#to be fair half of what I have for the Rapunzel au could be considered deleted with how much I’m editing the fic lmao | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lloydskywalkers · 5 years ago

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skywalker syndrome, pt. II

*sweats nervously* this is...so long. This is so, so long and it’s not even the last part, but i just have a loT OF FEELINGS about it okay T-T

Anyways! here is the continuation of my extensively angsty, s9-Lloyd-loses-an-arm-AU that i posted about a year ago, now featuring four whole over-concerned siblings who are finally back in the same realm.

The funny thing about life as a ninja extraordinaire, is that there are certain things that you can totally suppress, and never deal with ever. Like, they might still be there, lurking in the dark corners of your mind like vaguely threatening mold or something, and sure, one of these days they could blossom into actual issues, and then threaten to destabilize whatever’s left of your emotional stability, but you can at least ignore them for a while. And if you’re Lloyd —which he is — you can get really good at ignoring them, to the point where you almost forget they’re there half the time. Bam, problems solved.

But as it turns out, unfortunately, there are also some things that you just can’t.

One of those, even more unfortunately, happens to be losing, say, an entire limb. And to top off the entire stack of unfortunateness — the unfortunatetest — most unfortunate? — part about the whole thing: Lloyd currently happens to fall into the second category.

(Will always fall into the second category, he doesn’t know why he’s saying currently, it’s not like his arm is gonna grow back—)

Anyways. Lloyd has finally met an issue that he can’t ignore, and that’s…another issue, he guesses. Oh, he’s tried, but walking off a lost arm is just a lot more difficult than ignoring trauma, or a broken rib or something.

“But I mean, it also could have been a leg, and then I’d have real trouble walking it off, haha, get it?”

“There are so many concerning things in that essay’s worth of words you just threw at me, I don’t even know where to start,” Nya sighs.

“Aw, c’mon,” Lloyd nudges her shoulder with his fist from where he sits in the battle wagon next to her, metal fingers clanking oddly against her shoulder armor. “That wasn’t even my worst pun.”

“That’s not what I’m referring to, and you know it,” Nya side-eyes him. Then, after a beat— “And that one was low-hanging fruit. I know you can do better.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll come up with something better when we’re not running on zero hours of sleep,” Lloyd yawns, propping his elbows up on the dashboard and leaning against them, scrubbing at his eyes. He flinches back at the cold of his metal hand, and scowls at it instead, as if its inability to create heat like a normal limb is a personal insult. He lets it fall limp against the dashboard with a dull clank, laying his normal, warm human arm on top, and using that as a pillow.

He then squeezes his eyes shut, enjoying the brief relief from the thundering headache he’s had the last few days, before screwing them back open. Nya is staring at him fully now, face pinched in concern. Lloyd thinks that’s rather unfair, because her eyes are every bit as bloodshot as his, and he’s definitely caught her wincing from a headache of her own like, six times today already.

“Lloyd.”

“What.”

Nya sighs again — she’s been doing that a lot lately — and finally takes her hands off the wheel, leaning back in her seat, pulling her leg up and wrapping her arm around her knee. “You can’t do that.”

“Do what?” Lloyd says petulantly, knowing full well what she’s talking about.

Nya knows too, because she gives him a look. “Ignore that kind of stuff,” she says, waving a hand absently in the air. “Trauma, and whatnot.”

“I’m not ignoring my trauma,” Lloyd rolls his eyes, because they’ve had this conversation a minimum of sixty times now, so he’s ready for it. “I’m just waiting until I have a thing of ice cream big enough to cry it all out over.”

He’s probably going to need an entire ice cream parlor at this point, he muses—

“I’m serious, Lloyd.”

“Uh-huh,” he mutters, burying his face in his arms. “Sure. You wanna talk about Nadakhan while we’re at it, then?”

Nya sucks in a breath, and Lloyd feels a hot flash of guilt for having brought it up.

But like — it’s true. If he’s gotta sort out his issues, then Nya needs to, as well. Fair’s fair, and she needs someone looking out for her. Even if Lloyd’s been doing a pretty terrible job of it lately.

“Sorry,” he murmurs anyways.

Nya presses her lips together, then shakes her head. Her eyes are far away, staring out across the ruined city through the windshield. “No,” she says, her voice a whisper. “No, you’re right. I — you’re right.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that, too.”

Because he wishes he wasn’t right. He’d love to be wrong, about this. He’d love it if they were all just fine, and the guys were back and cracking jokes with them, and Nya had never died after being nearly forced into some twisted marriage, and the city wasn’t crumbling down around them because his sort-of-ex brought back his dead dad, and Lloyd still had both whole arms, and they were all drinking like, strawberry lemonade on the beach right now or something.

“We’re a real mess, huh,” Nya says, and there’s a sniffled edge in her voice that Lloyd doesn’t like.

Lloyd bites his lip, then reaches out, uncurling her fingers from where they’ve gone white around the steering wheel, and squeezing her hand lightly instead. “Kai would say we’re hot messes, though.”

Nya snorts, squeezing his hand back, ad Lloyd feels a bubble of warmth at her smile. They sit there in silence for a bit, watching the smokey clouds drift past above, waiting on Pixal or Skylor to finally call in on the radio, and tell them they can move out already.

Lloyd’s just considering trying for another nap, when Nya speaks up again.

“Really through. Lloyd, we gotta talk it all out eventually. You don’t wanna end up all emotionally suppressed, like your uncle, do you?”

Lloyd sputters, then glares at her. “You take that back. I’m not gonna end up like Uncle Wu.”

“Oh yeah? Just wait, any day now you’re gonna walk in on us, with a big straw hat on, and say ‘terribly sorry, my loyal ninja, but there’s something I haven’t told you’—“

Lloyd throws his mask at her, even as he breaks into snickers at the deep-toned voice she’s using. “I am not!”

“—you’ll have a beard, too,” Nya continues, grinning. “Like, ten feet long—“

“Ten, please, have you seen my hair? I bet I can do twenty—“

“Oh yeah, Rapunzel? What’cha gonna do then, trip over it into your enemies?”

“No, I’m — I’m gonna strangle them with it.”

That mental image is the final straw for Nya, and she doubles over in loud cackling, stuffing her fist against her mouth to try and silence her laughter. Lloyd’s already dissolved into giggles, but his attempt to keep them quiet sounds a whole lot more like rheumatic wheezing, which only makes them laugh harder.

“Please,” Nya breathes, when they’ve finally wound down. “Never grow a beard.”

“I dunno,” Lloyd says, stroking his chin, in what he hopes looks like an accurate impression of Uncle Wu. “I think I got the face for it—”

“You don’t.”

“Ouch, right in the heart.”

“It’s for your own good, bud.”

“We’ll see what Kai says.”

“He’s gonna agree with me, and you know it.”

“Hmph.”

“…and Lloyd?”

“Hm?”

“ ‘Unfortunatetest’ isn’t a word.”

“You aren’t a word.”

The other funny thing about life, though, is that no matter how miserable it gets, it’s always bearable with Nya.

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

Which is probably why Lloyd doesn’t really start to crack until Nya goes down.

“Oh no — oh no, Nya, you’re okay, you’re fine, you’re all good, just — you’re okay—”

“I’m fine, stop telling me what I already know,” Nya gets out, through gritted teeth against the pain. She couldn’t be more clearly not fine, but between the two of them, they seem to believe that if they can say it’s fine enough, it’ll all work out. It’ll be just fine. Nya just had a car fall on her and probably shattered her arm but it’s — it’s fine, she hasn’t lost it yet, and if it comes down to it, she can have his other arm, because Nya is not losing a limb today.

Between him and Dareth, they finally manage to get the car — the entire car, Lloyd is losing the battle to panic by the second — off Nya, and Lloyd’s right back at her side to worry more. Nya shrugs him off, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain as she struggles to rise, wobbling in place.

But she still pushes herself up, on her feet, and picks up her spear with her good arm, and Lloyd decides for like, the tenth time this week, that Nya is the strongest person he knows. Right up there with Skylor, who’s actually insane, as it turns out, holding off an entire Colossi with his father’s stolen power — Skylor’s incredible.

But Skylor’s also currently unconscious in the battle wagon, and now Nya’s in severe pain and down an arm, and she doesn’t have a handy — aha —replacement like Lloyd does. And Pixal’s in Kryptarium so all that’s left of the ninja is Lloyd, and Dareth looking to him for answers, and Lloyd should be used to this, he’s leader, he could practically write the book on being in desperate, all-consuming-panic situations like this, but—

Harumi’s dead. Lloyd’s powers are gone, and people are dying now. Because of his dad, because of this stupid vengeance spree, because of him.

Lloyd’s eyes smart painfully, and he tightens his grip on Nya’s good arm, wondering, not for the first time, how in the world it had all come to this.

“We need to — we need to—” Nya cuts off, biting the inside of her cheek. Her composure falters, and Lloyd can see the same hopeless sort of exhaustion in her eyes, the weeks of running on fumes taking their toll. They need to get moving, they need to regroup, but there’s no one to regroup with. It’s just them, Lloyd and Nya, and they might be able to function independently better than anyone else but they’re also chronic younger siblings. The reminder that they’re not supposed to be alone is driven so deeply into their heads that it’s not even annoying anymore.

Not when they’re so very, very alone now.

“We can fall back,” Lloyd suggests, his voice wavering. “We can—” He swallows. Hide feels cowardly, but even he knows it’d be useless to suggest, anyways. They’ve run out of hiding places from Garmadon. He’d find them, Lloyd knows he will. His father is a lot of things right now, and relentless is one of the stronger ones.

“We can move, at least,” Dareth says, panic tinging his voice. “Those Sons of Garmadon will be on us any minute.”

It’s not Dareth’s fault, but it certainly feels a lot like karma as, at that very second, the sound of motorcycles echoes down the street, mixed with the familiar cries of the Sons of Garmadon.

They all go tense. Nya and Lloyd look at each other, and Lloyd wonders if the expression of fear on her face is mirrored on his, or if he looks closer to terror.

Either way, he’s frozen in place, and that’s bad, because they’re all frozen now. Maybe this is it. Maybe they’ve finally run out of the will to keep going. Maybe this is for the better. At least it’s not his father.

But then he remembers that they’ll probably take him to his father anyways, and if Lloyd didn’t have terror on his face before, he does now.

The loud roars of the motorcycles are circling now, and if Lloyd’s right, they’ve got barely a minute left before they’re surrounded. That’s not enough time to make it out. Not with everyone, not with the condition they’re in.

And Lloyd’s not about to leave anyone behind.

Nya sucks in a shaky breath, her face white from pain as her bad arm shifts. “Lloyd, do you — do you have any ideas?”

Lloyd stares up at the smoke rising above the city, his city, and the skin that meets his prosthetic throbs. His head does too, exhaustion mixed with pain mixed with dying adrenaline leaving him sick.

You’ve failed, Green Ninja. Your father won this round.

Like he does every round, Lloyd thinks bitterly. Morro had it right, back in Styx. He doesn’t deserve to be the Green Ninja. Not when he can’t win the fights that matter.

But he’s still Lloyd. He’s still Nya’s little brother, and even Garmadon can’t take that from him if he tried. So he shakes his head, croaking out, “Sorry, I’m stumped.”

It takes Nya a minute longer than usual, her eyes confused in her pale and dirt-stained face, but then—

She slumps against him, wheezing out what could be a laugh. “If that was an another arm pun, I swear—”

Lloyd tries to keep his face passively blank, but he can’t help the breathless huff of laughter that escapes. It very quickly threatens to turn into hyperventilating, so he cuts it off quickly. They all step closer to each other, forming a tight circle as the motorcycles roar into view, and Lloyd’s knuckles turn white with the fist he’s making.

He almost says I’m sorry, because it feels like what he should say right now, him and his whole sorry bloodline and everything that’s led to this. But Nya would probably hit him if he did that, and get that sad look on her face, so he doesn’t.

“This would be a really good time for the guys to get back,” Lloyd finally says instead, a bit hollowly. Nya gives him a weak smile that threatens to crack into despair as they’re surrounded, the blinding headlights from the Sons of Garmadon pinning them in place.

But maybe, just maybe, karma is on their side after all. Because, not half a second after Lloyd’s said those words, the sky opens up and roaring out from the bright portal, filthy and battered but alive, come the super late — like so late, for real, Lloyd’s gonna give them heck for this — rest of their family.

Lloyd doesn’t think he’s ever been happier to see his big brother’s ridiculous, spiky head of hair in his whole entire life.

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

In the euphoria of reuniting with the guys and his uncle, Lloyd kind of forgets that he’s lost an arm for a second. He also forgets that the last time the guys saw him, he might have been a half-dead mess on Mystaké’s kitchen table, but he also had both arms. So it’s probably not — not the best of welcome back surprises he could’ve offered.

But the thing is, Lloyd’s at least been thinking his arm looked fine now. Like, it’s obviously not his arm arm anymore, but it’s a whole lot better than the ugly empty space that was there. And Nya put the dragon on and everything, so he can look sick when he either defeats his father or dies horribly.

But for all that it looks fine, the guys’ faces still go ten shades of white when they finally catch sight of it.

Lloyd thinks that’s rather unfair, considering they just burst out of the sky on a bunch of dragons after having been presumed dead, but he’s not gonna pick now to argue with them.

“Wha — how — what — is that—” Kai, predictably, is the first to go to pieces, his eyes wide as dinner plates in his dirt-stained face, his fingers hovering shakily over the metal arm as if touching it will make it real.

“Your arm,” Jay informs him blankly, gaping at him. “It’s gone?”

Oh, Lloyd’s aware.

“Yeah, it’s uh, it’s gone,” he explains, quickly. Then, because he needs to see a different expression on their faces than horrified shock— “It’s — it’s pretty disarming, haha, right?”

Kai looks like he’s either going to combust on the spot or physically smack him.

In the end, he makes this heartbreaking kind of “oh Lloyd” at him before throwing his arms around him, then immediately jumping to the absolute worst conclusions possible.

“Was it your dad — it was your dad, right? Was it Harumi? It must’ve been your dad, oh I’ll kill him, I’ll slaughter him for you Lloyd, I swear to FSM—”

This is followed by a general meltdown of “if only I’d been here,” which spirals into self-blame pretty fast, which Lloyd neither wants nor needs to happen right now (nor thinks is accurate, what could any of them have done anyways), so he throws Nya a desperate look.

“Look, stuff happened, okay?” she says, shouldering her way between Lloyd and the guys, wincing as her wrapped arm pulls. “The city’s on fire and Lloyd’s down an arm, we dealt with it. Right now we need to focus, because Garmadon and the Colossi are still out there, so please tell me those dragons are going to help us out.”

Again, Nya is one of Lloyd’s favorite people in the entire universe.

This distracts them enough that they momentarily get off Lloyd’s back, though he has a feeling he’s either gonna have to answer two hundred questions later or find a really good hiding spot.

But that’s a problem for a different Lloyd to worry about, and this one needs to focus on his father. And the fact that his uncle now looks ten times younger and is, much more importantly, about to let him ride on his dragon.

Lloyd’s halfway to the dragon when Cole catches him. He doesn’t grab him or anything, just touches his arm gently, his eyes horribly sad. “Lloyd,” he murmurs.

Something in Lloyd’s chest twists. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. How is he supposed to pretend he’s not sad when they’ve all got this look on their faces?

“It’s fine,” he blusters, with a smile that is only half-forced. Fortunately, he has this part rehearsed by now. “It’s not a big deal — it doesn’t even hurt or anything. Don’t worry about it.”

Cole looks like he has every single intention of worrying about it, because Cole is Cole, but Lloyd can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed because he’s missed them so, so much. Sure, he’s mad at himself for giving them something to immediately worry about the second they even get back to the realm, but Lloyd’s too happy to see them at all to mind that much.

Plus, there’s like, a fifty-fifty chance his father is about to kill him pretty soon anyways, so he tries to enjoy it while he can. He’s sure Uncle Wu will do his best, but unless he’s got something big up his sleeve — besides the, uh, age thing — Lloyd isn’t so sure.

Winning against Garmadon isn’t something he’s ever been particularly good at, even with both arms.

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

Lloyd wins this round.

Somehow, somehow — bruised and bloodied and down an entire arm — he wins this one. It’s almost surreal, standing on top of Borg Tower, the wind whipping eerily around them as he stares down at his father, kneeling on the ground before him. His father, defeated. Lloyd didn’t have to break this time, he didn’t even have to bend. He defeated his father, without his powers, without any cursed venom fueling him, and without his arm.

Take that, you stupid snake.

Well — technically. Technically, he did defeat his father with his arm, because there are going to be some spectacular bruises on Garmadon where he got sucker-punched by a solid metal fist in the morning. But still.

Lloyd didn’t have to kill him. Not this time.

The relief that hits him is so dizzyingly crushing, he almost throws up.

But oh, it figures. The one time Lloyd can end things with his dad alive, and it’s the time his dad hates him.

But Lloyd knows a little too well that things could’ve ended a lot worse. He’s got his family back, his whole family, Kai and Jay and Cole and Zane and the people that have stuck through the worst of it with him, and that’s more than enough for Lloyd to be happy. He doesn’t die, they win back the city, and Kai only cries about it like three times, so honestly, it’s almost the best he could hope for. The worst part is out of the way now, so really — it should be smooth sailing from here. The guys are upset about the arm thing, obviously, but it’s not really that big a deal. Lloyd just has to convince them of that, which shouldn’t be a problem.

A piece of cake, compared to the last few weeks. Besides, he’s already been through the worst of it.

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

As is his luck, Lloyd finds himself eating his words half a week later.

“First Master—“

Lloyd chokes back a curse, stumbling out from bed as quietly as he can, teeth clacking as he clenches them together to keep from making any more noise. The guys don’t move, still solidly asleep, but that’s going to change real quick if Lloyd starts cursing up a storm over his stupid arm.

He bumps into the doorway on the way out and almost screams, biting his lip hard instead and fleeing down the hallway. Ow, ow, ow. He must’ve rolled his shoulder into his sword sometime in the night, because that’s what it feels like, a horrible kind of deep ache that leaves him wanting to sever what’s left of his limb as he stumbles into the kitchen. At least then, there would be less to hurt.

Lloyd passes by the several large windows in the apartment they’ve been staying in, and his heart immediately sinks. It’s dark outside, but the city lights illuminate the growing clouds above, and he can spot the flash of lightning in the distance. If the slight buzz in his blood at the oncoming storm wasn’t enough to clue him in, the building pressure in the atmosphere certainly is.

And he used to like rain, Lloyd thinks miserably, leaning his head briefly against the wall.

There’s a distant roll of thunder, and something in his arm — his stump, there is no arm there to hurt, that should help — throbs, deep and aching. Lloyd squeezes his eyes shut, fighting back the budding tears of pain, and remembers his mission. They went shopping earlier, and he knows for a fact there’s pain killers somewhere in the kitchen. The promise of relief from the pain is enough to spur him from where he’s slumped against the wall, and he drags his feet down the rest of the hall, finally ducking into the kitchen, which is quiet and empty in the late-night hours.

Great. Now he’s just gotta find the stuff, and he can — well, he can try to go back to sleep. Maybe he’ll just watch cartoons instead, or stare blankly into oblivion, or something. His shoulder throbs again, and Lloyd forces himself to focus, blowing his breathe out. Right. Cole was the last one to take the meds, ‘cause he’s got all those nasty healing cuts. So if he was the one to put the bottle away last, that means it’s probably…on the…top shelf…

Lloyd carefully, quietly drowns the whine of despair in the back of his throat. He’d eat dirt before he admits he’s a shortie, but compared to Cole, everyone is, and Cole has a terrible habit of leaving all the meds on the highest shelf or cabinet possible when he’s done, which are always the ones Lloyd can’t reach. And right now, with the first drops of rain just starting to fleck on the windows, moving his arms anywhere above mid-waist sounds like death.

But sitting here with his arm on fire sounds even worse, so death it is.

Biting the bullet, Lloyd toes the handle on the drawer closest to the floor, bracing his good arm on the counter, and pushes himself up. He wobbles precariously, but he catches himself quickly, breathing out a huff of relief. Now comes the hard part. Gritting his teeth in determination, Lloyd swings his prosthetic arm up as quickly as he can, knocking against the uppermost cabinet and—

Lloyd’s vision blurs out as the pain in his shoulder decides to go nuclear, and he slips back down with a strangled choking sound, clutching the edge of his shoulder and desperately willing himself not to blast through the wall with his powers in agonized frustration. When the pain finally ebbs enough for him to think again, he slumps over the counter, bracing his good shoulder against it and letting the bad one hang loosely, where the pain pulses in and out like a heartbeat.

Like death, he thinks dully, hissing his breath out through his teeth. Right. Okay. He’ll just — take a nap on the counter then, until he can work himself back up to the cabinet.

Lloyd cracks an eye open, glaring hotly at the cabinet out of reach. Maybe if he like…rattles it? With his…leg, or something? He can do a pretty impressive high kick, if he tries. Anything not to move his stupid shoulders, because the pain radiating from the prosthetic port is — oh boy, it’s something.

…with hindsight, he should’ve been prepared for this. But still.

Lloyd kind of just….crashes on the counter, for as long as he can, but the pain finally gets bad enough that he’s willing to risk more for any kind of relief. Gritting his teeth again — his jaw is beginning to hurt — he squares his shoulders, instantly regretting the action as little lines of agony flare in his right side in tune with the thunder from outside. At that point, Lloyd’s brain finally decides it’s done with the situation on the whole, and he’s backing up to make a running jump for the cabinet, when—

“Who’s — stand down, I’ll blast you!”

Lloyd aborts his charge just in time to duck the bolt of lightning that flashes through the room with a yelp, sliding to the floor as his momentum sends him crashing into the lower drawers. His vision whites out for a good minute as he whacks his bad shoulder on the metal edge of a handle, and he might make some kind of muffled scream that sounds enough like him for Jay to recognize, because by the time it clears, Jay is staring at him with wide eyes, his face pale but clearly no longer registering Lloyd as a threat.

Still, just in case— “Don’t shoot,” Lloyd croaks out. “I’m unarmed.”

Jay’s expression spasms, but the crackle of electricity silences, and the blue light extinguishes as he lowers his hands. Lloyd notes the way they’re trembling, despite how hard Jay’s trying to stop it. “Lloyd, seriously,” he mutters, but he’s at Lloyd’s side in a beat, hovering anxiously.

“Are — are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Lloyd says, trying not to wince as he shoulder twinges. “I, uh, sorry if I scared you. I was just getting some water.”

Jay looks up to the cabinets, then back to Lloyd, where he’s yet to rise from the floor. He needs to get up already, because he’s got like, an image to keep here, but he’s also too scared that his stump of a limb is going to attempt murder again, and that’s keeping him pretty solidly rooted to the floor.

“You’re on the floor, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Lloyd shoots back, making a face. “Maybe I like it here.”

“Uh-huh.” Jay’s expression is narrow-eyed in skepticism, and Lloyd shrinks in on himself a bit. Still, though — the expression is better to see than the stark terror that had been written over Jay’s face when he’d walked in. The remnants of it are still there, if fading quick — Jay doesn’t look quite like Jay yet, bright and happy and quick on the uptake.

He looks tired, dark circles like bruises beneath his eyes, and his movements are slower than usual, as if perpetually lagging a step behind. Like he’s being dragged down by something, and it’s taking an extra amount of strength to fight it off that’d usually go toward bad jokes.

Which is sad, because Lloyd could really go for a bad joke right now. The atmosphere’s been heavy enough around their little apartment after everything, and it’s only worse now, with Lloyd curled up on the floor and Jay watching his arm with hollow eyes. And that’s not even talking about the actual atmosphere, which is currently trying to make Lloyd consider knocking himself out to escape the pain. Bad Jay jokes would be nice. Lloyd misses having something to laugh about.

But you know what, that’s quitter talk. Lloyd can make bad jokes, too.

“You uh, you wanna give me an arm up, here?” he says, grinning weakly at Jay. “Could really use a hand, if you get what I’m saying.”

“You — you’re terrible,” Jay sputters, but he cracks the edge of a smile, and Lloyd silently congratulates himself on that small victory.

“But you love me.”

It comes out too much of a question, and Lloyd bites his tongue. But Jay’s eyes soften as he pulls him up, and he’s gentle as he does it, so it barely hurts.

“Yeah, short stuff,” he says. “I do.”

And that’s — Lloyd swallows. That’s too much emotion for him to deal with in Jay’s voice right now, even if it is the kind of reassurance he clings to with a desperation these days.

“Short stuff,” he scowls instead. “You’re one to talk.”

“Nuh-uh,” Jay grins, a bit weaker than his usual one. “I grew a half an inch in the First Realm, bud. I’ve got you now.”

“No way,” Lloyd counters, squinting at him. “You look shorter, if anything. I’ve got you now.”

“I do not.” It’s Jay’s turn to scowl. “And please, the only height you’ve gained is your hair. Fluffing it up all crazy does not count.”

Lloyd snorts, despite himself. “My hair, you should see-ee—”

His voice abruptly pitches higher, strangling off mid-sentence as a fresh wave of bright pain sears through his shoulder, throbbing with the increased thudding of rain against the window. Lloyd almost bites his tongue in half as he dips forward, words momentarily lost as his teeth grind together.

Jay’s at his side in an instant. “It’s the storm, isn’t it,” he says, his eyes bright in concern. “Your arm is hurting extra.”

“T-technically, it’s not,” Lloyd breathes out. Words are back online again, that’s good. He exhales, shuddering. “S’just what’s left of it.”

Jay worries his lip, and then realization sparks in his eyes. “You were going for the top cabinet,” he says, slowly. Then— “Cole had the pain meds last, didn't he.”

Lloyd nods, his good hand clutching and un-clutching at his shoulder. Jay makes a sympathetic noise in his throat, then moves for the cabinet himself. He uses the same drawer handle as a step-up that Lloyd did, but he doesn’t wobble, snatching the bottle from the top shelf and stepping down neatly. Thunder shakes through the apartment, and Lloyd squeezes his eyes shut tight, barely conscious of the sound of running water. When he opens them, Jay is in front of him again, a glass of water and four larger pills held out.

“You look like you could use the extra,” he says, in explanation.

Lloyd nods gratefully, shoving the pills in his mouth before grabbing the glass and draining it. “Thanks,” he croaks out.

Jay nods, his eyes lingering on Lloyd’s prosthetic. He opens his mouth once, then closes it. Then opens it again, inhaling like he’s gonna say something, then shuts it again. Then again—

“Jay, spit it out.”

“CanIlookatit,” Jay blurts out, red immediately rising in his cheeks.

Lloyd blinks rapidly, trying to parse out the jumble of words. “Can you — huh?”

“Look at it,” Jay repeats, shifting awkwardly. “Your, uh, your arm? The prosthetic one, I mean. Just ‘cause I think I can help it! Help you, I think I can help you, ‘cause you kinda look like it’s hurting you, which would make sense, with the storm, and I might be able to — to help, if that’s not like, a problem with you — if it is that’s fine! I totally get it, I mean if my arm had got — was lost, I’d be—”

“J-Jay, slow — Jay,” Lloyd tries vainly to cut over him once, before succeeding the second time. Lloyd gives him a weak smile, then flops his arm out. He immediately regrets the action, as it feels like he’s shoved a knife or two into his arm. “It’s — ow — fine. You can look at it.”

“Oh! Cool,” Jay says, deflating in relief. “Ah, thanks for trusting me?”

Lloyd waves him off, with his good arm his time. “There’s like, six people left I trust, but I trust ‘em with my life. You’re one of them.”

“Oh,” Jay repeats, but he sounds sad this time. A little too understanding, too, and Lloyd wonders if their entire team isn’t suffering similar issues with putting faith in people, after everything.

“Here,” Jay says firmly, as if shaking that sobering thought off. He points to the couch, eyeing Lloyd as he winces with the thunder again. “Wanna lie down, so I can look at it?”

“Sure,” Lloyd mutters, flopping down on the couch (and immediately regretting the action, again, you’d think he’d learn by now), lying with his head at the left end so he can spread his prosthetic out on the edge of the cushioned footrest. Jay steps over, carefully sitting down on the floor by him, hands hovering hesitantly over the arm.

…his arm. His arm, just a bit different.

“I like the design here,” Jay says quietly, his fingers ghosting over the engraving Nya had put on one quieter day during the Resistance. It’s in the shape of a dragon, like the one of his other spare prosthetic, but this one is a little subtler, almost sketched into the metal. “It’s cool.”

“Nya did it,” Lloyd says. “And you can touch it, if you want.”

“Oh — yeah,” Jay gives a nervous laugh. “Um. Could I, like, see where it…attaches?”

Lloyd blinks, glancing to where the sleeves of his too-big (Kai’s) t-shirt fall well over where the metal arm meets his stump. He swallows, then nods, carefully rolling back the fabric until his shoulder’s exposed. “That good?”

Jay, to his credit, just gives a quiet, hissing little intake of breath, and nods. And it really is to his credit, because while Pixal did all she could, the surgery was — well, Lloyd was in and out during it, but it was haphazard at best, and the scarring it left all up to his shoulder is…

It’s not pretty. And Lloyd’s been thinking he doesn’t mind, but now that he actually has someone looking at it, he’s realizing he might.

Time to invest in a lot more long sleeves, he thinks dully.

Jay’s frozen for a second, and Lloyd bites his lip, trying not to squirm as he stares openly at the scarring. Then he shakes his head, bright eyes gaining the steady determination Lloyd knows, and sets to work, fingers carefully skimming one of the compartment edges.

“Lemme know if anything hurts.”

Lloyd just nods. It’s weird, at first, feeling but not really feeling as Jay fiddles with the arm. He still doesn’t like not being able to truly feel stuff with it, but right now, with the pulsing pain still lingering from the storm outside, he’s almost glad for it. To the point where the idea of feeling anything else in what’s left of his poor arm almost has him flinching away from Jay.

Jay’s fingers are careful, though, and he finally clicks something in the arm into place that shifts the whole thing, the throbbing pressure on a few particular nerves in Lloyd’s arm letting up some, and his shoulders go loose in relief, the tight rigidness he’s been holding them in easing off.

“Oh,” he exhales in relief, a bit shakily as he sits up. “That’s better. That — thank you. That’s a lot better.”

Jay beams, clearly pleased with himself. “No problem, green machine,” he says. “Just glad I can help. I mean, Nya did a great job with it, but the uh — the wires right here, you see? Those can get twisted up if you move around a lot, and that’ll create pressure on the nerves, and then you’ve got the gears here, and…”

Lloyd quickly loses track of Jay’s technical babble, nodding along like he understands instead. His brother’s stream of chatter is a nice sound against the rain in the background, warm and familiar, and Lloyd slowly relaxes further, his shoulders crying in relief as they lose their tension. The meds are kicking in now too, and the pain’s ebbed into something a lot easier to manage. Enough for Lloyd to start feeling guilty, anyways.

“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” he finally says, after Jay’s wound down from his explanation, ducking his head.

Jay waves him off. “I was already up, anyways,” he shrugs. “The storm woke me. They…they do that a lot.”

Lightning flashes, as if to echo his statement, and Lloyd notices the twitch that runs through Jay this time, how he almost seems to vibrate with the thunder that follows.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, a little hesitantly. “The storm?”

It feels like a silly question, because Jay can practically create storms, he thrives in them, Lloyd’s seem him straight-up catch a lightning bolt in his hand and chuck it like a baseball without breaking a sweat. But even though Lloyd's definitely not the ninja of lightning, it is the element he found easiest to wield, when he’d had all four, and he remembers the way the connection would buzz at him.

Jay bites his lip, his fingers tapping some vaguely familiar beat on the table as he fidgets, turning the question over in his head.

“It’s — I feel it under my skin, you know?” he finally says, bouncing a bit in agitation. “I mean, it’s not bad, but I can — I can hear the lightning outside, like it’s talking to me, and I can’t sleep through it. I normally can, I mean, but — but normally it’s not this loud.”

He trails off, frustrated as he glares out the window. “Everything’s been loud since the First Realm,” he mutters, beneath his breath.

“Oh,” Lloyd says, quietly. The guys have told them about the First Realm, sure, but like — not really. The same way Lloyd and Nya have told them about the Resistance, but not really. An outline of the events, sure. A plot-like summary of important details, as detached as possible, sure. But all the worst parts, the crushing grief and despair and the awful headaches from too little sleep and too many held-back tears, all that? No way.

So while Lloyd knows they went through heck in the First Realm, he doesn’t really know. But with the way Jay’s eyes are shadowed, the dark circles beneath them and the way he looks like he’s years older as he stares at the storm out the window right now, he can guess.

“That must’ve been tough,” he finally says, hesitantly. “Being stranded, and everything. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I was cut off from everything like that.”

Jay blows his breath out, his fingers trembling slightly where they lace together. “It wasn’t fun,” he says, a little distantly. “I…I was kind of a mess, at first. I think I scared the guys. I wish I hadn’t, but it was just — it was a lot.”

Lloyd’s not sure what to say to that, so he just squeezes Jay’s forearm with his good hand, and hopes it’s worth something.

Jay shakes his head, almost as if to himself, “I just wish I’d been useful.”

Lloyd blinks at that, taken aback — and pretty concerned — at the gaping insecurity in Jay’s voice. He knows Jay struggles with that, but to see it this raw—

It hurts.

“Kai says you helped build that dragon,” he says, nudging Jay’s side with his knee. “That plan wouldn’t have worked without you. And you drew up the actual plans, and kept them secret and everything. And I saw you, when you guys came back. You saved us, right in the nick of time. It sounded like you were pretty crucial to the whole thing, to me.”

Jay gives a huff of laughter, but some of the tension in his expression eases. “You’re just saying that. Buttering me up,” he shakes his head, knocking his fist against Lloyd’s leg.

“Am not,” Lloyd says, kneeing him back. “I’m serious. You’re all kinds of useful. I’d totally hire you, if you came to me with your ninja resumé.”

“Yeah, ‘cause job number one on it would be ‘green ninja babysitter’. You’d have no choice."

Lloyd sputters. “I’m not — you guys don’t babysit me.”

“I have a whole lot of evidence that proves otherwise,” Jay says, grinning. “The others would agree, too.”

“This is mutiny,” Lloyd glares. “The nerve, the utter disrespect. I’m your leader.”

Jay actually laughs at that, further proving Lloyd’s point that his whole team is awful. But it’s a genuine laugh, one that softens the lines of stress at the corners of Jay’s eyes, so Lloyd figures he can let it go and laugh a little himself.

This time. They’re gonna have to talk about the babysitting thing later.

“We really missed you guys,” Lloyd finally says as his laughter ebbs, his traitor voice cracking in the middle. “A-a lot. I’m really glad you’re back. Like, you have no idea.”

“I think we kinda do,” Jay breathes out on dying laughter. “We missed you too, you know. We couldn’t even check if you were alright, we had no idea what was happening. You guys were realms away.”

Lloyd swallows back the ‘but you were dead’. Jay doesn’t need that knowledge right now. Jay needs to be able to relax, and to get more than three hours of sleep for once.

“Well, we’re in the same one now,” he says, with a wry smile. “Hopefully we can stay that way, for a while.”

“Do not jinx us,” Jay points his finger at him, and Lloyd manages a grin that feels genuine this time, shrugging. He’s beyond pleased to find out that the action doesn’t hurt so much, only feeling the faint twinges of pain this time. Lloyd stifles a yawn instead of replying, and Jay fixes him with a look, jerking his head back toward the bedroom.

“If your arm’s better, you should get back to sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lloyd mutters, biting back a groan as he stands, wobbling a bit as his arm swings loosely. “That goes for you, too.”

“I’m not the one with designer bags for eyes,” Jay says, even though he clearly has dark circles worse than Lloyd. He pauses, eyeing Lloyd’s arm. “You really shouldn’t sleep with this on, you know,” he adds, tapping his wrist, nails clacking oddly on the metal.

Lloyd cringes. “I know,” he mutters. “I’m just — I don’t wanna have to put it on, if we…”

“If we’re attacked in the middle of the night?” Jay says drily, but there’s understanding in his voice. “Yeah, I get that. But hey, how about this: you sleep with it off for tonight, and if anyone comes in to kill you, I’ll take ‘em out.”

Lloyd raises an eyebrow. “Lightning blast to the face?”

“Lightning blast to the face,” Jay nods solemnly.

Lloyd shifts, arms wrapped around himself, his real fingers clenching anxiously at the juncture where his prosthetic meets his arm. It’s tempting, the idea of having the heavy weight off for the night. Really tempting.

But that also means taking it off, and that sounds…less than fun, especially after all the pain he’s already been in tonight.

“I’ll consider it,” Lloyd says, smiling weakly. “But I have full faith in you.”

Jay’s eyes are understanding as he nods, knocking his fist gently against Lloyd’s arm again. “Good. Now, bed. Practice starts back tomorrow, remember? You don’t wanna be dead tired for that.”

Lloyd’s heart sinks. Oh, no. He’d forgotten.

“Aw, man,” he moans. “This is gonna be a disaster.”

“Don’t say that,” Jay says, clearly trying to sound optimistic. “It’ll go fine. Wait and see.”

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

It is, in fact, a disaster.

The first practice with the guys after everything reminds him a whole lot of his first time sparring with Nya down one arm, and that — well, sucks. That’s about as cheerfully as he can put it.

“Do you need a hand?” Lloyd looks up at the voice, shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun. Zane’s standing over him, looking slightly apologetic, his hand outstretched.

Lloyd takes the offered hand, pulling himself with a grunt of effort. “Yeah, a right one would be nice.”

Jay and Nya groan in unison. Zane just flicks his eyes skywards, his mouth curving up slightly as he hauls Lloyd the rest of the way to his feet. Lloyd wobbles a bit, caught off guard, and Zane steadies him, grabbing for his prosthetic before he can lose balance. Zane’s hand lingers a little too long around it, his eyes flashing in concentration where they rest on the metal fingers. Lloyd’s about to ask him what’s up — growing slightly defensive — when Zane lets go, blinking once. The look of furrowed concentration stays on his face even as he steps back, though, and Lloyd’s not sure if he likes that.

“Sorry, Lloyd,” Cole says, interrupting his train of thought as he steps forward, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck in guilt. “I didn’t think you’d — I shouldn’t have been hitting that hard.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” Kai snaps testily, his eyes flashing in the dangerous kind of protectiveness Lloyd’s used to seeing against people not in their family. He quickly intervenes, waving his hands.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, chill out,” he says, hastily. “I wasn’t paying attention, it was my fault. Besides, it’s not any worse than what Nya gave me the first time we sparred with, uh…the arm.”

Nya rolls her eyes. “You kept tripping everywhere. That’s not my fault.”

Lloyd goes a bit red, but he doesn’t argue back. He’s pretty sure Pixal has video footage that would invalidate any argument he’d have, anyways.

Kai looks between the two of them, then seems to lose some of the fire, shoulders sagging. “Just…be more careful,” he mutters. “Lloyd’s arm is still pretty new.”

Lloyd’s head swivels to Kai, his mouth half-open, incredulous. He begs Kai’s pardon, who, again, lost their arm here and who definitely didn’t? Who knows what they’re talking about, and who knows absolutely nothing—

“Yeah, no, for sure,” Cole nods back, like Lloyd isn’t even here. “I’ll let up on the heavier attacks, too.”

Lloyd snaps his mouth shut tightly. He wants to scream. They’re all acting like Lloyd is glass, like he’s fragile. And that’s not the problem. The problem isn’t his arm. The problem isn’t even that he’s not used to the prosthetic, because at this point he kinda is. (He’s getting there.) No, the problem is that the guys are all walking on eggshells around him, to the point where the hits they do throw at him are so sporadic it’s completely throwing Lloyd off. Like he’s being attacked by uncoordinated chickens with no heart in their attacks, or something.

It’s actually a pretty good strategy to keep in mind, he muses, for another time when the target isn’t him.

“Um, no, you won’t,” he says instead, biting his cheek to keep the edge out of his voice. “You’re going to actually attack me. You’re holding back so much right now you’re handicapping yourself worse than me without a metal arm.”

Cole looks taken aback. “I just sent you to the ground, bud,” he says. “Hard.”

“You only sent me to the ground because I wasn’t expecting you to hit like Jay,” Lloyd shoots back.

“Hey!”

“If that’s the tactic you wanna use, fine, but only if you’ve got a plan for when I blast you right back from the ground.”

Cole blinks. “Do your powers even work with the prosthetic?”

“I do have another arm,” Lloyd growls. He immediately feels bad, because he sounds angrier than he should be, but that subject’s touchy. He hasn’t tried to use his powers with the prosthetic yet, apart from the blinding blast of energy he’d given off when he’d first gotten them back, and he doesn’t want to find out if another use will blow his arm to pieces or not.

“It should work with it, anyways,” Nya assures them, though there’s a spark of uncertainty in her eyes. “Your powers are pretty intuitive. They protect you, so it wouldn’t make sense for them to hurt you like that.”

Lloyd doesn’t say how completely unfounded this is, because his powers tried to protect him during the fight with his father and they sure as heck hurt him then, but she does have…a bit of a point. And again — there’s like, the glaring fact that his arm did not explode when he went supernova on top of Borg Tower. And Lloyd’s control is way better these days, so in all honesty, it’ll probably be fine.

But on the off chance. Lloyd is trying to be more careful, lately.

Now the guys, though. The guys are taking careful to a completely ridiculous level.

“Maybe we should tone it down for today, just to be safe,” Kai says, exchanging looks with Cole. A vein somewhere in Lloyd’s forehead begins to throb. “We don’t want to take any risks.”

“Oh, yeah, like we weren’t taking plenty of risks while you guys were gone in the First Realm. Oh wait, we did, and we were just fine then,” Lloyd snaps.

He immediately regrets it, because Kai’s expression does this awful crumpling thing, and Cole’s eyes widen painfully. Jay just looks down, and Lloyd hates himself.

“I-I didn’t mean—” he stammers, grasping desperately for the words to apologize, when Zane lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, silencing him.

“How about I train with Lloyd one on one for a bit,” he says. The corners of his mouth quirk up, humorlessly. “I think cooling down might be in order.”

Lloyd feels his cheeks heat, but he ducks his head, nodding. Kai looks like he want to protest, but he shuts his mouth, nodding as well, and Lloyd’s relieved to see a kind of understanding in his eyes.

He hopes he does, Lloyd thinks to himself, as Zane leads them away from the others, to the other side of the yard they’re using for training. He hopes, that Kai and Jay and Cole know he isn’t actually trying to attack them for getting yanked into another realm instead of being crushed to death, because that is definitely not something he would ever complain about—

“So, how strong is your arm?”

Lloyd blinks rapidly, yanked back to the present. “My — what?”

Zane repeats the question, patiently. “Your arm, the prosthetic one. Do you know how strong it is?”

“Like…as in durability, or how hard can I hit with it?” Lloyd asks, flexing a metal wrist.

“Ah. That’s a good question,” Zane tilts his head. “Both, I suppose.”

“Um, pretty strong, I guess,” Lloyd winces, remembering the last time he’d tested how strong it was, and he’d sent the punching bag through the wall instead. “Most of the strength is in my forearm, ‘cause it’s just metal and gears there. It gets a little dicey where it connects, up here, but it can take the heavy hits.”

His father had the honor of testing that part out, he thinks bitterly.

Zane nods, his eyes calculating. “Good. Then show me a heavy hit.”

It takes a second for the question to register, but when it does, Lloyd blanches. “No,” he says, firmly. “No way.” He remembers how the punching bag crumpled beneath his metal fist. He remembers too well how his father, full power, had actually buckled under several of his hits. The idea of hitting one of the guys with that same force makes him sick.

“Ah,” Zane says, and there’s a spark in his eyes. “So now you want to start holding back.”

“This — this is different,” Lloyd grinds out, trying not to go red in embarrassment. “It’s one thing to hold back entirely, but my arm is — its different, Zane, it’s way stronger now, and I don’t wanna hurt you guys with it.”

“I’m not going to break, Lloyd,” Zane says, cooly.

Lloyd bites his lip. “Look, I’m serious, you don’t understan—”

The end of Lloyd’s sentence cuts off with a yelp as Zane sweeps his leg out from beneath him, sending him sprawling to the ground. He looks up at him, wounded, and Zane just tilts his head.

“You said you want us to stop holding back,” he says, challenging. “You want a real fight, so fight back. Hit me.”

That’s all the warning Lloyd gets before Zane sweeps another kick toward him, forcing Lloyd to roll out of the way, somersaulting backwards before springing back to his feet. He opens his mouth to protest, but Zane’s elbow is already whistling toward his head, followed by his fist, and Lloyd’s too busy blocking and dodging to get any word out edgewise.

He’s not going to hit him with it, Lloyd tells himself fiercely. He’s not, but — but Zane is actually attacking him now, with all the cool calculation and devastating accuracy Zane is really good at, and if Lloyd doesn’t launch a counterattack soon, Zane’s going to obliterate him in full view of everyone.

Through the buzz of adrenaline, Lloyd bites back a curse. He’s forgotten, for a crippling moment, how smart Zane is. The way he’s pressing on him is leaving his left arm for blocking, which means the only way he’s gonna get a decent hit in is with his right. So either Lloyd sucks it up and hits Zane with the metal arm already, or he’s going to eat dirt the rest of the day.

Darn it, Zane, Lloyd thinks heatedly, barely dodging the next barrage of hits, wincing as one clips his shoulder. He’s just gonna have to do it. They both asked for this—

Lloyd suddenly ducks, darting beneath Zane’s blow then squaring back, bringing his fist up and swinging hard — just to crash right into Zane’s own blocked fist with a loud, screeching clang of metal.

Lloyd blinks. The hit he’d just thrown wasn’t holding back — it was way harder than he should’ve thrown, actually — but Zane just slides a few feet back, barely flinching. He flexes his wrist, a grin curving up the edge of his mouth.

“You aren’t the only one with a metal arm, you know,” he says evenly, and oh. Oh. Lloyd stops dead, staring at him.

So Lloyd’s just an idiot. Here he is, freaking out about how different his arm is now, how no one gets it, and Zane’s been metal this whole entire time.

“I…” Lloyd trails off, staring at him wordlessly. He feels so stupid, a total sham of the leader he’s supposed to be. He’s overlooked the most obvious fact ever, to the point where he’s been severely misjudging Zane, and that’s…that’s bad. That’s very bad, if he’s calling himself leader here.

And that, Lloyd realizes, with an unpleasant jolt, is the real problem with all this. Not the guys, not the arm. It’s Lloyd, failing to lead them against Harumi, failing to lead them against his father, and failing to lead them now. No wonder they can’t take him seriously, when Lloyd can’t even give them the decency of doing the same.

“Oh,” he whispers.

“It’s difficult,” Zane says, quietly. “To see yourself as one way, then suddenly as another. Even if it’s just one limb. Adjusting can be…difficult.”

Lloyd ducks his head, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”

Zane makes a noise that could be a huff of laughter, if it wasn’t so exasperated. “You don’t need to apologize. That is not the point I’m trying to make.”

Lloyd stares at the ground, not meeting his eyes. Zane’s footsteps draw close, until he’s right in front of him.

“Lloyd.” Zane’s hand is gentle on his shoulder, and Lloyd slowly looks up at him, feeling very much like he’s nine years old again, and Zane is the older brother who knows infinitely more about the world than he ever will.

“We are more than just a team for you to lead,” he says, gently. “We’re your family, above all else. We may not have been here when you needed us, but we are here now, and we want to be. We trust you. We just want you to trust us back.”

“I do,” Lloyd says, fervently. “I do, Zane, and I didn’t mean to — I never blamed—” He cuts off, shaking his head and swallowing. “I wanted to be there, too,” he rasps. “I — we couldn’t be there for you guys, either. You were alone, too. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to any of us.”

“No,” Zane says, sounding very tired. “No, it wasn’t.”

Not for the first time, Lloyd wonders how heavily the guys edited their own story of their time apart, and how much of the darker stuff they decided to leave out. The hollow look in Zane’s eyes leaves his stomach sinking. Probably a lot.

“B-but we’re together now,” Lloyd finally speaks up, cringing at the waver in his voice. “And, um. I know I’ve been most of the problem, but — but I trust you guys. I trust you, so — could you show me how to use my arm?”

Zane looks at him, and Lloyd offers him a tentative smile. “Since you’re the resident expert, and all.”

Zane’s mouth quirks up in a grin of amusement, and Lloyd feels a happy flare of victory at the action.

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” he says, lightly. “But yes, I can help adjust your training. Provided, of course, you throw better hits. No offense intended, but that one was…pitiful, at best.”

Lloyd chokes on a laugh. “Okay, if that’s how it is. I’ll show you a real hit. Just don’t go crying to Cole when I wipe the floor with you.”

“I assure you,” and there’s an edge to Zane’s smile that promises Lloyd’s not leaving here without his fair share of bruises. “I have no intention of doing so.”

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

Training with Zane helps even more than he’d thought it would. Not only does Lloyd start to learn how to better use his prosthetic to an advantage, the others pick up on it and start actually fighting Lloyd again, well-practiced moves and techniques that force him to fight back, and by the third week of practices they’ve all slid back into a steady routine, even if there is still the occasional hesitation when it comes to Lloyd’s right arm.

Except for Nya. She’s been sending him sprawling across the mat since day one, no problem, and even with her healing arm she’s never stopped threatening to do it again.

Lloyd’s beyond grateful, though — he’s starting to almost feel normal again, to feel a little like his old self, with his proper place on the team, and he finally, finally feels like he’s doing something right. So he’s got no right to complain whatsoever, when the increased training leaves his arm feeling so sore he may as well have gotten hit by a truck.

A throbbing ache shoots through his right wrist again, pulsing up through the bones of his arm. Lloyd’s fingers grasp on air, wavering once, twice before it clicks that there’s nothing there. A croaking laugh almost bubbles up in his throat. His arm is in agony and it’s not even there. There is no wrist there to hurt, he doesn’t even have his prosthetic on right now. So why—

Phantom pain, he reminds himself firmly, before clicking the prosthetic back into place, the motion slowly growing familiar. It’s just a ghost, like Morro. Lloyd survived him, he can survive this.

Besides, he doesn’t have time to be hallucinating an arm that’s not there. He’s gotta have his best face on right now, because this…this is going to take a lot out of him.

Lloyd stares at Kryptarium Prison with hollow eyes, trying to rid himself of the icy shiver that’s crawling up and down his spine. They’ve since fixed the damage to the walls, and he’s eternally grateful for that — but the stretch of stone that’s been recently repaired is obvious, and Lloyd can easily pick out exactly where he went bursting through when—

When Lloyd’s brain was an idiot, he scolds himself, as the shiver threatens to turn into a full-blown panic attack. Those memories need to go right back into the dark hole he’s shoved them in, where they can stay for the rest of his entire life.

Besides, the person he’s about to see is gonna bring back enough bad memories, as it is.

Lloyd swallows, forcing past the fear closing in around his throat as he finally starts walking again, his feet practically dragging toward the prison doors. His arm throbs in pain with every step, spreading to the aching twin points on the back of his right hand.

Which isn’t there, he reminds himself fiercely. There’s no hand to hurt, move past it, brain.

The doors slide open for him with a mechanical hiss, a chiming bell warning the guards of his entrance. Lloyd’s in full gi, hood pulled back, so no one stops him, the outermost guards just nodding to him as he passes. Lloyd barely manages a grimace of greeting for them, where he’d normally have at least something sincere. But it’s hard enough, trying to keep his expression impassive. Each step further into the prison feels like a step closer to his doom, and this is ridiculous because the only other time he’s felt this nervous walking up a set of stairs was the Overlord—

“Name, please?”

Lloyd blinks, abruptly realizing he’s already reached the check-in gate. He shakes his head, trying to reorient himself. Name, please, he thinks drily, as he looks up. Like this guard doesn’t know who he is, entirely decked out in green, it isn’t like he’s been on TV a whole lot in the last month—

Anyways.

“Lloyd Garmadon,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound like a gasp for air. “I’d like to see my — um, Lord Garmadon. He should be in heavy lockdown.”

Private lockdown, somewhere dark and deep, probably, Lloyd thinks. He tells himself he doesn’t feel anything at that. His father probably likes it, anyways, being alone and in the dark. That’s all it seems he’d even wanted, except for maybe her—

Lloyd thrusts the hot flash of emotion down deep along with the rest of that thought, and tries to focus on the guard’s reply.

“—terribly sorry, but I can’t let you in.”

Lloyd’s brain stutters to a halt. “Sorry, could you repeat that?” he frowns, taken aback. He doesn’t like to throw his weight around, but Lloyd’s pretty sure that the ninja are supposed to have clearance to the entire prison. Especially after everything that’s happened, he and Nya practically have clearance to the entire city at this point.

“Your name’s been blacklisted,” the guard chews on the edge of his lip nervously. “Y-you aren’t allowed access to the prisoner in question.”

Lloyd blinks rapidly. “What?”

The guard is visibly sweating now. “The, uh, the records say I can’t let you in. To see him. Not without a signature.”

Lloyd’s stomach does a weird swooping thing, like he’s missed a step on the stairs. If he needs a signature, then someone had to go out of their way to block him — specifically him — from seeing Garmadon. Someone who the warden apparently decided had the right to make decisions for Lloyd.

“Who’s signature,” Lloyd grits out, fury barely held back.

The poor guard — because he really doesn’t deserve this, but oh, Lloyd is angry — shrinks even smaller in his seat, swallowing.

“Wu,” he finally says, stammering. “Your uncle, he — I’m sorry, but he technically has the right…”

Lloyd steps back, metal creaking as his fist forms. “Thank you,” he clips out tightly, then spins in place, hoping his eyes haven’t gone supernova yet.

No, he’s saving that for his uncle.

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

“How could you do that.”

Sensei Wu barely stirs, visibly unaffected by the way Lloyd’s just slammed his door open, and is currently fuming in the doorway like a very angry part-Oni crime of nature.

“It was, at the moment, the correct course of action to take.” He sips evenly at his tea, not even attempting to pretend he doesn’t know exactly what Lloyd’s talking about.

Lloyd sees red. “You had no right.”

Sensei Wu finally looks at him, sighing wearily. “I’m your family, Lloyd. I have every right—”

“Not this one!”

Sensei’s eyes are sympathetic, but unrelenting. “Your mother told me what happened, Lloyd. What you did.”

Lloyd almost swallows his tongue at the shock of surprise, but it quickly mixes with a hot flare of betrayal in his chest. It’s his arm, it’s his story to tell.

“Cool.” The words scrape through his teeth. “That doesn’t mean you can block me from seeing him!”

“Your head isn’t in the right place to see him, Lloyd. Neither is your heart. I believe you know this, too.”

“My head—” Lloyd trips over his words in anger. “My head is fine! So’s my heart, thanks.”

Sensei Wu’s eyes narrow. “You’ve never been the best of liars, nephew.”

Lloyd is going to smash his stupid teapot. “Then maybe your perception is still off from the First Realm, uncle.”

A part of Lloyd’s soul dies at the sentence, because it’s the most dangerously rude thing he’s said to his uncle since he was like, eight. But he swallows it back, because he has a bad feeling it’s not going to be the worst thing he says in this conversation.

His uncle’s lips press tightly together, and Lloyd feels more than sees the crackle of anger in his eyes as the atmosphere heats, no longer a conversation between sensei and student. It’s a family conversation, now. “I hardly need much perception to see how traumatized you are from recent events. It’s not difficult to miss.”

“Traumatized—” Lloyd sputters, his own eyes narrowing. “You know what, fine, so what? It’s not like I haven’t been — been traumatized, or whatever, before,” he snaps. “Morro put my head pretty out of place, and you were fine with that.”

Sensei Wu’s eyes flash. “I was not ‘fine’ with that. I was nowhere near fine with that, but at that time you were equipped to deal with it. And you were not forcing yourself to face Morro on some shred of false hope you know will only hurt.”

Lloyd full-body flinches back at that last part. But it’s not that — it’s not because —

See, Lloyd knows. He’s had it physically beaten into him multiple times, that he’s not the father he knew. He knows that he’s not really him, that he will never be him, that he will never regain the father he lost no matter how much this one looks like him.

But — but Lloyd’s heart can only take so much at once, and he’s dangerously close to reaching a point where nothing will repair that kind of break. He can take a hundred prison walls and his arm cut off fifty times in a row, but that is something he’d rather die than have to face right now.

And to hear the phrase false hope coming from the one person he’d hoped would understand nearly breaks Lloyd on the spot.

So he gets angry instead.

“You taught me not to give in to fear,” his voice is icy, words measured and slow. “You taught me not to put off until tomorrow what I can deal with today, and you wanted me to make my own decisions.”

“Yet I do not recall teaching you to disregard any and all concerns for your wellbeing,” his uncle replies, his voice just as glacial. “Nor do I remember teaching you to argue back against my orders.”

“You made me master!” Lloyd nearly shouts back, barely restraining himself. “You told me to start giving the orders, how am I supposed to do that if you don’t trust me? You can’t keep doing this to me, either you trust me or you don’t!”

“I do trust you, but I will not lose another member of my family because they believe they’re stronger than they are!” Uncle Wu snaps, his eyes flashing, and for a beat Lloyd can almost see the Oni in his blood, as well. “I’ve forced you to face your father too many times, Lloyd. I will not let him continue to hurt you.”

“He isn’t hurting me!” Lloyd bursts out, despite knowing those words are a stone-cold lie. But— “He’s already hurt me, I almost died, what worse can he do from a prison cell?”

“More than you will acknowledge!” his uncle barks back. He exhales tightly, eyes closing briefly before re-opening. “Lloyd, I understand that you are upset with my decision. But in time, you will see that this was the right one. Your perception is clouded to the point where you can no longer see yourself properly, and a leader who continues to put themselves further into that state is not fit to be leader.”

Lloyd’s teeth snap together with an audible clack, and his fists tighten, fingernails biting into his palms and metal fingers creaking. “You’ve been gone for months,” he grinds out. “For a year, and I led just fine that whole time. You can’t just come back now and say I’m — I’m a screwup—”

“That is not what I—”

“And you keep talking about decisions, when you didn’t even ask me before—”

“Lloyd—”

“—going behind my back is way out of line and you know it!”

“This is not—”

“And my perception is fine, I do see myself—”

“Lloyd, I said—”

“—and I’m fine, Uncle Wu, I swear, I can face him I’m fine—”

“That is enough, Lloyd!”

Lloyd flinches back as his uncle’s voice cracks out, angrier than he’s heard it. Wu’s knuckles turn white around his cup handle, and his eyes glint with the steel of his glare. “This is my decision, and I will not move from it until you can prove that you are ready.”

Until he can prove he’s ready. Like Lloyd hasn’t had to prove again and again—

Like he doesn’t believe in Lloyd either when he was the one—

Like Lloyd wasn’t willing to lose an arm not to fail him—

Something dangerous in Lloyd snaps.

“You’re just as bad as him,” he spits, venomous like a snake. “You’re all the same, you think you know what’s best for me and you never care how I feel! You don’t even care about me, you just care about the stupid Green Ninja and your stupid prophecies and I’m sick of it, I’m so sick of being your Green Ninja, I hate it!”

Sensei Wu goes stark white. His fingers tremble and his teacup drops to the table, his eyes painfully wide. “Lloyd,” he whispers, weakly. “That’s not—”

“Fine,” Lloyd snaps over him, blinking back angry tears. “Fine, I’ll stay away from him. I’ll stay away from all of you. I hate being part of this family anyways.”

He turns on heel before he can look at his uncle a second longer, before the tears can start to fall and he has the chance to say anything else. There’s a high-pitched buzzing in his ears as he storms back down the hall, the lightbulbs above him sparking wildly in his wake before shorting out, exploding into tiny bits of glass that rain over the floor.

Lloyd darts past them, hurrying his footsteps as he tries to escape the apartment with the rest of the lights unscathed. Shoving open the stairwell door, Lloyd makes a break for the rooftop, where he at least knows it’ll be quiet, and there won’t be as many lights for him to burst, and his uncle can’t—

Lloyd pushes the rooftop door open and stumbles out with a heaving gasp, drawing air in desperately as if that’ll ground him. His heart is racing way too fast, way too angry, and his power is zinging all over his skin like a swarm of angry bees. He’s almost dizzy with how angry he is — except that’s not right, he’s not just angry, there’s a whole wave of emotion coming in from somewhere that’s threatening to — to drown him, and this is why Lloyd should always keep things bottled back where they belong—

A transformer across the street blows, and Lloyd jumps in alarm as it explodes, showering sparks down toward the street below. Lloyd blinks past the blurring tears, his stomach dropping. There’s a flickering of lights before the apartment complex below it goes dark, power lost as startled cries sound from the open windows. The power lines around him start thrumming dangerously, reaching a higher-pitched whine that prefaces bursting. Lloyd’s throat closes over in panic. Oh, no. He didn’t think — he can't be this bad. He doesn’t lose control like this, he — he needs to stop, right now, or the entire city’s going to lose power.

He clenches his fists again, trying to reign the power in, to pull it back to him, but it only sputters more wildly out of control. Lloyd’s hands are trembling now, shaking worse than before, and in a desperate attempt for it to stop he crumples to the rooftop, pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, burying his head in the crook of his flesh elbow and squeezing tight, metal digging painfully into his leg as he draws in tighter and tighter — like he can crush himself down into something small enough that he won’t feel so much anymore, and his power will stop, stop—

But it’s like he’s back in the prison, his power sparking wildly out of control and not listening to him. Just like her. Like his father, like his uncle, nothing he’s gotten from his family ever listens to him when it matters, and why should they. Why will they ever, when all Lloyd’s ever going to be is a weapon, a scribbled line in a prophecy or a stepping stone for power—

It’s his power. His power, and he can’t even get it to listen to him.

Lloyd listens to the power lines around him explode and lets his sweatshirt sleeve soak up the tears.

Lying to himself can only get him so far. He’s never going to be able to prove he’s ready to face his father.

Not when he doesn’t even know if he can.

#lego ninjago #ninjago #lloyd garmadon #nya smith #kai smith #jay walker #zane julien #cole brookstone #the focus is on jay and zane tho #for this part ahaHA i'm not kidding u guys its so long #anyways a huge thanks to everyone who requested more!!#u sadists #and special thanks to ninjawhoa for making sure i don't totally butcher lloyd's arm #i love u #my fic

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aquaquadrant · 5 years ago

Text

Chill

Rating/Warnings: K+ (sickness, minor injury, disturbing imagery) Timeline: FalsePrince!Varian AU (by Lunarcrown), after “Queen For a Day” Summary: Varian’s quest for answers to free his dad leads him down a dark and wondrous path.

A/N: OK SO I know I said I wasn’t gonna link my TTS Tangledtober one-shots here much but I REALLY loved how this one came out, plus I figured I oughta credit @lunarcrown for letting me play with her False Prince Varian AU and cook up a little origin story for it! Hope you enjoy, reblogs/comments are appreciated!

Click here to read on A03! - Aqua

~*~

Varian sets the beaker down with trembling hands.

His shakiness is now impossible to ignore, and he fears he’ll drop something and cause an even bigger accident than the one that encased Dad in the amber. He wipes his forehead with the back of his glove and comes away with sweat. But at the same time, he’s shivering. His head aches, and dark spots dance across his vision every time he moves.

Varian can no longer deny it; he’s sick.

And that’s a very bad thing, because it’s not just a little cold or flu kind of sickness. That would be fine, he’s worked through those before. This, he knows, is something more serious.

Days ago, he’d hit a wall in his attempt to create a compound that can dissolve the amber. He’d gone searching the area for clues, something new he could learn about the black rocks and their nature that might help. Of course, there was nothing in the village, but he’d found a small path of black rocks leading into the forest.

With nothing to lose, he’d followed the path. After winding around the forest for so long he was beginning to think there was no point, he’d stumbled across a barrow of some kind. A hidden stone door in a thicket, that lead to a huge underground cavern full of old ruins and a strange chill in the air.

And, of course, a lot of black rocks. But something about these ones had seemed different. They were almost in a kind of formation- not any particular shape, but enough repeating forms that he could tell it wasn’t random.

But in his investigating, he’d accidentally gotten too close and cut himself on one of the rocks. Not a deep cut, more of a scratch, really, across his chest. He’d mourned the hole in his shirt more than the small injury, and hadn’t thought it was anything to worry about. After finding nothing else of interest, he’d returned home, more frustrated and at a loss than ever. The cut had been ignored.

Now, it seems it’s gotten infected. The skin around the cut is red and hot to the touch, and the slightest prod makes pain shoot through his muscles. And this is bad because Varian’s alone- he has been since everyone else abandoned Old Corona to be chewed up by black rocks- and he has no idea how to treat an infected wound, he doesn’t know that kind of science.

Varian braces his hands against the work bench, hanging his head down as he takes slow, deep breaths. There’s no one left in town to help him, and he’s hours away from any other settlement. Even if he made it to one, he might not be welcome because of those rumors about him attacking Rapunzel. He’s well and truly alone here, and he needs to figure out a plan.

Just… once he rests, for a moment.

Varian’s eyes flutter shut.

The world tips around him as he feels himself falling. He never hits the ground, instead falling endlessly through inky blackness until the sensation is all he knows. Just as its about to consume him, he surfaces. His head breaks through a layer of snow, spilling powder down his shoulders in a crumbling mess.

He blinks the frost from his lashes. All around him is snow. It stretches out before him in every direction, an endless white void. Flat, dull, colorless. Empty. And cold- it seeps through his threadbare clothes and crawls lazily through his veins, like icy snakes swimming in his blood.

Above him, the sky is black. It’s a void of another name, stretching beyond the horizon and swallowing the world in darkness. But it’s not empty, not in the slightest. A dazzling array of stars glitters above him, packed denser than he thought stars could be. They’re scattered in clusters of beautiful disorder, like a bunch of dandelion fluff got carried away by the wind and caught in the space above.

There are planets too, planets he never even dreamed of seeing beyond the tiny pinpricks viewable from a telescope. Planets of different colors and patterns, closer than should be possible. And threading through all these celestial bodies are swaths of color he can’t even begin to identify. Like the aurora borealis he’s read about, bright yellows and pinks and purples and blues and it makes him dizzy just to process it all.

It’s breathtaking, and he wonders for a moment if this is what space truly looks like, once freed from the veil of the earth’s atmosphere. Deep, lively, vibrant. Eternal. Standing alone in the snow, he feels immeasurably small in the face of the radiance above.

The sound of his own teeth chattering together brings him back to earth. He’s freezing. A sharp gasp rips itself from his lungs, and he sees his breath fog in the air. Panic sets his heart racing, and he clumsily scrambles to his feet, kicking up flurries of snow. If he doesn’t find shelter somewhere, he’ll die. He knows this with certainty.

But the snow is deceptively deep. It seems to cling to him, making each step heavier than the last. His shoes are soaked through and he can’t feel his feet. Bitter winds rip at his hair, and he’s reminded of another storm, not so long ago. Trudging alone for miles and miles, with only the thought of getting back to Dad keeping him from giving up and letting the white haze consume him. But this time, his determination alone isn’t enough.

Varian struggles to make ground, but it’s to no end. There’s nothing in sight, no escape from this cold. Panting for breath, he looks up at the brilliant sky with all its color and majesty.

“Help!” Varian screams. “Anyone!”

The words don’t even get a chance to echo around him before they’re swept away in the storm, and despair crashes over Varian. But just before he drops to the ground to let the snow consume him, he catches movement.

Against the backdrop of inky sky, two yellow eyes blink open. The pupils are bright pink, and they regard Varian with enough intensity to melt ice. It’s an evaluating look, like they’re staring right through Varian’s skin into his soul, and it sends a chill down his spine. They get closer, and the rest of the figure comes into form, almost materializing out of space itself.

It’s a boy- like Varian. Almost exactly like Varian, in fact, in terms of the shape of his dark blue hair and the point of his nose. But much of his face is lost to the color of his skin; a deep indigo, smooth as the surface of unbroken water. Lighter pink freckles dust his face in the same places Varian’s do, glittering like constellations, and they match the pink streak in his hair, where Varian’s is blue.

A shining golden crown sits on the boy’s head, adorned with tiny pink stars that almost could have been captured right out of the sky. Rich furs of pink and purple line the cloak he’s wearing, adding to the regal appearance. Still though, he wears gloves, and the sight is bizarrely comforting to Varian, for whatever reason.

The boy has yet to land, his feet still floating above the snow by a good distance, forcing Varian to crane his head up to see. The cloak billows around him, but in slow ripples, as if he were underwater instead of hovering in a blizzard. He tilts his head at Varian, and it’s only now that Varian realizes the boy has no mouth.

Poor boy, the figure coos. Varian knows instantly it’s the boy’s voice, even though there’s no mouth to hold it. Alone again. It’s not fair, is it? You did nothing to deserve such a fate.

Varian manages to find his voice. “Wha- what fate?” he calls hoarsely, straining to be heard above the wind. “What do you mean?”

You’re dying. The boy’s yellow eyes curl up at the corners, like he’s smiling. Can’t you tell? That wound you sustained is a deceptive thing. It looks so harmless, doesn’t it? But looks can be deceiving, as you’ve since found out.

Varian’s heart misses a beat. “What?! I’m dying?” His breathing speeds up, hands raking through his hair. “No, no, no, n- no I can’t, my dad- I’m the only one that can save him! I’m the only one who will! If I die, then he’s lost forever and I can’t- I can’t let that happen!”

Why not? the boy asks simply.

Varian balks. “I’m the reason he got trapped in the first place! I have to fix it, I- I have to prove myself!” he insists desperately. “I have to, please.”

Hmm. The boy’s gaze seems considering. Perhaps there’s another way.

Varian inhales sharply. By this point, the cold has traveled to his hands. “What is it?”

Let me help you. I can lend you my strength, and save your dying body. Together, we’ll find the answers you seek. We can be friends.

The boy extends a hand, tilting forward in the air.

I promise.

Ice is forming in Varian’s eyes. He blinks it away and takes the boy’s hand.

The boy’s yellow eyes slant into their half-moon smile again, and suddenly he’s pulling Varian into the air. The abrupt weightlessness makes Varian cry out in surprise, the white world below them getting smaller and smaller as they ascend. And then it’s gone, and there’s nothing around Varian but space and stars and color.

The wind’s gone, and it’s deadly quiet. But it’s still just as cold.

Too late Varian realizes, as the ice starts creeping up his body once more. It’s fast and crushing, swallowing him up, dulling his nerves into noncompliance as he tries to move. He can’t even scream as the frost crawls up his throat, freezing his face in horror.

The last thing he sees are those blazing yellow eyes, watching in triumph, before everything goes black.

Varian’s eyes snap open.

He gives a violent start, gasping for breath. It takes him a few moments to gather his bearings. There’s no snow, no space, no shadowy figure with glowing yellow eyes. He’s on the floor of his lab, everything exactly as he left it, dark and quiet and alone.

No. Not alone.

The voice is less of a sound and more of a feeling, rattling through his bones. Varian cries out in surprise at the sensation, looking around wildly.

“Who’s there?” he demands.

Silence. And then.

A friend, the voice replies. I promised, didn’t I?

Varian’s breath catches as he realizes. That dream- if he can even call it that- the voice sounds like… but no, that’s impossible, isn’t it? It was just a dream, or some kind of hallucination. He’s not well, he’s seeing things, and hearing things-

Something seems to take hold of his heart and squeeze. He can’t even cry out, it’s so intense. When it finally lets up, he’s left struggling to regain his breath once again. Curiously, though, there’s no lingering pain anywhere in his body. He can’t even feel the sting of his wound…

That gives him pause. Something itches at the back of his mind, prompting him, look. Warily, he tugs down the collar of his shirt.

The wound is healed. There’s no sign of it but a faint pink scar- pink not in the way that irritated skin is, but a true bright pink, as if by a dye. Varian stares in mixed horror and fascination. It’s impossible. It’s unnatural. And yet…

Gingerly, he pulls a glove off and brushes his fingers over the scar. There’s no ache, but his skin is cold to the touch.

All the pain is gone. But the chill remains.

Now, let’s start again.

~*~

#tangled the series #rapunzel's tangled adventure #false prince varian au #tts varian #rta #my writing

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itsblissfuloblivion · 5 years ago

Text

metanoia

A/N: surprise holiday gift from @gryffindormischief & @fightfortherightsofhouseelves. Hinny Muggle Modern AU for your reading pleasure :)

FF and Ao3

_____

Honestly, if Sirius wasn’t the estate lawyer for Mrs. Figg, Harry probably never would’ve known about the shop. About his shop.

Because Mrs. Figg loved two things - cats and pizza. And apparently thought Harry should too.

It just so happens Harry’s most recent assignment has wrapped up - with a significant number of deranged menaces to society locked away. Though not enough. Harry has been victim to the knowledge of just how horrible a human can be since he could barely spell his full name.

And now, just about thirty years later, he’s bagged his fair share of serial killers - including the one that started it all. At least for him. He’s studied, tracked, and caught them with an endless supply of motivation. Motivation that Sirius has on more than one occasion called an ‘obsession’ or ‘avoidance.’

Harry likes to think of it as a positive outcome from a highly traumatic childhood. And saying it that way makes him sound like a well adjusted adult so he sticks with it.

Though in the privacy of his own mind, it sounds less and less true with each passing day.

Which is probably why the shop feels like a set up. A glass half full type might say kismet or destiny, but again, childhood trauma and possible suppression of feelings.

Sirius sighs. “You were rabbit trailing.”

Harry grunts. “Was not.”

“Tell me what I just said.”

“Pizza shop.”

“You are a terrible godson.”

“No family discount for you,” Harry says with a grin, swirling his coffee.

Rolling his eyes, Sirius resumes his explanation. “Arabella loved you in her own strange way and this is her even stranger way of showing it.”

“But - why ? I said I liked her pizza. But she literally has a photo wall of her herd of cats - do I look like someone who wants to stare at that all day?”

Sirius fiddles with his empty Splenda packet, tearing it to bits and sighing a little. And when he does speak it’s not really an answer. “They would want you to be happy.”

Harry blinks.

“Your parents.”

“I gathered.”

A herd of teenagers bustle into the coffee shop, bringing an icy wind and puddling rain with them. Harry really hasn’t missed London’s general greyness. Psychotic murdering crime syndicate aside, Majorca was warm and sunny .

“I’m good at it, Sirius,” Harry says after a moment, “Protecting people, catching killers, don’t I owe it to them, to everyone, to keep going?”

“Don’t let that arsehole steal your whole life - you got justice,” Sirius frowns, “However much you could, that is. You don’t owe anyone, any of us.”

Harry’s quiet a moment. “Well I guess we should go take a look at my new shop.”

The first red flag really should’ve gone up when Sirius told Harry the walkthrough could wait. When he coaxed Harry into taking a post-travel nap . Then he makes his chicken alfredo pasta bake for supper and pours him a large glass of chardonnay, which was when Harry began to feel suspicious. But, just as Sirius wanted, Harry’s too pliant with rich food and heady wine to question it and ends up falling asleep without even realizing.

Yet, when he wakes, he is in pajamas and tucked in bed, mouth a bit stale. Apparently Sirius draws the line in his babying at toothbrushing. It’s just after one in the afternoon and Harry would bet fifty quid Sirius is currently the person buzzing his mobile off the bedside table.

Harry swipes his thumb across the screen and presses the phone to his face.

“Wake up lazy bones.”

“You’re the one who plied me with wine and pasta.”

Sirius’ laugh is a huff. “You’re such a lightweight.”

Harry flops back on the bed and sighs. “Ever hear of jet lag?”

“Nobody likes a whiner.”

There’s some grumbling on Harry’s end and some grouchy barking on Sirius’ end and after what Harry will fully own as whining, he agrees to a greasy breakfast and a tour of his new acquisition right off.

Halfway through his third slice of bacon - deliciously crispy and oily - Harry glances at a mysteriously quiet Sirius. “So what is it?”

“What is what?”

“The catch, the surprise, the thing you’re going to ruin my breakfast with,” Harry answers around the rim of his coffee cup.

“Breakfast? It’s well past two. Don’t know how things are on the continent but - ”

“Breakfast is the first meal of the day,” Harry asserts, “Now answer.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Eat your breakfast .”

Knowing he’s fighting a losing battle, Harry lets the issue drop with a lingering look. Or at least on the surface. Internally, he’s still in full Inspector Mode and highly suspicious of every glance Sirius gives him and every word he says.

But odd as his godfather’s behavior is, it’s not particularly helpful in any information gathering sense. Which isn’t to say it’s not a nice meal. Clinical as Harry may paint himself at times, workaholic though he can be, he loves his godfather and getting caught up doesn’t take twisting his arm.

So yes, he drops the issue for a time, but by the time they’re walking down to Arabella’s, Harry can’t resist any longer. “Don’t you think you should give me fair warning for whatever I’m about to encounter?”

“Since when do I do things like give fair warnings?”

Sirius pushes the door open, overhead bell ringing their entry, and shepherds Harry inside.

Distracted as he is by the display of gallantry, Harry takes a moment to zero in on the figure behind the counter. And when he does, everything clicks together.

His voice is a low hiss, “What the hell, Sirius?”

“Didn’t I mention?”

“You have problems,” Harry grumbles, low enough that hopefully their conversation remains private , “I officially fire you as my godfather.”

Sirius straightens his Santa-themed scarf, jauntily tossed over his shoulder and a bit at odds with the punk vibe of his leather jacket. All of which is at odds with his profession but that’s an issue for another time. A time when Harry’s not less than four paces away from his not-so-secret celebrity crush. Ginny Weasley, star striker for the Holyhead Harpies.

A crush that is complicated all the more by the fact that she’s also his best mate’s sister whom he has not seen since they were almost something. Back when he was a dumb teenager with an axe to grind and entirely too much angst for his awkward green bean-esque body.

“You can’t fire me. It’s outside the scope of your authority.”

“I’ll - ”

Harry loses whatever he was about to say to the ether, well that and Ginny’s eyes as her attention shifts from her final customer to the new entrants. Her patented customer service smile slips into place and she’s halfway through her welcome when her eyes light in recognition. “Harry! Sirius. I wish you’d warned me.”

Ruffling his hair, Harry manages to steel himself and wander closer. “Sirius doesn’t do warnings.”

Ginny nudges the register closed and passes the customer the receipt once it’s printed. “Yeah, I guess that checks out. So we’re business partners now, yeah?”

Harry leans against the counter, taking in the half-full shop, Arabella’s catered shrine to her cats. Which reminds him. “What about the cats? We’re not - ”

Grinning, Ginny tilts her head toward the empty barstools and pours a few sodas. “That was my first question. We are not feline parents.”

Sirius nods. “Arabella had a lady in her quilting group - she’s a cat lover. Took the lot.”

“How will all this fit in - aren’t you busy?” Harry asks, turning his attention to Ginny.

She shrugs. “Somebody’s #1 fan status is in danger, I am officially retired.”

“Shite I - injury?”

“Nah, just felt like time. I’m not getting any younger - in sports years - and I’d rather go out on top than limping if I can help it,” Ginny explains, “On top and in love. The magic was still there but I could feel it fading.”

“Time for a new dream, eh?” Sirius puts in.

“Someone’s been watching too much telly with Teddy,” Harry teases and glances sidelong at Ginny, whose cheeks are a bit flushed, “My godson is quite the fan of Rapunzel.”

Ginny chuckles. “I learned that on very long afternoon of babysitting Victoire and Ted.”

The conversation peters out and they linger a bit uncomfortably until the chef passes a couple of pizzas through to Ginny. With a spared smile for her companions, she grabs the two pies and heads into the dining area to deliver the orders.

Harry can’t help but watch as she turns on the charm, poses for a selfie with a nervous looking little tween at the table, and heads back their way.

Sirius nudges Harry’s arm. “Nice surprise, eh?”

Things pick up at the shop, so Sirius orders a vegetable laden pizza to go and blusters about something important he’s just got to do and disappears as soon as his pie is ready.

Leaving Harry to feel awkward and out of place, not sure he can leave and even less sure he can stay. The latter more a thing about sanity.

He might not be a huge ‘be open about your feelings’ person but Harry’s at least somewhat self aware. And Ginny Weasley, cheeky and fit as ever, wielding the power vested in her as a co-owner of a pizza shop like a queen with a very doughy throne - well it’s not good for his state of mind.

The last forty-eight hours have been highly confusing and unexpected and Harry really feels he’s handled things with admirable elegance considering the post-assignment haze he generally experiences coupled with the usual jet-lag. Well he’s a bit out of it and that means his already low ability to filter and process emotions is severely impeded.

All of which leads Harry to feel he should be cut some slack for his awkward exit - chosen at a time where he can’t do more than offer Ginny a passing wave and earn narrowed eyes in return.

So when he finds himself off the clock two days later and somehow standing in front of Arabella’s, Harry’s really not sure it’s a good idea. Or even what the idea is.

It’s late, yesterday’s snow already either shuffled to the side by plows or trampled by Londoners tramping through the streets, and Harry’s simultaneously hungry and too terrified to be so.

Because if Ginny Weasley’s angry at eight and a half because he and Ron put snails in her sock drawer was terrifying, Harry can only imagine he’s in for a dangerous evening.

The overhead bell beckons his entry and Ginny’s voice calls from the back, “Just a sec - we’re actually - “ she pauses wiping her hands on her apron as she emerges from the kitchen, “Closed.”

“Is it ever closed for me ?” Harry asks.

Ginny scowls. “Dunno we haven’t really discussed any of this, have we?”

“I-”

“You’re not starting off as a particularly enjoyable business partner.”

“It’s been less than a week, give a bloke a break, yeah?” Harry defends, twisting the lock on the door and claiming a seat at the counter.

Ginny pins him with her stare. “If you’re going to hang about after closing, help me clean up.”

Harry accepts the rag she tosses at his chest and follows her minimal, and gradually less angry, instructions. It’s congenial, and Harry finds himself beginning to relax like he hasn’t - maybe ever. At least not without the aid of some sort of sleep-inducing medication or a couple shots of whiskey in his system.

And somehow, Ginny manages to pull him out of himself, her easy chatter draws him in and somehow he finds himself making it more of a conversation. Hell, he’s having a good time and Harry would want to thank Mrs. Figg if he wasn’t still just a little ticked at being manipulated and at the fact that an octogenarian knew his interests better than he did.

Regardless, he returns most nights, sometimes after a day off, sometimes after a long shift he just wants to forget.

Ginny’s always there delivering a cheeky rejoinder or a prod to his shoulder when he’s ‘not putting in enough elbow grease’ scrubbing the dishes. And sometimes, he begins to hope, her teasing gets just a tinge of flirtatiousness.

After a month, Harry finally asks, “So you’re here alone?”

“ That’s not something a serial murderer would say,” Ginny says with a smirk, refilling another napkin holder.

“No, I mean, for closing.”

Surprisingly, Ginny flushes a bit, her voice only wavering a bit as she begins to speak before strengthening as she squares her jaw, daring him to comment. “Well, that first night, my - our - help called in sick. And then eventually you were so regular I figured why make Francis stay and pay someone when we handled it fine enough.”

“So you’re taking advantage of my free labor.”

“Hardly free partner ,” Ginny teases, filling another holder.

Harry laughs and the shop falls into silence as they go through the motions of closing, now something of a choreographed dance between them.

It’s comfortable and yet Harry feels a weight on him, words running up his throat from somewhere he’s not even really conscious of. Repressing it begins to feel pointless - why wouldn’t he just say it? What’s the harm? Part of him wonders at his trust of Ginny after only a month, but it’s really longer than that, when he thinks about it. And if he spends one more day of his life living in constant apprehension of betrayal, of someone else leaving him or letting him down - maybe Sirius was right.

Bastard.

“Ginny?”

She rises from her crouch behind the counter, ponytail askew and a slash of flour across her cheek, hiding her freckles in a dusting of powder. “Yes?”

“Did you ever - how did you know when to retire?”

Ginny pushes flyaways from her face and disappears into the kitchen, which is really not a particularly fun reaction to receive after finally drumming up courage to ask. But she returns soon enough with a few mismatched slices of pie. “We can eat the mistakes - or the rejects I suppose - and have a chat,” Ginny smiles and gestures to one of the tables without the chairs stacked, “Grab a seat.”

Harry does as she instructs and sighs. It had been a long day, more death, more horror, more of the worst of humanity. If he’s honest, which is something Harry’s really working on, it feels like that’s all his life is. Arabella’s is an escape of sorts. And Ginny is - something else entirely.

“So my retirement? You’re not investigating me for some murder, right?” Ginny asks, pulling a slice from the tray and biting into it with a sigh, “We make good pizza.”

“No, I - I’ve just been thinking,” Harry fiddles with his napkin and finally selects a slice of pizza absently, heedless of the mushrooms he really doesn’t like. Maybe the fidgety nature of pulling them from the pie will calm his nerves. “I’ve been realizing maybe I’m not happy.”

Ginny raises her brows but doesn’t interrupt as he continues, “Before I felt like I had a purpose, a reason to be doing what I was doing. Beyond just being good at it.”

“Even after?”

“Yeah - I felt a pull even after we caught Riddle, like my work wasn’t finished,” Harry answers, thoughtful, “But lately it feels more like a placeholder, like I’m just doing it to do it.”

“You’re unhappy.”

“I mean - it feels odd to say it ever made me happy ,” Harry laughs, dry, “But I was fulfilled in a strange way, had a purpose, you know?”

Ginny shakes some red pepper flakes onto her pizza and considers him for a moment, her eyes softened, before she responds. “My career wasn’t the same as yours, but I think you know when it’s time for a change. Even if you don’t want to see it. Even when it’s scary to see. You invest your life, you devote everything to being the best. It feels mad to leave it all behind.”

“And yet you did.”

She scoots her chair closer and leans her head onto his shoulder, like they’re meant to slot together. “Isn’t it madder to leave things the same and stay unhappy?”

The shop looks different by daylight, Harry notices. Less intimate. And it’s odd too. He’s never been in a shop completely alone during the day. Or really at all, since his nights spent at Arabella’s are never without Ginny except when he takes the rubbish out.

Dull considerations like the oddity of sitting alone are all he has to keep his mind busy, to prevent himself from bouncing around with wild energy or calling and taking everything back.

But he’s not one for backpedalling, especially when he’s spent so much time and energy in moving forward.

And yet, it feels like a part of him is missing. But instead of the fear of a phantom limb, he feels weightless, like he’s thrown away everything holding him back.

Back from what, he’s not really examining too closely, so for now - well it’s -

The door opens with a ring of the bell and Ginny’s low, warbling hums reach him in the dining area. “Alright Gin?”

“Fu- ” Ginny drops her keys and grumbles, “You scared me, arsehole.”

“I tried not to.”

“Sure,” Ginny drawls, “Now what are you doing here? Please don’t tell me someone was murdered in our kitchen.”

Harry laughs and nearly chokes on his tongue when Ginny presses a kiss to his cheek. “Nah, I’m on holiday.”

“And you’re here.”

“I heard this place has the best garlic knots,” Harry says, following Ginny as she moves toward the combination supply closet and back office.

“Surprised you know how to find this place in daylight,” Ginny teases, jabbing her elbow into his side.

“Arabella’s cats are a bit creepier in the full light.”

“Don’t I know it,” Ginny says, wry, “I think Gingersnap’s eyes follow me.”

“Did you ever ask why a black cat was named Gingersnap,” Harry asks as Ginny opens the safe and pulls the register tray free.

“Maybe Arabella was so bad at making ‘em they always burnt.”

Harry laughs and in the privacy of his mind admits he follows Ginny around like a lost puppy as she preps for the day. So he’s pretty close behind when she turns and tosses a pinny in his face. “If you’re going to hang about at least pull your weight.”

“Where’s Franny?”

“Don’t bring her into this.”

“I just worry after the wellbeing of those in my employ.”

Ginny scoffs. “She’s on holiday from uni, went home to Kent.”

“Just in time to miss London’s lovely Grey Christmas,” Harry laughs, wrapping the apron strings around his middle and glancing out at the looming clouds overhead, the puddle riddled streets.

“Posh boy used to wintering in exotic locales, can’t handle a good ol’ fashioned London winter,” Ginny teases, “Keep your complaining inside and pitch in, put that fit body to good use.”

Shoving Ginny’s shoulder, Harry disappears into the kitchen and begins checking the prepped dough and running down Ginny’s list of morning tasks.

He’s just finished warming up the espresso machine when Ginny returns from her paperwork in the back room. Their gazes lock for a moment and Harry feels like he’s been caught out at something, not that he was even doing anything. Except perhaps daydreaming a bit about Ginny returning his sad secret feelings and ending their usual teasing banter with snogs instead of flicks to the nose.

But it seems Ginny is not clairvoyant, or at least not owning it quite yet when she says, “S’nice having you around. I actually get paperwork done before eleven at night.”

“Well,” Harry takes a deep breath and ruffles his hair, “Get used to it.”

“Get used to - ” Ginny narrows her eyes and steps closer, “Why?”

“I had a lot of vacation time saved up,” Harry begins, focusing acutely on the grinder, “And I wrapped that case - the human trafficking one,” Ginny nods her understanding and Harry continues, “And so I called in my days and uh. I gave notice.”

She gapes. “You - ”

He puffs out his chest, feeling accomplished at rendering Ginny nearly speechless, “Done. I’m out. That was my last one. Just a few exit interviews after the New Year and then, adios.”

Ginny considers him for a moment, unreadable as she almost seems to reach for him, and then shakes her head. “You’re such a stalker.”

“Excuse me?” Harry yelps with a grin, pressing his palm to his chest.

“Everyone knows you were a Ginny Weasley super fan,” Ginny raises one finger, “And that you had a thing for me back before uni,” Harry flushes as she plows ahead, “Add in the fact that your godfather orchestrated this little ‘surprise’ partnership,” she shakes her head, “You’ve probably been collecting my hair for a doll at your flat.”

“Excuse me, it’s a puppet.”

“How’s my godson slash entrepreneur?” Sirius barks as he pushes the front door open with his hips.

“Working like a dog, paying for any sins I may have ever committed,” Harry growls, hands elbow deep into dough.

Sirius scans him head to toe with an ever-growing smirk, “You’re welcome.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot high up into his hairline, fists already constricting around the piece of dough he’d been working on. If there’s ever anyone’s fault for what he’s been feeling over the past weeks, the tension and frustration battling in his chest, in his mind, ready to explode in his face the next time she smiles or says something cheeky or simply exists in his presence.

“Don’t start making faces,” Sirius points a finger at him as Harry’s on the verge of snapping back, “I know you when you’re happy. I changed your nappies, don’t you forget that you ungrateful godson of mine.”

And to that Harry doesn’t have much to say. Sirius is right, as much as Harry’d like to deny it.

“So you quit,” Sirius plows on after a pause.

Harry takes a moment then shrugs, “Yeah, it was time, I guess.”

“Good for you. And now - how are things?”

“What do you mean?”

Sirius quickly looks at Ginny absorbed by paperwork and winks, grin, and ultimately nudges Harry.

Harry’d like to send dough spiralling at his godfather’s head.

He’d like that very much indeed.

“There’s nothing there, Sirius,” he mutters.

“Aha,” Sirius snorts. “Then tell me this: if you’re not fueled by sexual frustration right now then why are you groping and playing with that roll of dough like it’s something else?”

Harry feels himself go scarlett, blood boiling in his ears.

“Out. Now.”

“Don’t I get a pizza for my efforts?” Sirius grins.

“Out before I kick you,” Harry barks, wipes his hands on a piece of cloth, ready to take his godfather by the collar before he mocks him even further.

No one pushes his buttons quite like family.

“What about my family discount?”

There’s a freshly baked pizza sliding down the front door as Sirius leaves in a fit of pleased laughter, Harry fuming on the other side of the shop.

“Should I ask?” Ginny raises her head from around the stack of papers, eyebrows raised, pen in her mouth.

“No,” Harry says, clipped, and marches back to his station.

Naturally, they thought hanging a Buy one, get one free sign on their door would be splendid for their business and any small business owner’s drive to build a faithful community around their shop.

It proves, however, that as great this move is for their business, it is also horrid for their poor wrists, as they hurt after rolling pizza after pizza, for their cheeks (Harry fears that fake smiling 24/7 might give him a paresis), and, if everyone’s being fair, for their mental health and general libido levels. It should be noted that tension, as well as flour, can be cut with a knife.

“Think we should hire help?” Harry asks after the upteenth time he coughs on flour.

A relieved sigh, “Thought you’d never ask. We definitely need one of those people that can naturally smile non-stop, know what I mean? Because if I have to grin like a loon for one more customer, I’m officially out.”

Harry scans her closely and pouts a little.

“Would you really?”

“Would I what?”

“You know, leave me?”

She doesn’t spare him a glance, fully concentrated on adding extra cheesy on an already cheesy pizza.

“Are we together now, Potter?”

“Let’s not hide behind those floury fingers, Weasley, I saw you checking out my arse,” Harry huffs, watching her curiously out of the corner of his eye.

Ginny laughs wholeheartedly for a beat, cheese and pizza forgotten.

“Harry, Harry, if that’s how easy it is for a girl to get you, then you must’ve had a million relationships because that bum is super tight.”

Harry feels himself blush, chest warming on the inside.

“So’s - erm, so’s yours.”

“Well, if we’re doing this,” Ginny grins cheekily, “so are your eyes.”

It’s Harry’s turn to grin, he’s very pleased.

“My eyes are tight?”

“Don’t be a prick. Your eyes are pretty,” she sticks out her tongue at him, resuming her pizza making.

A pause, tense and vibrant.

“So is your hair. And your freckles. And the way you look when you’ve got your mind set on something,” Harry mumbles at first but manages to finish in a more confident note, eyeing her from behind his round specs.

Ginny takes a moment for herself, rubs her nose then turns around to look at Harry with the very look he mentioned. That hard, blazing look that starts a fire within him and sends his thoughts twisting and turning into dangerous places.

“Your messy hair, your little smirk when you’re pleased with yourself. You.”

Harry’s completely forgotten about customers trundling in, orders upon orders to be delivered or anything else for that matter. All he has the wit to say is a feeble “oh.”

A wall of tension thickens and threatens to crush them, each staring at the other, each holding their position, feet firmly on the ground, cheeks flushed and hearts beating wildly.

“It’s hot in here,” Ginny remarks, dry.

“Yeah. I know.”

“So bloody hot,” she speaks again, still yet daring.

Harry can hear himself breathe hard, “The - uh, ovens.”

A minute passes and, as it drags its heavy legs to the finish line, Harry hears rather than sees Ginny laugh a bit to herself, throw away the piece of cloth she used to clean her hands and stride over to him.

“Yeah, I can’t handle it. Thought I could, but I can’t,” Ginny sighs and informs the room at large.

“So why are you unbuttoning my shirt?” Harry manages to underline before his brain explodes at the touch of her smooth fingers over the skin of his chest.

“Helping?”

She’s undeterred as she speaks, rather absently while her fingers work every button, one after the other until his shirt lays open and their gazes lock.

Harry barks a laugh, “Try again?”

“You’ve got a spot,” Ginny shrugs, fingers mapping the length of his chest.

Harry closes his eyes, draws in a breath. He lets it out in a shudder.

“So’ve you.”

There’s barely a second between his words and the moment Ginny’s legs lock around him, his hands supporting her on the table top, they’re mouths kissing hard and fast. Kissing, licking, grazing, biting in a tangle of hair and flour and pizza everywhere.

Harry’d like to say something clever and sassy but he’d like to keep kissing Ginny even more. And more. And more until her tongue is in his mouth and her palms moving in circles on his bare chest and his fingers knotted in her ginger hair.

He feels they’re melting into each other, limbs glued together like mold, fire blazing, scorching.

It’s more than any of them can take.

“Move this elsewhere?” Ginny gasps between kisses.

“Do we really have to?” Harry breathes, pants.

“Unless you wanna risk a citation from the Health Department,” she giggles into his ears, giggles that turn into full on laughter when he lifts her in the air, carries her into the pantry, locks the door.

Laughter that turns into moaning when their lips meet again behind closed doors.

#itsblissfuloblivion writes #hinny au fic #hinny au #hinny fic #hinny #harry X ginny #harry potter x ginny weasley #christmas au #muggle au #modern au #sirius black

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ravenwritesstuff · 5 years ago

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Best Laid Plans (6/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: Stop looking at me.

The multi-function table is loaded with pastries, fruit, and more bagels than Elsa remembers being in existence. Kristoff, Eugene, and Rapunzel all have their plates in front of them - Rapunzel's somehow the most full - and are conversing amicably with him.

The space is not large but it was designed to give an open, inviting feel. She had created it to make everyone feel welcome the second they entered the room and it seems her design has done just exactly that. She never once considered that could be a detriment until now.

“Elsa!” Rapunzel jumps up like she hadn't talked to her just moments before in the atrium. The rest of the eyes in the room track to her immediately. She does her best to ignore him.

“I don't recall having a meeting scheduled this morning.” She feels that she is dripping on the stone-tile floor. “You will have to excuse my tardiness.”

She doesn’t flinch meeting his gaze even as mascara stings her eyes. She bets it is running down her cheeks, too. To his credit he keeps his composure despite her rain-soaked appearance. Except not to his credit, because shouldn’t even be here. Of all the entitled bullshit she has ever encountered…

She crosses her arms and looks at her employees.

“Thank you all for entertaining our guest at the expense of your other tasks, but you may go now. I will take it from here.”

They get the point.

The trio are all gracious as they take their plates and leave (all of them grabbing a bit more from the generous spread before ducking out sheepishly). Elsa gives them her best facsimile of a smile as they exit. She shuts the door behind them with a definitive thud (though she knows that will do little to keep them from eavesdropping) before turning back to the root of this entire problem. The idea of her staff listening in makes her even more irritable. She hates being the center of attention.

Still, she turns and meets his gaze. “Mister Westergaard.”

He smiles. “Hans.”

He is seated on a cushioned bench that was custom built for the space. She half expects him to rest his elbows on the table and cradle his chin in his hands with his patronizing tone. She stiffens a bit, but tries not to acknowledge it.

She is a professional. She will at least see what he wants.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“You wouldn't let me take you to dinner so I brought you breakfast.”

She remembers their conversation after the dance, the granola bar she grabbed on the run, but also remembers her most ultimate truth and speaks the lie that must come from it: “I don't eat breakfast.”

“Everyone eats breakfast.”

“Well I don't.”

He scoffs, smile tugging at his wide mouth.

“Doesn't take bubble baths. Doesn’t dance. Doesn't date. Doesn't eat breakfast.” He rattles off the list and she feels her ears turning pink. Had he really listened that closely? “I know for a fact that at least twenty five percent of those statements is patently untrue. It makes me wonder about the other seventy-five percent." He dangles the bait but she doesn't take it. He shifts. "So if you don't do all of those things, what do you do?”

“I run this company.”

He nods his head slowly, keeping his clever eyes trained on hers. “And you are in charge of planning all of the events put together by this company?”

It is a leading question. She knows it. Doesn't want to feed into it, but is uncertain how exactly to skate around it.

“Anna and I are partners. Which of us take the lead on projects depends on what best fit our client's needs.”

He leans forward then, just enough that she can smell ulterior intent even as he assumes a professional posture.

“So your clients pick their point of contact. Interesting.”

She can feel him circling, and realization snaps his intent into place. She knows where this is leading, and a chill runs down her spine. If she had known he would be this persistent…

She presses forward, trying to correct her misstep.

“In part. The team at E & A Events all have a say as well. It is a team operation. We all have different, but equally important, roles.” She doesn’t like where this conversation is going, but she won’t surrender even as she drips on the floor. Even if she wants to shove him out the door and force him out of her mind and life.

“Equal but different roles, fascinating. I’d love to know more.”

She had practically gift wrapped that segue for him. Instead of getting him out the door she was helping him dig trenches. She could kick herself for it.

“The inner workings really aren’t that important or interesting to most.”

“Try me. Let's start with the big blonde guy. Christopher.”

“Kristoff,” she is just a little too quick, enjoying correcting him just a bit too much, and his eyebrow flicks in amusement. “Just Kristoff.”

“My sincerest apologies. Kristoff. What does he do?”

“He supervises and creates special builds for our events. Stages, tables, altars, set pieces… he also coordinates event set-up and tear down logistics and coordinates all parties involved in that.”

“Fascinating,” he says and she believes him. He seems to hang off of her every word and that makes her nervous. “What else? What about that Rapunzel girl?”

“IT, admin, and graphic design. She can build you an event website with sign up funnels all customized around a graphics suite she creates from your concepts as well as facilitate any paper needs you may have from invitations to menus.”

He hardly lets her breathe: “And Eugene?”

“Vendor liaison and customer service. He is excellent at negotiating with vendors to get you exactly what you want at a price that is fair for everyone as well as day-of coordinating.”

He had already gotten a front row seat of Eugene’s flair for customer service two days ago at Eric and Ariel’s wedding. She is certain he will pick up how far she is underselling each team member and the extent of what they do just because of that, but he doesn’t mention it. He keeps right on with his line of questioning.

“Anna?” He keeps it short, like not letting her pause for even a moment, like he is quizzing her.

Two can play that game. “As Creative Director she does whatever I don't do.”

He smiles then like he knows something she doesn't, “and you. What is it that you do?”

She has given these answers ten thousand times, has recited them all from rote already, knows exactly how to answer his questions but the words catch in her throat. She cannot help but feel she is walking into some sort of trap and she does not want to be caught. She cannot afford to, for either of their sakes.

She takes a breath. “I am Director of Operations and work closely with the designated point of contact to an event that is both seamless and completely authentic to the person or organization putting it on as well as manage several day-to-day operations.”

He leans back and rubs a hand across his chin. He smiles: “I like listening to you talk.”

Her brain scrambles. She does not understand what any of that has to do with anything. She stays professional.

“Thank you.”

“Tell me something else. Anything. Anything at all...”

The sensation of just being a specimen, like a bug under a microscope, makes her anxious. His eyes skate the length of her body and she is suddenly hyper aware of how her once shapeless dress now clings to each curve, how her eyes sting with the mascara leaking into them, how each inch of her body is still dripping on the floor. He seems to notice her discomfort with a sardonic glee, the fight she is waging to not tighten her arms over her chest and hide, to seem relaxed.

“I have told you all I can possibly think to tell you, Mister Westergaard. Why don’t you enlighten me about the specifics of what brought you here this morning?” She turns the table, done beating around the bush. She won’t be made to stand trial, barefoot, with clammy skin, in her own office. "Because if conversation is why you are here I can guarantee you there are much easier and better places you can find it."

His smile falls a bit, but he catches himself. That all too human crack bleeds through and she thinks she has hurt him. She steels her insides against remorse as his cool and controlled exterior snaps back in place.

His smile now wolfish.

“I am launching an initiative," he makes a broad sweeping gesture with his arms. "And I wasn't going to make too much of a fuss, but you all changed my mind.”

She expects him to continue but he doesn't. Instead he just watches her. She frowns.

"Mister Westergaard I don't know if I quite understand. We plan events - not initiatives. Perhaps you would be better served with a Public Relations firm or -"

"Those pieces are already in place." He smiles, just a bit crooked as if he has anticipated this rejection and has a counter prepared. “What I need is a party, and a good one, to draw the proper attention.”

She cannot help but wonder just what a man like this considered to be proper attention, but pushing against him isn’t getting her what she wants. So she leans in.

“Do you have a prospective date for this event?”

Normally these questions would be answered before she ever saw the client in person. Normally there would be boards and sketches and swatches of color and timelines and menus all laid out in coordinating binders for the initial presentation - drawn up from the initial phone consult. Her clients didn’t like wasting time. Neither does she, but here she is.

He tells her and it is all she can do not to choke on her own disbelief.

“That is only five weeks from now!”

“Thirty nine days to be exact.”

“Mister Westergaard - we have other clients, other events, that is hardly enough time to properly plan something of any size or scale.

“Please. It’s Hans,” he stands, smoothing the front of his tailored slacks as he goes and her mouth goes dry. "And you're starting to make me think you aren't interested in taking this on."

There is something a little too casual about how he stands, too relaxed, the drift of his eyes too lazy to be anything but sharply calculated. She can see it. She may not know him well, but she knows he isn’t one to leave something to chance. She didn’t bow to his charm so now he will prod her pride. It irks her to admit that it is working.

“It isn’t that at all.”

“Then what is it?”

She meets his gaze. The crisp lavender button down he wears brings out the green of his eyes and she knows if she was closer she would see the gold ring around his iris. Even with several feet between them she knows just how warm he would feel if she touched him, probably even warmer than she remembers with her rain chilled skin. She knows how he smells. The memory alone is enough to make her heart pound so hard that she is sure he can see her pulse in her throat.

He steps around the decadence-covered table and her calf cramps as she steels herself to not retreat.

“This is my job, Mister Westergaard.”

He comes closer, hands tucked into pockets. She stays, chin lifting.

“I’m aware.”

He stops a few feet in front of her, close enough now that all he would have to do is reach out and suddenly

Her words come out on a gust of breath. “I am not a challenge. This is not some sort of game.”

He cocks his head. “I’m not playing any game.”

She searches his face, warning bells screaming that there must be a lie, but all she finds is that blindingly sincere humanity that scrambles her thoughts.

“I have other events, other clients -”

“So is it a ‘no’”?

She swears he doesn’t move but he feels closer. The light in his eyes shifts and she cannot think. She cannot breathe.

She remembers what Anna said.

This is bigger than what she wants.

A client like Hans Westergaard could establish their company for life - and even if she has disconnected from the length of that concept she knows what it means for others. She knows the firm needs this as impossible and inconceivable as it seems.

“There will be some ground rules.” The fact she keeps the shake out of her voice is a moral victory.

His brow quirks. “You want to set rules for something that isn’t a game? Interesting.”

She feels his humor like a contagious warmth spreading through her chest and nearly chokes at the weight. This was not what she wanted, what she expected from today...

“Any relationship we have will be business only. I cannot take you on as a client if you do not agree to that.”

His wide mouth pulls to the side enough to be just shy of a smile: “Are you implying that I would engage your services for anything other than professional reasons?”

His words sends heat flooding up her neck despite her soggy state.

The same heat she sees in his cunning eyes, the same she knows she will feel if she touches him.

He is trying to fluster her and she knows it.

He is succeeding and he knows it.

She forces her calm: a skill she has mastered over the years.

"I am not implying anything. If we are to work together it is important we both handle ourselves in the appropriate manner."

“Of course. Absolutely.” He smiles, shifting his weight into a casual posture.

She knows she should ask about budget, about the theme, about the twenty five thousand things she clarifies with clients before even thinking about accepting them for their services - but she knows that this point none of that matters. At this point - all that matters is getting him out of her offices so she can think, work, breathe.

So she agrees, “absolutely.”

She takes the lead and extends a hand and he glances at it with a dark twinkle in his eye. He takes it is his and just as she expects his touch burns.

It is all she can do to not catch her breath as they shake on an agreement she can hardly understand.

She releases his hand as soon as she can, letting it sink back to her side as naturally as possible when all she wants is to yank it back and rub her palm on the cool damp fabric of her thigh.

But they need this.

This is something bigger than herself and her own comfort.

She has said ‘no’ to men before, has built those walls she has contrived to protect them from herself, but still those warning bells ring. Anna knows. She knows. This one is different.

But it is only thirty-nine days. What could happen?

The way he smiles at her across the space between them answers that question even if she chooses to ignore it.

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#best laid plans #helsa #kristanna #fanfiction #rapunzel #eugene #tangled #frozen #raven writes stuff

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remedial-wit · 6 years ago

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16/02/19

Femslash February Day 16 - Deanoru

(Slightly distorted) Rapunzel AU

The forest was dark and chilly, despite it being the middle of the afternoon. The trees grew up and up, seemingly endless, the trunks wide enough that maybe if she hollowed them out she could live in one. The branches were wild and overgrown, blocking out the sun and trapping the damp and shadow inside. Every now and then, little patches of sun would manage to spill onto the mossy ground like puddles of hot gold, reminding Karolina that, supposedly, it was summer.

Well, she sighed in resignation, those were enchanted forests for you. Doing everything in its power to appear even more daunting and eerie, make you try to turn back and get lost and go in circles. That was the thing, after ten paces, you weren't supposed to turn back — especially if you'd strayed off the path.

There was nothing to worry about, they were only trees after all, she told herself furiously. She tripped over another tree root and cursed.

She wouldn't be doing this if she weren't so damned stubborn. She could have been at home, comfortable, perhaps reading a good book, or baking some delicious cookies, maybe out and actually enjoying the sunlight.

But her mother had said something about the boys in the village going to rescue a maiden from a tower, and Karolina's father had made some stupid remark about rescuing damsels and how he was glad he didn't have to worry about his daughter going on quests because it wasn't her place. And Karolina just had to be stubborn and stupid and prove him wrong, and had gone up to the Village chief — coincidentally Karolina's other father — to demand the quest for herself and he'd… he'd agreed.

In fact, Jonah had seemed pleased by it, daring her almost, to do it.

And if that hadn't sent warning bells to her brain, at least the woods seemed to be doing their job. Even if it was a bit late.

She hadn't heard a lot about the princess, only that she was a little shy, wore chains around her neck, had incredibly long black hair, and was guarded by a powerful witch.it was not a lot to go on, considering most quests started this way.

She was tired and sweaty, despite the chill, by the time she reached the clearing with the tower. Half her water supply was drained already, and Karolina had long given up on the stupid map Jonah had given her, because she knew the woods would find a way to get her where she was supposed to be, even if sometimes what was not where she wanted to be.

Luckily, things seemed to have worked out in her favour, for once.

Karolina cleared her throat, tried to lower the pitch of her voice as best as she could, and cautiously approached the tower. Hopefully, the witch would be out on a grocery run, or something.

“Fair maiden,” she called and winced. She didn't sound like a muscley, masculine Prince at all. “Fair maiden, Let down your hair!”

It was a few minutes before anyone answered, and Karolina was about to start calling again, because perhaps the princess was sleeping or something.

A head poked out of the window at the very top of the tower. The Princess's midnight hair catching the wind, the collar and chains about her neck glinting in the sun. Carolina held her breath.

“For crying out loud,” spoke the Princess finally. “I'm not interested—”, and then their eyes met and her eyes widened and she paused. “Oh,” she breathed softly. “You're cute.”

And… that had not been the reaction Karolina had been expecting. Her jaw dropped slightly but she quickly righted herself. She had a quest to complete, after all, and people to prove wrong.

Karolina tried for what was her nicest smile and bowed.

“I have come to rescue you from the, erm,” and she glanced around quickly. “From the Witch.”

The Princess laughed. “The witch, huh?” she said, and then smirked and turned away from the window.

Karolina coughed, and tried again. No wonder they said she was shy, she mused to herself, boys could never take the rejection. She took a deep breath.

“Will you let down your hair, please?”

“Depends,” quipped the Princess, sounding very well versed in this conversation, and she probably was.

“On?”

There was no reply for a second, and then Karolina watched the Princess literally leap from the window, tumbling gracefully through the air to land effortlessly on the grass of the clearing. Karolina tried not to gape. Which was difficult.

Maybe she had found the wrong tower?

The Princess was dressed fully in a gauzy black dress, lace and everything, there was a long staff in her hand, glowing faintly; the collar around her neck was not attached to anything, and the chains hung off her loosely too; and her hair, though a little on the long side, was at a relatively normal length.

The Princess — if she was, in fact, the Princess — smiled, teeth showing in an almost threatening manner. Despite herself, Karolina blushed. She was still very pretty, though, the rumours had gotten that right at least.

“What is the name of my would-be rescuer?” asked the Princess, stepping forward. She held herself up with an air of bravado, whether it was true or not, she didn't know, but Karolina couldn't help but marvel slightly at it.

“Karolina Dean,” she said, and gave a little curtsy this time, though she was not wearing a skirt. She smiled. “And yours, fair maiden?”

The Princess wavered slightly, her gaze shifting away to look at the ground and her grip on her staff tightening visibly. “Oh,” she said, a falsely nonchalant tone in her voice. “There are many. Princess, as you said —” and she gave a small, strained smile, “ —or Nico Minoru, or Witch.”

Oh.

Karolina really should have seen that coming, the girl was holding a staff after all and had all but flown from the top of her tower, and —

Yeah, it should have been obvious.

The… the subject of her quest was still looking at her cautiously, awaiting her response. Upon closer inspection, she was trembling, just a little, though Karolina had no doubt she was perfectly capable, and she hadn't realised before how much shorter the girl was to her. It was kind of adorable.

“What would you prefer?” she asked.

The girl bit her lip thoughtfully, and this time when she smiled it seemed genuine. “I like you,” she decided finally. “You can call me Nico.”

[Bonus:

“what's with the long hair thing?”

“Magic, obviously. I didn't think those knights would actually try to climb it. I mean, who does that?”

“and the whole chains and stuff?”

“It's an aesthetic.”]

#femslash february #deanoru #deanoru fic #deanoru fanfiction #deanoru fanfic #mcu #marvel #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #runaways #marvels runaways #runaways fanfic #runaways fic #karolina dean #karolina dean fanfic #nico minoru #nico minoru fanfic #a wild fic appeared

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izaswritings · 6 years ago

Text

Title: it’s just a mild inconvenience

Synopsis: Pro Tip— When you die saving the life of your worst enemy, make absolutely sure there’s no chance of survival. Otherwise, things get awkward. Like really, really awkward.

Personally, Varian would take the death and dying. At least then he doesn’t have to deal with all this “caring” nonsense.

Notes: The response to this story makes me so happy to see!! Thank you so much for all your support! I'm overjoyed to know you guys are excited for this au!! It's going to be a fun ride, ahaha 💖

Once again, many thanks to the amazing @jessucakes for brainstorming this monster of an au with me! It’s getting me through college, ahaha 😂

Warnings for: cursing/swearing (Varian, tsk tsk, watch your language), references to past character death (including references to past impalement), and... that's all, really. Huh. As always though, if there is something you feel I missed, just let me know and I’ll add it on here!

AO3 Link is here!

Chapter One is here!

chapter two— it’s not kindness, it’s ______

Varian doesn’t get very far, regrettably.

It’s Eugene who catches him, mostly because he’s taller and has longer legs and, unlike Varian, is neither in shock nor drugged, and so clearly has the advantage. This is the only reason he wins. The only reason.

“Are you a child or some weird shapeshifting eel creature,” Eugene wheezes, trying desperately to keep a hold on him. He’d caught up to Varian no problem, but Varian takes a demented sort of glee in the knowledge that catching him sure wasn’t easy. Though the commentary is a bit insulting, so just for that, Varian elbows Eugene in the chin with gusto. He doesn’t get free but he does get petty revenge, and really, isn’t that all that matters?

Eugene hauls him back into the infirmary room regardless of Varian’s many efforts. Despite the quick scuffle and enthusiastic measures to escape, Eugene has somehow managed to find a way to hold Varian in such a way that he’s effectively useless. He’s hanging half-way upside down and trapped between Eugene’s side and his arm. It’s ridiculous, uncomfortable, and probably mortifying for the both of them, but Varian can’t kick or punch Eugene at all now, and he suspects darkly that this was the intent.

He scowls at the ground, the blood rushing to his head, and gives another go at squirming out of the hold. Nothing. Varian’s not yet at the point where he considers biting Eugene to be the best course of action, but— well. He’s getting pretty damn close.

“Put me down!”

“Sure, kid,” Eugene says, and the world goes topsy-turvy and then suddenly and painfully soft. Eugene has—he’s dumped Varian face-first on the bed, that jerk! Mattresses hurt!

Varian pushes himself upright and turns to glare at him, rubbing at his nose. Rapunzel is still here—and, damn it, still smiling, hands twisted in a knot before her chest and face cast with a shade of uncertainty, but all in all still disgustingly positive.

Varian can’t look her in the eyes—he’d died, and he’d died saving... why the hell had he—so he glares at Eugene instead, because Eugene is easy, and still despised, and also in general kind of an ass, so there’s no harm in hating him. He jabs one finger at the older man’s face and says, “Let me go. Right now.”

“We can’t do that, Varian,” Rapunzel says, and wow, that’s pretty rude, can’t she see Varian is ignoring her with every fiber of his being? He doesn’t want to look at her, and then she goes and starts talking anyway. “We still don’t know if you’re entirely okay! You were in a coma for three days, and before that, you had just di—”

She stops, voice withering, and all of sudden he can’t look at her for an entirely different reason. His stomach twists into knots, his breaths shortening, chest tight with an echo of searing pain.

“Doctor says bed rest,” Eugene announces in a rush, but he says it so loudly and with such desperate gusto that it sounds more like “DOCTORSAYSBEDREST” and just about sends Varian falling from the bed out of sheer fright. “So, uh, yeah, no can do, that lady scares the shit outta me and I’m not going to be risking her wrath anytime soon, so just—just—” Eugene clears his throat, and for a moment his eyes shift to Rapunzel, something wordless passing between them.

Varian waits, glaring up at them. “Just what?”

“Do… that…?” Eugene offers, and beside him, Varian can hear Rapunzel sigh.

There is a long and awkward pause. Eugene clenches his jaw and then sighs, the tension finally falling from his shoulders. He lifts one hand and rubs it down his face.

“Look, kid… Varian,” he says finally, voice slow and measured. “I know this is… weird. And yeah, I’ll be straight with you, this is goddamn strange. You’re not the only one wanting to jump out a window, though as per usual you’re the only one bonkers enough to actually try and do so—”

“Eugene,” Rapunzel says.

“Right.” He clears his throat. “I get it, okay? You don’t like us, that’s fine. And hey, you’re… actually pretty unlikeable yourself, to be fair—”

“Eugene.”

“BUT,” Eugene says loudly, waving his hand down at Rapunzel. “We don’t, y’know, actually hate you. Or want you to die. Or suffer. Or… any of that awful stuff. Which might be a really weird concept to you, kid, except—” And here Eugene pauses, and Varian can feel his heart sink, “Maybe you do know what I mean, don’t you?”

For a moment Varian cannot respond, any response drowned out under what has been said and what has been implied. You didn’t want her to die. Or suffer.

You don’t actually hate us.

The memory of that spike through his chest is clear, sharp and sudden, and for a second Varian cannot breathe under the weight of it, can taste phantom blood in his throat and almost see that dark earth behind his eyelids. And then the words register, and his anger rises up, so wonderfully familiar he could cry.

“Oh?” Varian says, and he feels cold, now, at last in control of himself. This anger is welcome, so terribly welcome. It drowns out the memory of that dark world, that echo of pleading still in his ears, the questions twisting around his heart and soul. Why did I—

“What makes you think that?” Varian says, and he smiles. The tide has shifted, and it has shifted in his favor. At last he knows what to say. “What, did you just forget the past, oh, year of me trying my best to brutally murder you all? Do you think one good deed will change that? You think this changes anything?”

Eugene falters, and Varian’s smile grows. The relief he feels at this is startling. Nothing has changed, not really. This is merely a bump in the road, an obstacle of little importance. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

“Doesn’t it?”

Rapunzel’s voice is soft. Quiet, yet firm, and at the sound of it, Varian falters. He forgets himself, he looks at her, and he sees her red-rimmed eyes and her hands clasped before her, back straight and head tilted. The memory arises without warning, overlaying on the present, the image of her silhouette against the dark sky, the clearest memory besides the pain—

Sour bile rises in his throat, and Varian tears his eyes away.

“It does matter,” Rapunzel says, a note of finality in this statement. “It matters to me, Varian, even if it doesn’t to you.”

He sneers at the bed covers. “Trying to redeem a villain, Princess?”

“I’m trying to repay a kindness.”

Something in him withers at that, at that wording, at that quiet reproach in her voice. Varian shivers, grasping for that former confidence, but it had faltered at her voice and now has slipped fully from his grasp.

He ignores it, all of it, because what else is he supposed to do, and how is he supposed to respond to that? Damn them, this is exactly what he didn’t want to happen!

Rapunzel wants a happily ever after; screw that, Varian thinks. She wants him to play along, to pretend everything’s okay—well it’s not, and he refuses, and she’s just going to have to live with it.

He’s not sure what they’re expecting—Tears? Heartfelt apologies? Declaration of feelings? —but they aren’t fucking getting it, oh no, not from him. Instead Varian lifts his hand and jabs a finger at her, now, a sharp point of accusation that breaks her calm and makes her blink back. The tension breaks with her stare. All at once they are again on even ground and oh, god, thank god.

“This is shitty repayment!” Varian announces loudly, something desperate in the words, and takes delightful pleasure in how her nose scrunches at the swear. Ha-ha. “Repayment is money! Me being left alone! Revenge or something! This?” He waves a hand at the room, confidence growing, the desperate edge giving way to offense. “This is just kidnapping! What the hell!”

“To be fair,” Eugene says, “The alternative was, y’know, death, so I’m not entirely sure why you’re complaining—”

Varian swings that finger onto him, nearly jabbing Eugene in the eye. “Don’t you start, Fitzherbert!”

Eugene blinks, then snorts through his nose, crossing his arms. “Ooh, fancy, last-name basis now. How long did it take you to learn how to pronounce that correctly?”

Varian splutters. “That is not the point! The point is—”

“Also, considering your usual, y’know, plots, isn’t kidnapping actually appropriately ironic? Food for thought!”

“It’s still kidnapping!” Varian snaps, and jumps up off the bed onto his feet so that he can glare at them properly. It doesn’t help. They still tower over him. “It’s only okay when I do it!”

“Okay, now that’s just plain—”

“Guys, please,” Rapunzel starts, and Eugene turns to argue with her, and Varian takes delightful pleasure in yelling at them both. For a little while the world is back to as it should be—blessedly antagonistic and chaotic in equal measure, and the memory of his death and what it meant, is, if only for a little while, thankfully far away.

They’re about midway in a shouting match when the doctor finally hears them. She doesn’t appreciate the noise, if her exasperated threats are any indication. She sweeps in with a pile of fabric and glass in her arms and just about drops it all when she sees them, dark skin going even darker with anger and eyes going wide when she takes in the events.

“Are you lot yelling at my patient!?” she says, with a voice full of ominous thunder, and everything after that is a whirlwind. It is, honestly, a tiny bit scary: the doctor sweeps in and wrestles Varian back under the covers and the Princess and Eugene out the door in about ten seconds flat. Between one blink and the next—gone. One minute Varian’s shouting at the top of his lungs, the next he’s flat on his back and the room is near devoid of people.

Seriously, what?

Well, Varian thinks. It could probably be worse. At least he doesn’t have to listen to Rapunzel’s prattle anymore, or Eugene—thank god, really, because his neck is starting to hurt from staring up and shouting at them for so long. Seriously, why are they so tall? That kind of height should be illegal, or something. It completely throws a wrench into proper revenge ranting.

The doctor, unlike Eugene and Rapunzel, is blessedly silent in comparison. She barely even looks at him—not directly, anyway, though she eyes him every once in a while, pinning him with a short stare and then looking away. She does that… a lot, actually. It’s kind of freaking him out a bit.

Okay, maybe its freaking Varian out a lot. It’s just… little things. She keeps eyeing him like she’s faced with a puzzle she doesn’t get, which. Okay, granted, could be explained by him dying and then coming back (thanks for fucking nothing, Rapunzel, you useless princess, you’ve brought him back and made him a circus sideshow freak in the process). But then.

In the weirdest move doctor lady has pulled yet, she puts an old (and way oversized, which means it’s Eugene’s, and at some point Varian is going to have to burn it on principle) shirt on the dresser before leaving. Which, whatever, except as she does it, she pins him with another unreadable stare and gives a really cryptic statement of “You’ll be wanting this dearly, child, the collar will help hide your neck and arms.” And then she just… leaves without a backward glance. Boom. End of conversation.

Like. The hell, lady?

Still, weird-ass doctors aside, Varian is finally—finally! —on his own. He waits a good few seconds, listening intently, and the moment he is certain that no one else is coming back, he slips out of bed without any hesitation. He pads his way silently across the room, and then he eases open the door with a careful creak, ready to duck out. He just needs to see where the guards are at, and then—

Varian stops. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then draws away, shutting the door very softly. He stares at his hand for a long moment. He pursues his lips. He squints at the air.

“No,” he decides, and opens the door again. The same image. He closes it. Opens it. Closes it. Absolutely no change. The scientific method has failed him.

Varian throws open the door completely, letting it bang against the wall, arms outstretched, ears straining. Nothing. Empty hallway, silent house, not a single goddamn guard in sight.

He stares at the empty hallway for a long moment. “What the fuck,” Varian whispers, and grabs the door handle, slamming it shut. He waits. No footsteps, no yelling… “Whaaaaaat the ever-loving—”

Okay. So. Apparently the whole… dying thing must have really addled some brains here, because Varian is starting to think they haven’t even posted a damn guard. Which is—it can’t be. He’s almost offended. Why on earth would someone forget that? He could just—walk out! Right now! They’d never even know!

Do they probably think he’s in too much shock to escape or something? Or too hurt, and well, he is probably a little drugged— no, still no excuse. That’s it. Varian is offended. He’s spent a whole year building up his reputation as a someone to take seriously, and apparently one tiny, practically inconsequential mishap has sent it all spiraling down the drain.

It’s goddamn typical, is what is it. It’s also terribly insulting.

Just for that, Varian jumps out the window. No guards outside his door? Screw them; Varian’s sneaking out properly regardless, and he’s jumping out as many windows as he can along the way. They must have at least guarded the perimeter. He’ll jump out, scare of few metal-heads, maybe trip a few guys. That’ll teach them to not post a guard at the door, the inconsiderate jerks.

Still, the whole thing leaves him jittery and uncertain. It’s not until Varian’s jumped out, oversized shirt pulled over his head, bereft of any of his possessions, that he realizes he— really didn’t think this through. No Rudiger, no alchemy, none of his things…

But apparently, that doesn’t matter. Because even outside, there are still no guards, either. Not even a stranger. Varian looks around the side of the infirmary house with a growing sense of unease. No one. Nothing. They’d just— left him. Alone. Completely alone. What the hell is going on? Are they stupid? Did someone’s head get knocked the wrong way when he wasn’t looking?

His mind, without warning, strays back to Rapunzel. Maybe she just trusted me not to leave.

Which is—weird. So weird. What is Varian even supposed to think about that?

He lingers at the bottom of the window, struck with sudden uncertainty, a strange anxiety. No guards at the door, or the windows, when they should know—

But hell, what’s he supposed to do, climb back up? No, no way. Varian is being ridiculous. Why is he even hesitating? Who cares if they decided to trust him? Who cares if he breaks that trust? He’s not their friend, and nothing has changed, and Rapunzel is just going to have to get that through her remarkably thick skull.

Varian hisses through his teeth and marches away. He’s not looking back at the window. He’s NOT looking back at the window. Nope, nope, nope.

He looks back at the window.

…Not even a single guard. Not around the house, or side-streets, or… anything. Just a house, the doctor, and him.

“What the fuck,” Varian says. No answer. “Screw you, Raps.” Still no answer. Someone’s got to be hiding behind a corner somewhere, he refuses to believe they’ve left him unsupervised. They just… no, no. Guard around the corner. There has to be. “I’m leaving, you can’t stop me, ha-ha!”

Nothing.

Varian clenches his jaw and turns his back deliberately, inwardly furious with himself. Okay, no guard, so— Ugh. What now?

He’s acting so stupid. It’s the painkillers; it’s gotta be. He’s just... moody, is all. Teenagers are supposed to be moody, right? It’s a puberty thing! He’ll wake up tomorrow morning faaaaaar away from here, and everything will be as it should.

The more he thinks about it, the more sense it makes. Dying, puberty, drugs— terrible mix. Varian’s a scientist, he should know. Everything’s absolutely a-okay, it’s just his dumb teen mind is being… dumb, again. Yeah. Yeah, that’s it!

Varian lifts his head, cheered by this idea. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for all of this, he’s just got to be in a better frame of mind to see it. All the more reason to leave!

The town is small and circular, and in the distance, growing closer, he can see a ring of trees. Varian fast-walks down the roads, eying every alleyway suspiciously. He’s so close to the edge now, and there’s not even a town border wall or anything. The moment he gets into the woods, he’s home free.

He’s so close he can almost taste it. Spirits bolstered, Varian speeds up, walking fast, and blindly turns a corner just in time to hear, “…doing all right?”

Varian halts in his tracks, mind going blank. No. There’s no way. Not even his luck can be that bad—

Doctor lady’s raspy voice says, “Princess, I’ve told you three times, he’s perfectly fine,” and promptly shatters all of Varian’s hopes and dreams into dust.

Well, Varian thinks. So it is them. Shit.

“Oh,” Rapunzel says— Rapunzel! Out here! Practically five feet away! Why!? — “I know, I’m sorry, I just… those bandages, I just thought…”

Varian flings himself against a nearby wall, pressing a palm against his mouth to quiet himself. He is so close. He can see the edge of the forest just a few blocks away, but if he moves they’ll hear him and—damn it, damn it, damn it!

“As I said, your tear healed him. But…”

“But? What does that mean? There’s shouldn’t be a but!”

Doctor lady sighs loudly. “But,” she says, “the rocks created… some weird complications. The healing perhaps wasn’t as—thorough as you are used to. It’s nothing bad, but the bandages were necessary.”

Varian freezes, panic stalled and mind caught on the conversation. That was… even more cryptic than the shirt comment. He picks at the collar of his borrowed top, suddenly hyper-aware of the bandages wrapped around his neck and the whole length of his torso. He feels fine. He feels pretty great, actually, so—why is he covered in bandages?

“I—not as thorough? What do you mean? Is, is there still danger?”

“It is nothing you need to worry about.” Footsteps echo in his ears, and Varian jumps, drawing back—but they are moving away, not towards him. He can hear them only distantly now, the doctor lady saying, “Worry not; I know what I’m doing, even with all this magical involvement…”

Their voices fade. Varian waits, and when he peeks out from behind the wall, there is no one outside but him.

He rubs absently at his chest, feeling the bump of the bandages through the borrowed shirt. Complications? What in the world does that mean?

His head hurts. The night air is cold, and the conversation has left him rattled. He’s too tired to think about this right now, he can barely think straight as it is. Varian scrunches his hair in his hand and presses his palms against his eyes, bending at the knees, a strangled cry of frustration at his throat.

He bites it back just barely, rocking on his heels and then standing so fast it makes his muddled mind spin like a child’s toy. Varian steadies himself against the wall and sucks in a deep breath.

…It doesn’t matter, Varian decides finally. It’s not important. Why, oh why does he keep getting stuck on these things? He’s free, he’s out! The painkillers and trauma can take a goddamn hike. Varian is getting out of here, and in the morning, everything will be just fine and it’ll be like nothing happened.

Take that, Rapunzel. This whole thing has been way more trouble than it’s worth. See if he ever saves her again! Hah!

Varian casts one last look at the infirmary room and that empty window, then turns away. Good-bye, silly princess; good-bye, unguarded window; good-bye, creepy cryptic doctor lady and unfamiliar town! Varian is out and he’s unsupervised, and that’s always meant good things for him and terrible things for everyone else. Freedom at last!

He doesn’t quite skip from the village, but it’s a near thing. And really, why shouldn’t he? He’s free and he’s alive, awkward conversations avoided successfully. He certainly won’t be seeing any of them anytime soon, that’s for sure, not if Varian has any say in the matter.

Varian is heading home. The ordeal is finally over.

The ordeal is not over.

The ordeal, Varian is finding, is not even close to being over. The ordeal has gained a consciousness and a downright awful sense of humor and is currently sitting up in the trees and cackling like a deranged manic child at his misfortune.

“Ooooooh, sure,” Varian mumbles, kicking a spare stone across the path. It’s been hours since he left the village behind, and the moon is high in the sky. “Eugene gets to die and come back, and he gets a castle, he gets a celebration…”

Varian is lost.

“He gets a warm bed and food… ugh, food… hot drinks… cocoa…. Warm blankets...”

Varian is lost in a dark forest in the middle of autumn, with no food, no jacket, and no idea of where he’s going.

In hindsight, leaving the infirmary room was—probably a bad idea. At least it was warm there.

“But me? Ohhhhh nooooo, I die, and I get manhandled, weird shows of dumb trust, creepy doctor ladies and Eugene’s old shirt… do I get cocoa? Do I get a castle?”

High above him, the moon sits heavy and bright in the sky, shining through the towering pines. The ground is obscured to his eyes, shadows long and all-consuming. Varian has no idea where he is or where he’s going. He isn’t even following a path.

“Oh no, no cocoa for me! No castle! Me, I get annoying princesses, I get dumb shadowy paths in the middle of freaking nowhere, I get lost—”

His foot catches on a root, and Varian goes plummeting head over heels. He hits his side and then pitches down a hill, because of course he does, and then he keeps on tumbling down that, because why not, and then at last he manages to roll up on his feet just in time face-plant an icy stream, because clearly all that other stuff was letting him off way too lightly.

Thanks, Universe.

Varian comes up spitting water, coughing hard, rubbing at his new bruises and stumbling back up on his feet. “This is—this is BLATANT FAVORITISM,” he bellows at the sky, breathless with exhaustion, “and you should be ashamed!”

No answer. Varian stomps his foot, slips on some algae, and falls backward into the stream with a loud splash and high-pitched scream.

The water is even colder the second time around. Of-fucking-course it is.

Varian sits there in the stream, staring up contemplatively at the night sky, and finally closes his eyes with a whine. He slams back his head into the water, icy droplets splashing his face, the stream brushing through his hair. It is so cold.

Seriously, just—why him? Why is it always him?

He sits there until the cold of the stream starts making him shiver, and slowly climbs up to his feet, wisely keeping his mouth shut this time around. Okay. Stay calm, Varian. Take stock of the situation. Surely there’s something good in all this!

He’s wet, cold, lost… dirty and muddy… he’s pretty sure the fall back there bruised his arm, and that hurt, damn it… he’s standing in a stream…

Tired though he is, this thought makes his mind perk up. Stream, water, running water—people. People, houses, they tend to cluster around water, which means—

Ha-ha, makeshift path. No more stumbling blinding around the woods for him!

“There’s a bright side to everything,” Varian mumbles, except saying it aloud makes him think of Rapunzel, and that’s… hmmm. No no, less positive, he’s got to think less like her— “Except it’s also cold, and rocky, and I fell in it…”

There, Varian thinks, marching up the streamside. Now he feels much better.

He follows the path of the stream for all the rest of night. It leads him up a few hills, and gets him turned around once it splits at a crossing, but at long last—shelter.

It’s not much, but it is better than the woods, at least. A rugged and abandoned house—a hunter’s cabin—resting high and by the streamside. The windows are broken and there’s no door, but it’s shelter, and Varian stumbles through the threshold feeling so relieved he almost cries.

No cocoa—damn it—but there is a bed, and drawers, and mirror… A wardrobe, tools, even some dried meats and a tiny jar of honey. Food, at last, and Varian settles on the floor with his findings, feeling immeasurably pleased with this success.

“Take that, Princess,” he mutters, chewing furiously at the jerky. It tastes stale and dry in his mouth, and he makes a face as he gnaws at it. Ugh, gross, dust flavor. “I’m doing just fine. Trying to repay a kindness, blah blah blah, it’s kidnapping and we both know it… hah! Whatever. I’ve got food, honey, clothes; I’m doing fantastic! See if I ever come back now, you bast—”

Varian stops. He takes the jerky out of his mouth, because it is honestly pretty disgusting, and also it gives him something to stare at. He looks at it for a long moment, eyes gazing past and through it into nothing. His mind is going a million miles an hour. His fingers clench and unclench as he thinks.

“Wait,” Varian says.

He is in a cabin in the woods. He has food, shelter, clothes… food, shelter, clothes… Something is missing, something’s not right, and for the life of him Varian just can’t figure out what it is—

At long last, the dots connect. The jerky slips out of Varian’s numb fingers. His eyes have gone wide, his mouth slack.

“Oh,” he says weakly. “Oh, no, no, no, no—”

The cabin in the woods. The empty cabin in the woods. The empty cabin, the quiet nature and the nighttime and Varian—just Varian.

“Rudiger,” Varian breathes, and then, “Oh, shit, Rudiger!”

#varian #tts #tangled the series #rta #rapunzel’s tangled adventure #varian the alchemist #varian tts #rapunzel #eugene fitzherbert #tangled #rapunzel tangled #iza fanfic #mild inconvenience au

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ravenwritesstuff · 5 years ago

Text

Best Laid Plans (5/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: Take it and go.

[ Part one ] [ Part two ] [ Part Three ] [ Part Four ]

Her alarm goes off after three hours of sleep and she can hardly move enough to turn it off. Sun peeks in around the edges of her curtains. She needs to get up and go about her day and force herself back into a regular rhythm. Normally she is quite good at it but this time it seems impossible.

It isn't that she is unused to this routine. After a thirty hour event she often takes a long nap to reset her mind and push her through to the next night and a normal bedtime. While never easy she is typically able to roll out of bed in her studio apartment and get started on whatever task is at the top of her list, but today….

She swings her feet over the edge and sits up, head swimming, and she can feel every inch of her body. She knows if she stretches her spine will snap, muscles releasing, but she can hardly find the energy. She tilts her head side to side, neck cracking, and there is laundry to do. There is laundry to do and errands to run. There is laundry to do and errands to run and things to return and clean and this is her only day off this week and she has so much to catch up on and -

She can feel it.

When she is more awake, more lucid, she can convince herself that she is making things up. She tells herself that whatever symptoms she thinks she is having is just stress, exhaustion, dehydration…. But here in that funny place between being asleep and awake she knows.

This is not just something she is imagining.

She bends over her bedside trashcan and vomits.

When she is done she wipes her eyes and mouth with a tissue. She takes a deep, shuddering breath.

She has today.

She will take it.

Sleep is for the dead, and she isn't there yet.

She stands up and starts her day by cleaning her mess.

….

Dinner that night is at Anna and Kristoff's modest home. The team gathers around takeout and discusses the event, what went well, what didn't, where improvements can be made, and how they can grow. It is informal, less structured than Elsa likes, but she knows that the community of her team is just as important as the efficiency especially considering this is supposed to be their day off. Also none of them brought up Hans Westergaard for which she would be eternally grateful.

They are past the business point of the evening now. Elsa is in the kitchen putting dishes in the washer as Anna and Kristoff split the leftovers into plastic containers for everyone to take home. Rapunzel and Eugene always take home whatever anyone else doesn't want because Rapunzel will eat anything. The rest goes in the Bjorgman’s fridge to share later. Anna always saves aside a portion of something sweet for her sister, but she doesn’t need much.

She isn’t ever that hungry. Even less so recently.

By the time it is all said and done it is just the three of them: Anna, Kristoff, and Elsa.

She remembers when Kristoff had first come on the scene, how she had been unimpressed but quickly won over by his devotion to her sister. Now she can hardly picture Anna without Kristoff by her side and for that she is thankful. Anna thrives when she has someone steady beside her. Kristoff is definitely steady.

They stand around the kitchen island cleaning up the last of the mess and Kristoff grabs a leash and harness off a hook on a nearby wall.

“You ladies seem to have this under control. Sven needs his walk.” He clasps the contraption onto a mutt big enough to be a horse. “We’ll be back soon.”

He is off before there can be any discussion and Elsa gets that tingling feeling down her spine that this was not a spontaneous idea on Kristoff's part, no matter how much he loves the gigantic Sven. She pauses wiping the counter to see Anna all too diligently avoiding her gaze.

This has happened enough that Elsa knows it is best to just get to the point. It is almost always the same point anyway, but this time she does not feel as prepared.

“All right. What is it?” She pops a hip and lands her hand upon it.

“What is what?” Anna straightens a towel on the oven handle for the thirtieth time.

“Whatever it is you aren't saying. That’s what.” Elsa steels herself, ready to deflect any foolish accusation Anna might throw her way - especially if it had to do with one particular groomsman.

Anna bites her lip, still not meeting her sister's eyes, and Elsa knows now what is coming. She wishes she hadn’t asked, but now:

“It's happening. Isn't it?”

Anna’s voice is small, as if she can hide the question while asking, but it hits Elsa like a freight train. She remembers the look on Anna's face after they had changed yesterday, remembers the look in her eyes as she had tested the waters of this conversation. How long has she suspected…?

Elsa doesn't want to lie but she is also not ready to admit the truth. Anna has bared her fair share of Elsa’s troubles. Elsa does not want to burden her with more than she needs to carry now.

“Anna. If there was something to know - you will be the first to know it.”

Anna looks at her then, blue eyes sharp and clear. “What are your symptoms?”

She thinks of the headaches, the vomit this morning, and tells a bald-faced lie: “I’m not having any.”

Anna's eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

“It is my body. I am pretty sure I would know. This isn't exactly my first go at this.”

“Yeah, but… this time is different."

Elsa sighs. Her sister sound so bleak and she supposed she understands. The situation is grim at best, but it is all she has known. It is all she will ever know. She supposes it is all Anna will ever know of her sister as well. That thought stings. She will do her best to protect Anna as long as she can.

"What was it that mom said? Today has enough trouble. Don’t take tomorrow’s.”

Anna doesn’t smile, not distracted by Elsa’s attempt.

"But you will tell me, right? You will tell me when it is today?”

Elsa is good at lying. She has to be, but Anna is the hardest one to fool. She puts on her best poker face and meets her sister's eyes.

"I will tell you."

Anna smiles.

Elsa has to decide if it if fake or not and suddenly the tables are turned.

They don’t mention it again when Anna drives her home.

….

She sleeps through her alarm.

In all of her adult life that has only ever happened once and it was from a power failure and the alarm itself didn’t go off.

She pops up ten minutes after she is already supposed to be at work to her phone buzzing with text messages from Anna, Rapunzel, Kristoff, Eugene….

And they probably all think she is dead. She can’t blame them, but she also doesn’t have a single second to waste in replying to their messages.

She also hardly has time to register that today, as opposed to yesterday, she feels fine. She has no nausea, no headache - nothing.

Her symptoms could have just been fatigue and stress from the wedding. There is no way to know for sure, but she really doesn’t have time to think about it.

The days that actually count against her are so far and few between at this point that she just moves forward. Elsa does not like dramatics and she will not indulge in them.

The weather, however, has a different idea.

The world outside her window is a deluge. Everything outside of her window is gray and bleak, but that happens. She has a plan for it. Her umbrella sits in its proper place by her door in its own small stand. She will be fine.

There is no time for breakfast which is fine because she usually skips it anyway. She grabs a granola bar just in case and will get her coffee at the office.

She does her hair and makeup in a flurry (a low braided bun with just enough mascara and blush to pop her features) because there are no meetings today (which is good because if she was late to a meeting with a client - she shudders). All she has to do today is show up and answer questions (hopefully through email) but she would deal with it either way. She opts for a shapeless navy blue dress that hits just below her knee to combat dealing with a wet hem all day and secures her locket in place around her neck.

The beauty of her job and living space is that it is only three blocks from each other.

She always walks.

No matter the weather.

But right now, when she is running late, she sure wishes it was only one block. Or maybe she could convert her office to her bedroom. She is there enough.

She puts on her trusty rain boots as thunder crashes outside.

It will be a soggy walk but she has done it before. She will do it again and again and again for as long as she is able.

When she isn’t so rushed she feels lucky to be able to walk to work since she cannot drive. Whenever she needs to meet a client she catches a cab or (depending on the client) orders a car service. More often than not Anna picks her up and takes her where they need to go. It keeps things simple. She likes the predictability of it all, the reliability. It makes everything else that much more manageable.

She grabs her purse and stuffs a pair of sensible flats in to change into once she reaches the office. Then with her lunchbox and umbrella in tow she dashes out into the hallway. When she gets outside she pops up her black umbrella and starts down the sidewalk at as brisk a pace as her boots will allow.

It is gusty. She hadn’t realized, but about half way in to her walk a strong swoop of wind catches her umbrella and pulls. Elsa does her best to fight it while juggling her purse and lunch and trying to down a granola bar and respond to the distressed texts and calls to let them know she is on her way but it is a losing battle.

The umbrella flips inside out just as the rain picks up from torrential to basically a waterfall. It takes all of five seconds before she is soaked to the bone. Unfortunately it takes about ten seconds to fix her traitorous umbrella so by the time she gets herself sorted it is rather a moot point.

If she wasn't already nearly half an hour late she would turn back around and change, but she will just have to make due at this point. From the outpouring of texts from her family and colleagues she does not have time to do anything but show up.

So with rain dripping down her nose, pooling in her boots, and making her shift dress cling to her skin she finally makes it to the steps of E&A Events. It is a modest brick building that shares a foyer with several other local businesses. In the heart of the city it is a sleek mix of chrome and brick that has been arranged in a way that is both modern and welcoming. She bee lines to the frosted glass door with their logo etched into it and slogs inside soaked and humiliated.

She is met by a frantic, yet enthusiastic, Rapunzel.

“Elsa! Hi! Let me take your umbrella.” The springy brunette grabs the handle right from Elsa’s hand. Elsa blinks - stunned. Even for Rapunzel this greeting is over the top.

She bends to pull off her water-logged boots as Rapunzel shakes her traitorous umbrella onto the hardwood entry hall floor.

“Pascal’s gonna be living in this hall mopping up messes if this rain doesn’t stop.” Rapunzel laughed. “It’s a miracle Mister Westergaard didn’t slip and crack his head open the second he came in. You didn’t update the calendar so I didn’t know he was coming and -”

Elsa nearly loses her balance as she pulls off her second boot, the last shred of her dignity saved only by the thought that there are thirteen possible opportunities for who it could be other than the one she dreads the most.

“Mister Westergaard?” Her stomach flips back and forth, but she manages to keep her tone even. “He was here?”

Rapunzel rolled her eyes. “Not was. Is here. What? Did you forget about your appointment?”

Elsa stares at Rapunzel for a long moment, mind not computing what she is being told. Surely Rapunzel is not telling her that Hans Westergaard is there, in their office, at that very moment except the look on Rapunzel’s face says that is exactly what is being said. Elsa almost runs back out in the rain, but instead she rolls back her shoulders and places her boots neatly by the door. No one needs to know how fast her mind is racing beneath her professional exterior.

“I must have gotten my days mixed up.” She buys herself a bit of time as she presses a soaked tendril behind one ear. “Has he been waiting long?”

Rapunzel looks at her watch. “Twenty two minutes.”

Elsa groans inwardly. “Who is with him?”

“Well it was me and Eugene - but then Anna and Kristoff got here and they took over. Hans is really insistent about talking to you specifically.”

And although Elsa has never breathed a word about anything that happened that night to anyone - not even Anna - she knows that everyone knows at least the bare bones of the situation. Her cheeks heat.

If she had ever suspected he actually would show up at her office she never would have -

“I need to talk to Anna.”

“But she’s with -”

“Yes. I know.” Elsa cuts in. “Could you please go in and tell her she has an urgent call that she needs to take in private?”

A wash of understanding floods Rapunzel’s face. She nods, razored bob slashing across her cheeks at the motion.

“Yes. Yeah. Okay. Got it.” She puts Elsa’s traitorous umbrella in the stand and gives her a thumbs up. “I got this.”

Elsa forces a smile, too distracted to even consider mustering a real one, and watches as Rapunzel goes to the wide frosted double doors that lead to the client meeting room. She tucks herself into the shadowed corner as Rapunzel goes in and waits there until she and Anna return a moment later.

“There you are! I’ve been texting you!” Anna says as she reaches out to hug Elsa but stops when she touches her shoulders. “And you’re soaked. What happened?”

“It’s been a long morning.”

“It’s only 9:30.”

“Still.” She does not need to say more. Elsa knows Anna understands in the way she does not press the matter.

Instead she skips forward. “Hans Westergaard is here.”

“So Rapunzel said.” She keeps her voice even “What does he want?”

“Well…” Anna spreads her hands in front of herself. “I don’t really know? An event of some kind to be sure, but he is not exactly forthcoming. He says he wants to talk to you about it first.”

Elsa’s mind goes a thousand directions.

“But - I don't have a vision board.” She can hardly think over the pounding of her heart. “I - I haven’t had time to put together an intake package and what about the Clemmons wedding? I don’t know how we could possibly take on another project when - he has to go. There is just no way - ”

Anna catches Elsa’s emphatic hands in her and cuts her off with a worried stare.

“Okay. Slow down. Elsa - what exactly is going on here?”

Elsa feels her defenses rising in the midst of her unprofessional behavior. “I just think we should think twice before even considering taking this on. It could be beyond our capability, our scope. And if we can’t meet and exceed expectations then think of the liabilities.”

Anna’s face scrunches. “I think what you meant to say there is that this is the break we have been working for! It could mean the biggest leap of clientele in the history of our lives with one event. Elsa - this is the Westergaards. We may as well plan something for the governor - or the president - but they don’t have nearly as much money.”

Elsa knows Anna is right but she cannot stop the riot rhythm of her heart at the idea of spending any kind of extended period of time working with Hans Westergaard. She thinks of all the meetings, the phone calls, the shopping trips and vendor consults that they would complete side-by-side as she did with all her clients. She thinks of the intimacy that accompanies her role guiding people through the planning process and seeing their tastes and preferences under a magnifying glass. She cannot do that with him. She will not. It will break her.

“Anna.” Her head throbs. She struggles for a way to put what she feels into words without saying too much. “This just isn’t going to work.”

Anna releases Elsa’s hands to grip her shoulders, fabric squelching under her fingers, face softening as she picks up on her sister’s distress. “You’ve gotta help me understand this one sis. Did something happen at the wedding that you aren’t telling me?”

Elsa is in a corner and she knows it. If there is even a chance of getting Anna in that corner with her she is going to have to come clean. She looks down and presses clenched fists to her eyes.

“He asked me out.”

Anna is quiet for a long moment and Elsa is not sure if she heard her, but she will be damned if she repeats herself.

Then, tentatively: “You have been asked out before…?”

Anna phrases it as a question even though she knows the answer. Elsa has been asked out, but it had been a non-issue. She had never had difficulty turning away the attention of men who were often all too happy to move on to the next thing that caught their eye when they realized she was not worth the effort. Never, however, had she been so relentlessly pursued by someone she finds so frustrating and attractive in equal measure. Never has it come at such an inopportune time.

“Not like this.” Elsa replies.

“Oh - oh - !” This time Anna is all too quick to respond and Elsa rips her hands from her eyes and glares at her sister.

“No. Don’t.” She will not have her weakness spoken aloud.

“But Elsa -”

“Stop.”

“Did you say ‘yes’?”

“Anna.”

“Oh crap - you did. Didn’t you? Or you didn’t but you wanted to?”

“What I don’t want to do is talk about it.”

“Elsa.”

“Anna.”

“Elsa. This is Hans Westergaard. Do I need to remind you again what that means?” Anna’s eyebrow quirks.

“I know what it means.”

Anna purses her lips. “Look. I’m going to be you for a second, because I think you need it and I don’t want to seem mean but you’re talking crazy.”

Anna pauses for a second to gather her thoughts, takes a deep breath, and then launches her attack.

“We need this, Elsa. Everyone at E&A Events needs this to happen so you are going to have to suck it up and put on your big girl pants because we need this. Not you, we. This company is more than you and we need you to not screw this one up, okay? We need you to be calm and collected and professional and to do this event no matter how much it twists your personal panties, okay?”

Elsa blinks, mascara smearing into her eyes and stinging but that burn is nothing compared to Anna’s words. She is normally the rational one, her business sense always winning out, and a taste of her own medicine is bitter. Anna is right. If Elsa truly wants to set up E&A Events for long lasting success then she has to approach this the same as she would any other client.

Elsa takes a shaky breath.

Anna rubs the clammy skin on Elsa’s arms, as close to a hug as they can get with Elsa soaked the way she is.

“Remember when we started this business you said you wanted to live a normal life as long as you were able?”

It is an odd question, one Elsa had not anticipated, and she frowns. There had been so many discussions over the years. Each one had hinged on the fact that Elsa was not like the rest of them. Each one had tried to navigate the careful balance of the inevitable and the ignoring of it. The application of these conversations and plans however had never made her heart pound in her chest like she had just sprinted a mile.

Elsa shakes her head.

“You’re right,” she holds her hands up in surrender. “You know you’re right. Of course you’re right. Mister Westergaard is just like any other client.”

Anna casts her sister a knowing look. “That is not what I meant and you know it.”

Except Elsa didn’t. She blinks, wide eyed and confused.

“Elsa. If you want to date the guy, just date him. Dating doesn’t have to mean getting attached. It can just be fun. That is what normal people do. Normal people have fun.” She plants her hands on her hips. “Plus he is loaded so you know he can probably take you on some pretty amazing dates.”

Elsa’s defences fly up. “Not going to happen.”

“But you know it would be okay if it did.” Anna goes soft in almost perfect opposition to Elsa’s rigidity. “All I’m saying is we all only get one shot at this life thing. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow or Kristoff could get struck by lightning. I get that you are trying to protect yourself and whoever else might come along but don’t you think that maybe you’re just hurting yourself more by not even trying?”

The words hit Elsa like a fist to the chest.

She is absolutely dizzy with them.

Of all the ways she thought this Monday would go.

She bears down.

“We’re doing this.”

She pushes past a surprised Anna and heads to the doors to where Hans Westergaard is waiting. If he is going to lay down a challenge she will be damned if she shrinks down from it.

She will meet him just as she is, streaming mascara, skin soaked dress hot mess, and she will not back down.

She cannot.

She pushes past her sister towards those ominous frosted doors knowing that she looks a mess and accepting every bit of it. There may have been objections, but with the way Anna put it she knows that this is something she must face.

This isn’t about dating or a relationship.

This isn’t about love.

Hans Westergaard has the nerve to come to into her territory then it can only be one outcome for this.

This is war.

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#Helsa #Frozen #Hans #Elsa #Kristoff #Anna #Kristanna #Modern AU #Raven Writes Stuff

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