You’re welcome!”

“You’re welcome!”

They were soon shouting it in each other’s faces, before Mei finally closed her eyes and held up a hand and turned to look away, taking a deep breath. “No, no, I am not going to be this immature.”

With his gangly limbs still folded up like a spider, arms draped across his knees, he gave her a leering grin. “What, you don’t enjoy a good pissin’ contest with yours truly? I thought this was kinda our special time together. This is like,” He gestured to himself, then to her, back and forth. “Our thing.”

The look she gave him was a little wary, starting to roll her leggings back down and reaching for her boots. “We’re supposed to be a team. We can’t be fighting.”

“What, you and me, actually fighting? This isn’t fighting. We’re not fighting, like fighting. Hell, I couldn’t really fight you.” He rocked back and forth where he sat in a rather giddy way, yellow eyes burning in the shadow of the alley’s buildings. “This. This is flirtin’.”

Her face went red, adjusting her glasses. For a moment her coat felt entirely too hot, and she would have started to remove it in any other situation than sitting here, in a back alley, with a junker who had always been entirely too happy to squabble with her. And no wonder he’d gotten such a ludicrous idea, when she was far too eager to get snippy with him at any opportunity. She looked for something to busy herself with, and began fiddling uselessly with the dials and buttons on her endothermic blaster, which had already been set correctly some hours ago. When she did speak, her voice didn’t sound right. “This isn’t…We’re not…We are both professionals here, Mr. Fawkes.”

“Oh! A pro-whatnow? I thought I was just a no-good bully?” He said slyly, and his grin only widened at the look he received.

He had there, and they both knew it. From the very day he had arrived, she’d never been particularly polite to him, and it had been so unlike her. “Well,” she answered stiffly. “That was an admittedly unprofessional thing to say. If you want, I can apologize-”

“Nah, you apologize for everything too much already. Sorry this, sorry that. I saw you apologize to a microwave door once because you shut it too hard, it was really cute. You don’t gotta apologize to me. Besides, like I said. I like it. All this arguing we do, I’m just takin’ the piss!”

She squinted. “If you need to do that, you can go-”

“Nah! Nah! I mean takin’ the piss, just messing with you! Flirting with you a bit, yeah? That’s what we do, you and me.” His long arms folded one more around his knees, the joint of his peg squeaking as he leaned to inspect the bloodied gauze on his good leg. “You know I’d blow up anyone who’s dumb enough to go after you while I’m nearby. And see? You did me this nice bandage patch-job while we were shouting at each other and everything, it’s ace. D’you even know what you look like when you shout? It’s all cute and puffy. With your puffy coat and your puffy cheeks and your puffy lips-”

“I am not puffy!” she protested, even as she felt her cheeks puff just like he’d said.

“Aw, see, we’re in another spat again already. Wanna get to the part where we kiss and make up?” His bushy brows waggled up and down.

She looked back to him, face still burning behind her glasses, and she noticed his cheeks were flushed too, staring back at her. “That’s…crude.”

“Yeah, but do you wanna, though? Or we can keep fighting like cats and dogs. Honestly, I’m good with both! Just kinda, ya know, leaning towards the kiss part.”

“You probably taste like smoke.”

“So…you’ve wondered, then?” There was that infuriating grin again, with his gold tooth glinting on one side. “Bet you taste like peaches, bet you anything. Wanna find out?”

Her lips tightened until they were nothing but a thin line. Her coat was definitely too hot. Everything was too hot; the coat, the weather, and especially the situation with the Australian bomber sitting across from her. Just because he was incapable of being professional, didn’t mean she had to stoop to…to junker levels. The professional thing to do would be to shut this nonsense down immediately. They were just teammates after all, sent out on the same missions, taking care of the backlines together, seeking each other out and squabbling whenever they could, and very much alone in the end of a dark alley…

“You ain’t said yes or no, love,” Junkrat urged gently, never comfortable with long silences.

She hadn’t. For a few moments longer, she stared at the cracked cement and scattered pebbles on the ground before murmuring a soft, “You’d tell.”

“I wouldn’t! What d’you take me for? Even I know when to keep my gob shut, if you want it shut. This is just for you and me, Snowflake. Just us. Swear it.”

She glanced around, as though expecting to find either Talon agents or her own teammates coming through the very walls at such an inopportune moment. But when her suspicions abated, she straightened her shoulders and faced him as proudly as she could. “Close your eyes.”

To her irritation, that was exactly what he did. He giggled his shrill laughter, clamped his hands over his mouth to try and stifle it, and closed his eyes…opened them again, peeked, closed them again, several times, before finally closing them a final time as he waited. He hadn’t even hesitated. Really, she could have done anything at that point. She could even have simply stood and walked away, leaving him with his eyes shut and waiting for something that would never happen.

Instead she leaned forward, carefully navigating the tangle of his legs, and very hesitantly placed one finger on his chin. She heard him inhale sharply behind his smile, a hiss between his pointed teeth, and she could almost see the battle going on inside his head as he tried to keep his eyes shut, fluttering madly under their lids, the tips of his pale lashes singed and black. His lips drew forward from his bared grinning fangs, pursing slightly, and she could tell it was taking all of his minute amount of patience to stay still. Closing her own eyes, she tilted her head and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his. It wasn’t a particularly long kiss, just barely long enough to be anything considered beyond a peck. And no tongue, she made very sure of that. Just a quick touch of their lips together, even as fireworks seemed to set off between Junkrat’s ears and his body seemed to melt in a boneless way against her. She held him steady, keeping him in place, stilling him just for this brief and ill-advised kiss of theirs.

As she drew away from him, she let the tip of her tongue rest against her bottom lip. It felt strangely hot to the touch. He did taste like smoke, just like she’d expected; a bit like a campfire that had been left to smolder, when the wood was black and gray on the outside but still red hot on the inside. And when she licked her lip again, he tasted like a sunburn mixed with a fever, with gunpowder sprinkled on top.

And…oh, he’d definitely had a lychee boba tea that day too. She recognized that flavor anywhere.

His eyes fluttered open as she leaned back from him, his dilated pupils narrowing back to pinpricks of black as the light hit them. He ran his own eerily long tongue along his lips, slithering like a pink snake as he wiped them clean before drawing back in for the taste. With a little smacking noise, his expression lit up, looking just a bit too satisfied for her liking. “You really do taste like canned peaches! Oh, that’s real sweet…I knew you’d be a tasty one, I always knew it.”

She sat back, staring into his strange citrine eyes, rings of unnatural yellow around black centers. She didn’t really have any idea what he was talking about- she hadn’t eaten peaches lately, anyway- but it was over and done with. Now she knew. They both knew. And this didn’t have to be repeated any time soon.  Even with the heat slowly fading from her lips and knowing his lips were still so close, and she could have leaned forward and tasted it all over again. And he was still leaning forward towards her, she could just-

She shook her head clear, pushing her glasses back up her nose and straightening up. Now it was more than just her lips burning. “There. S-so…now we know…”

“Yeah…” He tilted his head at her in a strange way, and his gaze had changed again. He looked like he sometimes did before entering the battlefield, as if he seemed to be calculating something, those mysterious rapid-paced thoughts of his still whirring away in his brain. Maybe he wanted more too but was just giving her the space she seemed to need. When she retreated, he didn’t pursue, leaning back on both lanky arms as he regarded her thoughtfully. But it didn’t last long. Before she could even move to stand, he had found another cut on his elbow and was preparing to rub more spit and dirt on it. “Hcckf!”

“Would you stop doing that! Here!” She grumbled aloud, reaching back into her belt for yet more gauze, this time just tossing it into his lap for him to tend to himself.

He grinned up at her. “Thanks, Snowflake.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No, you’re welcome.”

“You’re welcome!”

“You’re welcome!”

She offered a hand to help him up after he had tended to his cut and he took it, hauling his spindly form up to loom over her as usual. Still shouting pleasantries at one another, the arguing pair started off back down the alleyway to join the rest of their team.

[flauntpage]

Meet Your 2021 NBA Champions, the Milwaukee Bucks

For our 2017-18 NBA Season Preview, we're doing deep dives on five teams who can beat the Warriors in the next five years—and the players who can push them over the top.

Giannis Antetokounmpo's transformation from gangly neophyte into menacing prophet has been stunning not just for its pace but also for its smoothness. His is the rare story of tantalizing potential fully redeemed, and then some. He has increased his production in all five major statistical categories each of his four seasons in the league, and he's just 22. He'll tell us when he's done.

What the 6'11" matchup catastrophe can already do—defend from the perimeter to the rim, gyro-step across continents, dunk everything in sight—sets up the Milwaukee Bucks to contend for years to come. But even Antetokounmpo, Destroyer of Worlds will need help to take down the Golden State Warriors. By 2021, a fully formed Thon Maker, a somehow wilier Malcolm Brogdon, and Khris Middleton playing baseline jazz will be enough to make it a series.

Whether the Bucks can win that series depends on the team's other 22-year-old star forward, Jabari Parker. The injuries that have so far derailed Parker's career put the linearity of Antetokounmpo's ascent in stark relief. An athletic marvel in his own right, Parker had as much offensive polish coming out of college as any player drafted this decade. Stretching his bruising game to the three-point line last season, the former Duke Blue Devil emerged as the ideal counterpunch to Antetokounmpo. Together, they made half-court sets a paint-stripping cyclone of drives, dives, and back-cuts.

But for the second time in three years, Parker's season ended prematurely with a torn left ACL. The short list of NBA players who have sustained this knee injury twice does not offer an especially promising outlook for Parker's recovery. Michael Redd was a shell of himself after a 14-month absence. Baron Davis never made it back. Tony Wroten fails to register.

Parker's second ACL tear. Photo by Jeff Hanisch-USA TODAY Sports

And yet, everyone who knows Jabari Parker thinks his story will end differently. "Jabari believes he's supposed to be special," said Duke head coach Mike Krzyzewski. "And he's willing to pay the price to be special. Road blocks like this, which are supposed to be big ones, are not going to deter him reaching that destination."

Parker has more than an army of believers supporting him in his recovery. He also has the steady march of science at his back, and one of the best ACL rehabbers in the world in his corner. And he's still just 22.

When an NBA player tears an anterior cruciate ligament, he usually hears a pop. It's the sound of his femur and tibia separating from each other as the rope connecting them frays and the cartilage surrounding the joint cuts loose. The surgery requires about a year's worth of rehab.

Why injuries of the anterior cruciate ligament have been on the rise over the past decade is anyone's guess. "It's the Nobel Prize–winning question," said Dr. David Altchek, who performed Parker's first ACL surgery. The sheer force being applied to knee joints by increasingly explosive athletes could be one liability; looking at the NBA specifically, Dr. Altchek blames the Eurostep.

The operation is fairly standard. The surgeon takes a graft, usually of the patellar tendon, and uses it to build a new ACL. If the new ACL fails—as Parker's did—a second graft will be taken for the revision, usually from the opposite knee, but the success rate of an ACL revision surgery is lower—about 75 percent, according to Dr. Robert LaPrade, who performed Parker's second surgery. "The biology of the whole healing response is not as precise," Altchek said.

That would seem to spell trouble for a player of Parker's intensity, and it does—no medical professional would deny the vulnerability of his left knee henceforth. But an avalanche of research and innovation in ACL injury prevention and recovery could swing his future.

One study, funded by Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban, investigates the effectiveness of HGH in rehabilitating the injury. Another explores the insertion of a synthetic brace around the ligament. Stem-cell injections and platelet-rich plasma treatments are already being performed in the United States to accelerate healing; though their effectiveness has not been empirically proven, it's not hard to imagine something along those lines becoming standard practice down the road.

Meanwhile, Parker has been seen dunking. He's only seven months removed from his surgery, and five months away from his slated return, but Parker's second comeback is already looking a lot like his first. Reporters who have seen him practicing the past few weeks say he's showing no ill effects in non-contact drills—pivoting and showing burst, elevating off of one foot and two.

He has plenty going for him his second time around. He was in peak physical condition when he went down, which he has said allowed his recovery to begin earlier. Age is on his side. And he has the resilience of a damn CAA intern. Look at what Parker told Sports Illustrated in a video posted online Thursday:

I see beauty in my scars. They tell my story. And when I'm able to uplift myself from those positions, I'm always going to backtrack and remind myself the grit, the pain, the disappointment that it's gonna take to be successful one day.

What the Bucks will not say—the team did not make anyone available for this story—is how he has gotten up to speed this quickly.

Occam's razor would suggest the guidance of Suki Hobson, the team's director of strength and conditioning who also oversaw Parker's first ACL comeback. Originally from England, Hobson honed her craft in Australia, which is famous for producing some of the world's top sports scientists (including several who work for NBA teams today). She rehabbed fallen rugby players, footballers, and BMX riders before joining the Bucks' staff about six months after Parker's first ACL injury.

Hobson's knowledge of knee function, one trainer told me, is considered industry-leading. And Parker's training program seemed fun, an American Ninja Warrior–esque gauntlet of trampolines, balance beams, and monkey bars. Now it includes dunking. If nothing else, it's a promising indicator of the player Hobson is trying to rebuild, and of his place in the offense Milwaukee wants to restore.

The funny thing is, the knock on Jabari Parker coming out of college was that he wasn't particularly athletic. That was a misconception, partly a function of context—he was picked immediately after YouTube demigod Andrew Wiggins—and also the result of a foot injury that sidelined him for much of his senior year of high school and limited him at Duke.

"We never got the 100 percent Jabari here," said Jeff Capel, a Duke assistant coach who remains close with Parker. "People forgot that he was this great athlete in high school [before] he hurt his foot." He came into the NBA at 19 years old, seemingly with baby fat still on his arms. His knee gave out only 25 games in.

It was not until Jabari 2.0, the goateed player coming off that first ACL tear in late 2015, that the NBA saw his tape-measure verticality, that Jamesian blend of power and agility. In handing the Golden State Warriors their first loss in a record-breaking 73-9 season, Parker poured in 19 points, showcasing the full package of transition scoring, off-ball creativity, and touch from the perimeter. Jabari 3.0, debuting in late February 2018, might somehow be even scarier.

2021 is a long way away, with everyone but Antetokounmpo and Maker up for new contracts between now and then. If the Bucks can't reach an extension with Parker before this season starts, he'll be a restricted free agent next summer. But teams with championship aspirations don't let great assets walk. He figures to be in Milwaukee for a few more playoff runs.

Time, luck, and science will tell how deep Parker can take them—how long he can last in the ring with Draymond Green, whether his lateral movement will ever fully return, what kind of player he will be. But Parker isn't feeling bad for himself. He'll be making up for lost time starting again in February.

"He has a way, man, which is weird, it's so different," Capel said. "He's had these two injuries. He was playing great and all of a sudden it happened. But right afterwards he's reassuring you—you're heartbroken and all those things, and he's the one picking you up. He's strong, he's resilient, and he came back better and more explosive. I think you're going to see the same thing from this injury."

Bouncing back from a second torn ACL on a 12-month timeline wouldn't be normal. A full recovery sustained through his athletic prime might be even more improbable. But maybe that makes it Parker's most likely outcome.

"I mean, he's a freak," Capel added with a chuckle. "Some guys are like that."

Meet Your 2021 NBA Champions, the Milwaukee Bucks published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[bwicblog]

Fawnprince-05/17/2017

The city of  Himmel was alive as always, people moving about streets and such like a well maintained circulatory system. A few stragglers here or there taking short cuts through an alley way or two but for the most part trolls were highly aware of what they were about or where to go. The city was a few hours treck inland of Provenence and meant more so for trains or cargo of any other sort.

A large lake parked off to one side bringing in decent temperatures so citizens didn't have to be baked alive on concrete streets all the time. Beyond that the buildings were tall and majority of shops seems either staples or odd attempts at being hip and ontop of newer trends.

Contemporary.

Speaking of which a particular indigo stood with his own little acoustic guitar behind one of the shops, a ritzy coffee shop that offered you whatever your little heart could desire! Although an alley way behind it isn't exactly as....glamorous as the interior of the shop but oh well he'd already set up the time and date for his own little private meeting and sent these co-ords to his favourite maroon.

Leaving Ashley to carefully leave his jacket folded off to the side, sleeves rolled up, hair perfectly coiffed as usual, and waiting patiently while playing on his phone. Pestering Hadean occasionally as well for 'being late' when it was actually still not quite the meeting time anyway. He was just THAT particular.

rebatrolls-05/17/2017

Traveling to a fight was quickly becoming the worst part of fighting, in Hadean's eyes. Why couldn't everyone just live in the same damn area for easier punching convenience? Between waiting for Sipara and Laledy to get sprung from jail (He was still a little salty, but the amount of time they'd been stuck there had dulled it quite a bit,) figuring out where the fuck everyone was going and how they were getting there... It was a mess. But hey, they all got there in mostly one piece. Maybe a little windblown, but what could one expect when they rode on a damn bike? At least didn't get stopped by any legislacerators, Hadean considered that a sign. Clearly fate itself wanted this fight to happen! And Hadean wasn't about to question a little bit of luck when it was finally working out to his advantage for once. The coordinates and photo Ashley had provided seemed to match up with the location Hadean found himself at, he noted with a little bit of relief. He hoped he didn't look too eager for any waiting purple eyes as he hopped off Prisma's bike, trying to work out the kinks from sitting on it for so long. It was time to get pumped! After all, this was a damn redemption fight. He had something to prove to the world here. Once he was sure his legs weren't about to fall off he decided to take point, heading in to the alleyway while leaving his friends to do... Whatever they had to do with motorcycles. "Be right back, won't start the fight without anyone~!" Finding Ashley wasn't too hard at least, Hadean was sure he could spot that damn hairdo from a mile away. But why did he look like he got lost on his way to a guitar jam session instead of waiting on a fight? "Is that a fucking guitar? I came for a fight, not to join hands and sing kumbaya." He was a little put out by how much effort he had put in- he had painted up his mug for this? Well, he guess a fight was a fight. "We're gonna have an audience. So that, like. No one culls anyone. Okay? Good."(edited)

Vii-05/17/2017

"I don't believe that--" He barely managed to get it in before Hadean's sharply dressed self (Prisma had to admit, he was still patting himself on the back for the decision to send him off to the tailor, even if he did get him chewed out for drinking) disappeared around the corner. There's a heavy, deflating sigh that leaves him, shaking his head in a what can you do sort of way while kicking the stand up and arranging it appropriately within sight of the alley. His gloved hands linger on it far longer than they should, eyes staring blankly into space. This was actually happening. Hadean, in all his overly rambunctious ways, was dragging himself into yet another unnecessary fight. Yes, he had an explaination... but that neither justified or made sense of it. It was a bandaid on a festering wound of mentality, and it takes so, so much effort to follow the red blood. There's a twinge of irritation, too, with the crackdowns and the arrest of Sipara and Laledy and everything else. It was foolish, the entire thing was foolish. He didn't understand the sense -- or lack thereof -- of the entire thing. And, furthermore, there's a blood-simmering spite that wells up from his stomach when his eyes fall on Ashley finally. But it was Hadean's fight, and the last thing he wanted was to intervene in a way that made him feel weak or childish or anything else. Instead, Prisma folds his arms, leaning against the alleywall and keeping a venemous gaze on the indigo. There aren't even words to offer up to Hadean's opponent -- the only things he has to say are bitter and acidic. "Make sure you trash him, though, Hadean," The cheer in his voice at addressing his favorite was... unsettling against the contrast of his expression and attention to Ashley.(edited)

mar-05/17/2017

Honestly, by the time Boopis was done schmoozing the policeradicators, Sipara had sort of expected Prisma to have put a stop to the fight. But no: a few hours later, she's snickering as Laledy staggers off of the bike, and everyone's standing in the shady-ass alley of some bougie coffee shop. As far as things go, it wasn't the worst place to fight! It's secluded enough to keep people out, quiet enough not to draw eye, and big enough to fit everyone in. Mostly big enough. That guitar was taking up enough room for a whole 'nother person. Whatever. At least Hadean looked nice. And the purple was gangly enough that.. she was pretty sure he could take him, if he didn't break out the voodoos. It was a glib thought: of course he was going to have 'em, he was a fucking indigo, and this was a fucking wretched. Why didn't Prisma just cuff him to the damn bed? Sure, Hadean would've howled about it. But if he wanted to fight highbloods so much, he ought to at least be making money. There's no reason to sulk, though, not when the fight was right there. And if he dropped vooodoos.. well, at least Lal wouldn't be bothered. "Yeah, no culling, that's not fucking sportin'. Hey, Hads, don't forget to go for the horns~," she called, sliding in next to Prisma, and tugging Laledy along. (Tugging was a strong word for it, when she was practically glued to his arm. He couldn't see. She had to be helpful.)

Fawnprince-05/17/2017

Ashley wasn't exactly please by any means at the commentary. Where was his jovial cheering on the sidelines? This wasn't exactly fair in any sense of the word....Really all Halvea told him was to not die since she couldn't be assed to get a new secretary right now and that he had a lot of work to catch up on when he got back considering the timing. Blah blah, he let's out a sigh. He'll just have to be his OWN hype then! He puts on the cheesiest smile he can, beaming and whips his guitar around to his front. " Course babe, we can't have a good jam sesh without an audience! There's more than I was promise but that's fine sweetheart. " Ashley's eyes dart up and down a bit, taking in Hadean's attire and appearence before leaning to the side a bit to check out his little crew. Sneering for a moment at the discombobulation of everyones outfits. Really they at least could've all dressed somewhat similiarly. oh well. He's just pleased Hadean isn't in say....sweatpants. God he'd just LEAVE if that was the case. " Glad you clean up real nice though Hadsy, really does a boys pusher some good." A hand is placed on his heart for some dramaticism then put back on the strings calmly strumming out a few little chords as he double checked it was all nice and tuned. But truly he was wanting get a gauge on reactions for just a sample of his powers. Not good to go in blindly of course with all your eggs in one basket. He sang out each note a bit for each strum, double checking and harmonizing each properly.

rebatrolls-05/17/2017

Hadean knows his friends aren't exactly happy about his chosen fight. But in his eyes they were just being wrigglers! Sure, he was a purpleblood. But it wasn't like he wasn't aware of the dangers! Hadean knew how much muscle a highblood could pack, even one that looked like a beanpole. He was prepared, his psi was fully charged, and he was ready to rumble. He kept his scowl up at sweetheart, chin raising at that stupid smarmy smile. Maybe he could knock some teeth out. Give him a fat lip to remember him by even, that sounded fun. The sneer that lit Ashley's face was just another nail in his coffin in Hadean's eyes. Of course he was going to curl his lip, but Hadean knew they were all awesome. "Fucking precious diamond in the rough right here, just needed some polishing." He kept his voice dry, focusing momentarily on solidifying energy under his clothing as armor. It was a trick he had used before with Emerel, but he knew Ashley would need more if he went swinging fists. Hadean was just hoping a paper-pushing purple wasn't as skilled a fighter as his last opponent. He's confused why the fuck he has a guitar, and why he's playing it. Did he miss something? His thinkpan skips a few beats though, with each strum. What was that? Were those voodoos? Hadean wasn't used to this feeling, more familiar with the bog-standard clown. But if he was feeling voodoos, he figured that meant the game was on. And against highblood endurance, he wasn't looking to draw this out. He moved forward, focusing his psi to his hand in a familiar weapon- a staff probably wouldn't cull. If he wanted to keep his hands busy with the guitar, Hadean was more than happy to go swinging for his knees.

Fawnprince-05/17/2017

Oops he either got tired of Ashley killing time, or he struck a chord. ( OHHOOHOHO) But regardless he wasn't stupid enough to stay still, he'd tightened his strap enough before hand to make moving a tad easier. It does cause a momentary cease in strumming but you can't stop his mouth. Can't even stop his mouth in regular situations why would he stop it when it mattered? He lets out a little chuckle, hurriedly stepping back, but not catching the swing quite fast enough to dodge effectivley. Whatever little hop he'd tried was just barely enough to make sure his knee caps weren't harmed but did get a fair amount of hopping out of him as ankle got caught. A hiss leaving his mouth. Chuckling again he strikes back up another hum, strumming a few chords again but louder and more rhythymacly. Starting up his own little diddy. " Ohhhh~ Dear little Hadsy~ That'll sure be the night when you actually land a swing! That'll be the night oh yes! When you actually land a hit it may even be next sweep we just don't know but it'll be quite the night honey!" He even decided to throw in some little dance-like movements in, distancing himself from Hadean without making a run for it.

rebatrolls-05/17/2017

Hadean is a little satisfied when he gets his chuckle to turn in to a hiss. An ankle hit wasn't what he was going for, but maybe it would slow Ashley down. Hadean didn't know what he was doing with the guitar- why wasn't he fighting? He didn't get it and it made him wary. Was this just a game to him!? "How about you stop fucking singing and fight!?" That comes off a bit more snarly than Hadean meant for it to be, but he was getting angry. He came here to beat a troll up and feel like he regained some dignity after his last fight. He didn't come to be toyed with! The dancing does not help either, and he isn't going to tolerate the space. In his mind, if Ashley wanted to be an annoying little pipsqueak, he'd hit him until he changed his tune. (Heh.) He goes for another swing, but a motion that he's done countless times before suddenly feels off. He doesn't understand why he's swinging inches away from where he had targeted, why his aim was so batty. Was he in his thinkpan? How? ...Was it the music? He didn't know if that was a thing. He pulled back a distance just to watch him, weighing his options and trying to see Ashley's next move.(edited)

Fawnprince-05/17/2017

If he could, he would start laughing outloud non-stop. Really! Look at this, that miss, that request? Even that smidgen of confusion he's got going this is everything Ashley was hoping to get out of this. Hadean needed to learn a little respect for this 'paper pusher'. He was moving UP in the business world, but not even that! He wanted to show Hadean what he actually had a passion for. A little rock n roll~ Apparently he hadn't dropped enough hints back when they were planning this whole tiff out. Unfortunate! Ashley wanted to actually give him a little fair warning but by looks of it....well... " Hadssyyy HADSY Of course I'm fighting~! Hadean babe, everyone fights some how..Inside...outside~! Themselves--" Ashley really didn't like the distance between them anymore, seeing as Hadean had backed off too. He made sure to start moving closer, almost tempted to get so close as to try dancing with Hadean even. Would that be too cheeky...who knows! Whatever he's going to try leaning back and continuing to serenade the maroon. " Don't you like this little song I wrote for you oh Hadean~?"May 18, 2017

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

Hadean decides it has to be the music. He's too smug about his little jeers, they mean something. Like the worst subliminal thinkpanwashing in advertisements ever. His blood is boiling at that look on Ashley's face, how proud of himself he seems to be. But if it's music, just blocking it out should work ust fine. Summoning up his psi was harder than it should be, it felt like his thinkpan was moving through sludge. But if Hadean was anything, it was stubborn. It took him longer than he would have liked to form two maroon shells around his ears, psi solidified to block those vemon-laced sound waves. Thank god for the amount of maroon he was already wearing, he didn't have to worry about Ashley crying that he clashed. Being blocked off from sound wasn't exactly something Hadean did often, but he was willing to do what it took to win. And if his next swing with his staff was a little more vicious than the first few, well. Ashley deserved it for being smarmy.

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

" OHH~ GAH!?" Before he could break into further singing the colliding staff stop him. Breaking the voodoos flow and forcing him to stumble off to the side. Ashley takes those few precious moments of balance regaining to be confused. He didn't TELL Hadean to hit him. Why would anyone allow themself to get hit in a fight?? He's not THAT desperate yet. God that'll leave at least some bruising what the fuck dude. Once rebalanced he spins on his heel a bit to glower at the psiionics user. Earmuffs? Really?? Rude! Rude as ever. Knowing it was useless anyway Ashley still decided to yell out his frustrations. " I go to the trouble of serenading you with a song babe and this is what I get?! Winter wear?!" Well. Whatever. Maybe he's just not loud enough. Ashley had doubts about hadeans psi as he did most lower hues. He'd never tested that theory until now really but ehhhhh it's fine. Right? With increased gusto and mezzo forte he picks right back up on singing. Hands playing rapidly, not ready to give up.

" Dear Hadsy~ won't you take those off and play nicely~? "(edited)

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

Hadean got way too much satisfaction at that nice solid contact. He almost wishes he could hear the moment his singing turned in to pain, but the sight of him fumbling would have to do. He grins back at that glower, letting his enjoyment at hurting him show bright and clear. Hadean didn't mind letting him know he was enjoying his pain! Maybe it'd even unnerve the shouting little prick. Hadean let him go back to singing, deciding to go sly about this. He thought he was too good to fail, Hadean was happy to use it against him. He had no idea what he was singing, but he hoped it was something to get him to stop swinging. He let his staff droop slowly, let himself play possum as he let the staff fade so he could take some slow steps towards Ashley. He let himself wobble a bit, head tilting as he tried to gauge how well Ashley was taking the bait. He just wanted to get close enough to give him one good smack. In the nose, preferably, but... The throat would work to quiet him up, wouldn't it?

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

Watching Hadean closely Ashley kept up his playing. Growing more and more excited as he got pretty into his song. Leaning towards the maroon blood as he bellowed out each lyric. Watching. Waiting. Observing to see if he'd follow proper prompts. Eyes ever so slightly tinting with a ruddy hue when prompt after prompt is unfulfilled. So, whats a troll to do when his audience is ignoring him? The obvious of course, he rears back for a moment and headbutts him with full force. Yeah sure it'd stun Ashley a bit with recoil but hey it wasn't his hands or voice so that's what mattered to him. Him and his poor half baked plan of action. " Listen up Hadean! I'm not at the climax yet it's rude to skip out like that sweet heart ! Playing me for a fiddle. Real mean honey" he didn't sing out that portion. Wasn't even sure if Hadean could hear it but ahhhh his ego.

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

Hadean wasn't prepared for a headbutt. Who went ramming their skull in to people? He was busy watching his limbs and considering maybe Ashley using his horns, not... That. It sure as fuck hurts! But at least he doesn't get him in the face, Hadean wouldn't have appreciated being the one with the broken nose. He snarled out a curse though, taking a few steps back just to try and get some distance. Try and assess the damage and be thankful he had a nice solid skull on him. But he sure was getting sick of Ashley treating this like some sort of damn game. His next snarl has a lot more edge to it, lips curling back to show off his teeth. Hadean had been trying to play nice, but that was over. He was going to make Ashley take this seriously. He flexed his fingers as he drew up his psi, staff reforming before it expanded in to a razor-edged battleaxe. It was about as close to a default slashing weapon as he got, and he hoped as he swung it that Ashley would wise up and stop his damn singing.

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

Oop. Ah well guess he still can't hear, unfortunate Ashley was hoping this could've been resolved without gashes that threatened his wardrobe. He weighs his options here on what to do. Goal number one would be to get him able to hear again, and goal two is to keep his own wardrobe safe. The sweater was real cashmere he can't ruin it! Taking a deep breath Ashley rests his arms on his guitar and looks around the alley way for a moment before quickly kicking over a trash can and getting it rolling towards Hadean. Honestly not the most graceful or whatever thing to do in this situation but. Well. Hadean didn't need to know he didn't exactly HAVE a strife to summon up. It's not every night someone is actually able to cover their ears effectively on the spot. Also just to mock Hadean he stops singing but whistles a bit instead.

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

Hadean wasn't pleased when Ashley decides to kick a trashcan at him- was he still trying to play!? Hadeanw as getting himself awfully riled up on the idea of not being taken seriously, he was damn sick and tired of it. And sick and tired of that guitar too. He has to dodge the trashcan, frowning at the distraction and trying to redy himself for a follow-up attack from the yuppie purpleblood as a plan formed. If he wasn't going to put the damn guitar down, he'd ruin it. With that idea in his head, the next swing of his axe was aimed solely at that stringed instrument of douchbaginess.

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

Despite every part of his mind saying move FASTER, he just doesn't. He moves as fast as he physically can but it's just not enough. Swiveling would've been faster to move his percious instrument out of the line of fire but why would anyone willingly turn their back to an axe? He really does enjoy having an intact spine, it's pretty great! The sound that errupts from the splintering instrument is top tier, stock sound. Twanging of strings and smashing of wood. It's not a cheap guitar, no but really even ironwood would struggle to take a direct axe hit surely. The momentary silence from Ashley that follows is pretty horrowing however as well. " Ah.....AH....." He stutters to find words, looking at the masacared, what he considers, CHILD OF HIS. Then comes the horrible scream as he pulls his strap up and off his head to let the wood fall down with a few clangs and clunks.(edited)

Vii-05/18/2017

This entire "fight" was a farce, and it's enough Prisma has to refrain from dragging his hands down his face in embarrassment. Even with the attempted psionics - voodoos, for indigos? - it was... humiliating. And blood boiling, once it began escalating. Certainly he didn't want Hadean in any sort of fight, but to be in a fight where the other wasn't even willing or able to use a weapon? There's a low hiss that escapes between his teeth, prompting him to take a step away from Sipara and Laledy. Hadean was turning this into a real show, and he didn't want to be there to pull him off this Indigo pissbaby when they finally cracked over their guitar-- It's just before the scream that he whirls on heel, striding back to the entrance of the alley. At first. For air, but there was something... there. With the crack downs, it was probably police but --? Why would they be surveying Himmel? it seemed quiet enough. He should go back to the fight but Sipara could surely handle... Hadean would be fine as long as he could -- and there it was again. A hot flash down his spine, Something was watching them, and he abandons the alley entirely to find it. Surely the police didn't come back for Sipara and Laledy? Or did their hounds detect Hadean?

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

Ashley looks back up at Hadean, essentially tunnel visioned at this point. There's no strife to summon, and he can't use his voice. But if Hadean wanted to REALLY fight, like REALLY REALLY fine then. He'd play along. He'd more than play along even, he'd win. So he does what any sensible troll would do when faced with a troll with powerful psiionics and there's no weapon in your own hands. Tackle them!!!

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

Hadean can't hear that scream, but he knows that look plenty. He finally hit a nerve. The guitar was gone and Ashley had discarded the corpse, finally focusing on him with a look other than amusement or disdain. That was what he was here for! Anger! Passion! The lust to shed some fucking blood. He didn't even notice Prisma's disappearance, not when he had a whole bunch of scrawny purpleblood tackling him. He goes down but it's fine, that's what his armor is for. He just had to hope it actually held up under purple strength. Instead of focusing on keeping his ass safe like a normal damn troll, he decided to abandon the axe for a pair of psi brass knuckles to swing at that stupid face that was suddenly too close, holy shit.

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

He was quick to dig his well manicured nails into Hadeans shoulders. Hissing and barring teeth before taking a hit to the cheek. Hands refusing to Let go of the new death grip he had on Hadean but the force was plenty enough to break his glare. If he was a more fanged troll there'd be severe issues with biting himself, being unblessed in that department seems to have saved Ashley hide this time. Minus ten for intimidation points though. He couldn't keep his thoughts straight on how to attack next and ended up settling for trying to ram Hadean down against the ground. Mind fogged on how to steady his strength, what amount to use or even what could be considered appropriate for this situation. A part of him didn't care! Why should he! This...LOWER BLOOD destroyed  his most prized possession!

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

Damn claws did not feel that great in Hadean's shoulders and neither the strength in those deceptively scrawny hands. Damn purpleblood, he took a hit to the face like a champ and just kept going as angry as ever. But then that was what highblood rage did, wasn't it? He would have gone for another swing, but the feeling of being lifted and slammed back down was one hell of a distraction. The crack of his skull against the ground was a disturbingly familiar one, brought back the ghosts of the beatdown that had driven him in to this fight. Was this going to be a trend for him now? The very thought had him boiling even through the daze of impact. He hissed, reaching up to claw back at Ashley and to try and prevent another slam like that.  He hoped he had a bit more experience in grappling as he tried to flip them in to a roll. He wasn't sure how much better an angry purpleblood was under him than over him, but he was willing to take a try.

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

There's a second attempt at smashing his opponent into the concrete but before he can force more contact he had to turn his attention to the suddenly flipping world. He let out more hisses, knuckles threatening to whiten as his grip tightened on the maroon. He didn't know WHAT was keeping him from digging in harder but the resistance he felt only served to fuel his rage. " GOD Hadsy you really need to get rid of all this dead skin. " Ashley taunted, squirming underneath the maroon to try getting his feet underneath. Hadean needed to buy him dinner before this sort of thing would be allowed! Yeesh!

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

Ashley was strong, but thankfully he was light. Hadean grinned when he came out on top, digging his claws in past that sweater in search of skin. Ashley was spluttering but Hadean wasn't letting his earplugs go away- who knew if his words had the same effect as his music? Ashley was squirming but Hadeant hought it was only kind to give him a taste of his own medicine, jerking him up to slam against the ground. Not with as much strength, but he just wanted the satisfaction. "How about you give up before I bloody your fucking face!?" That was probably a bit louder than he meant for it to be, but. Hopefully that just made it intimidating!

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

The knock to the back of the head wasn't lethal but not being prepared for it along with the prodding of fingers into his shoudlers left Ashley momentarily shocked. Acting on reaction more than anything as he swung a punch at Hadean before finally getting his feet under neath the guy to kick him off with force, probably scuffing up that pretty suit but oops! Weirdly enough in the back of Ashley's mind he wishes he'd helped Hadean take the jacket portion off at least and set it aside with his own but that odd piece of thought gets reclouded over immediatley. Remembering his lost loved one laying shattered only a few feet away. " Oh shut UP!" He yells back, again, useless but he's too prideful to not respond.

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

The satisfaction didn't lost too long, unfortunately- but a purpleblood punching a guy in the face could shatter a lot. Just... Hopefully not Hadean's jaw. He was still reeling when the kick sent him soaring, but at least between his suit and his armor the alleyway floor didn't tear up anything important. Just maybe some of his remaining pride. He forced himself to sit up, working his jaw just to make sure everything was still in its place. He thought a molar might be lose, but... That was okay. He'd either heal it or replace it. His mouth was full of the taste of blood again so he spit it to the side, forcing himself back to his feet. The garbage can that had been tossed at him was still nearby, so he decided to give it a kick towards Ashley. Nothing like rotting garbage to get a primma donna back on their feet, after all.

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

With the weight finally off him Ashley took in the damage to his sweater. It wasn't in SHREDS of course but to him even the amount of damage Hadean did was enough for him to peel it off and discard of the damned thing. It was getting too heated for it anyway, he tried to rationalize withhimself. The sound of rolling tin however caught his attention again, looking at the source and hopping up to avoid it. Gross?? Also it was rude to copy. Ashley glared over at Hadean, breaking out into a smirk then laughing a bit at the bloodied mouth he'd ended up giving them. " OH sweetheart oh no~ I'm SOOOO sorry honey. Let me fix it." Ashley taunts again, giggling in between words. He hadn't gotten to do an actual fight in so long it was actually almost fun! Just like normal trolls say it is. Ah conformity~ A few steps were taken towards Hadean, standing back up straight and fists clenched.(edited)

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

It was damn fun to make him scramble away from the trash can, Hadean was grinning at the sight bloody mouth and all. But that's what he got for getting busy with sweater removal! He should have been more like Hadean, he had tested extensively to make sure he wasn't going to overheat in his outfit. Just another sign that for all his strength, Ashley didn't think things though. Not that Hadean could talk too much on that subject... He context of his words is lost on Hadean, but he could recognize giggling when he saw it. Why the fuck was he still giggling?  That gangly mess was coming back for more, so Hadean decided to meet him. A little application of his psionics was enough to lengthen his claws in to something longer, six inch razor sharp points that he had no qualms about using, feinting a hit at his face before sweeping low instead, across his stomach. He wanted them both to bleed.

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

The giggling didn't stop, in fact it evolved into full on cackling. Hollow, adrenaline fueled, laughing. Almost melodic in a sense maybe if he had actually intended for it to be but otherwise it was unsettling to say the least if Hadean could actually hear. At least they had a lovely audience to hear it! He took the farce swipe at face value and  stepped back in an attempt to avoid it. It wasn't nearly enough to step away from the lower swipe however, feeling the slice of psi claws dig into and cut a gash into his torso. No his organs weren't going to spill out like an old roman honorable death but well, one his shirt was ruined and two, there was indigo blossoming up and dripping out now. Ashley looked down to assess the damage momentarily pausing in his cackling to gasp at the slice. His skin was unmarked besides THIS new set of additions. It only fueled the hate in him further to realize the intense after care he'd have to deal with to keep it from scarring. Off reflex he puts a hand over the cuts. Pointless, it didn't need pressure, and it only made a mess of his hand but it was weirdly a comforting action. LIkely since he didn't have to look at it now. Ashley was quick to hook a foot behind Hadean's ankle and yank as hard as he could. Those claws weren't a joke and he wasn't about to let them get any closer.

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

That bright purple was what Hadean wanted to see! Punching him had been satisfying but there was just something so enjoyable about making a jerk bleed. Of course, he hadn't been only aiming for the graze of claws, but... Hey, this was a no-cull fight. He had to keep his temper in check, he didn't need to cull anyone tied to the legislacerators. Those stupid overpriced shoes sure did do a good job of tripping a guy up. Hadean snarled as he went back down, holding those claws in front of him in case Ashley went pressing the attack. He wanted more damage on the purple bastard! But then, he was sure Ashley was thinking the same about him. He kicked out at an ankle, hoping he might get lucky. It wasn't as bad being on the ground if he wasn't the only one, after all. Maybe a little grappling, a knife to the throat might be enough for him to tap out. Then Hadean could win.

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

Unfortunate for Hadean the Indigo wasn't as predictable as he tended to give off. Or well he could be if he was in a better state of mind vs what's going on right now. Pure blind unbridled rage with terrible cackling as a cherry on top. He's quick to grab the ankle of the foot launched at him. Claws again digging in as he gripped tightly. Mouth filling with words to taunt the non-hearing opponent but exploding as more laughter. Indigo jeans or just him losing it? It was anyone's bet. Another set of claws follow the first set right into hadean's leg. Followed by a swift tug. Ashley wasn't exactly one with enough raw strength to just chuck someone straight up but he had enough strenght to muster up to at least swing Hadean to the side and toss at one of the alley walls. He needed to tire him out. Immediatley. Get those STUPID headphones...earmuffs...WHATEVER off him.(edited)

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

Kicking him wasn't a good idea, Ashley was quicker than Hadean would have given him credit for. And more willing to let go of his new wounds, of course. He tried to yank his leg back but that grip was tight, claws digging deep to splinter through his armor and cleave through flesh. Of course, that wasn't the worst of it, no. Hadean got to have a very short flying lesson. There was no avoiding impact, all he had the thought to do was curl his head and shoulders in so he didn't think his thinkpan splatters all over the bricks. He landed hard, and- ohh boy. He could feel how shattered the armor was on his back, how much of the impact still went through. A quick wiggle of fingers and toes was promising for spinal cord damage at least, but he knew he'd be one hell of an aching mess as the bruising came. Right now it was dull, thinkpan pumping chemicals to keep him able to fight. Getting up was one hell of a struggle, but Hadean wasn't letting himself stay down.

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

There was a momentary set of claps from Ashley as he watched Hadean rise again. " Nice sweetheart! I'm so proud of you honey!" But, he wasn't ready to be the one to call timeout. He was huffing and puffing a little from the effort of that throw. Grossly enough the strain of what muscles needed to do such action caused more bleeding out of his wounds. Staining into his pants. When the adrenaline of this all runs out he'll need to nurse all that, launder immediatley, and be sure to maybe look into sewing it up...Dermal or deeper was going to be an issue a band-aid couldn't simply repair. Again he wasn't done though! Ashley charged at the maroon, feinting a punch before setting a hand against the wall.  Other fist actually making contact, he'd read something or whatever about some sort of solar plexus. Okay he didn't read he skimmed, and no he didn't know where it was but??? Eh details, details. " Wish you could hear me Hadsy, honey haha~"

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

What a fucking dick. He was clapping after sending Hadean in to a wall! The rage helped against the pain a little bit, enough for him to muster a glare. At least the sight of all that indigo was nice. Shame he hadn't gotten a little deeper, it would take him too long to start getting weak from blood loss this way. And ohh fuck, he was charging. Hadean pressed back against the wall, but he didn't flinch at the feint- the hit to the stomach still landed though, and though his armor was still mostly solid there it still hurt, helped choke the breath out of him. This was too familiar- getting pinned in and whaled on. Hadean probably should have learned from the first time, but his blood was up. There was blood in his mouth, cool indigo on him, and- fuck it. He snarled as he reached for that damnably maroon tie, using it to haul him in as he lunged forward. Maybe if he had remembered the audience he wouldn't have gone for biting Ashley's mouth, but. That was for Future Hadean to deal with.

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

Wh- Ashley's brain scrambled to process what the actual fuck Hadean was doing, wading itself through the rage addled mind to try garnering a hold on real thought finally. Processing power going into trying to figure out why his mouth stung. HIS MOUTH and why was Hadean so close to his face? That sobered him up pretty fast actually, gut reaction telling him to bite back or at least attempt to and to press forward. Pulling back would lose him a lip more than likely. Hand that was formerly aiming for the maybe solar plexus fisting into Hadean's outfit in case he tried to make a break for it. Hand against the wall migrated to one of Hadean's earmufflers, clawing at it now that he was close enough to finally do so. He'd be damned if Hadean remained deaf for the entirety of their first interaction. That aside.... Whatever this was turning into Ashley was a part of it now so there was that he guessed. There was a lot of charged and mixed feelings over this.

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

Hadean wasn't nice about sinking his teeth in- most trolls didn't like the idea of getting a chunk of lip taken out, he had Ashley about as close to pinned as he was gonna get in this situation. And hey, he wasn't hitting him. That was the problem with letting trolls close to soft fleshy bits. He did notice he had both hands busy, but that worked just fine with Hadean. He let go of his tie, smoothing his hand up. It took a little more effort than it usually would to form a knife, but he didn't hesitate about pressing it against Ashley's neck as one muffler finally gave up the ghost, crumbling under Ashley's insistence. He let go of his lip to give him a wide indigo-stained grin, ignoring that cool blood slipping down his chin. "Give in, or I'll give you a niice cut. Won't be so pretty then." It was a fucking dirty trick. But Hadean was alright with that.

Fawnprince-05/18/2017

Ashley kept clawing until he felt his nails hit against flesh and hair, taking in a fistful even when he was being threatened. Jaw a little slack , partlydue from not exactly enjoying the taste of bloodin his mouth his own or otherwise. He weighed his options here. Trust that Hadean is calling a bluff and will keep this no-culling? Or get sliced and ...yeah get sliced and that's that...OR...... Thirdly. The hand fisted in Hadean's clothes, sturdy and well made he mentally adds, lets go delicatley touching at his own neck and searching to put it over hadean's. Locking eyes with the warmer troll. Gripping a bit, hinting for the knife to be lowered. " And lose a new toy? Hadsy, honey you think so lowly of me to think I'm dispensible...." There was a temptation to give a sing songy lilt to his own words but....he resisted and spoke like a normal troll. No funny business. " Just when this was getting interesting babe." mistakenly Ashley' bit at his lower lip trying to be all ~sensual~ or some bullshit but yep he is. Definitley cut up there, and hisses from the accident.

rebatrolls-05/18/2017

Hadean digs the knife in a bit when he feels that cold hand on his flesh, even against the squeeze that followed it until there was a glint of indigo. Stop no-cull rule. Things were easier when he could just drain a troll dry. Ashley had so much life in him too... He'd make a damn good meal. "I don't have to open you up all the way, Ashy. You're purple, if I was careful it'd be easy enough to just carve you a little. Of course, if you keep it up, I could always get a little excited and slip..." Calling his bluff only worked when Hadean had something to lose from it. And he wanted to win, damnit. "It can still be interesting. All you have to do is admit that I could have slit you open and had myself the grossest fucking indigo shower there ever was. Say I win. And maybe I'll give you some more of my time in a way that's not trying to gouge your neck open, hm?"May 19, 2017

Fawnprince-05/19/2017

There's a soft gasp from Ashley at the stinging feeling of flesh being cut into. Using any usual jive or excitement in his voice would likely cause it to get worse so he ended up speaking lower, mumbling almost. Voice a lower rumble than usual so only Hadean would be able to hear. Hand ever so carefully trying to pull the knife away. " You're excited by me, honey? That's so sweet.... I'll gladly spend the rest of the night with you babe~" Carefully. Ever so carefully he lilted the last few words. Carefully humming a few bars of what could be a song after. Anything to get that knife away. ANYTHING.

rebatrolls-05/19/2017

There was only so much he could resist against a highblood trying to move his hand back from his vulnerable neck- but what Hadean could do was just keep making his knife longer, keeping that point close to his skin no matter what. He was prepared for the singing, had tried to steel himself against the effect, that haziness. He just fed in to his pain and anger to try and overrule it, lips peeling back as he gave his angriest roar. It wasn't anything like the notes of a highblood rage, but there was still plenty of anger in it. He was tired with the messing around, sick of Ashley treating this like some big fucking game. "Say you surrender right now, or I'm slicing you open. If you sing, I'll make sure you can never make another fucking sound again."

Fawnprince-05/19/2017

There was a little whisper of ' Losing doesn't taste good does it?' as Ashley took in a small inhale,  being sure to not guillotine himself. Sorry Hadean he just couldn't be gutted today. Hand gripping tighter on Hadean's with as much force as he could muster while pulling it away. Not a side motion but more towards Hadean himself and away from Ashley's own neck. No he wouldn't dare slice off Hadean's head but the more real he could make a threat himself the better. As a little coup de grace he decided to sing a little gentle Lullaby to Hadean. Demanding he surrender. Pressing ever so closer to the red hued troll. Forehead against Hadean's. " Sweetheart~ Let's stop this fighting ~ We know it's fruitless....."

rebatrolls-05/19/2017

Damn purpleblooded strength. Try as he might, there wasn't much budging Ashley- the difference in strength was just too much. He was too limited by being unable to cull the bastard, the threat of what would happen if he did loomed too heavy. He was pinned with a knife against his throat, Ashley all up in his space. And then came the damn singing, catching in his ear and sinking claws in to his thinkpan. His arms stopped fighting against Ashley, the knife flickering out of existence as he gave up the energy. Was it fruitless to fight? Was his whole fucking life fruitless? Why the fuck did he keep losing?

Fawnprince-05/19/2017

Ashley gave a last final squeeze dangerously skirting on using too much strength. With his rage calmed the pain of his gash was steadily catching up to him. A stronger, more battle hardened Indigo likely would've been able to keep going no sweat but it was Ashley. Not a true subjug of any variety. A sigh interuppted his song temporarily he tried to continue but hissed again at the feeling of an overly warm body against his icy cold wound not being the most comfortable feeling. He refused to let this all slip from him however, with how Hadean had treated him his ego demanded the last laugh here. The option of ramming his mouth against the others and biting as hard as Hadean had came to mind. So without thinking he did just that. Hand leaving the side of Hadean's head to claw at his suit, it'd be rude to claw at his head of course but Ashley was desperatley beginning to need a distraction from his clawed self.

rebatrolls-05/19/2017

The feeling of surrender faded a bit when Ashley's song stopped, but Hadean didn't go swinging again, just blinking hard against the sudden vertigo. He didn't get too much time to dwell on the thinkpan whiplash though, not when there was coolness against his lips, followed by the hot splash of his blood and pain. And boy was that familiar too, history happily repeating itself. Right down to his damn clothing getting destroyed. He couldn't pull away, but this wasn't like with Emerel- he wasn't helpless, he didn't want to be helpless. So he swung at Ashley's middle with a hiss, hoping he didn't destroy his lip.

Fawnprince-05/19/2017

The sudden strike sends him mentally realing, biting down harder than before, hand gripping harder than before and hand raking at Hadean for some kind of stable ...ANYTHING. Only his mouth lets go eventually letting out an awful groan of pain then huffing as he tried to regain breath. Losing to Hadean was becoming less ego damaging and more of a painful idea based solely off the possibility of not getting to do it again? Was that weird? Ashley hoped it wasn't weird he didn't fight often but it was just thrilling maybe too thrilling. Hm. Regardless, he tried to headbutt again. He was too tall to go for much but the semi-slouch that came from the hit to his weak spot had him aim for HAdean's nose. " Oh fuck o-off hadsy." He sputtered out.(edited)

rebatrolls-05/19/2017

His lip feels like it's on fire when he bites harder- Hadean would be rocking the 'made out with a blender' look again for a while. But then he kept biting first so really, he's asking for it. At least he lets go before he bites it right off, and Hadean gets to enjoy that groan. It's something. It shows he's not just fruitlessly hitting himself against a brick wall, he'd take whatever he could take right now. He wasn't expecting another damn headbutt, and oww. His tried to turn his head in time but failed to do anything but avoid a break. He cursed when it immediately started to fill with blood again though, just adding to the mess of his face as he swung for Ashley's middle again. It worked before, after all. "You first." That came out a bit more slurred and stuffy than he meant for it to, but he got the point across.

Fawnprince-05/19/2017

Another pained groan, more dragged out, more pained. There was going to be serious issues if he kept taking hits there. There was serious issues already but....more concerning issues. His meat did not need to be beat like this. His knees began to buckle at the pain, but he refused to go down alone, literally trying to drag Hadean down with him in any manner he could. A hand letting go of hadean's clothes and going for that hair of his. The other grabbing for a sleeve as he started to deadweight. He was a mess. Grappling like this, semi-bloodied, glasses likely askew at this point, hair maybe having acquired some blood from the headbutt. A disaster. But he didn't want to think of any of that right now. Just a way to get this to be done with.

rebatrolls-05/19/2017

There was very little of Hadean's body that didn't hurt in some capacity now. He felt like someone had taken a meat tenderizer to every part of his back, his face was just a mess and mix of blood... But he wasn't giving in. Even with as little in the tank as he had, he wasn't just laying down and letting Ashley beat on him. Getting dragged to the ground, on the other hand... That was a different story. He wasn't very heavy usually, but Hadean was tired. Laying down might have felt good if he hadn't had to fall to get there. He hisses at Ashley, at the hand in his hair, but it's strained. The adrenaline is fading fast now as he tries to paw at the bloody mess that is Ashley's stomach. "Give up already..." Fuck. Did he have to be nice? "Fucker. Don't hit me again and I'll... Let this be a tie." Another damn tie. But wasn't that better than the risk of losing?

Fawnprince-05/19/2017

Ashley makes sure to keep Hadean close. Huffing and puffing with each touch at his wound. Almost wheezing at times. It took more energy than he would've liked but he glowers at Hadean. " ....let it be a tie? You??....Babe..." He tugs at Hadean's hair harshly. Groaning again at his stomach simply burning. " Just submit honey. You roughed me up good, dollface."

rebatrolls-05/19/2017

The hair yank gets a slight rumble, weakened by how sore he was. But he was trying to be nice and this fucker was throwing it in his face! "I'm not a fucking dollface. Bulgemunch... I caused more bleeding than you did... We keep talking and you'll eventually get weaker and weaker... Just. Accept a tie... Give you a fucking rematch when we're better..." He thought that made sense.

Fawnprince-05/19/2017

" With that new....busted nose you got I think we're even...." Ashley nods tiredly. Fine. A tie. in his mind he feels he still did a better job but whatever. Stupidly enough he moves to bonk his forehead against Hadean's again. Not a head butt but a tap that he just leaves lingering. Augh Hadean looked disgusting. Their blood just did not mix into a nice color. No ones did really but Ashley made sure to note that this was a bad look. " Tie, Babe." Again, gross but Ashley gives a pity prize of a nip and a peck to Hadean.

rebatrolls-05/19/2017

Hadean grumbles at the bonk, but allows it. It's the least he could do after all, since he finally got the asshole to bend a little. Maybe the next fight would end with him actually using his damn name instead of nicknames, but... Wriggler steps he supposes. This was just the step of letting him know that even a Maroonblood could wreck his shit. The nip and peck get him a dirty look, and he's quick to scoop up some of his blood in his hand before he reached over to pat Ashley's cheek. "Next time I'll be ready for you to be a cheating little fuck."

Fawnprince-05/19/2017

There's a weak laugh from Ashley. in response. It's interuppted obviously by another groan of pain but once that's over he does enjoy the look he got from Hadean. Point one for him~ " You're the cheater asshole..."  A grimace at the bloody pat then he shifts slightly. More blood dribbling from his wound. Hands slowly letting go of Hadean as he pushes himself up to sit on his knees. " Let me clean up your messed up face honey. My place is nearby."

rebatrolls-05/19/2017

"Fuck off, I didn't try fucking thinkpan jacking you. Slimey fucker." Hadean watches him move with a frown, more than happy to keep his carcass parked for a few moments longer. The pain was definitely starting to sing now as he finally sat up, spitting more blood to the side as he mulled over the offer. He knew he must look like a fucking mess. It was probably dangerous for him to be seen walking around like this on his own... Legislacerators were still out in force after all. And.... Crap. He didn't want to get his friends in trouble. Speaking of friends... He glanced over to them, giving Sipara and Laledy a wave. Where was Prisma? Did he get too upset by the fight and leave? "How close is close. Y'got medical shit?" At least walking down the street with a purpleblood would probably ward off most legislacerators. He hoped.

mar-05/19/2017

At some point, she left off on the commentary. But the fight calmed almost as soon as it flared, and Sipara let out the breath she was holding when Hadean waved at her. He looked like a mess, sure, but he was fine enough. A little blood never hurt anyone! And they were talking, from the looks of it, which meant it wasn't not something she'd have to jump in on. Good. If she was going to play four squares with Hadean, then it wasn't going to be as third wheel to a blueblood. Eugh. "You two done shacking up in an alley?" she calls out, patient. "'cause, Hads, if you're not gonna cull 'em, I gotta step.Pri ran off to puke in a dumpster, and I kind of want to, like, make sure he didn't fall in."

rebatrolls-05/19/2017

"Done for now, thanks Sips~" He thought it was maybe a little cheeky to blow a kiss to her, but he was in a mood. And a little buoyed by the tie, he'd be honest! It felt good to give as good as he got, even if it hadn't ended in a complete victory. Better than absolute ailure. "Tell Pris I'm sorry I scared him off, would you?" He thought that was a fair enough apology, even if he had the feeling Prisma would be feeling a little put off by him for a bit. He'd win him back over. He hauled himself to his aching feet, pausing before he offered a hand to Ashley. "C'mon, up." Man, he hoped his cool new outfit was fixable...

Fawnprince-05/19/2017

Ashley looked around at the mess made while Hadean spoke to his in Ashley's opinion ,cronies , frowning at his smashed guitar. It was unrepairable in this state and he wasn't keen on bringing the corpse back home with him. Nice. Fuck Hadean. That sweater might be salvageable though. And his blazer avoided it all still nicely folded and tucked away where he left it. He looked at the hand offered him, it was in poor taste but he waved it off. Letting out a terrible his as he pushed himself onto his feet.  " Close as in a few blocks away, babe. I paid good money for it, nice view. Large. Don't worry about anything I got it. " Sobriety was damning as he realized he probably looked way worse than planned. Stepping around a bit to grab his sweater and blazer , tempted to put both on to help cover up his stomach wound. But blood was harder to get out than he would've liked. Even worse he could FEEL it congealing on his skin. UHG. Holding his things in his arms, glasses put back right and hair.....well he had attempted to make it look playfully tusseled instead of ruined, Ashley shoots Hadean a cheesy, bloodied smile. " coffee's at my place too. You made this more violent than I'd planned honey. "

rebatrolls-05/19/2017

He tried to be nice and got rebuffed, how rude. He found it a little bit hard to be angry about it though- lifting Ashley would have hurt. "Gee whiz, aren't you mister important highlood with a big fancy apartment. Catch me if I start swooning at the fucking opulance." Well, maybe he'd have some food. Hadean was hungry after the ride over and the fight. He rolled his eyes as Ashley started fussing over himself, like it was possible to make it look like they were doing anything but fighting. Hadean knew he was a fucking trainwreck, but that was what a shower was for. Might make Prisma feel better to see him not covered in gore anyways. He shoots Ashley back his own bloody grin, straightening up even if it makes his aching back protest. "Sorry I didn't just let you make me dance around and hit myself, fuckwad. Told you you shouldn't underestimate me. Now lead the way." He'd have to steal that damn tie sometime at the apartment...