#truly friends i am SO sorry this round of ficlets is going so slowly

[theladyragnell]

Nervous embarrassment around them for Eponine and Cosette?

Éponine doesn’t rest any part of her identity on being cool. She takes a little pride, maybe, in the way Gavroche still seems to think she is even at the age when his guardian absolutely should not be cool, or in the way Marius calls her a badass and actually seems to mean it, but it doesn’t really matter because it’s not really true, or something she does on purpose. It’s all just bluster, she’s always known that, all her raised eyebrows and pointed silences, but people read it like she’s unbothered and too cool to acknowledge all the shit she has to deal with.

It’s still disconcerting, though, the way it all goes away the second she’s around Cosette.

Cosette, who looks like she should be a fucking TikTok influencer, too pretty to be real, but who’s too genuine to ever pull that off. Who volunteers, who bakes cookies and shares them around like she’s anxious to please her new friends, who ducks out of evening gatherings to call her father and wish him goodnight like it’s something she wants to do and not a weird obligation. Anything Éponine is, she’s pretty much the opposite, and with the history between them, she shouldn’t give Éponine the time of day, but she still does. One week of awkwardness when Marius introduced them and then she was fine, sought Éponine out to clear the air, and now Éponine gets cookies and offers to babysit and Cosette sitting next to her on the rare occasion she makes a meeting or a party.

And Éponine is completely unable to deal with any of it. Maybe it’s the guilt, from being the favored child when Cosette wasn’t. Maybe it’s that Cosette won’t let her apologize without getting this look on her face like she wants to say sorry too. Whatever it is, it glues Éponine’s tongue to the roof of her mouth whenever she tries talking to her.

“She is gorgeous,” says Marius when she complains, with the easy unself-consciousness of a man who pined over Cosette for a solid three months before Cosette apologetically told him she’s gay, another thing Éponine tries not to think about too closely. “So maybe that’s why you have trouble talking to her?”

“I don’t get like that with people I like,” says Éponine, to a guy who never once noticed how much she wanted him until her and Grantaire’s sadsack crush support group got her over him and got Grantaire to get off his ass and make a move.

“Yes, but it’s Cosette. She’s not like anybody else.”

She isn’t, and Éponine doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know what Cosette wants her to do with that, when she sits down next to Éponine whenever there’s a free chair at her side and doesn’t mind when every word Éponine says is choked off and she fumbles her drinks and almost falls over when she makes the mistake of tipping her chair back.

Mentioning it to Marius is probably a mistake, because after that, he is way more inclined to call Cosette over and give his chair up to her, so Éponine is suddenly spending twice as much time with her, and the exposure therapy isn’t helping. Her only comfort is that her freezing up is way easier to deal with than if she shared Grantaire’s tendency for word vomit.

Cosette notices. Of course she does. She sees the way Éponine is with everyone else and the way Éponine is with her, and she gets this pinched little line between her brows like she’s getting all the wrong conclusions, but she still keeps seeking Éponine out, so maybe they aren’t all wrong. Or maybe she’s like Marius, going for exposure therapy, though Éponine still wonders why.

And she keeps choking and blushing and looking away, can’t help it, can’t keep her cool.

Cosette walks her home after a meeting, like that’s who Éponine is, like she lives down the street from the fifties sockhop, like Cosette’s not the one deserving of that kind of care, but she insists, and Éponine is tongue-tied, so Éponine doesn’t find a way to say no. And they walk, and Éponine feels stupidly like Cosette is carrying her nonexistent books, but Cosette is walking with her arms swinging easily, and Éponine has hers stuffed in her pockets, because Cosette is walking just close enough that their hands would brush if Éponine let hers swing too.

“It’s just me,” says Cosette at Éponine’s door, all earnest and sweet and ducking her head until Éponine is meeting her eyes squarely. “It’s just me, and I don’t want to scare you.”

Éponine has seen so much shit, and the idea of Cosette and her doe eyes scaring her should be laughable. But maybe, at the heart of it, that’s what this is. Cosette matters too much, deserves too much, for Éponine to feel okay fucking this up. “You’re not ‘just’ anything,” she says, and it comes out whispery and weak, but at least it comes out. “And that’s what’s scary.”

“Well,” Cosette smiles, and now she’s blushing a little, just faintly pink where the streetlights hit her, so at least Éponine isn’t alone in it. “Maybe we just … do this. Go slow. And it will get a little less scary for both of us. But there’s no rush, okay?”

Éponine manages to take her hand out of her pocket and put it on Cosette’s arms for a few seconds until she starts feeling stupid not being able to move in any closer and lets go. “Okay,” she says, and smiles stupidly in response to Cosette’s smile before she walks away and goes inside and feels just a little bit lighter.

In the end, maybe that’s better than being cool.

[king-layney]

Morksun ficlet

i just can’t help but think, that Sun will always nag Mork. that even when they’re living together for years, Sun will constantly nag, and Mork will just get used to it.

more like, i want them to be together like right now so i’m doing this to pass the time

“You’re late.” Sun was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, watching as Mork finished brushing his teeth. Mork glanced up to his boyfriend, noticing the sleep pants and slippers, but no shirt. He had been in bed, waiting.

Mork hums in response. This was a regular occurrence for Mork and everyone knew. Rain was always hyper aware of how his brother treated his best friend, always telling him to calm down, that Mork hasn’t done anything wrong, and to stop fussing. He would always question how Mork could live with his brother and how much he nagged him. But Mork was always dismissive. He didn’t mind it too much now; it was only evidence of how much Sun cared, and that was enough.

It was the relief that made Sun nag. He didn’t reprimand Mork because he was angry, but because he had worried. Sun most likely sat in the cafe, cleaning his machines twice over, before leaving to go up to bed. Mork had texted, told Sun he would be late, but that doesn’t settle him any. Sun is most comfortable when Mork is with him, when he knows Mork is safe.

He had probably sat on his laptop for a little while in the bedroom, either at the desk or sitting in bed. He was most likely surfing the internet, maybe looking for things to buy for the cafe, or simply stalking Mork’s facebook’s page in hopes he would post that he’s okay.

Mork had started a routine of texting Sun to go to bed, telling him that he was okay and there was no need to worry. It usually was answered with a “Where are you?” or “Are you on your way yet? Its getting too late.” Mork always had to smile, his Sun wasn’t going to listen to him.

Tonight had been particularly late, and Mork felt bad. He didn’t know it was going to run so late, otherwise he wouldn’t have offered to help. But they paid him extra for staying until 1 AM when they had finished, and he wasn’t one to turn down money.

After rinsing off the toothpaste, he turned to Sun, who was giving him that look. Eyes filled with relief but face displaying frustration. Mork knew Sun was a little more angry than usual tonight.

“It’s two in the morning, Mork.” Sun told him, arms still folded and face still scrunched in discomfort.

“Yes, it is.”

Mork had started answering Sun nagging not too long after they began dating. Not in a defensive way, but in a way that diffused his temper. It made him less fussy and more caring.

“I’m sorry.” Mork stepped closer to his partner, reaching his arms out to hold him. Sun looked as if he was going to accept, his eyes turning soft and body releasing a bit of tension. He caught himself though, stepped backwards and turned to head back into the bedroom. Mork would not be let off easy this time.

“I told you if you needed money, you can ask me.” Sun spoke, his voice a bit raised. Was he truly angry this time? Mork followed Sun out of the bathroom, watching as the older rounded the bed, then stopped abruptly. When he turned, it was almost as if he was staring straight into Mork’s soul.

Silence. Dreadful silence.

“P’,” Mork took a step closer.

“You could get hurt, bad people are out this late at night.”

Mork turned his head down with a sigh, looking at the distance between the two of them. “I understand.” He stated simply, turning his eyes back up to his boyfriend’s.

“You could be robbed, or killed, Mork. Anything could have happened.” Sun was worked up, probably due to his lack of sleep. He had to get up early to open the cafe in the morning.

“Yes.”

“Do you realize how much I worry about you? You’re so careless when it comes to your well-being, I’m surprised you’ve lived this long.” Sun had moved closer and Mork locked their gazes. Sun’s eyes were intense as he stared straight into Mork’s apologetic ones.

“P’Sun.” Mork spoke softly, stepping closer and holding his arms out once more. Sun slightly deflated at the action, but rolled his eyes, going to his side of the bed to climb under the covers. Mork let his arms fall to his sides once more.

“Just come to bed, I’m making you open the cafe tomorrow as punishment for being late tonight.” He laid down and faced away from Mork’s side of the bed, his way of trying to win in a disagreement. Mork smiled, removing his shirt and slipping into bed as well. He slowly moved closer to Sun, snaking arms around the slim waist and pulling him closer. The older’s body was still tense, and he was still upset.

“Good night.” Mork whispered, placing a kiss to Sun’s neck.

“Good night.” The answer was short and almost hostile, if Mork didn’t know any better.

Mork didn’t open the cafe the next morning, neither did Sun wake him when he brought breakfast up to his still sleeping partner. But Sun at least gave him a lecture when he had finally made it down to the cafe, and Mork sat and listened all the same.

[spideyxchelle]

will I stop writing things inspired by the ffh trailer? maybe. but not today. here is a little ficlet based on the scene of Peter on the airplane to Europe. 

“Parker,” Mr. Harrington waved Peter down. He dodged and weaved through the crowd of animated tourists and skidded to the boarding zone. Twenty minutes later than their boarding time.

Flushed and anxious, he rambled, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Harrington. My alarm clock never went off and I overslept. And then, the trains were running slow. And—”

His teacher cut him off, “That’s all very nice and well, Mr. Parker. Get on the plane.” He flushed deeply and began spouting off another round of apologies and excuses. Mr. Harrington shook his head, “Plane.”

The flight attendant scanned their tickets with an accusatory eyebrow. Peter flinched. He didn’t know for sure if he had held up their takeoff, but he had a sneaking suspicion, from the look of the attendant, that he had at least inconvenienced the crew.

They scuttled their way down to the entrance of the plane and scooted down the aisle to the back of the plane where Ned was waiting. Upon seeing his best friend, Ned visibly exhaled. “Thank god,” he muttered as Peter stowed his Uncle’s suitcase in the overhead compartment, “I thought you were gonna miss the flight.”

Peter squeaked past the nice lady on the aisle with an apology and hopped over Ned in the middle seat. He dropped into the window seat and rubbed his drawn face, “It’s been a morning.”

“Michelle called you, like, four times,” Ned said, snuggling back into the rigid seat, as if preparing to take on the eight hour trip like a soldier.

Peter fumbled for the phone jammed in his pocket, “Really?” The screen lit up and, low and behold, it was riddled with texts and calls from MJ. He cursed quietly.

The seat in front of him squeaked as MJ turned around and squeezed her face between the opening of the chairs, “Really.”

He apologized, “MJ, I’m really sorry. I was running late. I didn’t think to look at my phone.”

She appraised him with a castigatory look. Without another word, she faced front and began to clack away at the screen.

Betty’s sweet little face filled the empty space where MJ had poked through. She narrowed her eyes at Peter and sniped, “You had Ned all worked up, Peter.”

Ned shot Peter a sheepish look. He refuted his girlfriend, “Not that worried.”

The blonde rolled her eyes and insisted, “Yes, that worried.” She swiveled around in her seat and joined MJ in the hunt to occupy herself for the next eight hours.  

He felt thoroughly admonished.

Ned nudged him with his elbow, smiling in that bright and cheerful way that was entirely Ned, and Peter began to feel his spirits lighten. Ned Leeds was a master of kindness. It was contagious. Peter gradually returned the grin. His best friend gestured to the screen, “They have the original Star Wars trilogy on here. Marathon?”

The plane startled into motion, backing out of the bay, and Peter flipped his phone into airplane mode. He spotted all of Michelle’s texts and phone calls one last time and dampened the flush of embarrassment that waved through him. Later, he told himself, he would make it up to her later. Peter nodded, “Absolutely.”  

Three hours into the flight, Peter could feel Ned growing restless. He knew it was a long flight, but Ned was never distracted during Empire Strikes Back. It was the best Star Wars movie ever made, in their not so humble opinion, and required all the respect and attention of a perfect Star Wars movie.

Peter paused his screen. Ned hastily echoed his friend’s motion. He yanked an earbud out, profoundly confused, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Peter snuck a glance between the airplane seats at Betty who was curled up in her seat, sleeping soundly. He jerked his head toward the seat in front of Ned, “You obviously want to be with Betty.”

Ned dismissed Peter’s assessment with a chortle, “What? Pfft. No, I don’t. We promised we’d sit next to each other.”

Peter admired Ned and his conviction that a promise between best friends was as binding as a contact, but he could give up Ned for the remaining five hours, if Betty was where he really wanted to be. He knew, when Ned started dating Betty at the end of the school year, that he was going to have to compromise some Ned-time to Betty. And, if it was what made Ned happy, Peter didn’t mind.

Besides, it was sweet.

Even if Betty wanted to rake Peter over the coals for being late and causing her boyfriend the slightest bit of stress. She was intense. Her sweet demeanor did not account for the steel underneath.

Peter shrugged, “It’s cool. I don’t mind.”

Ned perked up, slightly, “Really?”

“Not a bit,” Peter assured him. He leaned his hand between the opening of the seats and nudged her shoulder. She flailed awake, blinking away sleep, “Wha—what happened?”

“Betty,” Peter whispered, “Switch seats with me.”

She rubbed her eyes and twisted her head back to look at him. She looked surprised by his offer, “Really?”

Peter nodded, “Totally.”

Her mouth softened and he saw her forgive him for running late that morning all in one moment. Her lips turned upward at the corners of her mouth, “Thank you, Peter.”

It was a bit of a juggle, and an endless parade of apologies to the poor woman sitting in the aisle seat, but with a bit of adjusting Peter fell into his new middle seat for the remainder of the trip. The things he did for his friends.

He turned around to check on Ned and Betty and she was contently curling up next to her boyfriend. Ned looked delighted with his hand resting on her knee.

Peter smiled to himself and turned back to his screen to pick-up his Star Wars marathon.

MJ broke the silence, before he pressed play, whispering, “That was really nice of you.”

He pulled his headphones off and hummed, “Hmm?”

She rolled her eyes, but there was not bite to it, and repeated, “I said, that was really nice of you.”

Peter wiped his palms on his jeans. He tried to hide the flush creeping up his neck with a calculated shrug, “It’s no big deal.”

Michelle didn’t look like she believed him, but she didn’t push. Instead, she agreed, “Sure, but it was still really nice.”

Faced with her eyes, he suddenly remembered the legions of texts and calls she had tried to get through to him that morning. His flush traveled faster to color his cheeks. “Look, MJ,” he swallowed, “I’m sorry about this morning. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

She tutted, “I wasn’t worried.” But there was something about her tone that didn’t ring true. He had worried her. And Ned. He needed to invest in a new alarm clock, or perhaps no alarm clock at all. Phone alarms worked plenty fine for most people.

But, there was a tiny part of him, that clung to his old, crappy clock. His Uncle Ben had told him how to read time by it. As they moved from apartment to apartment in the years after his death while May tried to make a single-parent income work, less-and-less of his uncle’s things traveled from place to place. They were either lost in the transition or given away.

That dumb alarm clock was still there.

He cleared his throat and thoughts of Ben Parker, “Still, I’m sorry.”

She bit the bottom of her lip and it was extremely jarring. He had never truly noticed her lips before. And now that she had inadvertently drawn attention to them, he was rattled. He forced his gaze back to her eyes, when she said, “Well, its not like you’ve been very good at answering my texts or calls before. I’m used to it.”

It was meant to be teasing or light, but the accusation hit him square in the chest. He had not been a very good friend the last few years, even before everything. And falling back into normal teenage patterns after space, after Thanos, had been harder than he imagined when the destroyed buildings were rebuilt, when the funerals were done.

MJ had been a good friend to him after the Vulture debacle. She had been absolutely invaluable when Ned and Betty started to date, as a buffer to the pet-names and PDA. And he had blown off her texts and calls that morning, and hurt her. He touched her hand apologetically, “I am sorry.”

Her eyes snapped down to the fingers brushing her own. He did, too. For a moment, together, they stared at their hands. Peter drew them away only after the moment was truly felt, jolting his system.

It was the proximity, he assured himself. He was next to a pretty girl. He was—

Holy shit, he realized, MJ was really pretty. He was going to be stuck next to a really pretty girl for five hours in a confined space. Their knees were pressed up against each other by the simple nature of airplane travel. It was making him a little dizzy. Her. Not the altitude.

Peter wiped his palms on his jeans, again, but this time it was to rid him of the sweaty discomfort of his hands.

She returned to her television screen and Peter tried to pay attention to his own. It was strangely difficult. He began to feel like he understood a fraction of why Ned was unable to focus on Empire Strikes Back, which, not five minutes ago, had been absolutely impossible to comprehend.

Michelle shifted. Peter glanced at her. He didn’t want to be in a galaxy far, far away. It was much better here—on the plane, next to MJ.

Somewhere between Return of the Jedi and The Phantom Menace, Peter had nodded off to sleep. His head hung lazily to the left, snuggled against his headrest. It smelled faintly like lavender.

His eyes fluttered open, in the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, and took a deep breath of the lavender fragrance. He even nuzzled his nose in the soft, impossibly welcoming pillow. His pillow made a tiny, feminine noise.

Peter froze. He slowly opened his eyes and came to grips with his current reality. MJ was snuggled up against him, her legs tucked under herself, and her head resting on his shoulder. His own head was pressed against the top of her head. They were cuddling.

He was too petrified to move. He was not sure if it was worse to move and gamble with waking her up, or to move and, therefore, stop cuddling her. Each was a daunting prospect.

She was so quiet and untroubled in sleep. From what he could see, she slept with her lips slightly parted.

Once more, he was faced with how utterly rattling her lips were.

He off-handedly wondered how her lips might feel pressed against his. He wondered if she would be fierce and all-consuming, or if she might kiss too gently and preciously for words. He wondered if she would let him wind his hand in her sweet-smelling curls. He wondered if she would crawl in his lap or wind her arms around his neck.

Peter Parker decided he didn’t want to move, consequences be damned, and snuggled closer to her.

He let his eyes fall shut and sleep took him once more.

The next time he woke, it was because MJ was stretching, cracking her back in the tiny airplane seat. The plane had landed and she was now awake. Their little, perfect moment in the skies was over. And he momentarily regretted they were no longer curled up with each other.

Then, he was awake enough to notice the embarrassed little look she was shooting his way. She tucked a curl, he now knew smelled like lavender, behind her ear, “I, uh, I’m sorry for being all up in your space.” He blinked at her. She hastily added, “There wasn’t much room, okay?”

He blinked again. And realized, too late, that she was waiting for him to say something, anything. He croaked, his voice thick with sleep, “It’s okay. I, uh, didn’t mind.”

She gnawed on her lip, again, and Peter openly stared at her lips. She noticed. He was too shaken to care. Let her look, he decided suddenly; after all, she had drawn his attention to her lips in the first place.

“Your hair smells like lavender,” he said stupidly.

She jolted, surprised and embarrassed, “Oh, uh, yeah. My shampoo.”

Peter nodded, dumbly, “Right. Makes sense.”

MJ played with the ends of her hair, as the guests started to deplane, “Anyway…”

“I like lavender,” he said.

Michelle smiled and it was a new smile, just for him. He tucked it away in his memories, as if he knew he was going to need to remember this moment. Her. Him. And the start of their trip to Europe.

Peter smiled back.

When the man next to Peter climbed out of his seat, he regretfully stood up out of his seat, breaking eye contact with Michelle. 32B. He would never forget seat 32B.

It took some time, as people plotted out of the plane, but when they were finally free, Peter sent Michelle one last smile. She threw back the same smile she had gifted him on the plane, the one he burned into his memory.

He knew he looked stupid, goofy even, but he couldn’t help it.

Just then, Ned saddled up to Peter, and breezily remarked, “You two looked cozy.”

Peter flushed deeply, hazarding one more look at MJ who was now locked in animated conversation with Betty, and scratched the back of his neck, “Oh, shove it.”

Ned guffawed.

They moved as a pack to customs.

Ned and Betty went together to the agent, giggling, and Peter fondly shook his head. He was happy his best friend was in love. It was a little ridiculous, but seventeen year olds were allowed to be ridiculous. He had to remind himself of that sometimes. After space, after Thanos, Peter tried to set boundaries and leave room for a little fun. He was a teenager, after all, even if he felt a hundred years old. War left that kind of tangible wound on a person’s spirit.

He banished those thoughts. Thinking about space and Thanos and Tony wasn’t healthy. He was on summer vacation in Europe with his friends. He was going to be Peter Parker.

He chanced a look at MJ.

She smiled at him in that perfectly disarming way.

He clutched his suitcase, gleeful and, for the first time in a long time, hopeful.

Spider-Man could wait.

[amassingeffect]

Ficlet Prompt Friday - Enteritis - Jaal Ama Darav

@trajektoria: Jaal preparing something traditionally angaran for his friends and family and accidentally poisoning all the humans on the Tempest

Warnings: post-Meridian

There wasn’t a better way Jaal could think of to celebrate. Well, actually there was, but aboard the Tempest, this wasy the best way he could think of. The impossible had been done and Evfra had once again offered him a transfer to lead a new unit. Jaal was sure his place was at Ryder’s side. They’d already done so much, come so far and he knew they would do yet more things.

So he stayed on the Tempest and helped unlock vaults and kick kett ass. The Tempest family was one he grew to care for, had bonded with. He’d prefer to stay as long as he could.

They were why he had commandeered the kitchen for the day. The dish was complicated to make, took actual ingredients instead of paste and careful preparation. It took quite a few trades and enough hiding of things. He had asked everyone to meet in the conference room and he was giving them some time because Peebee was notorious for always running, “just a bit late.”

He gathered the plates and cutlery, heading for the elevator. The walk was silent. And even as got on the elevator and took it up, he could hear Peebee’s rushed steps just as the door closed behind her. Perfect timing on his part.  He slowly walked down the hallway and up the ramp, listening to them speculating as to why he wished to speak to them all.

And all eyes focused on him as he appeared in the conference room. Liam’s eyes zeroed right in on the pan Jaal held.

“Oh, where’d you get pink cake from?” he grunted as Cora elbowed him. “Sorry, sorry, you probably have something to say.”

“I do,” Jaal suddenly wished he’d spent enough time preparing what he wanted to say because it suddenly seemed inadequate. “I was unsure when you all arrived on Aya, your ship afire,”

“Can we just never bring that up again?” Ryder groaned.

That got a round of chuckles and even Jaal smiled. “And I will admit that working with new aliens left me feeling reluctant. I believe your saying is twice burned, twice shy?”

There were some headshakes but Peebee kept it going with, “We know what you mean. Carry on.”

“But you all have proven yourself time and time again, putting yourselves on the line for the sake of angaran and in joining our cause to free ourselves of the kett. There truly are no words for the wonderful gift of freedom you’ve given us, even if it is for a short while—”

“Kid, speeches are supposed to be inspiring. Stick to that point and less realism.” Drack butted in.

“Mm, I suppose you are right. While I know it is not much, please enjoy this traditional angaran dish I have prepared. We call it gosan kurali and make it for truly special occasions.”

“So kill the Archon, get pink cake. What do we get if we rid the whole galaxy of the kett?” Liam mused.

“Let’s dial it back there,” Ryder laughed. “Thank you Jaal. It looks delicious. Thank god we all don’t have to tromp on down to the lab for tests.”

Liam’s cry of “Pink cake time!” seemed to have set them off. Someone took the plates and cutlery off his hands and before long, everyone was clustered around the gosan kurali. Jaal took the time to approach Vetra where she was leaning on the siderail.

“I was unsure of how to make some for you, so I managed to track down something for you.”

“Uh… thanks?” Vetra sounded very confused when he deposited a small envelope in her hand.

“I’m told it’s kasingu seeds.”

“Holy crap!” Vetra stared at the packet in her hand before tucking it away. “How did you find them?”

“Someone offered them in trade. Apparently it’s a berry from the turian home planet?”

“The best berry, was amazing with nathak. I never thought I’d have them again,” Vetra’s mandibles shifted out in a wide smile. “You’re too sweet, you know that Jaal?”

“You’re most certainly welcome. It is a small thing for someone who has done much for us. I am fairly sure if you wished to set up shop on an angaran planet, no one would take issue with that.”

Vetra laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind. But I’ve got some seeds to—”

“Jaal!” Liam came over, crumbs of kurali at the corner of his mouth. “This is fantastic! Never had a sweet cake that’s a bit sour before. Like eating a sour patch kid on steroids.”

“It’s supposed to be sweet.” Jaal frowned as he eyed the remaining crumbs in the dish.

“It is, but then the sour creeps up and then the sweet sucker punches is again. Pretty sure I saw Ryder take two pieces after they had a bite.”

Jaal narrowed his eyes. Did Liam’s lips look puffy? And his face a little bit too.

“You feeling okay there Kosta?” Vetra leaned down to peer at him. “You look a little swollen?”

“I feel fine. Why does —”

“Oh my God, get him to the medbay!”

Jaal barely had time to see a profoundly swollen Gil being rushed down the stairwell by a concerned Lexi before pure pandemonium erupted. It seemed like everyone was dropping plates and scattering in a mad rush. Jaal didn’t know what to do as Vetra was hurrying a distinctly puffy Liam to the medbay and before long, it was just Peebee and Drack left behind.

“What just happened?” Jaal was so confused.

“My guess is that they couldn’t quite handle your pink cake,” Drack shrugged as he took another bite of his. “Downside of only a single stomach. Tastes fine to me. Liam was right though, like the sweet and sour are duking it out. Good job kid, I need the recipe from you.”

“And you are okay Peebee?”

“Yeah, the cake is good. I’d take seconds if some people left some.” She scowled at Drack.

“What, I’m a growing krogan.” Drack deadpanned, eating another bite.

“Oh hey, there’s Vetra! So what’s the deal?” Peebee waved her over.

“Lexi wants the pan to run a toxicology report. Gil and Liam puffed up like some kind of fish from some sort of allergic reaction and I’d say avoid the bathroom for the next little while if you can, pretty sure Ryder and Cora are dying in there. The fan definitely can’t keep up.” Vetra picked up the pan before gently patting him on the shoulder. “Sorry Jaal. I think your cake did them in.”

This was definitely not how Jaal foresaw this going. And neither was he expecting Peebee’s delighted laugh.

“So it’s death cake for them and the perfect dessert for me and Drack! Old man, we never have to worry about getting enough ever again.

Jaal buried his face in his hands. If he was really lucky, no one would ever mention this ever again.

[megabadbunny]

Endless List of WIPs

I was tagged by darlings @gingergallifreyan​ @pellaaearien​ and @goingtothetardis​ and @lvslie ! Thank you for thinking of me! ilu all <3 <3 <3

List all the things you’re currently working on in as much or as little detail as you’d like, then tag some friends to see what they’re working on: writing, art, gifsets, whatever.

Oh my gourd, I’ve got so many WIPs it’s not even funny. It is legitimately depressing how many WIPs are currently languishing in my fic folder. Like I don’t even know what order to go in. Aw, heck. Let’s go nuts!

::draws in a deep breath:: ALL RIGHTY KIDS HERE GOES NUTTIN BRACE YOURSELVES FOR WAAAAY MORE SPOILERIFIC DETAIL THAN ANYONE ASKED FOR

Minuet (some parts eventually nsfw, partially published, I’m actually consistently working on this??? tHe FuCk):

“Is this normal?” Mickey asks Rose under his breath as the Doctor prattles on, chattering to no one in particular while he strides away with impressive speed.

“No,” Rose sighs. She watches the Doctor as he wanders off, tries to ignore the sick feeling twisting in her chest. “This is new.”

She can feel Mickey’s eyes on her when she doesn’t elaborate. “So…did something happen last night?” he asks, slowly, cautiously, like he doesn’t really want to hear the answer.

Rose fights the urge to heave another sigh, wraps her arms around her body instead. “No,” says again. “Nothing happened.”

She knows Mickey doesn’t believe her, would be able to tell by his suspicious silence even if she couldn’t see the eyebrow arching off his forehead, but mercifully, he doesn’t ask again. Instead, he proffers his arm to Rose, standing up ramrod-straight like he’s posing for a school formal photo.

Rose shoots him a questioning look. He grins at her. “C’mon, babe,” he says with a wink. “Let’s go for a stroll and you can tell me all about your adventures back in fancypants France.”

Rose smiles despite herself. “Are you sure you’d rather hear about that than whatever thrilling botany lesson the Doctor’s throwing at us?”

Mickey shrugs. “We’ll just make sure to throw a few uh-huh’s and how fascinating’s his way every once in a while.”

Threading her arm through his, Rose laughs.

forbidden planet (a mostly-complete response to a timepetals prompt from aaaages ago):

Martha stifles a laugh. For such a bigger-on-the-inside vessel, the bedrooms are awfully cramped. Her room can’t be much wider than she is tall, and the sloped ceiling—why sloped? Is her room positioned against the outer hull somehow? Just what is the TARDIS really shaped like?—does nothing to combat the claustrophobic feel of the place. It makes her think of cabins below-deck, of tight-knit quarters and tiny bunks. If she didn’t know any better, she would almost feel like she was traveling on a real ship.

A seaship, she quickly corrects. Just in case. All of this might be very new to her, but she was at least warned about the gentle buzzing at the back of her skull. Best to remain on good terms with her hostess, she thinks.

Weariness tugs at her bones, a special kind of gravity drawing her inexorably toward the bed, but she isn’t quite ready to sleep yet.

(“Go and have a good wander,” he’d said.

“Is there anyplace I can’t go?” she’d asked.

“Why would there be?”

She had laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe you’ve got a restricted area. Maybe there’s a west wing with a rose in a glass or something.”

He had almost seemed to flinch at that, but it was only an almost-flinch. She could have imagined it.

“The TARDIS won’t let you go anywhere you shouldn’t,” he had told her. “And don’t worry: my claws are purely figurative,” he’d added with a wink.

Strangely, that hadn’t made her feel any better.)

A New Song for River (rated teen, partially published, will finish some day I frigging SWEAR):

How did this happen? How did she let this happen?

(What did she just do?)

River feels like she might choke. Something is squeezing the inside of her chest. In an odd way, she’s glad, because otherwise, things feel like they’re not really happening right now. She’s watching a movie—a truly horrendous one, at that—and she can’t turn it off.

The Doctor does not say anything, and River knows from experience that this is very rare, and very bad.

“Are you angry with me?” River asks calmly, as if they’ve just had a lovers’ quarrel. She laughs. “Are you disappointed?”

The Doctor does not offer a response, and River does not press her for one. “I suppose it’s different when you murder someone,” she says instead. “It’s always justified when you have to do it. Right?”

Sleepy Hollow ficlet (untitled, all-ages, based on a prompt I think, will it ever get done? No one knows):

The Doctor doesn’t have time to move away, barely even has time to think, before she lifts the veil and presses a kiss to his lips.

Stunned, he doesn’t do anything, doesn’t reciprocate or pull away or wave his hands ineffectually about or do much of anything, really. He just stands there like some kind of idiot.

The crowd around them laughs and claps their hands, delight from the game quickly overtaking their mistrust of the foreigner in their midst. (It occurs to the Doctor that anyone who responds to a kiss in this fashion probably isn’t regarded as much of a threat. He’s seen walruses flopping on the beach with more dignity.) Dimly, the Doctor is aware that the smirking fellow is no longer smiling—“fuming” may be the more appropriate word choice at this juncture—because halfway through, the kiss has changed into something a little bit more, the girl’s hands traveling up to tangle her fingers in his hair, lips parting to betray just the smallest bit of moisture, and now this is a kiss the Doctor recognizes.

“Rose?” he squeaks into the girl’s mouth.

The girl—Rose—frowns. She removes her veil and blindfold and stares up at the Doctor, charting his face with wide brown eyes. The Doctor smiles, relaxing just a little bit; the sight of her soothes tension in his shoulders he wasn’t aware he’d had.

Except why is she looking at him like that?

“Forgive me,” Rose murmurs in an unfamiliar American voice, “Do I know you, sir?”

The Doctor feels his grin fade off his face. It corresponds nicely with the sinking feeling in his chest.

No Place Like Hohm (partially published, mostly written fOr ReAlSiEs it just needs a good polishin’!!!):

The Doctor shrugged. “Meddling with timelines is tricky business. Anytime we land, it’s really best to disturb things as little as possible, just make a little tweak here or there, try to blend in and then disappear. You know, help where we can without making too much of a splash.”

Mickey snorted in disbelief. “Yeah, right.”

“Excuse me, I happen to be very good at what I do,” the Doctor said, “and yes, I’m very sorry that you’re not witnessing the usual full and immersive experience on your first new planet. But right now, we don’t have the time to go sneaking into the stadium and gallivant about in loincloths and spears. So we’re bending the rules just a bit.”

“Why?” Mickey asked. “Not that I really want to wear a loincloth,” he added hurriedly.

The entire TARDIS gave a great shudder as it started to materialize. The Doctor grabbed his coat. “Because,” he said, averting his eyes from Mickey’s as he pulled his coat on. “It’s Rose.”

He looked up to see Mickey watching him with a shrewd expression. He didn’t like it. Something about Mickey the Idiot being shrewd or, even worse, astute, just made him grumpy.

“Well?” he snapped. “Are you going to be useless in here or are you going to be useless out there?”

Mickey scoffed. “Like I’m going to let you take all the credit for the rescue.”

“That’s the spirit!” the Doctor agreed.

The Day of the Doctor: Redux (this isn’t quite a fic, so much as a re-imagining of the 50th anniversary special and how it could have worked better even with very similar story elements):

The Girl in the Fireplace: Redux (exactly what it says on the tin; gitf rewritten so that the plot makes sense and the characters are, well, in-character):

“So how’s it alive in deep space?” Rose asks while Mickey simultaneously blurts out, “What d’you mean, ‘living’? We’re not—”

Mickey glances round the corridor, realizing for the first time, perhaps, that the floor beneath their feet is spongy and soft, the cables stringing overhead are actually vines, the reason the walls are rough and ridged like tree bark is because that’s exactly what they are, and the lights surrounding them don’t resemble anything electronic so much as phosphorescent, only half-dispelling the semi-darkness that has fallen on the entire vessel.

And he doesn’t even want to know what that sticky stuff on the ceiling is.

“—standing around inside something alive, are we?” he finishes with a shudder, gingerly reaching out to touch something that looks, for all the world, like a patch of blue moss on the wall.

“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” the Doctor replies brightly.

Mickey’s hand snaps back. “Gross.”

“Oh, come on,” Rose teases, “The TARDIS is alive. That doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“This is different, you know it is. The TARDIS doesn’t look like the inside of a swamp, it isn’t dark and creepy, and most importantly, it doesn’t have floors that go squish.”

“Oh really?” the Doctor asks, scoping out the place with renewed intrigue. “You think so?”

“You gonna tell me the TARDIS does have squishy floors?” Mickey asks uneasily.

“No, no,” the Doctor tells him, dismissive, his eyes trailing over the walls, his brain cataloging details in the background. “Well, not usually.”

The Girl in the Revolution (explicit, unposted but maybe half-written; another post-GitF au, but considerably darker and angstier than Minuet):

“I want you to realize how selfish you are,” Rose tells him.

The Doctor nods. He doesn’t take his eye off her. “Yes,” he agrees. “I very much am.”

“You’re selfish, and you’re petty, and you’re really no better than anyone else.”

The words sound like they hurt her just as much as they’re hurting him. “Yes,” he agrees again, says truthfully, his voice gone rough.

“I was in love with you, you know.”

His glance flickers away. “I know.”

It’s true. He does know. Always has, on some level. Just hasn’t known exactly what to do about it.

He can’t quite meet her eyes, looks at the wall behind her shoulder instead. In his periphery, he can see that she’s blushing, a red flush blossoming across her cheeks and neck and chest. She’s embarrassed, and upset, but her eyes are still trained on his face.

“Don’t suppose you still are,” he says to the wall.

Rose laughs quietly. “Would it make any difference if I was?”

It’s not a no. He’ll take his chances.

Defenders of the Altverse, Episode 02: The Saturn Initiative (mostly all-ages, partially published, has technically mostly been written but I keep re-writing it over and over and AAAARRRRRGH):

“Most pressingly, I’m someone who isn’t overly fond of having weapons pointed at him for no good reason,” the stranger replied. Reaching out slowly, he placed one hand over the barrel of the gun, pushing downward until it pointed at the floor. “Well, I prefer not to have weapons pointed at me for any reason, really, but it’s sort of a given in my occupation, I’m afraid.”

Ripley didn’t move to stop him, studied his face instead. Something about the man seemed familiar, though Ripley couldn’t quite name it.

“So who is he?” Ripley asked Rose.

“Right. Doctor, Ripley; Ripley, Doctor,” Rose said, gesturing between them.

Ripley’s eyes widened. “You’re the Doctor?” he asked, holstering his gun. “The Doctor?”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“I don’t think there’s anyone from the old team who hasn’t heard of you.”

Suspicion evaporated from the Doctor’s face in an instant. “Old team, you say?” he asked, suddenly curious. “What team? And why old team? Is there a new team?”

“He doesn’t know about the crew?” Ripley asked Rose.

Instead of answering, Rose just cleared her throat and looked away. “So, what’s the story here?” she asked. She crossed her arms in front of her body, holding them close like a pair of shields. “I mean, not that I’m not happy to see you—”

“You’re not, but keep going.”

“—but I don’t see why I’m needed,” Rose continued like she hadn’t heard him. “If Torchwood’s already on the case, they’ll sort it all out. Won’t they?”

“Well, I had sort of hoped you were on the case,” Ripley said, frowning.

Defenders of the Altverse, Episode 03: The Dark Forest and the Bad Wolf (unpublished, partially complete but haven’t worked on it in over a year, will it ever see the light of day? Who knoooows):

“Oh, my darling,” the Doctor forced out, feeling awkward under the heavy glare of the villagers’ suspicious eyes.  “I...love you too!”

Rose peeked up and over her fingers.  The Doctor thought she may be smiling behind her hands.  Her eyes twinkled a bit.  Only for him, though.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said, summoning any and all acting skills he’d ever possessed. “Oh, my sweet, sweet wife!”  He pushed through the crowd to get to Rose.

She did not wait for him to reach her.  She ran straight into his arms, flinging herself against him, wrapping him in a snug embrace.  Even through all of his layers of clothing, he could feel her heart hammering desperately.  She was, perhaps, more concerned than she would let on.

“You all right?” he whispered into her ear.  She tightened the hug in response.  He squeezed her back.  A hug is no good if you don’t reciprocate, he reasoned.

But the hug broke off when the Doctor realized that Rose was shivering horribly.  Of course.  He shed his coat and placed it around her shoulders.  

“Won’t you be cold?” she asked, though she received it gratefully.

“Nah,” he said with a grin. Rose smiled up at him.  That was all the warmth he needed for now.

Well, figuratively speaking.  He was actually already quite cold.

Defenders of the Altverse, Episode 04: An Inadvertent Adventure (unposted despite the fact that this damn thing is ENTIRELY WRITTEN. It has been complete for LITERAL YEARS NOW. Like at this point I’m gonna have to read-through and rewrite it just so it’s up to date with my current style. BLARGH):

Jackie gaped as the Doctor waved the lemurs goodbye. “How did you do that?” she asked. “I saw you do that before, earlier. Are you doing some Spock thing?”

The Doctor laughed.

“What?” Jackie demanded.

“Nothing,” the Doctor chuckled. “Just having a moment.”

He started removing the frond-cover from the TARDIS. “It’s telepathy,” he explained, and he smiled when Jackie started helping him pull the huge fern leaves down. “If I’m in direct physical contact with someone, I can reach out and read their thoughts.”

Jackie yanked her hands back. “Weird,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “And rude.”

“Well, I don’t make a habit of it,” the Doctor told her. “Telepathy’s a tricky thing. One wrong move, you can turn both of your brains into pudding.”

“Weird, rude, and dangerous. Sounds like you all over!” Jackie snarked.

The Doctor didn’t reply, just nodded and flashed her a mischievous grin.

Defenders of the Altverse, Episode 05 (all-ages, unposted, untitled):

“Okay, how about this?” the pinstriped man asked, stowing his hands in his pockets as he took several purposeful steps toward the Doctor.  “I’m not just from another universe.  I’m you from another universe.”

The Doctor chuckled at that. “Well, you’re a very ambitious liar, I’ll give you that.”

“If you’re desperate for proof, I can tell you everything that happened on Arcadia,” the man said quietly, “And Susan’s last words.  But I don’t think either of us want to think about either of those any more than we must.”

“Susan?  Who’s Susan?” the Doctor scoffed.

“Oh, right, I guess they could have gone with the other name here,” the man said, rocking back on his heels. “Let’s see, what else did they think of naming her?” he asked thoughtfully.  “Something to do with ‘M’. Mary? M’vula? No,” he remembered.

He glanced back at the Doctor. “Mara,” he said.

The Doctor felt the grin slide slowly off his face.  His granddaughter Mara was long dead.  Or very recently dead, depending on how you looked at it.  Either way, her body was cold and rotting.

“I would dearly love for you to tell me she’s still alive here,” the pinstriped man said, “But somehow I feel like that’s a bit much to hope for.”

Untitled 1 (sequel to la belle dame sans merci):

“…breathe, Doctor, please!” he hears, or thinks he hears filtering in amongst the rest of the clatter, and he thinks he feels the pressure of a familiar hand on his chest, on his cheek, but he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think—

(She’s not there, she was never there, there were no kisses, no whispered confessions, no lazy afternoons or too-late nights, no silly movies or ignored phone calls or held hands or stolen glances or too-tight embraces no missions no fights no shared flats no shared beds no them no her no no no no no no)

The next thing he knows, the room around him is crowded, filled with the hustle and bustle and monitor-checking and notes-taking and questions-asking of a dozen (maybe a hundred) Torchwood doctors and nurses. Lights shine in his eyes and mouth and fingers press against his wrist and a needle pinches the inside of his arm, the soft fleshy bit inside his elbow (his antecubital fossa, he thinks dully), and for once, thank god for Jackie because she’s back in the room, answering all of the questions for him, her hand wrapped tightly around his. Before long, he feels himself drifting, his consciousness untethered and floating away into a deep, black sleep.

(He can’t make out the words, but he can hear the concern in Jackie’s voice; she squeezes his hand in assurance and he thinks he should squeeze back, but all he can do is wonder why it isn’t Rose holding his hand before the curtains fall and darkness claims him again.)

Untitled 2 (aka a totally random fic I’m still tinkering with about Rose x Depression as observed by one Mickey Smith):

“I need help,” she says one day, quietly. Like she isn’t even sure she wants to be heard.

“Sure thing, babe,” he replies. His words are firm and sure and spoken without a second thought, the way hers used to be. “What do you need?”

“I need help knowing how I should feel about this.”

Mickey glances up from his monitor, surprised. Of all of the things she could have asked, this one seems the least expected, somehow. Rose always knows how to feel about something. She always knows what to do about it, too. But she’s a little different, now, in this different universe. Mickey supposes they all are.

Rose hands over a magazine. It’s one of those trashy things from the paper shops, a publication just as likely to feature celebrity gossip as it is a mermaid washed up in Bournemouth. (There’s no such thing in this universe as a mermaid, just like the other. Mickey knows. He checked, just to be sure.) One of its corners waves and curves upward, its edges stained yellow-beige with grease. Rose must have stopped for chips on the way over. Good. At least she’s remembering to eat now.

It takes Mickey just a second to find what he’s looking for, and when he does, he has to stifle a laugh. Splashed across the front cover in obnoxious yellow, right above a photo of Rose looking as grumpy as humanly possible beneath her oversized (designer) sunglasses, a headline reads I WAS ABDUCTED BY ALIENS!—MYSTERIOUS VITEX HEIRESS REVEALS ALL ABOUT ORIGINS.

“Well,” Mickey says, rubbing his jaw. “When you compare it to Bat Boy, it seems downright reasonable, doesn’t it? Not half-accurate, either.”

“I wasn’t abducted.”

“Try telling your mum that,” Mickey chuckles under his breath.

Untitled 3 (aka “tiem babby” because I’m an adult; a timepetals prompt reply that will wither on the vine if I don’t water it soon, aaaalaksdjfl;kj):

His body is a vessel filled with lead and regret. It’s heavy, too heavy, his feet loathe to move. But eventually he stops staring and starts moving. He walks even though his limbs resist him every step of the way, his motions unhurried and thick like he’s wading through water or molasses.

(This is the first day of the rest of his life.)

Canary Wharf’s blinding-whiteness might hurt his eyes, if he bothered looking up at all. (He doesn’t; he won’t; what’s the point?) His gaze points floorward but registers nothing, gliding sightlessly over tiny mountains of debris and indiscriminate electronic carnage. When he finally reaches the TARDIS, he can barely muster enough energy to pull his key from his pocket.

Safe inside his ship, he allows himself a moment, eyes shuttering closed as he slumps against the doors.

“So?”

His eyes fly back open. The Doctor snaps up quickly enough to give a human whiplash, and he can just feel himself going pale as the blood drains from his face.

Jackie Tyler stands next to the console, wearing a denim jacket, a velour tracksuit, and an expectantly-arched eyebrow.

(Oh, and a baby on her hip. Can’t forget that, though the Doctor somehow managed to.)

Untitled 4 (aka Rose seduces the metacrisis Doctor on a Torchwood mission, aka “officesmut”; hey, at least my temp titles let you know exactly what to expect...):

It occurs to her, suddenly, that maybe he isn’t quite so hopeless as he seems.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, his breath warm against her ear, his voice dangerously low.

Rose swallows, a thrill shooting through her. “I thought we were finished here.”

“Well, you thought wrong, then, didn’t you?”

She arches her hips experimentally, grinding against him until his grip on her waist tightens. “Oh, I don’t know,” she drawls. “Feels like I had the right thought.”

Chuckling under his breath, the Doctor brushes her hair away from her neck, fingertips grazing feather-light over her skin. She shivers deliciously. Bites her lip in anticipation.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” the Doctor says, planting kisses along the join of her shoulder and neck, “but this new body is much more difficult to control than the old one. Before, it was simply a matter of exercising discipline, and only a small amount at that. But now I’m quite a bit more—”

“—responsive?” Rose suggests, pressing her bum into him again.

“Frustrated.” He nips at her neck and her toes curl in response. “Don’t think I missed any of your display tonight. I see everything, Rose, and I smell it and I taste it, too.”

Untitled 5 (unposted, explicit, another timepetalsprompt fill er mer gerrrrrrd why can’t I finish anything):

When the elevator slows to a halt on the ground floor, and the Doctor still hasn’t turned around, tension leaks out of Rose’s shoulders and she’s able to breathe again. He hasn’t noticed her; he will leave the elevator and go about the rest of today’s adventure, oblivious but wonderful, ridiculously unobservant but safe.

Rose believes that right up until she hears the telltale whir of the sonic screwdriver, and realizes that although the lift has stopped, the doors remain closed.

“Do you know,” the Doctor says conversationally, as if they’ve been talking to each other this whole time like old friends, “I remember a time when you used to run with me, not from me.”

Rose’s heart lodges in her throat. Wordlessly, she glances about for something, anything, that can help her, but either the lift is truly empty or the adrenaline racing through her veins is blinding her.

Fuck.

The Doctor chuckles under his breath. “But I suppose I should be saying Thank you. Otherwise I might have fallen for it.”

Fallen for what? Rose thinks, but she doesn’t have a chance to ask—he’s already turned around and there’s no mistaking it, he sees her now, he sees her, his eyes hard and glittering, and did his gaze always burn like this?, and fuck.

Untitled 6 (explicit, multichapter, unposted; prompted a hundred million years ago and certainly the promptee has given up on it by now yet I stubbornly slog on; simply labeled as “post-je super angst latest” because wow, am I clever or what):

“Awful quiet,” Jackie remarks at the tailor’s, her voice low so that only Rose can hear. She rifles through a clothing rack and pulls out a suit jacket (in blue, not brown; she’s cottoned on quickly).

“How d’you mean?” Rose asks.

Tilting her head, Jackie holds the jacket out at arm’s length, surveying the garment and the Doctor in the same glance. The jacket’s skinny, but not as skinny as he is. “Thought you’d be bouncing off the walls, the both of you,” Jackie explains. “That, or tangled up in the bedsheets.”

Rose groans. “Oh my god, mum.”

“Don’t give me that. I know how it is. Lose the man you love, spend years pining after him, finally find a parallel version of him in an alternate universe. Bound to be some celebratory shagging, isn’t there?”

Jackie replaces the jacket on the rack and grabs a different one. “Especially when he keeps wearing those tight trousers. You buying what he’s selling, or what?”

Rose closes her eyes and prays for mercy. “Mum, I’m pretty sure he can hear us.”

Both of them glance across the store to check, but the Doctor seems absorbed in the necktie display, smiling when Tony points to a tie in a shade of nearly-TARDIS-blue.

“Nah,” Jackie sniffs. “Even his hearing isn’t that good, I reckon.”

As soon as she turns away, the Doctor looks up at Rose with a wink.

(Is she imagining things, or did it suddenly get a few degrees warmer in the shop?)

Untitled 7 (college theatre au; another prompt-reply from like centuries ago I’m so so sorry nonny I hope you’re still alive and your bones haven’t turned to dust):

Rose opened her mouth to politely tell this gent and his posh Estuary accent to mind their own business, but fortunately, her eyes moved faster than her lips; she found herself staring at a bloke who, despite being so thin that a hard look might knock him over, was pretty enough to make her heart trip on itself. Academic types didn’t usually do it for her (there was something about their snooty voices and prim manners and patronizing attitudes that grated on her nerves, somehow). But, looking this fellow up and down as subtly as she was able, eyes cataloging everything from his spectacles to his wild hair to his freckles to the ever-so-slightly tatty brown pinstripe suit—paired with Chucks, no less, who wears Chucks with a pinstripe suit?—Rose felt that perhaps she could make an exception this time.

“Thanks, professor. I’ll keep it in mind,” she teased as the lift lurched and lumbered upward.

“What makes you say I’m a professor?” he asked, mouth twitching in amusement.

She shrugged. “S’just a joke,” she replied, but halfway through her sentence, it occurred to him that he was looking at her in a very specific way, and that gave her pause. He wasn’t leering at her like the lads on the sidewalk, or sneering at her like gentlemen in suits were oft wont to do. Instead he was watching her almost like—

Like she was onto something.

And...I think that’s it. Phew. I’ve got my work cut out for me!  ^ ^;;

Tagging: @tiffotcf @helplesslynerdy @abadplanwellexecuted @wordsintimeandspace @lvslie and anyone else who’s interested in playing! :3

[vhyral]

Blooded Hands, Bleeding Hearts

How do I do this?

Pairings: Anna Hawke x Fenris, Reyna Hawke x Orsino, Garrett Hawke x Anders, Vatriel Mahariel x Zevran Arainai

Worldstate: Vatriel Mahariel is the Hero of Ferelden and Warden Commander, Garrett, Reyna and Anna Hawke are the three older siblings of Carver and Bethany Hawke with Reyna being the Champion of Kirkwall

Setting: Garrett and Anna Hawke have accompanied the Inquisitor to the siege of Adamant Fortress. This ficlet follows the party’s last moments in the Fade and the aftermath of the battle. Fenris and Anders arrive in Skyhold, seeking their respective Hawkes.

Words:  4775

Her hands are slick with red, her daggers slowly sliding out of her tightly clenched grip. The ghouls- no, the demons- whatever the corpses with the milky eyes and the black teeth are, they melt into nothing once slashed open and leave scars on her as farewell gifts. The Fade-air is thick and liquid when she breathes between strikes, clinging on the rogue’s clothes and dumping her hair.

It is not made to be breathed by creatures of flesh and blood, Anna Hawke thinks. It feels like she’s choking on honey.

“We cannot delay!” Cassandra’s voice echoes, after the last of the demons has been reduced to dust. “It knows we’re here.”

The Inquisitor scrambles closer, the little elf’s features drawn as she speaks with the warrior, casting worried stares towards the kneeling Warden ahead. She whispers and motions and the Seeker grunts. Two minutes, she issues and joins Blackwall at his rounds, circling their perimeter, their boots sloshing through the muddy, ankle-deep waters. Meanwhile, the bald mage walks to the Inquisitor and leans closer to her as if to share a thought. The wild boy with the hat- Cole- trips right behind him, tagging at his robes. Solas’ eyes have been sparkling with awe non-stop, even when they meet with the Fade horrors. Anna frowns and turns to her brother.

Garrett is at her side like always, his armor glinting under the dim green fade-light. He has been there since they fell into this pit of magic and uncertainty, guarding her back, and for a second, between the smoke and the smell of his thunderbolts scorching the stones near her feet, it feels the faintest like Kirkwall, like the life they had built with blood and sweat before being forced to flee again.

“I never thought I’d miss the smell of Darktown’s sewers yet here we are.” She gives him a tired smile and Garrett shines her one of his own, crooked and soul warming.

"Don't let Varric hear you say that." he laughs.

“I’m literally right over here, Hawke.” The dwarf rolls his eyes at them from where he had perched himself during the fight, on top a nearby rock. A fade-rock. It would not surprise Anna if it sprouted legs and began crawling around with the dwarf riding it like a mighty stead carrying him into battle.

"We will be fine.” Garrett promises, scratching at the remnants of a demon’s claws on the dark metal around his neck. “But we have to move. Soon.”

Further down the narrow path, the Warden Commander is on her knees, her elven lover’s arms around her, holding her close, holding her stable. Her own hands squeeze over her lower abdomen, paperwhite and trembling as she heaves.

"Visiting." Fenris says to the guard that stopped them underneath the Inquisition flags, right before they crossed the huge wooden doors. Behind him, a man is yelling to another guard, trying to gain access to the castle for his goat while a gilded wagon attempts to drive through the doors only to be stopped by flailing Inquisition soldiers.

Morning had already passed when he and Anders had caught the first glimpse of Skyhold from across the rocky mountain landscape, the snow on its tallest towers thick and glistening to the evening sun. The Grand Gates of the stronghold were still wide open when they reached them, letting the colorful, loud crowd of soldiers, merchants and refugees come and go under the watchful eyes of the guards.

"We were invited by Varric Tethras. Here."

The letter comes out neatly folded if not a bit worn out from use- a pretty stellar condition after having travelled half of Thedas in the chest pocket of his cloak. The other man's eyes flutter quickly over the few written lines, straight to the signature at the bottom of the page. There isn't much for him to skip and after weeks of reading it by the campfire, Fenris knows each word by heart.

Broody, it reads, I tried to convey your words to our dearest Hawke. I truly did, once. I'm sorry but for all my charms, Stabby seems to be having none of it- the answer is still no. The hiss I received must have been the shortest conversation I've have had since the Seeker ceased attempting to communicate with me with grunts. The Inquisitor says any friends of mine are welcome in Skyhold- Chipper's a good kid but unless you want your head shaved by an angry redhaired, I'd advise you against accepting any kind of invitations for this part of Thedas.

Then a scratched up line, like someone had snatched the parchment up and managed to scribble a few words before the letter was retrieved. Fenris, the big cursive letters almost screamed with her voice, you over worrying fool! We’ve talked about this. Extensively. I am a grown ass woman and I PROMISE I will roast you with red peppers if I see one lock of fucking white hair around-

These words he read every night before going to sleep. She had not written to him after reaching Skyhold. Too dangerous, too easy to get stolen and Anna never had enough patience to slap down a code instead of her bare thoughts. There was a huge smudge of inked fingertips after her scribbles and above Varric’s signature and the guard’s eyebrow raises noticeably when he reaches the part.

“Master Tethras is usually in the Main Hall this time of the day.” Fenris accepts the letter back with a nod and folds it carefully, slipping it back over his heart.

“He’s not here.”

The elf is stomping around in circles in front of the table one of the kitchen servants guided them to when they asked for Master Tethras. It is small and round, made of well polished pine wood and placed strategically in front of one of the Hall’s many fireplaces. Varric isn’t there but his papers are- stashed parchments, books, ink bottles and more pens than one single dwarf could possibly use neatly organized in one corner.

Anders, strangely, has claimed for himself the seat closer to the fireplace. He is now deftly swirling a pen between his fingers, making its short, black feather jolt and shed a little. His hood has been thrown back- leaving it on would attract more eyes than taking it off, he scoffed when Fenris grimaced. True, with the poor excuse of a beard he has grown around his chin, comically resembling Garrett’s- Fenris had tried not to snort the first time he had seen it-, his golden hair cut short and greying, the mage looks roughly ten years older and is hardly resembling the man that once set Kirkwall- and perhaps the whole of Thedas- on fire.

“You’re… feigning calmness.” Fenris side eyes him. Anders had been restless during their ride through Ferelden, pushing his horse forward to lengths he usually wouldn’t try to reach, spending nights awake and staring at the fire flakes as they rose towards the night sky. Now, he sits idly back on the chair, seemingly relaxed. Yet, after a second, more careful glance, it is obvious that he’s doing a shitty job at concealing it- the mage’s shoulders are visibly stiff and his features drawn, lips pressed together as he keeps his eyes squarely on the pen.

“It’s called keeping a low profile.” he murmurs, stealing a glance around the main hall. People had stared for a bit when they had first entered but visitors are nothing new for Skyhold and after an hour, they now are as good as another piece of decoration. “They’re in an emergency meeting and since you didn’t want to give your name and we can’t quite give mine, we weren’t even announced. No one's going to come running out of there to meet us any time soon.”

Fenris lets out a groan. They are so close, this waiting is killing him. The rumours have been bad but the uncertainty they carried is the worst of it all and the elf can feel himself almost vibrating where he stands, his hands flexing from and into fists at his sides.

The Champion of Kirkwall has fallen. Hawke is dead.

Both Anders and him had walked the long way to the Inquisition’s stronghold with one thought tormenting them every passing hour.

Which Hawke?

The ‘Champion of Kirkwall’ had been left as an open term on purpose, for safety, and they had all agreed to it. It was once the title Reyna Hawke carried, her legacy from almost being impaled on the Arishok’s spear during what now was one of the most widely known duels in Thedas. Yet even in the very city of Kirkwall, the title had been changing hands from one day to the other- after all, there were three Hawkes with exceptional abilities and where Reyna would clean a street in Hightown from thieves, Anna would locate someone’s lost kid the next day and both deeds would be deemed as done by the Champion. When they fled, rumor mingled with gossip and the Tale of the Champion, expertly written as to not give out much about the Champion’s family, had obscured the fact that there were more Hawkes running around Thedas than anyone could ever handle.

But Reyna never set foot in Skyhold, both of them are sure about that. The last letter that had arrived with her sand colored hawk barely a month ago spoke of Antiva and a small, sunny room rented near the Port. It spoke of the sudden decline of Orsino’s health and her reluctant- yeah, right, Anna had laughed- decision to aid the elder mage until he overcame his illness. Thus, only two Hawkes had ever arrived at Skyhold, no matter how strongly Fenris had opposed to the idea when Anna had come to him to talk. And now, someone is supposedly dead and he can feel his chest hurt every time he catches himself wishing that it isn’t her.

He scans the grand hall around him. Dust is dancing in the sunlight pouring in from the huge glass windows, swirling over the lit torches lining its walls. An elf in scout armor is walking their way and he takes a step to the side, placing himself in her path.

“Serah.” he calls. She blinks his way, one of her ears twitching over short, red hair. He gives her a second for the usual quick scan of his face. Her eyes widen the slightest to his tattoos and Fenris asks.

“Where to the Ambassador’s room?”

“What are you planning to do?” Anders is on his feet and following him closely as Fenris walks with long, sure strides across the Hall.

“I’m going to announce myself.”

“It’s impossible to outrun that!”

There’s blood running down Cassandra’s forehead as she yells, her eyes stuck up and glinting dangerously under the green Fade fires. The smell of sulfur is on the air, burning their noses, the hissing of raw Fade energy hissing at the edges of their hair, remains of the recent battle against the Nightmare.

“Go!” comes a hoarse order from behind their backs, “I’ll keep it busy.”

“Have you gone insane?!” Anna has never heard Zevran’s voice ring as thickly and ominously as right now. He grabs the Warden Commander’s arm when she swirls around, his fingers closing in what looks like a death grip. “We’re going.” he growls at her.

“Since when are you making my decisions for me, Zevran?” she hisses back, trying to shake his hand off but the muscles on the Crow’s arm flex and he tags her closer instead, her boots splashing through the murky waters. She glares daggers at him and he shakes his head.

“Since you, my dear Warden, seem to have lost your good judgement.”

“This is NOT the time for this!” Cassandra howls at the same time as a bellow crashes into their ears- the demon is recovering and it will soon be coming for them.

“Knives and fire and steel that cuts, too real, too solid, permanent, burning! Gut them, burn them, chain them up and drink them dry!” Cole wails and then doubles down and holds his head, grunting in pain. The Inquisitor rubs a comforting hand down his back.

“I can give you at least five.” Mahariel insists. “Run and you’ll make it. I have fought uglier things that this in the past.”

“Andraste’s flaming underpants, Vatriel-”

Thunder booms behind them and Anna jumps.

“If you could hurry it up a bit, thank you very much.” Garrett huffs from their rear guard. He raises his arms above his head and lets lightning rain down upon the few demons that have found the courage to slither through the scorched battleground from before and come after them. “I mean it’s not like we have a giant spider coming for our sorry asses here or anything. I can handle this, sure.”

Anna turns around, teeth tearing at her lips as she adjusts the grip on her carved knives. Her muscles still feel sore from their recent fights as she steps towards the demons, melting into the shadows. All she wants is warm food and cold beer and to put her feet up in front of a fireplace without something being out for her neck.

“Go back. To being. Fucking mist.” she hisses as she plunges a dagger deep enough into a ghoul’s eye, it sinks to the hilt. An arrow zooms by her ear as Varric falls into work alongside them.

“I can put up a shield.” she hears the Inquisitor’s voice. “It can hold for a while until you all get out of here and I’m a fast runner-”

“Not open for discussion.” the Seeker cuts her and Lavellan groans.

“Cassandra-”

“A barrier could indeed be held for longer than usual here in the Fade.” Solas offers. “But to risk sacrificing you would be ill adviced if not mindless.”

“This is the Wardens’ fault, all of it.” The Commander’s voice sounds adamant. “No, Zevran. This is MY responsibility.

“It is not even just YOU that would have to stay back anymore!” the Antivan snaps. Anna throws her dagger to a nearby crawling spiderling. It hits it square between its open jaws and it evaporates with a screech. “Good riddance, you freaky nug.” Garrett laughs. “Good one, kid.”

“Sir? Sir, please! You cannot go in there!”

Josephine finds herself at a loss when the strangers first storm right through her doors. She has no meeting arranged for the next three hours and the Council is not yet done. She had briefly returned to her desk to fetch a couple of official documents when the door had swung open, smooth on well oiled hinges. It hits the wall behind it with a bang, making her jump and sending several of the parchments she had been carrying to the floor.

“This area is off limits!” she states now, sharpening her tone and stepping forward to quickly slip her body in between the unknown pair of men that rushes inside and the inner door that leads to the War Room. A flutter of her eyes and the scout that had arrived seconds earlier to deliver a report quietly excuses himself back to the Hall. Hopefully the guards will be here soon enough. “You can’t just barge in here like this, gentlemen, please. We can talk this out.”

“Apologies, Serah,” the elf at the front stops a few steps away from her and speaks, looking her square in the eyes, “but we have come to see the Hawke siblings.”

His pupils are big, expressive and brightly green, mesmerizing as he firmly holds her gaze, and Josephine gives him a quick appraisal now that he is finally standing still instead of marching towards her.

“I’m afraid the Council is private-” she begins.

And then she sees them, where they’re poking from his scarf, around his neck and up his chin, the white tattoos with the faint blue iridescence that curl against dark skin. The ambassador knows better than to let her surprise show- she lets the initial rush of adrenaline of having this very elf right in front of her, here in Skyhold, pass. The man behind him shifts on his feet and Josephine eyes him carefully. He is wearing a hood that partially hid his face but she can make out the tiniest hint of blonde. She inhales sharply- if that is who she thinks he is, Cassandra won’t be happy at all.

Then comes dread- they are here for a reason. They are here for Hawke.

“Serah Fenris. Serah.” she motions towards the chairs of her office. “If you have a minute.”

“Go!”

Varric’s face is a mess of pain, loss and bitter understanding. “Garrett.” he croaks.

“The woman is with child, Varric.” The tall man rolls his staff in his hands before looking up, clear blue eyes meeting with the deep green of the Warden Commander. “And who’s better suited to fight in the Fade than a mage?”

“My brother,” he says loudly for her to hear, “he’s a Warden. If you meet Carver Hawke, let him know that his brother was very proud of him. Tell him his brother loved him, dearly, deeply, always.”

“That should embarrass him out of his grief pretty quickly.” he chuckles.

“No! Garrett!” Anna lunges herself at him, a hand grasping his wrist, the other one closing into a fist around the fabric of his garments. “This is bullshit!” she roars. “You’re not staying here! I’m not leaving you in this hell!”

She glares at him and Garrett gives her a small, weary smile- his free hand finds its way to her cheek and cups it softly- he smells of blood and sweat and ash but so does she and it’s a familiar smell.

“There’s no other way.” His voice is soft. “We will never outrun the Nightmare.”

She can feel a lump forming in her throat, the familiar pressure behind her eyes. She grits her teeth instead and shakes her head violently, scanning the area around them. They can hide, they can split up and try to confuse it, she can knife the demon in its blasted, cursed eyes-

His hand, still warm on her cheek, tags gently, guiding her eyes back on his face, keeping them there. Garrett’s cheeks and forehead are smeared with black and his lower lip sports a blood red cut- his breathing is hitched but he’s smiling softly at her and the rogue feels her chest constrict.

“There’s no other way, Anna.” he breathes. His forehead comes to meet with hers and her hands let go of everything to come cup his temples, her fingers hooking into his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it came to this. You’ll have to explain to Reyna, Bethany… to Anders-”

“I’m staying.” Her voice is ragged, her lips dry. “If you’re staying, I’ll be with you to the end.”

“Anna…”

“No, no!” she hisses. “You get to throw your life away but I can’t do the same for you? I’m staying, Garrett. You are my- I’m not going, I’m not losing you.”

Varric’s voice is hoarse behind her. “Kid…”

“Varric.” Her heart is fluttering like a caged bird now- her body trembles in the thought of what’s to come and then steels, warms up and tightens as she turns to face the dwarf. She didn’t come seeking death but leaving Garrett behind feels like a death in its own and she won’t have it. In a corner of her mind, somewhere, a small voice whispers- maybe with the two of us, we can win, we can make it, the two of us, together.

“You have to write to him.” she tells the dwarf. “Fenris. Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I love him, now and forever.”

Varric’s face twists into a mass of pain to her words, his knuckles turning white where he holds Bianca. “Kid,” he shakes his head, “not like this.”

Something explodes in the distant and the ground underneath their feet shakes, the rumbling that echoes through the air growing louder instead of dying down. Anna unsheathes her knives as Blackwall lets out a war cry.

“We don’t have any more time!” he yells. “We have to leave. NOW!”

“And so, we’re out of time.” Garrett huffs.

“Wha-”

She turns- and then her limbs suddenly feel heavy, getting glued into place with every muscle that she tries to move.

“Garrett!’ she croaks bewildered. “Garrett, what-”

His hand is pointing towards her, lit with arcane energy and deep lines form on his forehead as she stares at him. Light pillars flicker around her and that’s when she realises the spell being cast on her.

“Spirit Cage?” she shouts. “Spirit Cage, on ME? Garrett! Let me go! Let me go right now!”

“Varric!” her brother yells instead. “Blackwall! Get her out of here, NOW!”

“No! NO!” The men’s hands are on her shoulders then, around her waist, pulling her, dragging her with them and Anna struggles against the invisible ropes that keep her arms from pushing them away, her legs from kicking. She’s being carried away and for every second passing, Garrett’s getting further away as he flexes his arms and firmly grabs his staff.

“Garrett!” she screams. People are yelling around her as they run. Blackwall is grunting under her weight and Zevran’s voice is encouraging his wife forwards from somewhere at the head of the line but all Anna can see is the tall man they’re leaving behind, the glinting of the ice blue gem of his staff, like a beacon in a sea of green.

“GARRETT, NO! NOT LIKE THIS! GARRETT!” Her throat feels like being teared up from the inside out. “GARRETT!”

At the distance, her brother looks back one last time and his voice carries over the ominous rumble when he yells.

“I love you.”

The words reach her just as the monstrous demon breaks through the hill hiding them from its view all this time. It comes with its million legs thrashing and an explosion of flying rocks and fire and Garrett turns to face it, small in the distance and with his armor shining with swirling mana.

She doesn’t feel remorse when the spell loosens and she beats against Blackwall’s helmet with all the strength she can find in her, when she kicks Varric in the shoulder while trying to break free. She doesn’t see the rift’s edges when they jump through it and crash against hard stone, knees and elbows bleeding as they scrape against the floor.

She only keeps on screaming as she’s held back from jumping back in, someone’s arms around her own, Varric’s hands against her chest as the Inquisitor stands and waits for a heartbeat and then for some more and when no one comes through, she finally raises her hand and blinding green flashes.

She screams harder than ever when he can’t hear her anymore.

“… Kid?”

Anna jumps, knocking down one of the flags the Inquisition advisors use to pinpoint missions on their map.

“Shit.” she mutters and reaches down. The damned thing has rolled further down the war table and she gets on her knees to get it. “Fuck.” she repeats. “Sorry.”

She straightens back up and catches the Inquisitor stealing a glance at her. Lavellan’s eyes are clouded but she averts them fast when Anna stares back and turns to where Leliana and Cullen are bickering.

“You ok?”

Varric usually doesn’t participate in Council meetings- a case has come up deeply connected to Kirkwall though and his presence has been requested. He has not taken the task with joy but he has come nonetheless. Anna knows he is here mostly for her. He has been trying to be in her immediate perimeter ever since they returned from Adamant Fortress.

She wishes he didn’t.

“Are you?” she rumbles.

Pain flashes across the dwarf’s face and the rogue feels the sting of her words coming right back at her.

“Damn it, Varric.” she sighs. “Sorry. I… don’t- this… it’s difficult.”

“I know.” He scratches his chin, absentmindedly staring at the advisors and the Inquisitor trying to find some middle ground over a mission. “Believe me, Kid, I know.”

“Did you write? To everyone.”

He shakes his head.

“The words won’t come.”

How do you write about something that doesn’t feel real? Several days have passed and still, whenever she manages to make herself faint, late at night, she wakes up the next morning with a few blissful seconds where everything feel like just another dream. Where Garrett bangs on her door with plates full of pancakes. Where Dog and her are a warm mess on her bed, the mabari drooling on her hair. And then, Garrett never comes and Dog is old and a world away from her, with the other half of her heart, and she has to truly wake up and keep on going, living, in a world with muted colors.

She has to write to Fenris, to let him know that she is alive, that she is ok. She knows but her fingers refuse to ink the words and the parchment is waiting half empty on her desk.

“What is taking Josephine so long?” Leliana wonders from the other side of the table. “It has been ten minutes already.”

“I should go check.” the Inquisitor turns. “Maybe she needs some help.”

There it is, a window out of this room, away from talks for future expeditions- all she wants at the moment and so Anna sets the little flag back on the table. “Let me. I could use some fresh air.”

“Ask her to bring all recent correspondence with Duke Dumont, yes?”

“No, not you, Varric.” Cullen calls when the dwarf motions to follow her to the door. “We just got to the requests from Kirkwall, we need your assistance.”

Varric shrugs, gives her a strained look and drags himself back to the war table, looking not pleased at all. Anna on the other hand rather prefers this turn of events- he is so stricken with grief and she can’t deal with this right now. She needs space.

“Later, Varric.” she waves, letting the doors close behind her.

She is glad no one has fixed the hole in the wall between the war room and Josephine’s office. She gives herself a second to stand before it, letting the setting sunlight blind her eyes and the breeze caress her face. It almost feels like a touch across her cheek.

“Josephine?” she calls, pushing down the handle to the dark door leading to the ambassador’s office. “Leliana is looking for you- oh, visitors. Excuse me-”

One of the men standing over Josephine’s desk is covered from head to toes, a dark cloak around thin shoulders and his head hidden underneath a hood. He is hunched over the various papers and talking to the ambassador with a low voice- tension is radiating from where his hands have clutched the rim of her desk, bony fingers white from his tight grip.

It feels fishy and she discreetly moves one hand to the dagger at her waist. The man standing next to him, clothed in similar travelling clothes and with white hair caught into a tight ponytail, turns sharply the moment her voice rings across the room.

Anna takes it all in at once, in a moment- the green of his wide eyes, the arch of his nose. The red ribbon keeping his hair in place. The glint of sharp teeth when he opens his mouth.

“Fenris?” she manages before going airborne, strong arms closing around her waist and burning hot lips crashing onto her own and he breathes his next word right into their kiss.

“Anna!” he growls. “Anna, Anna, Anna!”

Her own hands find his back instinctively, nails digging in and holding on to him desperately- the kiss is long and fiery, an explosion of colors and rapid hearbeats and for a glorious moment, she forgets everything that isn’t him. It leaves her heaving for air when he finally puts some space between their faces, both of them breathing hard into each other’s arms.

“You’re here.” Fenris whispers feverently, one hand reaching up to smooth her hair, guiding her head to rest against his neck. “You’re here, you’re safe.”

The rogue nods, her throat blocked for a moment. She can smell the road on him, the dust and the horse hair and underneath all that, his aroma that reminds her of nights under the sheets and warm arms around her back. Her eyes burn and she pushes against his chest a bit- she wants to see his eyes again, his face, him.

“How?” she croaks once words finally seem to return as an option of response. “What are you doing here?”

Fenris’ expression clouds to her question and his eyebrows lower menacingly over his eyes, a hint of anger finding its way to his now tightly pursed lips, to the sharp line of his jaw. His hand finds the side of her neck and squeezes firmly.

“What was I doing away from here is the right question. We heard the rumours, Anna. I thought you were dead!”

“I’m not dead.” she shakes her head. “I’m not…”

We?

“Anna?”

She freezes. It is the voice she dreaded to hear. Not here, not yet. She is not ready for this.

She looks behind Fenris, where the cloaked stranger has let his hood fall back over his shoulders. Golden hair shine under the last sun rays and she spots the red scarf around his neck.

“Where is Garrett?” asks Anders.

@forthelifeofoneburglar, @notyourinquisitormate, it’s been a while so here it is again. I’m almost done with the second part so I thought I should remind you you should reread it before the next assault of angst.