#trying to pretend you're a smart person is very difficult as it turns out

[vvatchword]

Ch. 26: From on High

Dr. Lamb’s first speech came that afternoon without preparation at all. She had just stepped outside the office to stretch her legs when a shout went up down the street. Down the block came a vanguard of children shouting insults and throwing rocks; just behind the children, a group of overall-clad workmen surrounded by Sinclairs wielding shotguns; far behind marched a shifting, shivering horde of disgruntled humanity. Men, women, children, all ages, in washed-out clothing that flapped loosely on their limbs, sometimes holding brooms or pokers or chair legs.

The rumble was like that of thunder.

Soon the group had swallowed up her street, as well as the line that crushed itself against her building.

“I’m very sorry; what’s going on?” Dr. Lamb called out into the crowd.

“They’re knocking down our apartment!” a man in black called back. “They’re knocking it down and they’re not paying us back for the leases or nothing!”

“Perhaps I can help,” she said, holding her door open for an entering janitor. “When are they going down?”

“This minute! Now!”

She stepped off her stoop. “I will be back directly. All of you will be seen to.”

The line outside her door stared mutely; no doubt they hadn’t heard her.

Some watched, wondering.

She stepped out into the crowd and it swept her down the block. A group of young men blocked up the space around her without saying a word; she was aware of their eyes, although she never caught them looking at her.

She was never jostled. She was never touched.

In this way, she pushed toward the front of the line, where a square opened organically into a bare patch of raw stone and dumped cement. Men with saws and sledgehammers were arguing with a throng of inhabitants clustered outside one of the Drop’s most cherished rarities—a professionally-built building once used as a flophouse for the construction crews of years past, long since converted to a tenement. Its front door had already been removed from its hinges.

Dr. Lamb broke through the head of the throng, lifting her arms and her voice.

“Quiet, please!” she called out.

Perhaps because she was a woman, perhaps because she reminded one strongly of Sunday school teachers, perhaps because she stood out—prim and proper in a pencil skirt down to her calves, a high collar, pale and lavender and gray against the yellow, the black, the earth—the different sides settled.

The Sinclairs alone moved; although they kept the muzzles down, they slowly lifted their shotguns against their shoulders.

“I come unarmed,” said Dr. Lamb to the Sinclairs, “and am but a single woman. Do you mean to solve your problems with violence instead of reason?”

The crowd muttered, but the Sinclairs burst into laughter.

“This ain’t your place, sister,” said the Sinclair captain, who wore a peaked cap with a brass star. “Why don’t you head back and yak at those hobos instead of bothering honest workers?”

“Violence here would no doubt stretch to the place where I ‘yak,’” said Dr. Lamb. “This is purely self-interest. Please, allow me to help.”

The crowd shifted around behind her. Were the edges of it beginning to press inward?

“We don’t need no help,” said the captain. “Get outta here.”

“I am told you are tearing down this building,” said Dr. Lamb. “This would impact well over a hundred citizens. Who has made this decision?”

“Sinclair Solutions,” said a worker whose nametag read, “Mitchell.” “Take it up with them.”

“Sinclair Solutions owns this site?”

“Well, yeah,” Mitchell said. “What don’t they own down here?”

From the side streets swaggered more brown-jackets, rifles in their arms. Dr. Lamb saw them. 

Dr. Lamb did not express anything other than unsurprised indifference.

“It seems strange that the company would not give these people notice,” she said.

Mitchell shrugged. “Not uncommon down here, ma’am.”

She blinked and stood back. “I beg your pardon?”

“Not uncommon to build or take down a building without letting anyone know,” he said. “Happens all the time.”

“You would throw whole families on the street. Working families, no less.”

“Just doing my job, ma’am.”

Brown-jackets were slipping through the crowd toward her.

Dr. Lamb lifted her voice. “Part of our ‘job’ is understanding and defending the philosophy. And by the philosophy, this is the behavior of a tyrant.”

Silence fell on the square. A brown-jacket had just begun to reach for her out of the crowd. He recoiled.

“This is the behavior of a tyrant!” she said, a woman—a schoolmarm—shining white. “You have every right to defend yourselves.”

The acoustics of the square had been accidental; now they flung up Dr. Lamb’s voice like an end-time trumpet. The crowd had been building up as she spoke. It trembled, edged forward. Too late did the brownjacks and the sledgehammers realize that it was perhaps 300 strong and still growing.

The captain’s jaw tightened. “All right. You had your chat. We’ve got work to do. You get your scum out of the way so we can get it done.”

But Dr. Lamb no longer addressed him. She turned her back on him and faced the crowd shivering but feet away. It seemed suddenly that she towered above them; they shrank, small and earthy and crawling, staring up with eyes like hunted animals.

“You have worked fairly for your bread, have you not?” Dr. Lamb called out. “You have paid for your housing? Your children’s educations? You have signed the papers they asked for? And once they are done with you, they throw you aside; they will find others who will pay because they must. And you have paid and you have paid and you have paid! Where are your returns? Do you not deserve them as much as Sinclair? Are you not as much a man as he?”

The rumble went up. The Sinclair captain’s shotgun shivered; in a moment he might snap it to eye level; in a moment she might lose her head before an army.

Her army. An army he could see trembling at the brink.

“The philosophy should speak for every man,” Dr. Lamb said. “Not merely the strongest. There is strength in variety and death in monoculture.” She whirled on the Sinclairs. “You—shotguns! Take this back to Augustus Sinclair: without these people, the Drop will never heal, and by extension, the whole of Rapture lies dying of a seeping wound.”

A ragged cheer rose up, then swelled high, and hands waved hats. The edges of the crowd bunched up around her, swallowed her up, then crept step by shuddering step, hundreds upon hundreds of feet, shod and unshod, the herd lowering its horns before the lions.

The Sinclair captain met Dr. Lamb’s eyes. He lowered his shotgun. He flicked his hand back over his shoulder. Slowly, the group of workmen and their brownjacks backed away across the square, eyes on the crowd, as it lifted up a deep rumble of discontent.

Dr. Lamb followed their retreat—slowly, enveloped by the crowd, tall, straight-backed, untouchable, shining. She and the Sinclair captain kept their eyes locked on the entire slog down the street toward the train station.

It was he who, red-faced, would stand before his boss and say, without reserve: “Sir, there is something unnatural about that woman.”

It was she who would watch them depart by train, then walk back to her white building, the crowd leaping around her. The young tossed their hats and shook her hand; the older inclined their heads and doffed their caps. She nodded to those whose hands she shook, but no expression passed her face; later, those who had met her would describe her visage as everything from noble to proud to world-weary.

She stepped into her office for the one o’clock appointment.

**

The letter arrived at Dr. Lamb's Family Consultation Center by special courier early that evening. Dr. Lamb had just set her files aside for the secretary. A line still wound out the door, quiet lined faces staring through the glass; most of them would remain overnight, waiting for openings in her schedule. She had not put up bars, even when the plumber had suggested it.

"No," she had said. "It would say we did not have faith in our own cause."

"It would stop a Sinclair from torching the place," he had said, but never brought it up again.

The letter was two pages long. The first piece of paper was printed with the city council's letterhead, crowned by a chain motif clenched between two straining fists.

She scanned it, hand clenching in her lap, digging one nail into her palm at a time. She set the page down.

The second page was from Andrew Ryan.

Her brow knotted. For a moment only her eyes moved. She must have finished at some point, for she sat staring, unmoving, for a few minutes.

Then her brow smoothed. Her lips loosed. She leaned back. She took both pages, folded them neatly, tucked them back in their envelope.

The secretary poked her head around the corner. She was a homely girl, stout, missing her right leg below the knee. Her face was white. Her eyes lit on the envelope, its neatly torn slit.

“What did they say?” she asked.

Dr. Lamb met her eyes. Pinching it between thumb and index finger, she dropped it in the wastebasket.

“It is nothing worth worrying about,” she said. “I will see you tomorrow.”

**

Dr. Lamb stepped through the front door, a bag of groceries in one arm. Almost as soon as she did, Eleanor bowled into her.

“Eleanor,” she said, “what did I tell you about…”

“Mum!” said Eleanor, flapping up a newspaper. “Do you know Johnny Topside?”

“I… Eleanor, do not change the topic,” she said. “Remember, exce…”

“Excessive-emotion-clouds-logic-yes-I-know-but-do-you-know-Johnny-Topside?” Eleanor jumped up, held the newspaper straight out.

Dr. Lamb frowned, took it out of her hand. It was a full-page ad. A man, frowning, staring down as if in thought; his stance wide open, like someone poised for a fight; cigarette clamped between index and middle fingers, a stream of smoke floating up; jacket flared open, thumb smearing something dark from his lip. Behind him, the slouching humps of Neptune’s Bounty.

“It’s Always Time for Nico-Time!” said the copy.

“That’s Johnny Topside,” said Eleanor, and stared at her expectantly.

Dr. Lamb lowered the paper, squinting down at her daughter like she had just been given a toad.

“Why are you showing me this picture?” she asked slowly.

“Do you know him?” asked Eleanor. “Did you meet him in Japan?”

“Of course not,” said Dr. Lamb. “Why, he was probably…” She looked at the ad again. “He might have only been in his teens at that time. Oh, Eleanor. We were at war, and Japan was not a friendly place to outsiders. Why on Earth would you ask such a thing?”

Eleanor’s smile fell. “I just… I just thought…”

“Did he give an interview?” Dr. Lamb paled. “Is Ryan trying to connect us?” She flipped the paper closed, glanced over the front page.

“N-no,” Eleanor said, twisting her hands. “I just thought maybe you…”

She leaned against the wall, took her glasses off, rubbed her forehead. “Oh, Eleanor. I…”

For a moment, both of them stood very quietly. Far away, a minute hand ticked. Dr. Lamb pushed the heel of her hand into one eye, then the other.

No, no, she could not. She would not.

She took a deep and shuddering breath.

“Today was very difficult for me, Eleanor,” she said at last. “I know better than to give in to emotional excess.”

“It’s okay,” Eleanor said solemnly, wrapping her arms around Dr. Lamb’s legs. “You’re only human.”

Dr. Lamb laughed. It was a colorless fluttering sound. Eleanor gazed up and laughed with her as loudly as she could.

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB

[lexxierave]

When Fate Intervenes- tasm! Peter Parker x Reader Part 9

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8]

The night air was chillier than normal and you instantly regretted not grabbing a heavier jacket when you left your apartment but you were so excited from turning in your paper that you didn't initially feel the cold winds sweeping past you.

You thought maybe it would be best to grab a coffee at a little cafe and maybe just call it quits early, you could always go out tomorrow night when you have the forethought to look up the weather or at the very least dress warmer for the night. 

As the door jingles above your head the person in the middle of the line turns and you realize it's Peter.

"Parker?" You questioned him in disbelief.

What were the odds he would be at the coffee shop you always go to in between studying. It wasn't too far from your apartment but far enough that you got a decent study break in on the walk there and back.

"Hey y/n" Peter waved slightly before readjusting his glasses and the warmth in you started to come back.

Yep that's Peter, his skateboard was tucked in his backpack and slug over his one shoulder easily.

Today's Peter seemed to be wearing a comfy looking hoodie layered over what looked like a long sleeve shirt, to keep himself warm while he skated around who knows where. 

Peter seemed almost different from earlier though. Almost like he was the Peter from when you first encountered him, awkward and shy. Not the smart and nerdy guy you started to know. He acted like you were strangers again, not budding friends.

Sure he greeted you but that was all he did as he turned back around in the line as it started to move again.

At that thought the warmth that was inside you died down quickly.

You must have crossed a line earlier like you worried about. You needed to apologize for that.

That distance between him and you in the line wasn't that great so you weighed your options and decided to just wait until you both were waiting for your drinks to talk to him. It would give you the chance to think of how you were going to apologize to him.

It wasn’t long until it was your turn to order, you turned to the barista ready to rattle off you order when you realized you knew the person

“Joey?” You questioned not quite sure if you knew his name correctly or not.

“Close it’s Johnny” He corrected you giving you a small smile.

You had seen him around campus and maybe in one of your classes if you remembered correctly and while he seemed like a nice guy there was something about him that just didn’t stick with you. You just couldn’t put your finger on it but it seemed like from what you had seen he tried too hard to be liked.

“Right. Sorry about that. Johny. Umm..how have you been?” You questioned trying to break the awkward tension that seemed to have appeared between the two of you.

“Not too bad. How about yourself?” He asked, pretending to clean the counter.

“I’ve been doing good.” You replied, glancing over to see if Peter’s name had been called but thankfully it hadn’t.

“I..uh…heard you’ve been working closely with that Parker kid.” Johny stated, causing you to snap your attention back to him.

“Oh? What about it?” You asked defensively.

You knew that people talked harshly about Peter before you worked with him. The name Park traveled throughout the school like some kind of a new slang term to put someone down.

Things like “You're such a Parker.” or “Don’t be a Parker”. While you had no idea what it meant at the time you paid it no mind.

However, once you actually met the boy and got to know him the terms took a new meaning to you and you found yourself sticking up for Peter behind his back.

“Nothing. Just curious how you’re handling it. You know what they say about him at school.” He tried to remind you. “It must be difficult to be near that kind of kid for even a short amount of time.”

You thought about how when you first started working with Peter you didn’t really want to spend that much time with him either but not because of what they said at school but because you just didn’t want to deal with someone else. But now? Now that you got to get closer to Peter, there’s something about him that draws you in and makes you want to spend your free time with him. It didn’t matter what you did, you just wanted his presence.

So the thought of how others still thought of him and talked about him without knowing him got your blood boiling and you felt its heat rising to your head.

“Well not everything you hear is fact. Now if you’d please I’d like to order.” You snapped at him.

“Oh…yeah. Sure. Didn’t mean to upset you. What can I get you?” He asked, the shock from your response clearly written on his face.

You ordered and turned to find Peter was gone. The pout on your face was evident as you moved out of the way and waited for your own drink alone. 

You had a lot playing through your mind as you stood there that you didn’t realize what was happening outside the coffee shop.

Part 10

[bloodyfeverdreams]

Like I Could Pull Aside the Mask, and There Would be the Face of My Son, Diego

Soooooo I know this Zorro fandom is literally so dead, as the show's been over for literally over sixty years 😅 but I was watching the show for the first time since I adore Zorro, and as I went, I got an idea for this, annnnd then this happened. Whumptober let me finish this so it counts haha. If y'all don't mind reading fanfics for fandoms you're not familiar with, I'd be really excited if you could try this one. I'll give you a guide so you can follow the story.

Don Diego de la Vega - Zorro, the main character of the show. He's convinced the rest of Los Angeles that he's a dandy, completely inept with a sword in order to keep people from discovering he's Zorro.

Don Alejandro de la Vega - Diego's loving father, who doesn't know who Zorro is under the mask.

Bernardo - Diego's manservant, and best friend. He's mute, and also pretends to be deaf so he can help Diego with being Zorro.

Tornado - Zorro's horse, who's incredibly smart.

Sergeant Garcia - A soldier of the King of Spain, who's not the brightest, who's charged with arresting Zorro while also "secretly" thinking he's a hero

Corporal Reyes - Another soldier, who's probably slightly autistic lol who takes everything Sergeant Garcia says way too literally, and is as dumb as a box of rocks.

The Eagle - The main villain of the second half of the first season.

Juan Ramos - A guy I made up for the sole purpose of hurting Diego.

pueblo - What Los Angeles was before it really became a city. When they say pueblo, they basically mean the whole city.

hacienda - Alejandro's house, he's a rancher, Diego lives there with his father after returning from university in Spain.

cuartel - basically the police force/police station

Okay, now that we've got that out of the way, let's get down to the actual story.

Adrenaline really could be a powerful drug sometimes, Diego thought vaguely. It was why he never drank too much wine when he was drinking, he never liked his senses being dulled. But sometimes, as Zorro, he would get so caught up in the simple act of not getting killed, that his world narrowed to just what he was doing. Facing multiple enemies at once will do that to a person, even the most accomplished swordsman. And while the idea of Zorro could never be destroyed, that didn’t mean that Diego de la Vega wasn’t still just a mortal man.

The Eagle’s men were often very well-trained in swordplay, some even rivaled Diego himself, and this one was no different. Juan Ramon had been sent to smuggle a supply of weapons from Mexico to the Eagle’s men waiting in the outskirts of Los Angeles. As soon as he’d figured out the Eagle’s plan, Diego donned his mask and Zorro rode, and he intercepted the wagon full of the concealed weapons, redirecting it to Sergeant Garcia to prevent any of the Eagle’s men from getting their hands on it. The shipment of weapons had been stopped, but Ramon decided to ride with Sergeant Garcia to capture Zorro, citing the reward. It had been all too easy to evade the Sergeant, as it usually was, but Ramon wasn’t so easily misled, continuing to race after him as he rode on Tornado.

Tornado was the fastest horse in the pueblo, but it seemed nothing would stop Ramon from capturing Zorro. Ramon’s sword slashed at his back, slicing through some of his cape. So he’d turned Tornado around to fight the man honorably, though it seemed the man had none, and their swords began to clash in the darkness. Ramon was a fierce swordsman, a true challenger to Diego’s skills. Being Zorro for so long, he’d gotten very used to fighting in the dark, so he could parry Ramon’s strikes, though fighting on horseback was quite difficult. He didn’t just have to protect himself but he had to protect Tornado. He had no doubt that this man would strike Tornado just to get to him. As his blood thundered through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest, Diego felt the world narrowing to this fight, keeping himself and Tornado alive.

Luck it seemed was on his side though, and he could hear the rattle of a snake in between the crashes of their swords. Ramon’s horse bucked into the air, causing Ramon’s last thrust to veer off course as Ramon was thrown from his horse. Diego could sense that Tornado hadn’t seen the snake yet, though his good friend clearly heard it, and he used his new advantage to ride away before Ramon could get back on his horse to chase after him.

But something strange began to happen as he rode to the hacienda. His vision began to blur a little around the edges as his heart couldn’t slow down. Diego could tell that something was wrong, but he couldn’t tell what, this had never happened to him before. He tried to ignore it, hoping if he just made it home, he could deal with it then, but black spots began to dance across his vision as he rode. After checking that no one was following him, he had Tornado slow down, thinking that would ease his heart into something calmer. Again, it didn’t. Black spots still began to dance across his vision, actually if anything they got worse. At this point, Diego knew that something was terribly wrong, but he wasn’t sure what. He began to slump a little in his saddle, and he became aware of a distant throbbing in his right side. He urged Tornado home, never more grateful that Tornado was the smartest horse in the state, as he was losing the ability to guide Tornado himself.

The throbbing in his side was beginning to get stronger, turning sharper and fouler with a kind of pain he’d never felt before, and he felt himself getting weaker and weaker far too quickly. Diego’s hands then came to his right side, trying to ascertain what was causing his unusual and unpleasant feelings. He ran his fingers up the right side of his shirt, and found part of it to be wet for some reason. He didn’t understand, his sharp, witty mind moving unusually slow, and he looked down at himself.

Wearing all black often let him move around in the pueblo in complete secrecy, moving as one with the shadows. But something he’d never thought of before was that being dressed in black would prevent him from seeing things like blood when they started to stain through his shirt. It wasn’t until he noticed that his shirt was ripped that he even saw the wound. It seemed Ramon’s last strike had found its mark.

All at once, when he finally registered he was wounded, the pain slammed into him like a horse kicking him in the chest. He doubled over, crying out as his hand covered the wound, and his breath left him like he’d been punched in the stomach. His mind went a little dizzy at seeing his flesh sliced open, and he leaned on Tornado to keep himself upright.

“Tornado, take, ahh, take me home.” Diego murmured, his eyes having trouble staying open. But he trusted Tornado, as he was the smartest horse Diego had ever met, and he knew his friend would get him home.

Darkness started to pull at him a little as Tornado trotted along carefully, as if sensing his master was wounded. Pull it together, he thought to himself, the hacienda wasn’t far. He just had to make it back home, and then Bernardo would be able to get him a doctor. He was sure Bernardo would be able to make some excuse of why Diego had been stabbed that didn’t involve Zorro. Probably in a way that made his father disappointed in him again.

Diego’s thoughts began to stray as the pain became unbearable, his body lurching with every step Tornado took. He wasn’t sure why he was thinking of his father, and the disappointed look he always had in his eyes whenever Diego backed down from a fight. Maybe because he’d just fought proudly and honorably for the people he and his father wanted to protect, but his father would never know it. He preferred it that way of course, because he never wanted his father to get caught up in his adventures of Zorro, as he risked his life often and losing his father would absolutely destroy him. But that didn’t make disappointing him any easier.

Thoughts of his father drifted as his body got weaker, as his mind lost the ability to think beyond the pain. He was slumping further and further in the saddle, his body now laying against Tornado’s neck, as he was unable to sit up anymore. His blinks got longer, heavier, his eyes feeling like lead, and he was losing the strength to keep them open.

“Torn’ado, get… get ‘ernardo. Get help…” Diego whimpered, the pain overwhelming him to the point where he could barely speak anymore. The adrenaline that had kept him going this entire time was fading, and he was losing what little strength he had.

But Diego couldn’t see his horse’s answer, as his eyes slipped closed and stayed closed. His body went limp, and he slowly slid out of the saddle. He collapsed onto the ground with a soft groan. He felt Tornado nuzzle his face, heard the fright in his friend’s neighs, but he couldn’t respond beyond a low moan. Tornado tried to get him up once more, but Diego still lay unmoving on his side. With the little bit of strength he had left, Diego tried to reach out to Tornado, unsure of what he was even reaching for, but desperate to try and not give into this darkness. Even though Zorro was a fearless hero, Diego was still just a man, and he was scared he was going to die here in the dirt, away from anyone he loved. His hand trembled as he fought as hard as he could, putting all of his remaining strength into trying to move, but his hand went slack as the little strength he had waned, and he collapsed into darkness.

Originally, Alejandro had wanted Diego to ride with him this morning since he thought that getting some fresh air would do his bookworm son some good, but when he knocked, Diego hadn’t answered. He assumed his son must still be asleep, having stayed up late due to his books and poems, no doubt. Thinking that he’d just see his son at breakfast,  Alejandro decided to ride  across his hacienda alone.

Riding across the hacienda every morning had become a part of his routine when he’d sent Diego off to Spain to finish his education. He’d missed his son terribly, so he’d taken to riding in the morning to clear his head to start the day. Diego had always loved riding when he was younger, so Alejandro rode in the mornings to make him feel close to his son while he was gone. And even though Diego had returned from Spain, Alejandro still missed the young boy he’d sent to college. Diego had been such a rambunctious youth, always getting into trouble, always swinging his sword at every problem in an effort to imitate his father. He wasn’t sure what had changed in his son during university, but something had. So Alejandro still rode every morning to clear his head, to let him focus on the day ahead of him, and to think about his son. He’d tried to understand, tried to get Diego to tell him what had happened to him, but Diego had suddenly become very evasive over his true feelings, and he wouldn’t speak to his father the way he used to. Whatever it was that had happened, he hoped that Diego would tell him eventually. He wanted his son to trust him, regardless of what path he walked in life.

A horse’s neigh started him out of his thoughts, and he was stunned to see Zorro’s black horse riding up to him. He’d only seen the horse a few times when he’d run into the outlaw, but it seemed that Zorro owned the only black horse in the entire pueblo, and everyone would recognize the horse on sight. But something was wrong, as an experienced ranchero like him would immediately spot the tell-tale signs in the horse. The horse came up to Alejandro without fear, and bucked a little. Alejandro could tell the horse knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t tell what.

“Where is your master, horse?” Alejandro murmured, very confused as to why he was seeing Zorro’s horse without seeing Zorro. The horse still had his complete saddle on so Zorro must have been with him last night. Then the horse then nipped at his arm, gently grasping Alejandro’s jacket and pulling. The kind of control Zorro’s horse had of nipping at him without hurting him was incredible, and Alejandro wondered how Zorro had been able to train his horse so well. The horse nipped at him again, clearly trying to communicate through their language barrier, and he could tell the horse clearly thought whatever it was it was urgent.

“You want me to follow you, is that it?” Alejandro asked, and even though he hadn’t been expecting an answer, it seemed the horse was smarter than Alejandro thought and immediately took off. The horse turned a little, looking at him, and Alejandro nudged his own horse on, following Zorro’s horse.

When the horse realized that Alejandro was indeed following him, Zorro’s horse took off like a shot. Alejandro had to ride quickly to keep up, and the faster the horse ran, the more worried he became. Dread churned in his gut the more distance they covered, and Alejandro wondered what he would find when they finally reached their destination. Animals were often much smarter than most people thought, especially the ones who didn’t spend their lives raising them and training them. But Alejandro was an expert in horses, and he knew that Zorro’s horse wouldn’t have left his master without a good reason.

His eyes went wide when he finally saw what the horse had been leading him to. Zorro was lying on the ground, facedown, in a pool of blood, and he didn’t seem to be moving. Alejandro couldn’t even tell if the man was even breathing. Even though Zorro was a bandit, an outlaw, Alejandro respected him immensely for always riding for justice. He hadn’t forgotten how Zorro had saved him from Comandante Monastario, and how he owed Zorro his life. So Alejandro acted immediately, dismounting the moment he saw the still form of the hero, and he rushed to the man’s side. His hands hovered over Zorro for a moment, but then Alejandro grabbed the man’s shoulder and rolled him over, instantly leaning down to the man’s chest to check his heart. Alejandro could hear the soft thump-thump of Zorro’s heart, though he thought it sounded a little too fast, but the important thing was that the man was alive, and that meant that Alejandro could help him.

Even though Alejandro was getting up in years, he was still able to slide his arms underneath Zorro’s back and knees and he was able to lift the man into the air. He whistled his horse down, and with his horse kneeling, he was able to finagle the unconscious man onto his saddle and get behind him. Zorro was a little taller than he was, just about Diego’s height, so his head lolled onto Alejandro’s shoulder as they began to ride away. Alejandro had one hand on his horse’s reins and the other over Zorro’s chest, holding the unconscious man in the saddle as he whistled for his horse to take them back to the hacienda. Even though Alejandro hadn’t said anything, Zorro’s horse trailed after them, still upset and as frantic as a horse could get, easily matching his horse’s strides. Zorro truly had a magnificent horse, he’d never seen a horse so loyal before.

As they rode home, Alejandro wondered how long Zorro had been lying unconscious on the ground before his horse found Alejandro, how long his horse had clearly sought help. Zorro rocked back and forth limply in Alejandro’s arms as they rode, and Alejandro’s grip got tighter as they approached the hacienda. Even though he was being bounced around a little on Alejandro’s horse, Zorro still hadn’t woken up, and a pit of dread was starting to form in Alejandro’s stomach. With Zorro’s head on his shoulder, he could feel the man’s shallow breathing, and he prayed that he had gotten to the heroic outlaw in time to save the man’s life.

The hacienda was quiet as Alejandro approached, which was usual, as his vaqueros were already out taking care of the cattle and horses, and the servants were most likely still preparing breakfast. Alejandro rode into his hacienda, and he opened his mouth to call Diego down so he could help, but he thought better of it. He didn’t want to put any of his servants or employees in any danger by associating with someone who helped Zorro, even if they loved Zorro. But thankfully, Diego’s manservant exited Diego’s room, probably having just woken Diego for breakfast. Bernardo saw them almost immediately, and he ran down the stairs, coming right up to Alejandro and Zorro. Alejandro dismounted his horse, and Bernardo helped him ease Zorro’s limp body down from his horse and together, they wrapped his arms around their shoulders.

Unfortunately, Zorro’s horse had followed them into the hacienda, still very attached to his master, and Alejandro tried to gently shoo the horse away.

“Go on, horse.” Alejandro waved the horse away with the hand not currently holding the still unconscious Zorro. “We’ve got him, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s dangerous, you must go.”

The horse just neighed and bucked in response, obviously not wanting to leave Zorro’s side. But in order to keep Zorro safe, it had to be a complete secret that he was here, and this horse was far too recognizable. Bernardo turned to him and gestured for him to take all of Zorro’s weight. Alejandro was confused, but Diego trusted this man, and he trusted Diego’s judgment. So he held the limp Zorro in his arms as Bernardo approached Zorro’s horse. Strangely enough, the horse actually reacted to the deaf-mute. When the man put his hand on the horse’s chest, the horse calmed a little. Bernardo then pointed for the horse to leave, and miraculously, Zorro’s horse actually trotted away, obviously returning to where he lived with Zorro. Alejandro stared at Bernardo for a moment, completely bewildered by the man’s actions, but Bernardo then took Zorro’s other arm from him and wrapped it around his shoulders. Alejandro knew he could be confused as to why Zorro’s horse had reacted to a man he’d never met later, right now, they had to get Zorro into the hacienda where no one would stumble upon him.

“We need to find shelter for him.” Alejandro said, and then cursed himself as the man stared at him a little. Right, he couldn’t hear. Lord, he didn’t know how Diego communicated so well with the man. Bernardo then pointed to Diego’s room, and Alejandro nodded. Diego would have no issues giving up his bed for Zorro. He knew that Diego always spoke about how Zorro was a criminal, but he knew the twinkle in his son’s eyes when he was teasing, even if others didn’t.

So Alejandro and Bernardo carried Zorro’s unconscious body up the stairs, and maneuvered him into Diego’s room. Surprisingly, his son wasn’t there as he’d expected Diego to be. He wanted to ask where Diego was, but Bernardo couldn’t hear so that would have to be a question for later. Maybe his son had already gone down for an early breakfast.

Carefully, Alejandro and Bernardo laid Zorro down on Diego’s still made bed. Alejandro removed Zorro’s hat and torn cape, and Bernardo removed Zorro’s shoes and gloves. Then Alejandro gently pulled at the fabric stuck to Zorro’s skin, and hissed at the sight in sympathy. There was a roughly three inch gash in the man’s right side, dried blood mixing in with the dirt Alejandro had found him in. When Bernardo saw the gash, his face was extremely expressive in his worry. Bernardo placed his hand on Zorro’s forehead, and Zorro’s cheeks. He looked at Alejandro, clearly frightened and Alejandro gently touched the man’s skin around the wound. Dammit. It was already warm with fever. Alejandro cursed under his breath.

“Okay. We have to clean the wound, and no one can know he’s here.” Alejandro said slowly, trying to use gestures to explain what he was saying. Thankfully, the man seemed to understand, and he nodded. Alenajdro then gestured to the room, and the books that Diego loved so much. “Where’s Diego?”

Bernardo struggled a little, his gestures not making any sense. Alejandro sighed, wondering how Diego dealt with this all the time. At least his bookworm son had learned patience in Spain. Bernardo then shrugged, and Alejandro sighed. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

Well, he could worry about where Diego had disappeared to later. Zorro needed him now. He trusted his son, Diego would be alright without his father and his manservant for a little while. His son was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

“Go get some water and several soft cloths.” Alejandro said, and tried to mime that to Bernardo. Even though Alejandro was not used to communicating only with his hands, Bernardo nodded quickly, and slipped out of the room. Having been deaf his whole life, he was probably very used to understanding gestures.

Even though Alejandro only knew cattle and horses, and wasn’t a doctor himself, he’d seen enough injuries over the course of his life that he had a fair idea of what to do. He had to clean the wound, stitch Zorro back up, and let him rest for at least a few days so he could recover from the blood loss and fever. He hoped that that was all Zorro needed, as Alejandro wouldn’t risk bringing a doctor to the hacienda unless it was at the uttermost end of need. The less people who knew of this secret the better.

Bernardo was rather quick in his return, carrying a large basin of water with several soft washcloths. Alejandro cleared a space on Diego’s nightstand for the man to set everything down. Alejandro then tried to gesture for Bernardo to lock Diego’s door, and he nodded quickly. At least now no one would be able to come in unannounced. Diego would understand why he was locked out of his own room once he came home.

When the man returned to Diego’s bed, worry still written clearly on his face, he pointed at Zorro, and then pretended to undress himself. Alejandro nodded resolutely. “You’re right, let’s get his shirt off.”

Bernardo then came around to the other side of Diego’s bed, and carefully, they eased Zorro’s body into somewhat of a sitting position. Alejandro ripped the already torn sash around Zorro’s waist and removed his gloves, and Bernardo supported Zorro’s unconscious body as Alejandro began to slowly try to remove Zorro’s shirt. The man moaned softly in pain as he did so, and while it hurt Alejandro’s heart, he was almost glad for it. The heroic outlaw wasn’t too far gone if he was still able to make noises. Bernardo helped Alejandro wrangle Zorro’s limp arms out of his shirt before they managed to pull it off his head. The pull of the fabric pulled a little at Zorro’s mask and bandana, and when that happened, Alejandro saw Zorro’s eyes open a little. He must have trained himself to recognize anything trying to unmask him, even when he was barely conscious.

“No… n-no…” Zorro whimpered, his trembling hand trying to come to his mask.

“Shh, it’s alright, Zorro. You’re safe here.” Alejandro took Zorro’s hand and squeezed gently. Zorro weakly tried to pull away, his hand trying to come back to his mask. Alejandro could see the fear in Zorro’s eyes, so he spoke with pure conviction, his only goal reassuring the outlaw. “I give you my word, Zorro. We will not unmask you. You’re safe here.”

Zorro stared at him with brown eyes that reminded him of Diego, and he must have seen Alejandro’s sincerity even though the haze of his fever, and he nodded a little, his head then falling limply down as his hand clutched Alejandro’s as tightly as he could. It frightened Alejandro with just how weak Zorro’s grip was.

“... hurts.” Zorro moaned, clearly insentient from the fever, as Alejandro doubted that the masked man would ever admit he was in pain if he were fully in control of his wits.

Again, Alejandro was reminded of Diego, of a time when Diego had been about twelve years old, still young but trying so hard to be a man like his father. Diego had climbed a tree to impress the young Rosarita Cortez, but he’d been more concerned about showing off to the girl he was infatuated with than caution, and he’d slipped and fallen out of the tree. He’d landed hard on his left wrist, and Alejandro had immediately taken him to the doctor in town. As Diego had clung to him in the saddle, he’d made the same exact sound, whispering that it hurts. He’d been trying very hard not to cry, but constantly being jostled around in the saddle had overwhelmed the small boy. But Alejandro had promised his young son that admitting he was in pain was a strength, and not a weakness. Diego then started sobbing into his father’s shirt as Alejandro rode to the doctor, and he comforted his young son as best as he could. If he remembered correctly, Diego still had the scar on his left wrist from the break, even though he’d fully healed years ago. But now was not the time to reminisce about his son. He needed to think about the man in front of him now.

Somehow, as if sensing Zorro’s distress, Bernardo then pulled down Zorro’s mask so it properly covered his face again. The restoration of his mask seemed to calm the outlaw, and his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to remain conscious. Alejandro wondered if he should let the man sleep again, as what he was about to do was going to be painful, but he also didn’t want the man slipping into unconsciousness again to the point where Zorro wouldn’t wake up again.

“Lay him back down.” Alejandro said, there was silence and stillness for a moment, and then he gestured for Bernardo to lay him back down. Gently, Bernardo laid Zorro back down, careful with his head, until Zorro was once again laying flat in Diego’s bed.

Alejandro then reached over, grabbed a small cloth, and dipped it into the water. The water was only slightly cool, and Alejandro hoped that this wouldn’t be too much of a shock to Zorro’s fevered skin. Bernardo then got his attention, and gestured for a cloth of his own. He mimed placing something on his eyes, and Alejandro nodded, understanding. He handed Bernardo the cloth he’d had and grabbed another one. Bernardo folded the damp cloth and then placed it over Zorro’s eyes, over his mask. Alejandro hoped that would help ease the heroic outlaw into knowing that his secret was safe with them.

Taking a deep breath, Alejandro then brought the cool cloth to Zorro’s right side, starting with the skin around the wound. Zorro whimpered in pain at the touch of the cool cloth, but Alejandro knew he couldn’t stop even if his actions were going to cause the man pain. He slowly began to wipe away the dried blood and dirt around Zorro’s wound, trying not to use too much pressure but also trying to make sure he washed off all of the dirt around the wound. As he worked, he saw Bernardo out of the corner of his eye, gently stroking Zorro’s cheek, most likely trying to do what little he could to comfort the suffering man.

Stroke after stroke, Alejandro used gentle pressure to wipe away the dried blood and dirt around the gash in Zorro’s side. He tried to ignore the soft noises of pain that slipped past the outlaw’s lips, knowing that even though this hurt, he needed to clean the wound so Zorro could heal. But each noise twisted his gut a little, even if his hands remained steady as he cleansed the man’s skin. For a reason Alejandro couldn’t figure out, Zorro’s noises of pain sounded almost exactly like Diego. Alejandro ignored it, thinking that it was just his paternal instincts responding to Zorro’s pain as Zorro had the same eyes as his son. Though, Zorro clearly had much more muscle than his scholarly son, training to fence as well to be as skilled as Zorro was would of course build up that muscle. He wished Diego had put that much devotion into his fencing skills rather than his books. He’d heard from around town of just how hopeless his son was with a sword, which he didn’t understand. Diego had been a fine swordsman when he’d left for Spain. Even if he didn’t fence the entire time he was there, he shouldn’t be so hopeless now.

Even though Alejandro couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting to Diego, his hands moved just as they should. Slowly, carefully, he gently cleared away the dried blood and dirt away from Zorro’s right side. When he finished, he looked back up at Zorro. Bernardo was still softly stroking his cheek, and Alejandro saw droplets of water running down Zorro’s cheeks. Alejandro hoped that they were from the cool compress over his eyes, rather than the poor man being in so much pain that he was crying, though he knew it was probably the latter. Alejandro sighed. Unfortunately, it was only going to get worse.

“Bernardo, hold him down.” Alejandro said, trying to gesture to the deaf-mute. “This is going to be painful.”

He saw the fear on Bernardo’s face, as if he could hear the grimness in Alejandro’s tone, but most likely, he just understood what had to come next. Bernardo shifted a little, using his arm to pin Zorro’s shoulder’s to the bed. Using his other arm, Alejandro pinned Zorro’s waist to the bed, and he took another deep breath, trading the dirty cloth for a clean one.

Alejandro then brought the clean cloth to the wound itself. Zorro shrieked in pain as soon as Alejandro touched it, but Bernardo quickly covered Zorro’s mouth, trying to muffle the shrieks and groans of pain as Alejandro worked. The wound had stopped bleeding at some point during the night, but as soon as he began to try and wipe the dirt from the gash, it started bleeding sluggishly once again. Having been a ranchero all his life, Alejandro was very used to blood, human or cattle. But out of all the blood he’d seen in his life, this was the worst. This wasn’t some vaquero who’d been gored by a bull for getting too close to his mate, this wasn’t a man who’d accidentally cut himself as he was fixing the perimeter fence, this wasn’t a man who’d been kicked by a horse. This was a man who’d been intentionally injured because he fought for justice and cared about all people in the pueblo. Still, Alejandro had to do a job to keep the man alive, so he pushed away all thoughts of the cruelty of this wound.

With Bernardo muffling Zorro’s sounds as best as he could, Alejandro worked, trying to get all of the grime in the wound. He had to use a fair amount of his strength to keep Zorro pinned down, but he tried not to focus on that, on how much pain this was causing the man. He just did his best to work as quickly as he could without losing his caution and attention to detail. It felt like it took hours upon hours to make sure there was no more dirt in the wound, but just as he was finishing up, Zorro went completely limp in their arms. The poor man must have passed out from the pain. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, but at least the man wasn’t in agony anymore. Alejandro finished cleaning the wound as Zorro lay unconscious in Diego’s bed, and he sighed heavily when he thought that this would be as clean as he could get a wound like this.

Alejandro then stood up, taking the bloody rags, and threw them in Diego’s fireplace. When he turned back to the man, he saw silent tears running down Bernardo’s cheeks as he continued to stroke Zorro’s face. Even though the man couldn’t hear the horrid cries of excruciating pain he’d been trying to muffle, it seemed he could still tell just how much pain Zorro had been in, and tried to do what little he could to comfort the outlaw. Alejandro then placed his hand on Bernardo’s shoulder, surprising the man a little, but the deaf-mute just nodded at him. The man then started miming the act of sewing, and Alejandro motioned for him to continue. Bernardo then slipped off of Diego’s bed, and went to his desk. He ruffled around for a little bit before returning with some skin sewing thread, which confused Alejandro.

“Why does Diego have medical supplies in his desk?” Alejandro asked.

Bernardo must have understood the question even though he didn’t hear it, and he picked up one of Diego’s books, and pulled his hand back as if he’d been injured.

“He has sewing thread for the skin in case of a papercut?” Alejandro said incredulously, unable to believe that Diego would have something so extreme for something as insignificant as a papercut.

Again, Bernardo seemed to understand, probably going off of his facial expression, and he shook his head. He mimed getting another papercut, and Alejandro realized he’d gotten the wrong conclusion from his actions. Bernardo then mimed riding a horse, and Alejandro finally thought he understood. The man was just using a book to imitate the sensation of getting cut. He remembered how Diego had struggled to ride Princessa even though he was a fantastic rider, how sore he’d been after he’d slipped off of her. When he’d seen his son on the ground, he’d been afraid that Diego had been seriously hurt. Suddenly hitting the ground after being on a horse could cause any manner of injuries. Diego must have the thread because he knew just how dangerous it was to be thrown from a horse, and that sometimes the doctor couldn’t be reached immediately. If anything, his bookworm son had a good, logical head on his shoulders.

“I understand, come here.” Alejandro said, waving the man closer. Bernardo came to him, handing him the thread. He could see the hesitance in the deaf-mute’s face as Bernardo mimed sewing, clearly trying to ask a question.

“Yes, I can do this.” Alejandro nodded. He’d stitched up small wounds on cattle before, so he was confident that he could handle this. He then guided Bernardo’s hands to Zorro’s skin, lightly pressing the wound together. Zorro made another small sound of discomfort but he didn’t move, so Alejandro assumed the man was still unconscious, and Alejandro thought this was the best time to do this.

Alejandro threaded the needle, and with a fierce determination, he began to sew Zorro’s skin together. The process was arduously slow, and every time the needle pierced Zorro’s flesh, he let out another soft noise of pain, feeling the agony even as he slept. It broke Alejandro’s heart, but he didn’t let that affect him. Bernardo had turned away, unable to keep looking as Alejandro stitched the gash closed, and Alejandro didn’t blame him. Sometimes even the most experienced vaquero could be sick at the sight of an injury like this.

Puncture right, push through, puncture under the left, pull, switch sides, then repeat. The repetitive process of sewing Zorro’s skin back together was grueling, as the man had never stopped making those small noises of pain that reminded far too much of Diego. But eventually, after what felt like ten hours but was actually about ten minutes, and roughly twenty stitches later, Alejandro finished stitching the wound shut. Zorro’s skin kept twitching a little as his body adjusted to the stitches, but Alejandro knew that the man’s body would calm after a little while. Alejandro readjusted the cool compress over Zorro’s eyes, feeling Zorro’s warm forehead, but other than keeping Zorro safe and helping with his fever, Alejandro wasn’t sure what else he could do to help the outlaw.

As soon as Alejandro had finished stitching, Bernardo had let go, just staring sadly at Zorro. Alejandro grabbed Bernardo’s shoulder, trying to do what he could to comfort the man. Bernardo just looked at him. Bernardo then gestured to Zorro, and then mimed looking for something and then a question mark.

“I’m not sure,” Alejandro said, still speaking aloud even though the man couldn’t hear him. “I don’t know if the soldiers know he’s wounded, but I suppose it’s only a matter of time. So we must keep his presence here a complete secret.”

Alejandro tried to communicate his words in gestures, which was still a struggle, but Bernardo nodded, so he assumed he might have done something right. He then looked to Diego’s locked door, wondering where his son was. Diego wasn’t the type to go missing for such long periods of time. Alejandro noticed that Diego’s bed hadn’t seemed slept in, but he just assumed that Diego had gotten up during his father’s ride and Bernardo had just remade the bed. Of all the times to be off by himself reading his books or doing whatever it was that he was doing. His son truly had become a mystery since his return from Spain.

But now that the worst part was over, Alejandro was able to focus on other things again. Alejandro then got Bernardo’s attention.

He pointed at Zorro, and then tried to mime riding a horse, and then used his fingers trying to imitate how Zorro’s horse had listened to the deaf-mute. “How on earth did you get Zorro’s horse to obey you?”

Bernardo seemed to understand his question, and then he pointed at Zorro and also mimed riding a horse. He then mimed a lasso, and reached out and held an imaginary horse. Finally he mimed a spoof of one of the king’s soldiers.

“Ah, when Zorro’s horse had been captured by the soldiers, yes.” Alejandro murmured, speaking aloud instinctively. He nodded and then motioned for Bernardo to continue.

Bernardo pointed to himself and used his fingers to imitate walking and then the horse again.

“You were walking by where they were keeping the horse.”

Bernardo mimed the satirized version of a soldier again. Then he mimed a whip, and Alejandro gasped lightly.

“One of the soldiers was whipping Zorro’s horse?” Alejandro asked. “How dishonorable, attacking a defenseless animal like that.”

Bernardo continued as if he hadn’t spoken, miming the whip again, and catching it in the air. He then waved his finger from side to side in a fierce ‘no’.

“You tried to stop him.” Alejandro nodded, putting the puzzle pieces together in his head. Bernardo had been near the corral, and had tried to intervene when he saw the soldier whipping the horse. With as smart as Zorro’s horse seemed to be, that easily explained how Zorro’s horse knew that Bernardo could be trusted. “So he knows you as a friend. I see.”

It was very lucky indeed that Alejandro had been the one who found Zorro. The horse would’ve followed his master into the hacienda of whoever had found him, as everyone in the pueblo would have taken Zorro in, and they might not have been able to send the horse away. He did wonder where the horse went, but Zorro needed his attention more. He had wanted to wait a little to wrap the wound, wanting to give the poor man a break as his body adjusted to the stitches, but now it was time to continue.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Alejandro said slowly, trying his best to mime out his words. “I have some extra bandages in my room from when I was injured, I need to go get them.”

Bernardo nodded. Alejandro still marveled at how easily Bernardo was able to understand him, even though he couldn’t hear him. Alejandro then slipped out of Diego’s room, and carefully came to his own room. He searched through his drawers and found the bandages. As long as the wound didn’t reopen, he thought what he had would be enough.

A knock startled him, and he shoved the bandages into his pocket to hide them. He took a deep breath to steady himself before answering, “Yes?”

“Senor, breakfast is ready.” Alejandro sighed, recognizing his servant’s voice. He’d been afraid that it would be a soldier looking for Zorro.

Alejandro then exited his room. “I shall come down for it later, my son and I have some important business to attend to. I ask that you don’t disturb us.”

The servant nodded, and Alejandro just sighed, walking causally back to Diego’s room. But he trusted his son. Diego was a smart boy, when he returned if anyone asked about this ‘new important business’, his son would easily catch on that his father needed him.

He was beginning to become worried, as it was not like his son to go somewhere where he’d be gone for a while without telling anyone. But he trusted his son to be careful. He was sure Diego was alright. As his father, he felt he’d know if something happened to his son. Still, the longer Diego went without coming home, the more worried he became. Oh mijo, where are you?

Alejandro slipped back into Diego’s room, and pulled the bandages out of his pocket. Bernardo helped ease Zorro into a sitting position again, causing the man to again make a soft noise of pain as they unfortunately jostled his wound. Bernardo then got his attention and mimed a circle and then pointed at himself. It seemed Bernardo wanted to wrap the bandages. Alejandro nodded, seeing no reason to deny him, and handed him the cotton bandages.

Holding Zorro by the shoulders, Alejandro then adjusted himself so he was holding Zorro upright. Bernardo then began to softly wrap the bandages around Zorro’s wound. The man’s touch was incredibly delicate, almost reverent, like he was bandaging a close friend. Maybe Zorro had thanked him for rescuing his horse from that cruel, dishonorable man in some sort of way and Bernardo felt indebted to him as he did, as many did after encountering the hero.

Alejandro watched as Bernardo’s nimble fingers wrapped the white cotton around Zorro’s abdomen. Bernardo moved quickly but tenderly, making sure not to cause any further pain to the hero. He seemed very experienced in this, and a small part of Alejandro hoped that he’d just learned how to do this in his training as a manservant, and not because he’d bandaged an injured Diego before. He hoped that wasn’t what changed his son while he was in Spain. He’d seen the aftereffects of some battles that left men shaking whenever they held a sword again.

Swathes of white soon covered Zorro’s abdomen, and Bernardo tied the two ends together. Together, they laid Zorro against the pillows once more, and adjusted him so he’d be as comfortable as he could be. Alejandro sighed. At least now, all they needed to do was let Zorro rest. They shouldn’t need to cause him any more pain.

With Zorro taken care of Alejandro needed to tend to the hacienda as he always did, trying to assume a look of normalcy. No one could suspect that Zorro was here, that anything was out of the ordinary. And even though Alejandro wanted to remain with Zorro, to watch over the hero as he had watched over Alejandro, it would be better for him to keep the secret and act completely normal. That would keep him the safest.

“Watch over him.” Alejandro said, pointing to his eyes and to Zorro. “I need to tend to the hacienda, otherwise it will seem suspicious.”

Bernardo nodded, and Alejandro placed his hand on Bernardo’s shoulder before heading out. Even though he didn’t really feel like eating, he went down to breakfast anyway. Maybe Diego would be there, waiting with a smile that always calmed Alejandro’s heart.

Bernardo had been exhausted from waiting up all night for Diego to return, but the second he saw his friend in Don Alejandro’s arms, he’d suddenly become wide awake. It was as if he’d drunk a whole keg of coffee, his heart racing in his chest at seeing his friend so injured. Bernardo knew that being Zorro was risky for Diego, it was risky for him too when he joined his friend, but this was the first time Diego had really gotten injured. There had been that one instance when Diego had hit his head against a rock, but he’d been fine afterwards, except for a rather strong headache. He’d been perfectly fine after a little rest. This injury would not go away so easily.

Holding Diego down as his father cleaned the wound was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. Hearing Don Alejandro’s promise to not unmask Diego had been slightly comforting, but his friend was so injured, already afflicted with fever that it was hard to feel it. He’d had trouble keeping up the ruse that he was also deaf, especially when Diego had started screaming in pain. Covering his mouth to muffle his sounds broke Bernardo’s heart, but he knew it was necessary. Diego couldn’t be found here like this, unable to defend himself, and Diego certainly wouldn’t want his father being implicated in helping Zorro, no matter what state he was in.

When Diego finally passed out from the pain, Bernardo didn’t know whether to be grateful or distraught. While he hated to see his friend be in pain, he longed to see Diego’s eyes open once again, so Bernardo could see that he was alive, he was awake. But even in unconsciousness, Diego wasn’t relieved of the pain. He’d kept stroking Diego’s face as gently as he could, trying to bring what little softness and comfort he could to his best friend, trying to give Diego something to focus on that wasn’t the horrible pain he was in. Unfortunately, it hadn’t seemed to work, as Diego continued to make those soft noises of pain as Don Alejandro worked, even after he’d finally lost consciousness.

Bernardo had almost been sick at having to hold the two edges of Diego’s skin closer so Don Alejandro could stitch them together, but he forced himself to be strong for his friend. Diego had always been so strong for him, defending him from people who thought that his inability to speak was a deficiency and made him unintelligent. It was one of the main reasons he’d become so devoted to Diego, who never got frustrated with him because he couldn’t speak. In Spain, Diego had never let anyone speak ill of Bernardo, even dueling a couple of people because they insulted him. Diego was one of the kindest, most patient men he’d ever met, and Bernardo would do anything for the man who had become his best friend. He’d never thought he’d become best friends with someone who was sixteen years younger than him, but Diego was special. He’d never had such a good friend before. So no matter what, no matter how ugly or hard this healing process would be for him to watch, he’d see Diego through this if it killed him.

When Don Alejandro told him he was leaving to keep up appearances, Bernardo nodded, wanting some time alone with his friend. Bernardo locked the door behind him, so he wouldn’t be disturbed. Slumping a little in relief, Bernardo immediately came back to his friend. Gently, Bernardo removed Diego’s bandana and then his mask. This time, Diego’s eyes remained closed, knowing Bernardo’s touch even in sleep. Bernardo then dipped another one of the cloths into the water, and began to dab at the dirt still on Diego’s face, trying hard not to wake him. Judging by the dirt on Diego’s body, he must have fallen off of Tornado at some point. He wondered how long Diego had laid in the dirt before Don Alejandro had found him.

Tenderly, Bernardo began to reveal Diego’s soft skin from under the dirt. His friend slept on, unaware, only occasionally murmuring nonsense in his sleep. He’d never known Diego to talk in his sleep before, but fevers often did strange things to people. So he just focused on his task, gently cleansing Diego’s face with the cool water. This way, Don Alejandro didn’t have to do it and they wouldn’t have to risk Diego’s father potentially accidentally seeing under his mask. Bernardo knew that Don Alejandro promised he wouldn’t unmask Zorro, but still. He and Diego didn’t like to take risks they didn’t have to.

As he worked, little droplets of water ran down Diego’s face, mixing in with the tear tracks so obvious within the dirt that still remained. Bernardo softly stroked Diego’s face with his fingers again, looking sadly upon his friend. Seeing Diego cry was such a rarity that the memories were vivid in his mind. The first time was when Diego wept at the bedside of a good friend when he’d died unexpectedly of yellow fever, and the second was at a wedding as Diego (and most of the crowd) had teared up during the vows. And now this was the third.

Once Diego’s forehead and eyes were clear, Bernardo immediately put the mask back on. Even though the door was locked, he knew Diego would be more comfortable with it on. Despite his fever, Diego still clearly had enough of his wits to remember that he was Zorro, not Don Diego de la Vega. Bernardo hoped the mask’s presence would give Diego the emotional comfort he clearly needed to reassure him that his identity had remained a secret.

Bernardo’s touch was gentle as he brought the cool cloth to Diego’s cheeks, but it seemed that all the touches to his mask and face had woken his friend anyway. Diego’s brow furrowed as his eyes fluttered open. Bernardo could see the fevered glaze in Diego’s brown eyes, and his heart hurt for his friend.

“Ber… bern’do?” Diego whimpered, and Bernardo was grateful that Diego wasn’t too far gone to not recognize him. Bernardo cupped Diego’s cheek gently, and Diego whispered, “wha…?”

Bernardo shushed him gently by putting his finger on Diego’s lips, and then he took Diego’s hand. When he’d first become Diego’s friend, Bernardo had taught him a few hand positions to use as a way to communicate with him. He’d taught Diego the same signs his family had used for the alphabet. It wasn’t something he needed to use often, as Diego was unusually good at communicating with him, but it was what he used to spell out his words as a last resort.

Carefully, Bernardo shifted Diego’s fingers into a fist, with his index and middle fingers raised, and he waited for Diego to recognize it. It took a moment for Diego to understand him through his fever, but eventually he murmured a breathless, “U…” Bernardo then crossed Diego’s fingers, and again waited. “R…” Bernardo guided Diego’s fingers into four successive letters, and when Diego didn’t respond except a confused noise, he did it again. “S-s-a-fe. Safe.”

Bernardo nodded, and cupped Diego’s cheek again. “‘ts good.”

Diego’s eyelids seem to hang heavy over his eyes, and Bernardo’s fingers softly brushed over his bandana. He then grabbed the glass of water he’d gotten earlier, and brought it to Diego’s lips, cradling Diego’s head to help ease him up. Diego wasn’t strong enough to hold the glass, but he managed a few sips of cool water.

“Tor… tornado.” Diego suddenly gasped, his exhausted eyes opening wider in fear, and Bernardo shushed him gently again, setting the glass aside.

Bernardo mimed himself sending Tornado back to their secret hideout, and then he softly stroked Diego’s forehead again. Diego nodded weakly, understanding that Tornado was safe too. Tornado was a smart horse, he’d keep himself out of trouble.

It seemed that the knowledge that he and Tornado were safe was enough for Diego to slip back into sleep, and Bernardo just stroked his cheek until he was sure Diego was deeply asleep again. Bernardo then brought the damp cloth to Diego’s cheeks, softly washing the dirt from Diego’s skin. His touch was featherlight, not wanting to wake Diego again when he clearly didn’t have the strength to stay awake.

After that, Bernardo worked in complete silence, just washing the dirt from Diego’s cheeks, and then Diego’s neck. His costume covered everything else except the wound, and that had already been taken care of. But just as Bernardo placed the dirty, damp cloth to the side, he noticed a thin sheen of sweat on Diego’s skin. He felt Diego’s forehead again, still feeling too warm as the fever burned within him. Hopefully it would burn itself out soon. Diego would need all of his strength to recover from this wound.

Diego hadn’t been at breakfast. He also hadn’t been home for lunch. Alejandro hoped that Diego was just in town, with his friends, and that he was alright. It really was not like Diego to go for so long without at least telling his father where he would be going. The only thing he could think of was that Diego had taken a spur of the moment trip, perhaps to the mission, as potentially someone in town wanted his presence. Still, Diego usually stopped by the hacienda to tell his father where he was going, but perhaps this was an emergency. Alejandro just hoped that Diego came home soon, he missed him.

It was evening by the time that Alejandro had been able to return to Zorro’s side without arousing suspicion. It took a little while for him to get the deaf-mute’s attention inside, but eventually Bernardo unlocked the door upon seeing him.

“You should get some rest, Bernardo.” Alejandro said, doing his best to mime, seeing the exhaustion on Bernardo’s face. “I’ll watch over him for the night.”

Bernardo seemed torn, looking at Zorro with forlorn eyes, obviously not wanting to part from the hero. Alejandro placed his hand on Bernardo’s shoulder, miming “I’ll fetch you if I need you.”

While the man clearly still did not want to go, he did nod. Alejandro wondered if the man had slept the previous night, but whatever had exhausted him was catching up to him. Bernardo took one last look at Zorro, but he went to the door. He knocked three times in a rhythm, and then again. Alejandro realized he was setting up a code for him to use, so he nodded, showing he understood. At least Alejandro could hear the knocks when Bernardo wanted back in.

Alejandro sat at Zorro’s bedside, watching the hero sleep with a worried expression. Zorro’s eyes darted around under his eyelids, his body restless and trembling. Alejandro pressed his hand to Zorro’s forehead, and frowned at the heat he found. All they could do now was hope that an infection had not taken hold and that what was causing this fever would not be as serious as that. An infection would mean Alejandro would need to fetch a doctor, and he hoped that he wouldn’t have to do that. Alejandro grabbed another cloth, it seemed Bernardo had restocked while he was gone, and he dipped it in the cool water.

Carefully, Alejandro brought the cool cloth to Zorro’s collarbone, deciding to forgo touching the man’s face since the slightest touch to his mask had woken him the last time. Tiny beads of sweat had formed across Zorro’s skin, and he softly wiped them away, hoping the cool water would help break the man’s fever. He brushed the cloth over Zorro’s chest, carefully avoiding the bandages around his waist.

As he brushed the cloth over Zorro’s arms, he saw something rather incredible. Zorro also had a scar on his left wrist that Alejandro could’ve sworn looked exactly like Diego’s. He lifted Zorro’s hand, taking great care to be as careful as possible, examining the scar curiously. It was the same length, same width, seemed just as old as Diego’s.

“You know, my son has a scar just like this.” Alejandro murmured. He wasn’t quite sure why he was talking to an unconscious man, but he hoped that his voice could bring the hero some kind of comfort as he slept. “Though, I’m sure you got yours a different way, being the master swordsman that you are. You probably got yours as you honed your incredible skill. My son fell out of a tree, heh.”

A soft moan filled the air, and Zorro’s eyes fluttered open. His brown eyes were glassy and dazed, and it took them a moment to focus on Alejandro.

“Father?” Zorro murmured, his voice weak and confused.

“Shh, it’s alright, Zorro. It’s Don Alejandro.”

Zorro just whimpered again, raising his hand a little. “Father.” Alejandro just grabbed his hand and held it tightly.

“Father… I’m sorry.” Zorro whispered, staring directly into Alejandro’s eyes. Alejandro frowned in confusion, pursing his lips, feeling a little discouraged that Zorro didn’t recognize him. The fever must be distorting Zorro’s mind into thinking Alejandro was his father. “I tried… tried so hard to make you proud.”

“Shh, Zorro, it’s alright.” Alejandro squeezed the hero’s hand. “You did everything you could. Even the bravest in battle get injured. I’m sure your father is very proud of you.”

“No…” Zorro slurred, his glazed eyes drifting softly to the wall. “My father isn’t proud of me.”

“Nonsense.” Alejandro instinctively started stroking Zorro’s hair over his bandana, as Diego always liked his father petting his hair when he wasn’t feeling well. He just hoped that Zorro took comfort from it too. “You’re a great hero. A savior of our people.”

“No… my father thinks I’m a coward.” Zorro muttered. “Always so disappointed in me. I can see it in his eyes.”

Unconsciously, Alejandro’s mind flashed to Diego, that first day when he’d returned from Spain and he hadn’t wanted to take up arms against Comandante Monasterio. How heartbroken Alejandro had been when Diego hadn’t wanted to draw his sword against the corrupt captain, or even draw his sword at all. But how could anyone think that Zorro was a coward? Zorro risked his life constantly for the people of Los Angeles. No one could dare call him a coward or a disappointment! He was tempted to ask who his father was, as he had a few words to exchange with the man. Zorro had risked his own life to save Alejandro’s, how could anyone ever say that he was a coward or a disappointment?

“Your father is wrong.” Alejandro squeezed Zorro’s hand again, his voice full of conviction, which brought Zorro’s fevered eyes back to Alejandro. “You are no coward. You are a hero to us all, Zorro, from the richest ranchero to the poorest peasant. Every day, you risk your life to save us from tyranny and injustice. If your father can’t see that, then even a blind man can see more than he can.”

Zorro’s eyes glistened as Alejandro spoke, and he saw a single tear slide down into the mask. Alejandro’s heart twisted in pain. His thumb came to Zorro’s face, softly brushing under Zorro’s eye. Zorro’s eyes fluttered closed, and Alejandro didn’t stop his ministrations until he was sure that the hero had fallen asleep once again.

Alejandro sighed softly as he gazed upon Zorro’s sleeping form. He hadn’t met the outlaw often, but he never would’ve guessed he’d had such a difficult family. He couldn’t imagine having a father who treated him so disrespectfully. Even he had gotten used to how bookish and unwilling to fight Diego had been since he got back from Spain. Truthfully, it had been hard, but Diego was his son. That meant that Alejandro loved him unconditionally, whether he was a master swordsman or a dandy. Diego was the best thing in his life, nothing could ever change that, even his son’s inability to handle a sword. But Zorro, he was a hero! He did more for the pueblo than anyone. How could anyone be disappointed in that?

Alejandro shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. As much as it hurt to hear that Zorro’s family didn’t appreciate him as they should, there was nothing he could do about that. But what he could do was do his best to help the man heal. He continued wiping the sweat away, brushing Zorro’s skin with clean cool water. He checked the bandage, and thankfully, he didn’t see anything that would indicate an infection. This fever was most likely caused by the stress of getting such an injury, Diego and his late wife had been prone to them as well, Diego especially once his mother passed.

A sudden knock on the door startled him, and he quickly composed himself, covering Zorro with Diego’s blanket and trying his best to hide his mask with a cool compress over his eyes. He then went to the door, trying his best to calm his nerves.

“Yes?” Alejandro answered, seeing one of his servants.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour, sir, but Sergeant Garcia is at the door and is urgently requesting to speak to you.”

Alejandro’s heart raced. What could Sergeant Garcia be wanting at this hour? Had something happened to Diego? Were they looking for Zorro? His stomach twisted with dread, but he kept a straight face, looking appropriately worried rather letting the terror and panic he was feeling show. He nodded simply, and then headed down to the entrance of the hacienda.

“Sergeant.” Alejandro said, fighting his every nerve to keep calm. “What brings you here this late into the night?”

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Don Alejandro, but on our last attempt to capture Zorro, it seems he was wounded.” The Sergeant said. “ One of the swords that did battle with him came back with blood on it. So we’re searching everywhere in the pueblo for him, as he’d need help, and since we couldn’t find him in any place he’d seek a doctor, we’ve started searching all the haciendas to see if we can find him.”

“We want to make sure he’s still alive.” Corporal Reyes added.

“Babosa!” Sergeant Garcia shouted, smacking Corporal Reyes upside the head. “You’re not supposed to say that!”

“But you said-”

“I know what I said, Corporal, now be silent!” Garcia growled, and then turned and smiled bashfully at him.

Alejandro’s heart raced, his mind becoming a whirling dervish as he struggled to think of a reason he could deny them entry.

“Well, Sergeant, it is very late, perhaps you could come back tomorrow.” Alejandro said. “Most of the hacienda are already in bed, and I’d hate to wake them.”

“I’m afraid I must insist.” Sergeant Garcia said, sounding regretful. “We must check everywhere for Zorro, even this late at night. N-Not that I suspect you, Don Alejandro, but the Comandante would be very upset if I didn’t search everywhere, including your hacienda. But we’ll try to be quiet.”

Alejandro fought to keep his composure. He had to think, how could he keep them from discovering Zorro? There was no way to sneak him out without the soldiers noticing!

“Well, if you must, but I must ask you that you do not go into Diego’s room.” Alejandro said, hoping this excuse was enough to deter them. He didn’t have the time to think of another. “I’m afraid my son is sick, and cannot be disturbed. A-and I wouldn’t want you catching what he has.”

Sergeant Garcia looked surprised. “Diego is feeling unwell? Oh I’m very sorry to hear that. I was wondering why he hadn’t met me for lunch yesterday as we’d agreed. It’s not like him to miss our lunches together.”

Wait, Diego had made plans and then not kept them? Sergeant Garcia was right, that wasn’t like Diego. That wasn’t like his son at all. He almost asked when the last time the Sergeant had seen his son, but he stopped himself as he realized that he couldn’t. He was pretending Zorro was Diego. The Sergeant would find it very odd that Alejandro needed to look for Diego when supposedly he was lying sick in bed. He would send Diego’s manservant out tomorrow at dawn, and see if the deaf-mute could find his son. Bernardo knew Diego best since he returned from Spain, perhaps he’d be able to find Diego.

“Yes, he has a fever.” Alejandro said, trying to hide his worry for his missing son. “He’s asleep at the moment, and the noise of someone searching his room will most definitely wake him.”

“I do apologize, Don Alejandro, but I must search every room.” Sergeant Garcia said. “But I’ll check his room myself and just peek in there to make sure I don’t wake him.”

“I appreciate your understanding, Sergeant.” Alejandro said, a vice grip squeezing at his chest. The only thing he could hope for now was that the Sergeant wouldn’t recognize Zorro on sight.

With his heart pounding out of his chest, he followed Sergeant Garcia up the stairs while the other soldiers began to search the hacienda. He swallowed nervously as they went up the stairs, using every faculty he had to keep himself acting calm, even if he wasn’t inside. Quietly, Sergeant Garcia opened the door. The soldier peeked through the door, and Alejandro was so anxious about him finding Zorro that he could barely breathe.

Miraculously, Sergeant Garcia closed the door after just a moment. “I apologize for disturbing him, Don Alejandro. It’s obvious Zorro is not in there. Please let me know when he feels better, I would like to come by and see him.”

Don Alejandro smiled, and he actually meant it this time, knowing that Zorro was safe. “Of course, Sergeant. When he feels up to seeing visitors, I’ll send for you.”

Sergeant Garcia nodded happily, smiling broadly at him.

After that, Alejandro could act as he usually did around the soldiers, chatting with them as if nothing was wrong. He knew nothing else in the hacienda would give away that Zorro was here, so there was no chance of them finding Zorro here. Internally, he worried about Diego. What could’ve happened to his son to keep him away from home for so long? To miss plans that he’d made. Diego was not one to go back on his word. Alejandro had taught him the importance of integrity from a very young age. Where on earth could his son be?!

Alejandro wasn’t sure how long the soldiers spent looking for Zorro, but it was still a relief seeing them leave, Sergeant Garcia again apologizing for the disturbance as the rest complained to the Sergeant that they wanted to stop and go home so they could sleep. He bid them adios before returning to Diego’s room. There was nothing he could do about Diego since it was late in the night, and there was only moonlight and starlight to search for him. But the moment the sun rose, Alejandro would start looking for his son.

The moment Alejandro stepped through the door, he could tell something was wrong. Zorro was thrashing a little, having kicked off the blanket which was now tangled between his feet, with the cool compress laying on the pillow beside him. He was murmuring nonsense in his sleep, but it was clear that he was in distress. After locking the door, Alejandro rushed to Zorro’s side.

“Shh, Zorro, you’re alright, you’re alright.” Alejandro said, trying his best to sound soothing.

“No, no please,” Zorro whimpered, still lost in the throes of a nightmare.

“Zorro, wake up, you’re having a nightmare, you’re safe here.” Alejandro gently cupped Zorro’s cheek, hoping the touch to his face would wake him.

But Zorro kept thrashing, his head moving from side to side, his face twisted in fright. Alejandro tried again to wake him before suddenly going still, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Zorro’s thrashing had dislodged his mask, revealing part of his face. Even though he was asleep, Alejandro still recognized the face of his son.

Diego… Diego was Zorro??? His bookish, pacifist son was the hero of the pueblo who fought with the strength of ten men? Impossible. Yet here he was, staring at his son as he thrashed from a nightmare, clearly Zorro under the mask. Surely, it must be a dream, but he was wide awake, and this was no dream.

Alejandro then acted on impulse, his paternal instincts screaming at him to comfort his son. He took Zorro- Diego by the shoulders and brought him up to Alejandro’s chest, his arms wrapping around his suffering son’s body in a fierce hug, holding Diego close to him. He slowly began to rock back and forth, just as he’d done when Diego was a small child.

“Shh, Diego, it’s alright, Father’s here, you’re safe, shh, you’re safe.” He whispered, keeping one hand on Diego’s head, keeping him pressed against his chest. He knew his son, he knew what would comfort him. It had always worked when he was a child, he saw no reason it wouldn’t work now that he was an adult.

Just as he thought it would, Diego’s murmurs of fright softened as his father held him, whispering comforts as he slowly rocked back and forth. When Diego’s mother was alive, Alejandro would often find a sleeping Diego in his late wife’s arms as she sat in her rocking chair. He knew that the feeling comforted Diego, especially after his mother passed. So he just kept rocking back and forth, holding his son tightly until Diego’s cries quieted down. But even though the nightmare seemed to have passed, Alejandro didn’t let go of his son.

Carefully shifting Diego’s weight so he could hold his son with one hand, he gently pulled off the mask of Zorro. He figured, since he’d already found out it was Diego, he wasn’t breaking his word to not unmask Zorro. Gently dropping the mask and bandana onto the bed, he tilted Diego’s head up a little. Alejandro had burned his son’s face into his memory when he’d come home from Spain, having missed him so much. And here he was, in his arms, sleeping peacefully now.

How could he have missed this? How could he have not seen that his own son was Zorro? Obviously, Diego had gone to great lengths to hide his identity from his father, as well as the rest of the pueblo, but Diego was his son. Alejandro should’ve been able to tell. Now that he knew, the clues were rather apparent. No one had ever seen Diego and Zorro in the same room at the same time, Diego was never around whenever Zorro appeared, the fact that Diego was constantly being accused of being Zorro (even though previously it seemed so evident that he wasn’t), Diego’s sudden evasiveness over his feelings, how Zorro sounded so much like Diego especially when he was in pain, the scar on his wrist… it all made sense now.

“I fail to see what we can do.”

“We can stand up to him, fight him!”

“Calm yourself, Father. The use of force should be our last resort.”

“I hardly expected such discretion from a son of mine!”

Diego hadn’t been a coward in the face of Comandante Monastario, he just made Alejandro believe that. He’d seen the hurt in Diego’s eyes when Alejandro had been so vocal about his obvious disappointment when Diego had refused to take a stand against Monastario, but he���d been more concerned about his son becoming a coward after he left for college rather than comforting his son. It must have been very painful for Diego to let him think such low things of his own son.

“I’m sorry. I tried… tried so hard to make you proud… My father isn’t proud of me. My father thinks I’m a coward. Always so disappointed in me. I can see it in his eyes.”

The only time words had caused Alejandro to feel such pain was when the doctor had told him that his wonderful wife was dying. Never before had Alejandro felt such a sickening regret in his chest that consumed him so entirely. Diego, his incredible, precious son thought that he was a disappointment. That Alejandro considered him a coward. Admittedly, Alejandro hadn’t been very good at telling his son how proud he was of him when Diego constantly ran from a fight, not understanding how his amazing son could’ve become such a coward in a few short years. But… he understood now. Diego never ran from a fight, he just became Zorro to fight that fight.

“It is strange. So strange. It is almost as if I had known you. You seem so much like someone I know. I'm a foolish old man with foolish dreams. So often have I dreamed that my son came back from Spain and he would be like you. Now that you're so close, it is so much like my dreams. I feel almost that I could pull aside the mask, and there would be the face of my son, Diego. I would not pull away the mask. I would not have the courage. An old man must cling to his dreams as desperately as he clings to life.”

Alejandro startled at seeing tears run down Diego’s cheeks as he slept, but he soon realized that the tears were coming from him, dripping down from his face onto Diego. He tucked Diego’s head into his shoulder again, kissing his hair.

“Oh, mijo. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He held his son all night, unwilling to let him go. His only consolation was at least now he didn’t have to worry about where Diego was. His precious son was right here in his arms, where he should be when he was… wounded. It was the smallest of silver linings that he hadn’t known that this was his son when struggling to treat his wound. He felt nauseous just thinking of his son being so grievously injured, especially when all his son was trying to do was help people.

Dawn’s early light surprised him, as he was so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed that several hours had passed. Diego was still overly warm in his arms, but he seemed to be resting quietly.

A set of three knocks in a row startled him enough that he nearly dropped his son. There was a pause, and another three knocks. Alejandro’s shoulders slumped when he realized it was just Bernardo. He leaned forward, cradling his son’s head with the utmost reverence as he laid Diego back down. He got up to let Bernardo in before he hastily remembered to put on Diego’s Zorro disguise. He wasn’t sure if Bernardo knew, but if he didn’t, he wouldn’t reveal his son’s secret.

Alejandro then let Bernardo in, and the man immediately rushed to Diego’s side. Bernardo’s hand came to Diego’s forehead, his cheeks, checking on his fever. Diego didn’t stir at the touch, and now Alejandro knew what that meant. Even as Zorro, Diego recognized the touch of his friend. He wondered if that meant that Bernardo knew too.

Diego murmured nonsense in his sleep again, and Alejandro sat beside his son, stroking his hair over the bandana. “Shh, Diego, it’s alright, you’re alright. Sleep my son, shh.”

His son calmed, soothed by Alejandro’s voice. Alejandro just stared at his son for a moment, taking in his peaceful expression before he noticed that Bernardo was looking at him in panic. At first it confused him, before he realized that somehow Bernardo must have understood that he knew now that Diego was Zorro.

“You knew?” Alejandro said, his voice incredulous before it turned to anger. “You knew this whole time?”

Bernardo struggled again with nonsensical movements before he just nodded.

“You knew and you didn’t tell me?” Alejandro demanded. “I’m his father!”

Bernardo then pointed to Diego and pressed a finger to his lips, showing that Diego had asked him not to tell.

Alejandro groaned and ran a hand over his face. Then he stopped.

“Wait, you can hear?” Alejandro exclaimed. “You could hear the whole time too?”

Bernardo nodded again.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Alejandro asked. “Why deceive everyone in such a way?”

Bernardo pointed at Diego again, and then he covered his ear. He then mimed walking again, and used his hands to mime talking. Then he placed his hand behind his ear to mime the word listen. Then he placed his hand over his mouth as if he was whispering and pointed to Diego.

“Diego wanted you to pretend to be deaf so you could overhear others’ conversations and what, report back to him?”

Bernardo gave him a hand wave to indicate perhaps a maybe, and pointed at himself. “You wanted to do that?” Bernardo nodded again. “Why?”

He placed his hand behind his ear again, and then mimed running and then whispering to Diego again. He made a ‘Z’ sign, and then pointed to Diego, and then mimed a shield.

“So… you could overhear things that would indicate that Zorro needed protection?” Alejandro asked.

Bernardo nodded happily.

Alejandro sighed. “At least Diego trusted someone to help him.”

Bernardo frowned and patted his shoulder in what seemed to be a gesture of comfort.

“So Diego has been Zorro this entire time.” Alejandro sighed again before a terrible thought entered his mind. “Even… even when we drew swords against each other.”

He remembered dueling Zorro when he and the other landowners tried to rush the cuartel to free the unjustly imprisoned Torres’ women. He’d noticed back then that Zorro had seemed very reluctant to draw his sword against them, a sadness in his eyes that he hadn’t understood in his anger. And all the time, it was Diego. Diego forced to fight his own father. Even if Alejandro’s intentions were good, his actions had still led him to fight his own son. Poor Diego. Diego had never hidden how much he loved his father, even if he hadn’t told Alejandro his secret.

Bernardo nodded at his statement, pointed at Diego, and then mimed an obvious frown, telling him that Diego had been very upset at having to do that. He could tell the man wasn’t trying to make him feel bad, just trying to tell him that Diego had been just as upset as he was right now, that Diego hadn’t wanted to fight him, but that brought him no comfort. He couldn’t imagine the strength of will Diego must have had to make himself fight his own father on his quest for justice. He doubted he’d have been strong enough to be able to draw his sword against his son.

“We need to take off his mask.” Alejandro said, reaching over. Bernardo grabbed his wrist, shaking his head and waving his finger in a no gesture.

“I’m not doing this because I know now.” Alejandro said. “Last night, while you and most of the hacienda were asleep, the soldiers came here.” Bernardo’s eyes went wide with fear. “Don’t worry, I was able to convince them that Diego was ill to hide Zorro’s presence, but now people expect Diego to be ill. And… I suppose he really is. But if we cover the bandages with a blanket, and hide his mask, then no one will be able to tell that Diego is Zorro. We could let him rest without worry of someone discovering him.”

Alejandro could tell that Bernardo was still uncertain about his plan, but after a moment, he did let go. Alejandro tenderly reached over and slipped Diego’s bandana off, and then very carefully, his mask. Without his Zorro disguise, Diego looked so young, like the boy who he’d sent to university those few years ago. Alejandro softly stroked his son’s cheek, unable to tear his eyes away for a moment. His poor son. Having to shoulder all of that responsibility, all of that pressure to protect the pueblo and distribute justice all alone, unable to confide in his own father. He didn’t know how Diego did it.

They lapsed into silence for a while as Diego slept beside them. Bernardo placed another cool cloth on Diego’s forehead, and Alejandro just sat, brushing another cool cloth over his son’s skin. At least, now that he knew it was Diego, he knew how to help his son. Whenever Diego had gotten stress fevers before, when he was a child, Alejandro just had to give him water, and keep him cool. When they checked his wound as they changed his bandages, the wound showed no sign of infection. Alejandro was nauseous at the sight of seeing his son’s body torn up and stitched together, but he had to be strong for his son. If Diego could fight under his mask as Zorro, then Alejandro could take care of him as his father. When Diego was born, he’d promised to always take care of his son, and he wouldn’t let him down now.

Dusk was settling gently in the west when Diego stirred again. To Alejandro’s immense relief, and when Diego opened his eyes the glaze of fever was gone. He smiled softly at his son.

Soon, fear entered his son’s eyes, and his hand came to his face, obviously searching for his mask. “Father, what… why did you…”

“Last night, you were thrashing in your sleep.” Alejandro explained, his voice saddened by his son’s fear and confusion. As much as he was grateful that he knew, he would’ve wanted his son to tell him of his own free will, and he knew Diego would’ve wanted that too. “It disturbed your mask, and well… I could recognize your face from the other side of the pueblo.”

Diego just stared at him, with his fingers still under his eye. Bernardo then took his hand, and Diego startled a little, having been so distracted with Alejandro’s presence that he didn’t notice his friend. Bernardo smiled a little, but Diego didn’t seem to react to it.

“I am sorry, my son.” Alejandro said, and he knew his son could sense his sincerity. “I know this isn’t how you wanted this to happen.”

Diego slowly brought his hand back down, and he suddenly couldn’t meet his father’s eye. “Are you upset with me? For not telling you?”

“Of course not, mijo.” Alejandro stroked Diego’s hair as he did when he was a child. “I could never be upset with you because you decided to keep a secret. Even one so big as this.”

Diego met his eyes once more. It hurt Alejandro’s heart to see shame in his son’s brown eyes.

“I’m sorry, Father.” Diego murmured. “I didn’t mean to lie to you for so long. I hated doing it.”

“It’s alright, Diego.” Alejandro smiled down at his son. “I can understand why you did it.”

Diego tried for a smile but it didn’t quite make his eyes. He shifted a little, seemingly uncomfortable, and then he winced, frowning in confusion. “What…?”

“Diego, what’s the last thing you remember?” Alejandro asked quietly, as it seemed like Diego didn’t know what had happened to him.

His son paused, his brow furrowing a little. “Riding Tornado. We’d just gotten away from Ramon, the last man I fought. He was trying to smuggle weapons into the pueblo. I… I remember my side hurting, and I didn’t know why. After that, it’s a bit of a blur.”

Alejandro hummed slightly, nodding. That lined up with the timeline that Alejandro had been able to figure out from what little information he had.

“What happened?” Diego asked. “How did you find me?”

“Your horse, actually, he’s incredibly intelligent.” Alejandro explained. “You must have fallen out of the saddle as you rode, and your Tornado went looking for help. He found me and brought me back to you. I found you lying in the dirt with your side sliced open. I brought you home, and since Diego de la Vega wasn’t in his room, I thought we could use it as a place to keep Zorro safe. Bernardo and I took care of you from there.”

“Oh.” Diego said softly, his hand coming to his right side. “I wondered what hurt so much.”

“I can send someone into town for laudanum tomorrow.” Alejandro said. “I couldn’t risk it when you were Zorro, but since the soldiers now think that Diego de la Vega isn’t feeling well, we can ask for it without repercussions.”

“The soldiers?” Diego asked, becoming afraid. “Why were the soldiers here? Is everything alright?”

Alejandro explained how the soldiers had come looking for him and left easily enough, thinking that a sleeping Zorro was a sleeping Diego. That calmed Diego visibly.

“Thank goodness.” Diego murmured. “I never wanted to put anyone in danger.”

Alejandro cupped Diego’s jawline, brushing his thumb over his cheek.

“Bernardo,” Alejandro muttered softly, and the man turned to him. “Can you give me and my son a moment alone?”

Bernardo looked to Diego, who nodded. Alejandro wasn’t sure of what had happened to make Bernardo so loyal to Diego, but he was glad his son had someone who would always stand by his side. It was clear Bernardo didn’t want to go, but he still listened to Diego, and he stood. He mimed getting Diego some water and food, and Diego smiled gratefully.

“That would be nice, Bernardo, thank you.”

Bernardo smiled at his son, and then he slipped out of the room. Now that he and Diego were alone, Alejandro sighed heavily.

“Why didn’t you tell me, mijo?” Alejandro murmured, asking the question that had been burning within him since he found out. “You know I wouldn’t have told anyone. You didn’t have to make me think that you had changed so much since I sent you to Spain.”

“Because I knew being Zorro would put you in danger, and I couldn’t risk that.” Diego whispered, his voice tinted with shyness and shame. “I knew I had to become someone I’m not to fight Comandante Monastario, I had to become someone he would never suspect. A scholar who couldn’t wield a sword couldn’t possibly be Zorro, and it worked. I knew if we took open action as you wanted to do, your life would be in danger. And I had to protect you.”

“You’re my son, Diego, you’re not responsible for protecting me. “ Alejandro said. “I’m responsible for protecting you. I swore to your mother that I would protect you until the end of my days and I will keep that promise. Even if it means dying for you.”

“I couldn’t risk that.” Diego said softly. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. Seeing you get shot was one of the worst days of my life. I’ve never been so scared, not even when I’m fighting the whole of the cuartel at once. I couldn’t knowingly put you in danger, and being Zorro is nothing but danger. I could choose to risk my own life, but I could never ask you to risk yours. I had to protect you, Father, even if it meant lying to you about who I was. I’d rather be a disappointment in your eyes than the reason you were killed.”

“Oh, mijo.” Alejandro sighed, stroking his son’s cheek. “You could never be a disappointment to me. You’re my son, I will always be proud of you. Yes, it was difficult to understand why you wouldn’t fight alongside me, why you suddenly had become so interested in books and music when you hadn’t been before. But that never meant that I thought of you as a disappointment.”

“Father-”

“Diego.” Alejandro said firmly. “Whether you’re a scholar and a diplomat or a dueler and an outlaw, I will always be proud of you. I’m sorry if I ever made you doubt that. You’re my son, I love you more than life itself.”

Diego smiled again, and this time, he could see it in Diego’s eyes. “I love you too, Father.”

Alejandro smiled in return. This was probably the most honest talk they’d had since Diego returned from Spain, and he was glad that his son could finally be honest with him.

Diego huffed quietly, slightly smirking. “I will say, I’m not looking forward to the worry and fretting you’re going to do whenever I go out at night.”

“I see no reason to do that.” Alejandro laughed, seeing Diego’s attempt at humor for what it was, but going with it anyways. Diego looked surprised at his answer. “You’ve bested me in a duel, my son. Not to mention you constantly fight the curatel and always escape unharmed. You… do escape unharmed every time, right?”

“Yes, Father.” Diego nodded, soothing Alejandro’s worry. “This is the first time I’ve ever gotten seriously hurt being Zorro. Usually, I’m very good at avoiding it.”

“Then I have no need to be worried.” Alejandro said. “I trust in your skills.”

Diego smiled. “Thank you, Father. I’m glad Zorro is skilled enough to earn your trust.”

“I did wonder what happened to your skills when you came back.” Alejandro mused. “When you left, I was sure you’d become the best swordsman in California before age thirty. But I suppose I wasn’t wrong, I just thought it would be under the name de la Vega.”

Diego chuckled. “So did I. I wish I could’ve shown you the medals and trophies I won back in Spain for fencing. You would’ve been so proud.”

“Medals and trophies?” Alejandro asked, confused. This was the first time Diego had ever mentioned anything of the sort since he came back.

“Yes.” Diego nodded. “I won several. I was one of the best swordsmen at university.”

“Where are they? Did you hide them?”

“Yes… at the bottom of the ocean.” Diego said wistfully. “I was warned our bags would be searched when we arrived in Los Angeles, so in order to keep up the illusion that I was completely inept with a sword, I had Bernardo throw them out the port window.”

“That’s a shame.” Alejandro said. “I would’ve liked to have seen them. And shown them off.”

“I can always go swimming the next time I go to the coast.” Diego smirked, and they both laughed together. A somewhat heavy tension between them dissolved softly into nonexistence.

Bernardo soon returned with some soup and a glass of water for Diego. His son went to sit up, before he immediately fell back into the pillows, whimpering in pain and clutching his right side.

“Easy, son.” Alejandro soothed, helping Diego adjust, sliding behind him so he could keep Diego up, maneuvering him into a sitting position. “You’re not ready for that yet. Just let us help you.”

“I don’t seem to have a choice in that.” Diego muttered, and Alejandro could hear the slight bitterness in Diego’s voice. His son had always been independent, and Alejandro knew how difficult it was for him to accept help sometimes.

“The more you rest, the faster you’ll heal.” Alejandro murmured. “I can certainly attest to that.”

Diego huffed quietly, still obviously upset at his situation, but he didn’t protest further. Bernardo could also clearly sense Diego’s desire to not be dependent on them, as he fed Diego as quickly as he could without making him sick so Diego wouldn’t have to deal with being so weak for longer than he had to. Alejandro could tell his son’s strength was waning as he finished, and when Diego was finished, he gently moved so Diego was resting against the pillows again. It took a moment for Diego to adjust and get comfortable again, but his eyes were half-lidded by the time he was done, clearly exhausted.

“Sleep, my son.” Alejandro whispered. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

It was barely a few minutes between Diego nodding softly and Diego’s breathing evening out as he slipped back into sleep. Alejandro stayed with him the entire night, promising himself that he’d watch over Diego until his son was fully healed and riding for justice again.

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 17 - Definitions

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 16 -- Part 18

Summary: A very important house meeting at 179th Crescent Street

Warnings: None! (Although this chapter does feature small people rage)

Word count: 3k

A/N: So this is a little different, I guess? Anyway... It's out there now. PSA: The 'wokeness' only goes so far as I reasonably assumed from a bunch of horny college dudes, okay?

@deandoesthingstome @geralts-yenn @summersong69 @peaches1958 @fvckinghenrycavill @keanureevesisbae

"Alright, mother Leon, you have the floor," Charles said as he lifted a beer to his lips. 

"Mike isn't here yet, should we wait?" Leon asked - they always asked. The reaction was no different this time than all the other times: laughter. 

"He'll get here when he gets here," Marshall said. They weren't mad about it - genuinely. Mike knew he was like this, he never asked them to wait, and he usually accepted whatever decision was made for the house in his absence. 

"On to our first - incredibly important - order of business." Leon's tone was such that Sherlock already sank back in his chair, looking embarrassed. "Sherlock, she stayed the night. Is the bet settled?" 

"Leon," Geralt warned. 

"I know you're in on that bet, Geralt, don't bother pretending," Sherlock muttered. 

"Oh, I'm not referring to the fact he brought it up," Geralt stated point blank, "he was just planning on being a dick about it. He shouldn't." His next glance in Leon's - and Charles' - direction was a warning shot. 

"Ah," Sherlock replied, "well. In any case, I don't know if it's settled. Personally, I find myself hung up on definitions." 

"'Are you still a virgin?' sounds simple enough, right?" Sy asked, looking amused and confused at the same time.

"On the surface, yes," Sherlock mused. In between sentences he wondered why it was so difficult for him to discuss the emotional side of these things, yet so incredibly simple to argue the semantics. Geralt looked amused by the turn this conversation was taking, as did Marshall and August. "I simply cannot accept the definition of the word 'virgin' as 'someone who has not had sex'." 

"Well, what's the problem, then?" Charles demanded. 

"The first problem with it would be the definition of the word 'sex'." 

"Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?" Charles scoffed. 

"That might just be why I've come to the conclusions I have come to, and you haven't." It wasn’t much like Sherlock to say things like that, but the others had noticed the growing animosity between him and Charles, and they’d all been waiting for it to come to a head. 

"Are you calling me daft, Holmes?"

"I'm surprised you managed to work that out, Brandon." That was certainly enough to piss off Charles - thoroughly. He opened his mouth to say something when August put a hand on his shoulder. 

"I'm going to recommend backing off, Charles," he said with a smirk on his face that clearly showed he was impressed with Sherlock, "when it comes to a battle of wits, Sherlock has all of us outgunned." Sherlock nodded at him, appreciative of the acknowledgment - and the help in keeping Charles' fists away from his face. Charles didn't have a terrible temper, but he was generally a sore loser, which made him unpredictable at times. 

"The question?" Leon said to bring them back to the conversation. 

"Right," Charles said, "the widely accepted definition would be... How do I put this?" They all knew what he meant, but this was a particularly uncomfortable one to say out loud. You bet they were going to make him. They waited nearly half a minute before Geralt had had enough. 

"For god's sake, man, are you twelve? The widely accepted definition would be 'penis in vagina'. That's what you're trying to say, right?"

"Yes," Charles answered curtly. 

"I don't think I agree with that definition, either." Sherlock said. 

"You can't just disagree with definitions because they don't suit you, Holmes."

"I disagree with them because they make no sense, Solo."

"I have to say I'm with Sherlock on this one," August said. Marshall and Geralt nodded in agreement. Charles, Leon and Sy formed the other side. 

"Sorry I'm late!" Mike stepped into the kitchen with his coat still on. 

"Perfect timing. We're in need of a tie-breaker," Marshall said. "What's sex?" 

"I feel someone should have told you that by now, Marshall..."

"Very funny, we're serious. It's a fifty-fifty split on the…” Now it was Marshall’s turn to feel flustered over having to say that. Luckily,  Geralt wasn’t prepared to wait around for another thirty seconds, and offered up the same description he had before. 

“Yeah, well… that,” Marshall continued, “versus 'not quite sure, but not just that', what do you say?" 

"I say; give a man some time to step inside the goddamn house before hitting him with your little existential crisis."

"Mike," August laughed, "answer the damn question." 

"I'm with the side that says dicking a girl down isn't all there is to it." 

"Subtle," Marshall said. Apart from the obvious amusement at his wording, most people seemed surprised at the side Mike chose in the debate.

"Always," Mike replied with a big smile. "Besides, because I see you guys looking surprised, it's literally called 'oral sex'. I feel that that should say something." 

"Thank you, Mike." Sherlock grinned.

"Alright, but I'm gonna need a better argument. Exactly how does the traditional definition not make sense?" Sy weighed in. 

"I don't need to convince you," Sherlock said. 

"Let's make it interesting," Charles chimed in, "sway any of us three, you win the bet yourself?" He looked at the others, who all agreed to the idea. Sherlock needed to consider it only for a moment. With the seven of them in on it, that was quite a bit of money. 

"Alright, first off, by that definition, lesbians can't have sex. Typically. Neither can gay men. Again, typically."

"Correct," Charles replied, "but has it somehow escaped your attention that you are neither a gay man nor a lesbian?" 

"It hasn't, thank you for your concern, but the fact of the matter is that the definition of ‘sex’ we have established as ‘widely accepted’ functions only where heterosexual relationships are concerned. Now I would personally find it preposterous to propose that physical intimacy can only be considered sex in situations involving a cisgender woman and a cisgender man, and to suggest that any physical intimacy that does not fit the aforementioned heteronormative definition is a ‘different kind’ of sex would be a particularly outdated take on the matter. 

“If one wishes so desperately to warp the definition of sex in such a way that it encompasses all kinds of physical intimacy that could possibly be defined as sex, in any and all possible configurations of relationships, it quickly becomes a matter of where you draw the line. The argument of oral sex that Mike pointed out earlier, really makes itself. And even then, why would that be the threshold? 

"And lastly I..." There was a short silence as Sherlock tried to come up with the words he needed to express the thought he was having. 

"Please keep talking, before one of them opens their mouth," August said. Much like Geralt, he'd been enjoying watching Charles and Leon get obliterated by Sherlock's solid logic. 

"I refuse to think of the things that don't fit the traditional definition of the word as 'other' or 'less than', because it would discredit the experience and everything surrounding it, and I cannot bring myself to do that." His voice was soft as he said it, and he couldn't seem to peel his gaze away from his hands, which rested in his lap. He noticed his fingers trembled slightly, though he couldn’t say he was so nervous that it was to be expected. 

“All things considered, one might come to the conclusion that there is something inherently flawed about any concept that depends so heavily on the definition of something that is so exceptionally difficult to define.” 

"So," Leon asked curiously, "what definitions would you suggest, instead?"

"None. I would sooner come to the conclusion that the concept of virginity is, to put it plainly - and pardon my French - fucking ridiculous, completely unnecessary and nothing other than a falsely attributed currency of virtue used as a tool to impose outdated patriarchal values and the notion of commodity on women while simultaneously serving to emasculate and ridicule men who haven't rid themselves of it soon enough by anyone's personal and completely arbitrary standards. As for the definition of sex… I genuinely don’t think I care." 

"Hand the man his money," Sy said with a sigh. Napoleon pulled the cash out of his wallet and tossed it on the table while grinning widely. 

Charles shook his head in disbelief. “Bastard,” he muttered under his breath. The look on his face clearly showed he was impressed. 

“Charles, I’d like for you to take a moment to consider the following: In what universe was it a good idea to make a bet that depends heavily on the other person’s ability to present a logical argument,” August said, “with the genius law and philosophy student?” His tone was amused and only slightly derisive.  

“Now that this is settled,” Napoleon continued, “we have serious matters to discu-” He was interrupted by the door opening and a whole lot of noise in the hall. 

“What are the girls doing here?” Charles asked. 

“We were already here.” Elena appeared in the doorway. “Because, as Leon so kindly pointed out, I did spend the night here. Nice speech, by the way, Sherlock.” She walked around the table and stood next to him, an arm around her shoulder. To her surprise - and perhaps everyone else’s - he pulled her into his lap. 

“And so did we.” Anjelica looked over her shoulder to Danielle and Solveig, who were laughing about a joke she hadn’t heard. “We went out to get some groceries.” 

‘Some groceries’ was apparently a new way to describe three whole bags, completely full of food. 

“Do we have rabbits I don’t know about?” Mike ducked when he saw Marshall’s hand swinging for the back of his head, only to get hit by Geralt when he came back up. “Guys, come on, that’s more vegetables than we’ve seen in this house in at least a year!” 

“The three of us,” Solveig gestured to Ange, Dani and herself, “talked about cooking for our guys yesterday, so we asked Elena to join, and she was on board.” 

“But we figured we couldn’t punish the rest of the house for being single, so we’ll feed all of you, if you ask nicely.” Dani leaned her head against Charles’ shoulder and then gave him a sweet smile. He shot a suggestive look in Mike’s direction just to get a rise out of him, but Mikey was Mikey, and therefore wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings at all. Not the part he should have been paying attention to, at least.

“Free food, and I don’t gotta make it?” Sy said with a massive grin on his face. “Count me in!” The other three didn’t complain, either. 

Leon called for everyone’s attention again, and this time he wasn’t interrupted by everyone and everything, which was nice. The plan itself was simple: New Year’s party. 

“You’re not planning a party two days in advance?” Dani looked like her head was going to explode. That was just not possible… The other girls seemed to agree. 

“Worry not, ladies,” Charles interrupted. He put an arm around Solveig’s shoulder, but a simple look from Geralt told him that if he wanted to keep all the equipment he planned on using during that party he was planning, he’d better stop touching his girl. Charles and Leon talked everyone through the plans they’d been making for weeks. As it turns out, the girls didn’t know about this thing, because the guys had just not told them. Mike couldn’t use the others’ excuse that it didn’t come up, and had to go with the truth that he’d simply forgotten to mention it when he and Dani had discussed it. Luckily, Sloane and Ari were on board - especially now that the guys they’d been going out with had made different plans, involving different girls. Even through text, Slo couldn’t exactly hide her excitement about the fact that she was: A. Finally getting to meet Mike, whom Dani had hidden from them purposely and quite successfully, and B. getting to meet the others in the house, first and foremost: Sy. 

The girls chased everyone out of the kitchen when it was a little past two. Cooking for a grand total of twelve people was a massive chore in and of itself, that always took longer than initially expected, and some of these guys got serious attitudes when they weren’t properly fed on time. And ‘some of these guys’ could definitely be interpreted as ‘all of them’. They figured it was probably best to start early. 

“Geralt, if you do not get out of this kitchen at once, I’m not responsible for what happens!” It was a very intimidating thing to hear from the nearly 6ft. tall Scandinavian, especially since she was holding a very sharp knife. 

“Just came to check on you,” Geralt said. He was actually brave enough to walk up to her and wrap his arms around her. “If now were the time for jokes, I’d say something about your cooking skills making you wife material.”

“Ah, I see,” Sol snapped, “and in response to that, I wouldn’t laugh, and I’d tell you to cook for me sometime. So I can see if you’re husband material. Now, get out.”

“Do I need to fetch you some painkillers?” She responded with a nod and a ‘yes’ in the softest voice. 

“There’s some in my bag,” Ange said, saving Geralt a trip upstairs before kicking him out of the kitchen herself. They continued working on dinner, hoping none of the other guys would decide to come sneak a peek at dinner. 

"Period?" Elena asked Sol casually while cutting a whole load of tomatoes. Mike could just about have been right when he made his rabbit joke.

"From hell," Sol confirmed as she took the pills from Ange, "and he always knows, and he's so sweet about it, but I just yell at him." 

"Blowjobs make for fantastic apologies," Ange said and both she and Sol laughed. 

"Now I feel sad Dani has nothing to apologize for." It was Mikey's signature tone, the one where you could just hear the grin seeping through. 

“Mike! Leave!” Anjelica was scary - all 4’11” of her. 

"Drink and hug, then I'm gone," he said as he wrapped his arms around Dani, who had been tasked with peeling and mincing enough garlic to fend off a small army of vampires. 

"Hi," Dani said before turning her head for a quick kiss, "go grab a drink." She really wanted to finish this task with the same amount of fingers she'd started with. 

"Thank you," Mike said suddenly, "I've never had a girlfriend cook for me before. It's nice." He grabbed a beer from the fridge and disappeared. 

"He is so cute," Elena said. 

"Hey!" Of course Sherlock walked in at exactly that moment. Ange was just about boiling over with rage at this point. 

"Out! Holmes, get out! God is there no place where a couple of girls can talk without being interrupted every twenty-five seconds?" 

"I thin women fought long and hard for years just to make it so that the kitchen was no longer that place," August answered as he stepped into the kitchen. Funnily enough, Anjelica's anger disappeared miraculously. 

"Hey baby," she said with a sweet smile as August walked over to her. 

"Aren't you supposed to try and scare me out of your kitchen?" He sounded amused, which was an interesting new mood for most of the girls to experience. 

"August, darling," Anjelica said sweetly, "did I mention I used the money my parents gave me for Christmas to treat myself to a new set of lingerie?" Sherlock almost choked on the piece of bell pepper he had stolen from the container next to Elena's cutting board, which caused her to elbow him in the ribs.

"You didn't," August answered, clearly not liking where this was going. 

"Well you won't get to see it if you don't fuck off." 

"Simple but effective," August said before giving her a quick kiss and walking away. 

"If all of you don't fuck off, August." 

"Holmes get the fuck out of that kitchen," August yelled, and then he turned his attention to Sy, who was apparently also on his way to the kitchen: "Syverson, don't even think about it." The boys laughed - and so did the girls. 

"We need a girl's night," Dani said impulsively. She shocked herself; she wasn't usually so outgoing, and she was very glad that the others were quick to agree. 

"I live with mostly guys, and three of them are on teams with guys from here," Ange said, "my place is out." 

"I couldn't fit all of us in my room if I tried," Elena added.

"I don't even have the keys to my place yet," Sol said with a smile. Something told the others that she would be a bit uncomfortable having the three of them over, too. Not that the others were any better acquainted.

"Well, Ari and Slo wouldn't mind having everyone over at ours, and I'm pretty sure after the party we'll have intel on most of the house…" Dani grinned. 

"Marshall, Leon, Charles and Sy are missing, right?" Anjelica's tone was devious. Heat rose to Dani's cheeks.

"Marshall, Leon and Charles," she corrected. The others looked at her wide-eyed. 

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Solveig whispered. 

"I-" Dani started, but she was quickly interrupted by Charles. 

"OUT!" All four of them yelled at the same time, which had the desired effect and terrified Charles as a lovely bonus. 

"I'm making a group chat now," Anjelica said with another curious glance in Dani's direction, "girl's night is on." 

[mythvoiced]

“you really don’t have to do that, not for me.” ( for….van 🥲🥲😭 )

@clemencetaught | more random dialogue prompts | ♥

---

Minute faltering.

There aren't a great many things Patrick and Van get to have in common. Pretending might be one of them, though. Patrick's entire existence, as far as Van's understanding of circumstances goes, relies heavily on pretending just in the right tone, in the right direction, with the right people, at the right time, to make sure he gets to live long enough to be forced to try again.

In contrast, Van's pretending is... well... it's like pretending he hasn't stubbed his toe, while Patrick pretends he hasn't been stabbed.

But pretending he still does. He pretends he likes it around here, pretends he genuinely gets it, that he more than empathizes with the plight of being a so very bored Capitol citizen he must continue to surround himself with Victors, because who else could invigorate his so very dull and rich life?

Van pretends in front of Patrick as well. What else is he supposed to do? He's supposed to function as a benefactor here. As selfish as it may sound, as disgustingly privileged to even get to pick and choose, Van doesn't want in on this gun's blazing.

He wants to help.

His feet are firmly planted on the line, he does what he can within the confines of his own gilded cage. He uses money and names, he tugs and playfully curls the strings of someone's mind around his fingers and makes them wonder, oh, aren't there better things to do? Don't the Victors deserve a little more?

It's not an easy task, hell, hell hath no deafer than the madmen who want to own others. But it's not... well, it's a stubbed toe compared to a dagger in a heart.

He pretends in the way he looks at Patrick, polite and frozen smile, it's easier to not accidentally drop the act if he always keeps it up. Their exchanges are rarely verbal, Patrick is more than smart, it isn't difficult to get what point he needs to get across to actually reach the Victor, let alone watch it implemented much better than he could have on his own, what with his lack of intimate knowledge on the matter.

And then... he doesn't anymore.

Because if Patrick says 'not for me', perhaps, just for a small, dangerous moment, they're done pretending.

And Van can be done pretending to himself as well, that he's truly that careful of a person. That he wouldn't do ridiculous things for a person who looks like that.

For the Gentleman, who looks like he's dangling from fishing lines made of electrical wires, exhausted and bled out, and still smiling politely to all those who want to poke at his bleeding purple wounds.

"I'm going to be very direct now," Van starts, and the smile's gone. The polite air is gone. Probably also the reason why he steps closer as they stand outside in the corridor leading to Van's door, why he lowers his voice.

"One, you're very important to the people you surround yourself with, whether you want to be or not. You're not always here when the Victors you tell me to call for arrive, so you don't see their faces or hear their words when they speak of you, but I do. Strategically speaking alone, if you're unsafe, how will they ever be, how will they ever try to be. A martyr works, a survivor works better. Two," he takes a breath, tries to remind himself he shouldn't... he doesn't have the right to care this much...?

"You're my primary contact to Victors, I need to prioritize you, I need to talk to you and hear from you. Three, and I don't know if I'm crossing a line here by saying this, so I'll extend my apologies as soon as we're done," Van turns to smile, all sharp falsehoods in a row as a neighbour walks past and doesn't even bother hide the knowing, appreciative gaze. Victors are the finest on the menu, aren't they?

Van steps back into his flat, opens the door a little wider. "You deserve the reprieve. Now, if you don't want to come in and want me to stop calling for you so often, I will. If you want out of this arrangement, consider it done. Otherwise... would you like to come in and have something warm to drink?"

[rcksmith]

Not you — Five Hargreeves

Requests: “Five Hargreeves x fem!reader, Fluff prompts 9, 52 and 53, please? (You can do this whenever you feel like it) Five and Y/n are both hit by one of Hazel and Cha-Cha’s bullets in the Gimbel Brothers store and they immediately go to the academy (Five wants Y/n treated as soon as possible.) after they’re fine, the siblings start to question them on Five’s protectiveness over Y/n”

“Hii could I request 4 & 23 off the fluff prompts for Five pls ty 😌✨”

Fluff prompts:

4. “Sweetheart, you’re my entire world”

9. “So you're saying that girl is your girlfriend?!" "No, that girl is my wife!”

23. “i’ve dreamt about this.”

52. "Help her first."

53. “There are no limits when it comes to you. I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”

A/N: We not tolerate any pedophilia here !!

I write about Five with their 20s. I write the same about the characters of Harry Potter.

I hope you guys like💖I decided to compile these two requests, since they were the same energy and they prompts connect to a central plot. I added all the elements that were asked for individually, and made sure that all ideas were respected and written down. Good reading.

I used here some fragments of the central plot of Five, but, guys, keep in mind that he is 20 years old, and that when he comes back to 2019 Five does not make a mistake in the calculations. I changed the location of the fight too, but a really I hope you, Anon # 1, don't mind.

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

Couple: Five Hargreeves / Fem! Reader.

Warnings: blood, mention of death, swearing, fluff too.

— — — — —

You remembered perfectly when you met Five Hargreeves, the commission's golden ball, The Handler's award-winning shamrock. If you closed your eyes, even after years, you could still smell the male cologne wafting in the air, and you could relive the same feeling in the pit of your stomach that you had when he looked at you with those obsedian eyes.

Five Hargreeves was gorgeous. Absurdly gorgeous. But absurdly arrogant, boastful, presumptuous and completely absent of any delicacy in relation to empathy and kindness. He was the type who would open the door for you to enter first, but who would be the first to make fun of your erroneous reasoning.

And that was why, at the time, when you were assigned to be his partner, you lived in conflict with what you really felt. It was a mixture of tantrum and physical attraction.

But unlike all the people around Five, when he spit fire at you with all the anger at his difficult temper, you didn't run. In fact, when it exploded the first time in front of you, you crossed your arms, arched an eyebrow and looked at him with boredom.

“Have you finished your show yet?” You said, as if you didn't care, leaning against the hood of the car while Five screamed through the 7 winds “Stop to imply with everything.”

Five had been your partner for a few months now and it became clearer each day that the irritation was mutual. He made it perfectly clear that you pissed him off until his last hair.

But, unlike you, it was for another reason.

Shit, you were a fucking goddess! Your beauty was notorious, but that was not all that caught his attention. You were smart, canny, brave, Five never saw you in fear of any situation or shaken by any scene of blood. You knew your goals and went after them. It was strong, decisive, and, goddamn, he loved it. You had a fist, you were firm, and you always made it very clear that you were no helpless maiden.

It felt like you had gotten out of his imagination, from the daydreams in which Five rambled about what kind of woman he admired. And, hell, you came with the full package. It was a combination of overwhelming beauty, intelligence, dexterity, and he never thought that someone like that could be real.

But of course you were. And now Five was completely irritated because you were real, and not just another his dream and daydream in which a sublime woman starred.

“To Imply?” Five turned to you, eyes on fire “To Imply?!”

“Like a 2-year-old who didn't take his afternoon nap. It's not the end of time, it doesn't have to be childish.”

Now Five felt himself ignite. He was a dry, rough fire and you were gasoline, igniting everything saw ahead.

Was that damn woman calling he a child?! You?! Just you, the person whose Five wanted to tie the bed and do all kinds of sinful things.

Oh hell no!

Five came forward, furious, like an angry god, his coal eyes never leaving your direction.

“Childish, isn't it?” He snarled “I'm going to show you the childish!”

Five held your face tightly in his hands and pressed your lips to his. Fierce, needy, set on fire, lost in half sentences of feelings about you. He slid his hands to the back of your neck, closing his fingers in your hair and invading your mouth with his tongue, letting you taste the caffeine, danger and lust he had.

You sighed, or Five, or both. You held him as close as he was, with the two of you being on the same mission: to conquer, to take, to possess. But Five had an extraordinary intensity, a magnitude that managed to win you

Then your touch became more docile, your kiss became submissive and you were surrendered. When Five walked away, not with his body, he still held you against him, but with his head, enough to look you in the eye, you sighed.

“I’ve dreamt about this.” You gave up your game, because you couldn't pretend anymore, and Five responded by kissing you again, this time tasting your whole mouth.

After that day, Five and you never came apart. You two were like a dynamic duo, crime partners in the morning and intense lovers at night.

But Five spent so much time with affection, love and caring being denied that when, on a night when work got the best of him, Five fell into the bed you shared in a Motel room, very close to your lap and you smiled sweetly and ran your fingers through his black hair, establishing the affection there, Five was catatonic.

His wild mind wanted to take it away and go, tell you to swallow those loving gestures and that he would never need them. That they were a nuisance, a distraction.

But his body and heart... well, they begged Five to stay another second. Just one more second enjoying that touch, the care, the importance that someone felt for him. He liked to be pampered, who knew.

So he ended up falling asleep with your touch and, after that day, Five realized that if his body and heart couldn't get any further from you, then no one would ever take you away from him. You would stay with him, until the end. As long as you wanted to stay.

And you wanted to. You wanted all the stages, all the moments, all the fights. You wanted Five, completely. And after some time like that, he said that you two were going to get married. It wasn't a request, it wasn't a speculation, it was a fact and that's it. You laughed, it was Five's style to be embarrassed about something and treat it more coarsely, just because he didn't know how to deal with the emotions he felt.

“Of course I do.” You reassured him by bringing your hands to his face, tracing affectionate circles on his cheek with your thumb.

“You would have no other option.” He grunted, not looking at you, trying to divert attention from his own racing heart.

You laughed and sealed the future of the two of you with a kiss.

After five years of making it official, Five said he had found a way for him to get home. And as he spoke, you noticed a flickering hesitation in his eyes. You knew, at that moment, that Five would leave it behind if there was a chance that you wouldn't want to go along. He promised to love you, in joy and sadness, in difficult times and in good times, and he never broke a promise.

Five Hargreeves would stay for you. In 1963, in 1988, in 2019, it didn't matter the season, the year. It wouldn't be worth anything if didn't have you by his side.

But, like him, it was logical that you would never abandon him, ever. So you went along. It was together in the murder in 1963, it was together at the time of the target, and it was together when he jumped in the portal. You were with Five when he reunited with his family, they all amazement by the 13 year old little brother who disappeared to reappear as a man of 25. On top of that accompanied by a girl.

But Five still couldn't administer his emotions properly, he still couldn't say that he missed his brothers and that being without his family had been terrible. His past contained many shipwrecks and he did not know how to open up about it. After so many years alone and then killing without any judgment, it was difficult to connect with emotions.

So, instead of saying everything that screamed inside him, after just some time with the siblings he took your hand and pulled you out, telling the Hargreeves that he would go after a decent coffee.

“I wish I could have talked to them better.” You grumble whit Five and he rolled his eyes.

“As if they were going to understand the things you were going to explain.” He murmured, covering the whole issue of the Commission and time jumps.

“This is not difficult to explain.” You raised your left hand, signaling the silver circle that hugged your finger.

Five laughed, sipping his coffee.

“You will be my wife forever, there is plenty of time for you to tell that.”

But as soon as Five's words had just left your lips, blowing in the air like fog, the door to the store opened, and you two didn't have to turn around to find out who they were. Years on the commission have earned you enough training to even recognize the sound of their footsteps.

The exchange of looks that Five and you gave was enough to know what each one was thinking and how they would act. That was your secret language, the superpower that you two shared. No words were needed to understand each one like the back of your hand.

You took a deep breath, while your fingers on your right hand steadied yourself on the coffee cup and Five on the knife. There was no waiting for speeches, exchanging words, you both knew that the Commission would send the best agents besides you, and Hazel and Cha-Cha were not known to be late at work.

Then the action started, Five turned and teleported with the knife, shoving it into the leg of one of the agents covered in rabbit masks. You didn't stay behind and swivel your chair around, throwing the sizzling coffee into the second's hands, causing him to drop the gun on the floor. You didn't wait to kick him in the chest, making him stagger backwards as you got up from the chair. You and Five were good, but so was Hazel and Cha-Cha, and you couldn't count on the powers to dodge physical attacks.

Everything was very fast indeed, windows were broken, punches were exchanged, blood was plucked. But when you looked to the side and saw who was probably Cha-Cha pushing Five against a broken glass stake, you understood why love at work was so dangerous. You understand completely. Because you've lost your focus. It took a thousandth of an instant for years of training and improvement to be thrown out the window. Only the possibility of Five getting hurt got you off track, and that was fatale.

The agent who fought with you took advantage of your distraction, reaching for the gun that was on the floor in that split second. And a shot reverberated through the place.

Suddenly, the world for Five stopped the axis. Everything was suspended, appalled, frozen. And in that very second, his body shivered from head to toe, as if misfortune had sighed in his neck. Five Hargreeves never feared anyone, even death itself. But as soon as he heard the sound of the shot, Five tasted death. Was rough, metallic and cruel, the blood drained from the body and the world released a dark and funeral note, sinking into a black sea.

Because fear is not the bullet hitting you, but someone you love.

Five turned back, eyes wide, hands shaking, and he didn't know what was beating faster: his fear or his heart.

He would remember that moment as the most cruel and frightening of his entire life, years in the apocalypse and killing had no comparison to the terror that was seeing your white shirt start to be stained with blood, the bullet hole marking your abdomen. You looked up at him, shocked, livid, and Five could see death perfectly, pulling the vitality out of your eyes.

He didn't think, he didn't reason, he just teleported himself to you, taking your body in his arms and teleported you two away from there. Five’s hands were shaking, a visceral pain snaking through his body and suffocating him with the worst sensation Five had ever felt in his life.

He took you both to the Hargreeves mansion in the blink of an eye, his powers failing when the blue flash left you both in the giant living room.

“Five!”

Maybe it was Luther's voice, or Klaus, or Diego, he didn't know. Everything was a distant echo, a note submerged in the water. Five saw or heard nothing but your body in his arms, your eyes closed and face frighteningly pale, his right hand, which was pressing on your wound, was already soaked in blood.

It was too much blood, the smell was overwhelming, and for the first time in a long time, Five Hargreeves was in despair.

Hands touched his shoulders, and Grace's voice was heard in the background. But he didn't want treatments, whatever the goddamn his wounds were going to be.

“Help her first!” Five shouted, his voice finding strength in the terror he felt. And also in fury.

The Handler would pay for that, and so would Hazel and Cha-Cha. And, by God, the whole world would pay if you never opened your eyes again.

“Right now.” Maybe it was Pogo “But, Five, are you…”

“No!” He ordered “She first!”

Then Grace's hands took you out of his arms and Five refused to leave you for even a second. He was beside you at the operating table, holding your hand, with him bloody fingers of your blood and the agent he had fought.

But Five didn't care about the himself state, the people around it, or anything. His eyes were focused on you, his face frozen in a livid expression.

And when Grace said that you would need a blood transfusion and Five barely let her finish speaking before rolling up the manga and extending his arm, the siblings Hargreeves and Pogo were shocked. What they saw in Five's eyes was not a man afraid of losing someone, but of losing the person he loved.

I shouldn't have come back. Was Five's first thought when the surgery ended well and you were still asleep. It was his fault that you almost died. And everything was buzzing in Five's head like a propellant.

“So…”

Klaus appeared in the kitchen, with the siblings, while Five was washing the blood from his hands, now calmer since you were alive.

“That was heavy.” Luther let out a little gasp, a kind of choked laugh.

“Aren't you going to tell us what happened?” Allison sat at the table.

“She almost died because of my decision, that's what happened.” Five replied, turning and picking up a cloth from the table, drying his hands.

“Five...” Allison made his eyes go towards his sister “Who is she, actually ?”

Five gave a bitter laugh. Who were you? How would he explain it?

You are everything. The reason wake up everyday was good, what made the summer breeze and the sun's rays warm, the reason why his world was still spinning.

Who were you? It was absolutely everything for Five.

“Someone very important.” His whispered escaped.

“So you're saying that girl is your girlfriend ?!" Luther looked at Five in shock, as if the possibility of him having a girlfriend was absurd.

“No.” Five looked at Luther with fire in his eyes, his voice hoarse “That girl is my wife!”

The room's breath evaporated, everyone was dumbfounded and bewildered. But Grace came in at that moment, saving Five from continuing that conversation.

“She woke up.” His mother's voice was soft, and Five dropped everything he was doing and disappeared into the blue flash.

The first thing he noticed when he entered that room was you sitting on the bed, your back against the headboard.

“Hey...” the smile you gave made Five's world spin again.

He didn't wait a second before walking up to you in quick steps, holding your face in his hands and sealing your lips in a desperate kiss, as if that could prove that everything was fine.

“I thought I lost you.” He whispered against your lips, hands shaking, thumbs stroking yours cheeks.

“Bad vase doesn't break early.” You joked and Five laughed softly, his forehead touching your. “Were you hurt?”

He denied it, still with you, as if letting you was impossible. Maybe it was.

“I got distracted, I'm sorry that we let them escape and...”

Five interrupted your sentence

“Sweetheart…” You stopped, bewitched by his tone of voice “You’re my entire world.”

Five wasn't calling Hazel and Cha-Cha right now. He would kill that entire Commission later. Later. Now the only thing that mattered was you.

“I shouldn't have broken our contracts with the commission. I shouldn't have put you in this.” He said “But ... but I am very selfish, and even though I knew it would be better to let you go back to the Commission, I cannot live without you...”

“Hey, I not go come back.” You held his hands that were on your face, looking at him with love "My place is with you.”

“I promise you that I will never let anyone else hurt you. Even if I have to kill every single person on this planet. ” Five guaranteed “There are no limits when it comes to you. I'll do anything to keep you safe. ”

You smiled, put your lips together in a passionate kiss and whispered:

“I only need you, my love. Forever.”

[yoonpobs]

difficult | myg

pairing: min yoongi x oc

genre: fluff, mini angst, super cute, mutual pining

words: 3, 812

summary: you're difficult and yoongi just wants you

“I can’t believe it,” Jimin whistles. Taehyung mirrors his sentiment but with a look of disbelief.

“Me neither. But here we are.” Taehyung states matter-of-factly.

You were silent, not because you had nothing to say—but because you couldn’t believe it either. How did you allow yourself to fall into this trap? A trap you’ve spent your entire life training to avoid. And you would consider yourself someone that was dedicated to their craft and you truly were. But you were still susceptible to guilty pleasures and you just found your match.

“Why is no one stopping me? Why isn’t anyone telling me to get a grip of myself?” You cry.

Jimin looks at you sympathetically even if he knows that you hated being pitied. Taehyung at least avoids your gaze but the tell-tale signs of a frown appear on his face when you see the furrow of his brows.

“You know … you’re allowed to feel this way, right?” Jimin says carefully and you were more annoyed with the fact that he was walking on eggshells with you when you’ve long passed that stage of prudent navigation around each other. And you knew exactly why he sounded the way he did.

“I’m not. I’m supposed to be an impenetrable fortress that cannot be shaken by anything let alone anyone. I am an unyielding, resolute woman that refuses to be tied down by society’s narratives.” You say all at once.

Jimin and Taehyung blink at you. They expected this—but it still surprised them that you vocalised their thoughts.

Jimin clears his throat.

“Let me rephrase that,” He says sternly, “You’re allowed to feel, period.”

You shake your head because you’ve fallen too far—too hard. And you needed to get a grip of yourself because you didn’t work hard perfecting the flawless expression of bitchiness and temptation to be taken seriously amongst a Board of Directors filled with men. People like you couldn’t afford to feel.

Especially when the world never feels for you. For women.

“Do you hear yourself Jimin?” You exasperate as you throw your hands in the air in frustration.

“____—” Taehyung attempts to reason with you, but as always, you never let him get a word in. He knows you don’t mean any malice because you’ve built your walls so high that you think everyone is out to get you—but he just cares about you. He wishes you’d let him.

“No. You don’t understand guys. People like me? We—I—can’t afford to slack off. Not now and not anytime soon. I hear you guys and I wish I could understand where you’re coming from but frankly, I won’t ever be able to. You have the liberty of picking your battles because this world is yours. I had to fight my battles on my own to claim this world as my own and I’m nowhere near deserving of that role yet. I can’t feel.”

Their eyes soften at you and you avoid their gazes. You didn’t want their pity, and you didn’t want to sit in a tight office with their stares so heavy on your own.

“You deserve to be happy,” Taehyung says sadly.

You don’t respond, but you hear the chairs in front of your desk move against the hardwood floor. Then, you hear the opening and closing of your doors and you’re finally alone. Like how you do best.

You don’t allow another thought as insignificant as the one that threatens to overtake you to pass through your mind as you quickly tend to your pending projects.

The name of a certain man lingers very vaguely, though.

It annoys yet terrifies you how much you needed to consciously play your cards just right when you step into another board meeting. You thrived when you spoke at the podium, and no man—even the most bigoted—could deny that you were a born leader. But that didn’t mean that they liked that fact. In fact, most of them despised the idea that a woman as young as you was even allowed in the same room as they were. You wished you could yell at them, cry and shout until they understood that you were deserving.

You couldn’t, for very obvious reasons. But until you could—you needed to be smart.

“Mr Lee, with all due respect—liquifying the compartment company will not bring us the projected profit that you’ve pitched in the previous meeting.”

You’re level-headed and cool when you attempt to reason with the older and very stubborn man. He was old, and stubborn, which was never good news for you.

Mr Lee, the Chairman’s younger brother, simply scoffs at you, and you try your best not to let your eye twitch.

“What? Do you have a bachelor’s degree in business?” He sneers.

You blink.

“I have a double Masters in Business Administration and Finance.”

Mr Lee stiffens, and you briefly see Seokjin, the fellow nephew of Mr Kim, holding back his snorts at your declaration.

“I am qualified to be making this statement, and if you don’t believe in just words—which you really shouldn’t—here are the documents and projections from my end.” You distribute the analysis you took upon yourself to complete over the weekend and worked overtime to finish it as you handed it around the table.

Mr Kim, the Chairman, who was a far better man than everyone else in the Board of Directors, offers you an impressed smile as he flips through your booklet while you stand straight with your shoulders rolled back. A stance you often took to show that you knew your shit.

“This is very … meticulous. Great work as always, ___.” Mr Kim compliments you.

You don’t let it show on your face but you’re pleased with the way Mr Lee grumbles under his breath like a petulant child.

“Very well. We’ll keep the compartment company as it is,” Mr Kim declares and everyone else in the room shuffles to collect their belongings as the meeting comes to an end, “Meeting adjourned.”

+

“You’re absolutely badass,” Jin whistles at you as you walk side-by-side, your folders snug against your chest.

You hide your smile but acknowledge it regardless.

“And you were … there. As usual.”

He snorts and you know he gets where you’re coming from. Jin was simply present at the meeting but he wasn’t actually present. His heart had no place in the business world but instead in a world filled with fine dining and diverse cuisines as he worked up a storm in the kitchen. But as every father—who is the Chairman of a country’s largest exporter—he had pushed that dream onto Jin from a young age.

But Jin was Jin, and you knew Mr Kim simply kept him here for the sake of it; fully aware of his son’s aspirations and determination of becoming a chef.

“You should just take my position. You’re so good at business talk—I didn’t understand half the shit you were saying the entire time.” He says.

You shrug.

“I mean, that’s the goal. But let’s just see for now,” You hum as you reach your office, and you still when you see the person waiting for you inside.

Jin takes a peek over your shoulder and spots the same person who has you looking so tense. He whistles at you as he stuffs his right hand in his pocket while offering you a consoling pat on your shoulder with his left before he stalks off.

“Good luck!” He calls out, and you internally groan at the oncoming interaction.

You brace yourself and put on a brave face as you step into your office, doors clicking, signalling your guest to turn around at the insinuation of your presence.

“Mr Min, what can I help you with?” You don’t look at him when you place your belongings on your table and you nearly miss his scoff with the way you attempt to busy yourself with any mindless activity that you can find on your desk.

“Mr Min? Not Yoongi anymore?”

You ignore his bitter tone and look at him with a reserved stare, raising an eyebrow as if to question his statement.

“Are we not co-workers?” You reply coolly and he scoffs much louder for you to hear.

“Co-workers … yeah,” He shrugs, leaning forward, “Do you usually kiss your co-workers?”

You are still at the sudden declaration and nearly drop the pen that was in your grip. He’s suddenly inches closer to you despite the relative distance of your desk between the both of you. You try to ignore the heat of his body, but it’s entirely too suffocating for you to pretend like he isn’t there.

“Don’t give me that nonsense,” You wave him off and you steady your voice because you weren’t ready for him to see you break. You allowed yourself too much space to be vulnerable and you needed to stop.

He sits back into the chair and folds his arms across his chest with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, this is not what we’re going to do.” He says, suddenly much firmer than he was a moment ago.

“I’m sorry?” You ask, clearly confused.

“None of this detached, emotionless attitude with me. I see through this facade and it’s not cute. You’re going to speak to me like an adult and address the very obvious feelings you have for me, and likewise. You’re not allowed to deflect like you always do because I expect you to be honest with me because you’re clearly not being honest to yourself.”

You blink up at him and your heart starts beating more rapidly within your chest as it betrays your stoic appearance.

Maybe that was why you fell for Yoongi in the first place. He didn’t tolerate you. Specifically, the shit that you pull on him. You were well aware you were a stubborn, hard-headed bitch that could be emotionally reserved 99% of the time when you interacted with others. And sometimes your bitchiness was uncalled for, but most people were too terrified to say anything about it to your face.

Yoongi?

He had no problems letting you know what he expected from you and how he thought of you from the beginning. It should’ve irked you. Based on your strict line of principles that you upheld—a man projecting his own thoughts of you that he had in his head, directly to you, should’ve been dehumanising, disrespectful even. But you never got that from Yoongi. He was brutally honest. And you appreciate honesty.

But sometimes it made you squirm.

“I … sorry, what? Are you insane? I don’t have feelings for you.” You narrow your eyes at him and hope you sound convincing enough.

But you knew Yoongi well enough to know that he saw through your blatant lie.

“I said: don’t deflect. You’re deflecting.” He scolds.

“You’re being unnecessarily distasteful right now,” You roll your eyes.

“Am I? Or am I just telling you the truth that you’ve been trying to deny for the past week that you’ve been cowardly avoiding me?” He’s calm when he makes the accusation. And it wasn’t even an accusation because it was the plain truth.

You burn, both in anger and in humiliation.

“What do you know about me Yoongi? Aren’t I just the company’s hot-headed bitch?” You snap, remembering the first words you heard from Yoongi.

“You are a hot-headed bitch, and I know you’re scared of admitting that you have feelings for me because you think feeling makes you weak.”

You ignore the fact that he admitted that you were a bitch, but Yoongi wasn’t the type to lie, nor was he the type to kiss ass. And you hated that he was still brutally honest, even when speaking about a topic so … intimate.

“Look, I don’t know where you’re getting this information from but you need to leave.” You stand up to walk towards the door so you could open it for him but he grabs your wrist before you make it there.

He turns you around to look at him. Properly look at him, that is. You’ve been avoiding direct eye contact with him because as good of a front you’ve worked on to put in front of him, you were human. And as a human, you were bound to have a weakness.

“You don’t get to walk away from me—this conversation—because you hate confrontation,” He frowns at you and you turn away to avoid his heavy gaze.

“Yoongi, can we not do this?” You sigh.

He chuckles dryly, using his right hand to nudge your face to look at him. It should’ve been demeaning, but you felt nothing like you were disrespected. You hated to admit it but you liked it. You liked it a lot more than you’d admit to anyone.

“No. We’re doing this. You’re going to address your feelings for me and actually work for what you want—and that’s clearly this,” He gestures between the two of you and you glare up at him.

“I told you! I don’t have any feelings for you.” You snarl at him, teeth bared like an animal but he just laughs at you like you were pathetic. You hated how small you felt in his presence but yet you were still whole.

“You don’t kiss a person you don’t have feelings for—you don’t hold someone you don’t have feelings for like they’re your safe space. You don’t have feelings for me? That’s funny because you did all of those things and you’ve never once complained when I reciprocated.”

You fumble with your words as the tip of your ears burn a bright red, which Yoongi easily catches.

“You don’t turn into a tomato if I was lying to you. You’re not like that, right? You’re self-assured. Ms-I’m-An-Impenetrable-Fortress,” He mocks.

“S-Stop acting as if you know me, Yoongi. You don’t and you never will.” You struggle against his grip on your wrist but he simply tugs you closer until your faces are inches apart.

“I don’t?” He scoffs, “Then tell me, why do I know that you confide Jimin and Taehyung for advice but never take it anyway because you’re too damn stubborn?”

You were about to retort but he’s quicker with his response.

“Then tell me, why do I know that you walk with your head held high into meetings but exit with your tail tucked between your legs because you’re afraid of sounding too dumb, too incompetent?”

You freeze.

“Then tell me, why do I know that you pull away from people not because you’re repulsed by them but because you’re afraid of forming actual bonds in the fear of being abandoned?”

You internally curse when you fear your eyes burning, and the lump in your throat becoming too much to bear.

“Then tell me, ___, why do I know you feel the same way about me but you’re too scared of looking dependent to do anything about it?” He whispers the last part when he pulls you tight against his chest.

You don’t fight him anymore, and you relax into the firm expanse of his chest and it terrifies you that it feels so much like home. A warm space you find comfort in.

You don’t even realise the first tear escapes your eyes until you feel Yoongi’s dress shirt turn slightly damp under the skin of your cheek. You’re mortified when you realise you’re crying and you attempt to pull away but his hands find their way around your waist to hold you tight.

“Don’t,” He whispers, “Don’t pull away from me.”

“Yoongi … I-I can’t,” You stutter, voice shaky.

He wipes a thumb on your cheek to wipe away the continuous stream of tears that you don’t bother hiding from him anymore.

“I worked my ass off to be taken seriously here and—and … if I get a boyfriend they’re going to think that I’m reliant, I’m weak, dependent on a man.” You ramble, but he just listens to your nonsensical statement as he rubs soothing circles on your head.

“I want you to rely on me, to depend on me. Stop thinking that you need to fight your battles alone. I’m here—I’ll be here. I’ve always been here but you need to let me be there for you.” He says softly.

You peer up at him with swollen eyes and he thinks you look beautiful. You always were beautiful. When you were commanding a meeting; when you were focused when you were angry; when you were laughing, and when you were sad. He was in for all of it.

“But ... the Board of Directors—”

He shushes you with a light kiss to the corner of your lip and you feel your stale heart flutter.

“I’m not here to be your saviour. I’m here to be your equal. I want to help you as much as you’ll help me. And believe me when I say you’ve helped me. The Board of Directors? Relationship or no relationship, they’ll be the same bigots that unfortunately dictate the policies in this company. The only person that has the ability to change anything in this situation is you ___.”

You feel your resolve breaking but you should’ve known that you’ve never had any resolve when it came to Yoongi. You were always weak around him. And maybe you needed to start accepting the fact that you were allowed to feel weak, to feel dependent on someone.

“What if you leave me.” You whine.

He snorts before rubbing a thumb between your furrowed brows.

“Then I leave. But we don’t know what’s going to happen if we don’t try,” He says and you realise how close he’s gotten to you to the point you feel his breath on your lips.

“That’s not comforting to hear the slightest,” You complain.

“And nothing about a relationship is easy. But I’m willing to be with you. I’ve always been ready—it’s you that needs to make the decision, ___.”

You finally lock eyes with him and you see nothing but sincerity. Yoongi could be crass, and often mistaken as a dick. But he was just honourable. He wouldn’t lie to anyone or sugarcoat the difficult truth. In fact, he never made you feel inferior to him even when he was straightforward. He never treated you differently because you were terrifying—but he treated you how he would with anyone else. And that was comforting. While everyone else walked on eggshells with you, he was fearless with his declarations.

Even now.

“I like you. I have no qualms in admitting it. And I’ll say it over and over again until you believe me,”

You don’t reply but kiss him. And there are no explosive fireworks, and time still flows—but it feels familiar. It feels like a territory that you’ve known all along, a little rough around the edges with the time spent away, but a place you can allude to comfort.

He responds by licking into the seam of your mouth as you allow his tongue to lick behind your teeth, a small whine caught in the back of your throat as you card your fingers through his hair. The hands-on your waist presses you tighter, flush against his body.

He pulls away first, resting his forehead on your own.

“I need to hear you say it. None of this tip-toeing anymore.”

You offer him a small smile.

“I-I …”

He watches you stutter with a hooded gaze but nothing about his stare makes you feel pressured. It was more comforting than anything, and the way he still held onto you like you mattered—but weren’t fragile—allowed you some semblance of peace in retaining your identity. This arbitrary idea of what you thought you were and how people perceived you. It was difficult to unlearn an idea that felt very personal to you after years of mastering its art.

You’re still unsure of how to react but you’re so sure of how you feel.

“I like you. I-I want to try.” You wail.

He’s alarmed by the sudden change in tone from your end and at the way you tug at the collars of his shirt. Not aggressively, but a little desperate. Not in the way that’d make him scrunch his nose in distaste but in a way that told him that this was you being vulnerable. Being open.

He wipes at your cheeks with dried tears and looks at you so honestly that it scares you. But in a way, you were fearless because you were terrified of everything. Mostly of disappointing others who held you to such a high standard, but it was a valid fear regardless.

“I’m not some fragile woman that you need to fix and I want you to understand that,” You pull yourself together and tell him sternly. He listens because Yoongi has never been presumptuous.

“I’m my own person and I won’t change the way I act to be with you—and if you’re looking for a cute … dainty, soft girlfriend then…” You whisper, “That’s not me. I’m tough. I’m a bitch and I’m stubborn. Our arguments are going to suck because I have a response for literally everything so—!”

He shushes your rambling with a finger to your lips and a raised eyebrow. You pout at him under his finger and he finds you adorable. He decides to not say anything to preserve his head—but soon. He’ll tell you soon.

“Are you done?”

You huff under his finger but he looks at you fondly.

“I’m not one for normality. I don’t care about what you think I’m into because I know that I’m into you. I’m in this, ___. Stop thinking that I deserve some idealistic image of a woman that you have in your head. I want you, and I thought me coming here to speak to you about your feelings was a clear testament to that.”

You try to hide your blush but you fail.

“And stop being so conscious of how you act around me. Be tough. Be independent. But don’t be afraid to be cute and vulnerable too, okay? I like you in all ways that you decide to present yourself in. Just … trust me. Trust this.”

“Okay.” You nod.

He grins at you.

“Does that mean I can hold your hand on the way to work?” He teases.

You avoid his eyes and look to the side, but the slight curve of your lip gives your answer to that question away.

“I guess …” You mutter.

He hugs you closer and squeezes you until your feet leave the ground. He tackles you with kisses all over your face and you can’t help but giggle. You feel happy. You feel secure.

“Cutie.”

You deliver a smack to his chest but he just laughs.

[rosaliepostsstuff]

Chasing birds | T. W.

Talbott Winger x reader

not adding a taglist cause it's the first hphm fic I've posted so I'm not sure if you're into it

Summary: The reader realises Talbott is spending the holidays at Hogwarts and decides to stay behind too, to keep him company

Reader's house not specified!

Word count: 2195

Warnings: mentions of food, mentions of parent death, mentions of difficult family relationships

a/n: it's assumed the reader has helped him with the necklace, is an animagus (the form isn’t mentioned) and had the first date, valentines day and festival date with him. I also assumed the festival took place at the very beginning of year 5 while it was still summer and it's now the following winter.

Also, I pretended Bea didn’t get sucked into the portrait because I didn’t want Penny all sad.

It was safe to say that most of Hogwarts students were looking forward to the winter break. Some because of the Holidays, some purely because of the time off.

Some were counting down the days since the very beginning of the term, some since November 1st, some from the moment the castle grounds had been graced with the first snow of the season.

Winter had its own charm to it. The castle got its share of sunlight during the warmer months, towards the end of the school year, as the summer was approaching, and at the very beginning of it as the summer was slowly fading away. But once the grounds were covered in snow, the grand castle seemed even brighter – the winter sunlight and sky is different but all that light, reflecting off the snow and amplifying, seeped through the windows.

You were already filled with anticipation, more and more with each day that separated you from Christmas break.

You were currently counting down the minutes till the charms class ended, your last class that Friday – minutes to your last weekend before Christmas. You divided your attention between encouraging the blond Gryffindor in lifting his feather and the watch on your hand ticking away.

“Alright then, dear students, that’s all for today! Some of you I will not be seeing until the next term so I’d like to wish you all Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and may you all have a nice rest before the new term starts! Class dismissed.” Said Flitwick cheerfully as a chorus of thanks and all kinds of wishes followed, before the students began to pour out of the classroom.

“Gee, you’d think there was a fire…”  you heard Jae say groggily from behind you as he was getting up from his nap and stretched lazily. You looked at the crowd trying to squeeze through the door and chuckled, agreeing with him.

When the crowd thinned a bit, you saw someone you immediately recognised walk into the classroom. You smiled to yourself at the sight and involuntarily paused your actions to look at the tall boy in his Ravenclaw robes try to push through the students with a bit of a grimace on his face. You could almost hear his thoughts in your head.

“You coming, Y/N?” said Rowan from beside you.

At the sound of your name Talbott looked up in your direction and you briefly met his eyes. He smiled as soon as he saw you and you smiled back at him, waving your hand lightly. He raised his hand in response for just half a second before turning his attention to Flitwick.

“Coming,” you said quietly, turning to Rowan who now was standing with arms crossed on her chest and suppressing a grin.

“Ohh shut up..” you said jokingly flinging your bag over your shoulder.

“I did not say a thing..!” she countered, giggling.

On your way out, you managed to hear a bit of Talbott’s conversation with Flitwick.

“He’s staying at school for holidays..?” Rowan mentioned, looking over her shoulder after you left the classroom.

“Yeah…” you went quiet for a bit, thinking.

You had to admit, you hadn’t thought about it before, but it was quite logical. When you first learned about Talbott’s parents, you never pressed the topic further and you didn’t know whether he had any other family, someone to spend the holidays with. And during all those times you spent Christmas at Hogwarts, was he at the castle too? Hiding away somewhere, alone?

“You know, I gotta do something real quick. Meet you in the dorm later?” you said to your friend, already quickening your pace, finger-gunning in her direction.

“Sure, yeah,” she answered, a bit puzzled, yet entirely used to it.

 ——————⁛⁙⁘◊⁘⁙⁛——————

 “Oh I am so excited, I can’t wait! You see, each year Bea and I, we have a gingerbread house making contest. Neither one of us is very good at it, but it’s so much fun. Mum always has both of them on display…”

You listed to Penny ramble in excitement about Christmas over dinner and couldn’t help but smile a bit.

“Oooh, Talbott! Talbott, come on over here!” she called over your head all of a sudden, waving energetically at the boy who just looked as if he got caught, but walked over to your table anyway, then sat down opposite you with a quiet greeting.

“What about you, Y/N? Are you going home for the holidays this year?” Penny asked curiously.

Your heart rate picked up a bit, before you answered, “No, I’m staying here,” you glanced at Talbott and met his eyes before he looked back down onto his plate.

“Oh, ok,” said Penny, before changing the topic.

 ——————⁛⁙⁘◊⁘⁙⁛——————

 The case with Talbott wasn’t so easy. Your crush on him started with you being simply intrigued. You met him in your third year and there was just something about him that wouldn’t allow you to just let him be, no matter how tall he put up his walls. You felt the need to make him feel comfortable around you and you wanted to get to know him better. That’s how you became friends.

But when you did get to know him, that’s when you were truly lost. His wit, sarcastic sense of humour. His calmness and collectiveness. And him opening up to you felt more rewarding than anything else.

There were so many moments between you, the dates you went on, where you wanted to just take a dive and go all in, and each time you were closer to doing so. But in the end, you were scared of scaring him away, even if he showed time and time that he felt the same way. He even announced out loud that you were his date at the festival!

Still, each time you got back to the starting point, stuck somewhere between friends and lovers.

 ——————⁛⁙⁘◊⁘⁙⁛——————

 You woke up a bit giddy and slightly nervous. Last afternoon all the students not staying at school for the holidays left. You got freshened up and dressed, then headed to the great hall for breakfast.

When you walked through the great entrance you scanned the four, almost empty tables. And there he was indeed, at the very end of the Ravenclaw table, as usual.

“Talbott!” you greeted, sliding into the seat next to him.

He hadn’t noticed you approaching and got a bit startled, “Y/N, Merlin…” he said, putting down his toast and placing a hand over his chest, “what are you doing here?”

“Tsk, already so accusatory. I came here to have breakfast with you and spend some quality time together!” You said in an exaggerated tone.

You could’ve sworn you saw a hint of a smile creeping up onto his face and he looked around the whole room.

He scanned the tables to see if any other friends of yours stayed over the holidays or if maybe there were none, leaving you with no other choice but to sit with him. Upon noticing Chiara and Jae a bit further away he turned back around lifted one eyebrow, acknowledging, and took a sip of his coffee.

Suddenly, you became painfully aware that the last time you properly spend time together, with just the two of you, was during the outdoor festival. And there you were, sitting side by side, doing something so casual and everyday as having breakfast.

It was also uncommon for you to see Talbott out of his school robes. He had this magical talent of looking good in just about anything. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans and a plain turtleneck, his hair, as always, smart and neat and just the right amount of messy.

“Aren’t you eating?” he called you out with a bit of a smirk, not gracing you with a glance, and got back to his own food.

With a guilty blush and no confidence to strike up a further conversation, you focused on your breakfast.

“So how are you doing lately?” he asked after a few minutes, having finished eating, and sipped on the rest of his coffee slowly.

“Uh, alright. Considering everything,” you answered and he nodded slowly. “You?”

He shrugged his shoulders with an indifferent expression, “As per usual. So what made you stay at school this year? Your mum away..?” he inquired.

“Eeh… irrelevant,” you tried to dismiss the question.

“Ooh-kaay…” Talbott replied.

“Do you have any plans?” you asked quickly.

“Uhh… I was going to just read for a bit..?”

“Great! And in general, for the holidays?” you questioned further.

“Y/N, where are you going with this?” he asked, puzzled.

You mustered up all your courage for the moment you’ve been waiting for since you told your head of the house you’d be staying in the castle for the holidays.

“I thought we could spend Christmas together,” you started, taking Talbott by surprise.

“Y/N, do I look like a Christmas person to you?” he asked after a second.

You looked him up and down, “Very much so.”

He sighed deeply and leaned his elbows on the table, hiding his face in his hands. You knew he was debating it and you almost had him on board.

“Aww, come on, Tal! It’ll be fun!” You shook him by the shoulders, making him groan.

“I swear, you’ll be the death of me,” he said and you tried to tame the grin on your face and the butterflies in your stomach.

 After finishing your food you rushed to your dorm to owl Rowan as quickly as possible.

 ——————⁛⁙⁘◊⁘⁙⁛——————

 “Do you like snow?” you questioned after you went outside into the grounds.

Talbott chuckled, “Who do you take me for? I’m not that much of a bore, am I?” he teased you.

“No, I just…” you mumbled.

“Although it does get in the way when you try to fly during a snowfall…” he cut you off, walking a bit further, and crouched down, facing away from you.

It took you a second to realize what he was doing. You looked around, trying to find cover and ducked, but it was too late, you got hit with a snowball.

If you weren’t so focused on getting revenge, which turned into a full snow fight, maybe you’d take some time to admire him. The way little snowflakes rested on his hair, how his eyes looked when he focused or how bright he was smiling.

“Alright, alright, I surrender!” Talbott put his hands up and you felt relief, as you were starting to get tired, but you didn’t have it in you to give in first.

“Don’t mess with the curse-breaker, Winger,” you said in playful smugness, walking out from behind your cover and up to him.

“Yeah, yeah…” he started, “go inside or you’ll freeze, you’re covered in snow” he brushed some of it off your shoulder, and you were glad you had already been blushing from the cold.

 ——————⁛⁙⁘◊⁘⁙⁛——————

 “On the Christmas morning Jacob and I used to wake up to a pile of presents at the foot the bed each,” you started, “I always loved Christmas. But after he disappeared things at home changed. I know mum is trying, but it’s difficult sometimes, especially during the holidays…” You reminisced, looking down at your hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate.

“My mum really liked Christmas,” Talbott said, “She’d always get so into it, with the decorations, she used to make them herself, too… and she’d sing to me. I don’t think my dad was as much into it, but he tried to keep up for her,” he smiled a little wider to himself. “It was really nice,” he confided.

Your heart ached for the boy next to you. After he had to go through so much, you deeply wished to make it your mission, to bring as much happiness to his life as you could, even if to brighten it up just a little.

“So you don’t hate Christmas after all, huh..?” you said quietly.

He answered after a moment, “No, not Christmas itself.”

“I was hoping I could make it a little bit better. Maybe show you that it can still be nice,” you confessed.

He looked up at you, “That’s… Y/N, I don’t know what to say,” he trailed off.

Unsure of where to go from there either, you took one of his hands in yours.

“Y/N,” he softly prompted you to look up at him.

His face was close to yours and he glanced between your eyes and your lips, silently asking for permission. You inched a bit closer and he closed the distance, cupping your cheek with his hand.

Unsure at first, he relaxed after a second and you melted into him. His lips were really soft and warm an you placed your hands on his shoulders. You could smell his perfume mixed with his natural smell, the smell you adored, and which brought you comfort. Talbott kissed you tenderly and you felt absolutely ecstatic, sure that if he weren’t holding onto you, you’d collapse.

He pulled away only slightly and rested his forehead on yours.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N,” he whispered.

“Merry Christmas, Talbott.”

[keldae]

Fictober 2021 -- Day 20

The bright light suddenly blazing into existence made Korin squint. Squirming in the binder cuffs, he shifted his weight on the hard duraplast chair and tried to get his vision to focus on the room around him -- a task made more difficult by the after-image of a lightbulb burned into his retinas. He was pretty sure there were a couple of other humanoid forms in the room with him, though -- conveniently hidden behind the light, where he couldn’t see them clearly. Wonderful. 

“Korin Taerich,” said a male voice, sudden enough to make Korin start in his chair. “Smuggler, con artist, and freighter captain, known as the Voidhound.”

“That’s what I’m known for,” Korin acknowledged, frustrated that he couldn’t see which humanoid belonged to the voice he was hearing. “You got a fan club here or somethin’? There's easier ways to ask me for autographs.”

The voice ignored him and went on, as though reading off a list. “With quite an extensive -- and impressive -- rap sheet. What do we have here… petty theft?”

“There might be a bit of that I’ve been accused of,” Korin carefully said.

“Arson? Mischief?”

“Mischief is my middle name, buddy.”

“Your middle name is Serral, captain.” The voice ignored Korin’s indignant sputter and went on. “What else do we have here… smuggling, of course… over a dozen Coruscant traffic violations, not to mention the tickets you’ve accumulated offworld…”

These guys have to be SIS, Korin realized as he scowled in the direction of the lightbulb. “What, you the Coruscant traffic authority? Don’t you have better things to do?”

“... Grand theft over ten thousand credits… forgery of official documents… assault…” The voice paused. “... Impersonating a member of the Jedi Order?”

“Listen, if any Jedi are snippy about that,” Korin began, finally feeling a bit of apprehension, “it was one time and I--”

“Impersonating a Republic Senator?”

“It was a dare! And a funny one at that!”

“Impersonating a Sith Lord?”

“... So it turns out, you can literally get away with murder and every other blasted crime on Imperial worlds,” Korin muttered. “Also, it was just really funny to get away with it.”

“... Impersonating a Republic military officer?”

“Hey, I never--!” Korin paused. “... Okay, I might’ve done that one. Once.”

The voice snorted, the first sign of amusement -- or really, any emotion -- since the light had turned on and this interrogation had gotten started. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Captain Taerich?”

Korin turned his head, trying to get a clear view of whoever else was in the cell with him. “Dunno where you get your information from,” he began, drawing himself up, determined to go out with a smirk and an attitude of bravado, “but even if I did all that shit, I regret nothing. You hear me? Nothing! And nothing you can pin on me, either!”

“Who said we want to pin any of this on you? Most of the incidents that I just read off, at least one of our assets witnessed and testified to.” The voice seemed to have a smirk in it now. Behind the light, a shadow moved, becoming marginally more clear to Korin’s vision. “We have other interests in mind, Captain.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Korin demanded, squinting at the shadow that presumably belonged to the voice.

"A group that is very interested in your skill set. It takes a special type of person to even attempt half of what you've pulled off, much less get away with it. We find that very interesting. Add in your impressive reputation and your Force sensitivity…"

"... How the blazes…?!" Korin went tense. The fact that he was Force sensitive was a closely guarded secret, known to maybe half a dozen people in the galaxy. Half the reason he'd survived pretending to be a Sith for a few minutes had been his connection to the Force! 

"Work with us, and you might discover how we learned that bit of information. You're certainly smart enough to figure it out." The voice's owner finally came around to where Korin could see him -- human, older, with dark eyes and a smirk. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar. "Marcus Trant, Republic SIS. I'd like to offer you a job."

[buckyreaderrecs]

A Toast to Whiskey: Chapter 1 / 2

Summary: You work in an old bar hidden away from the modern world. It's almost charming, but not quite. That's probably why Bucky likes it.

Words: 2,325 Pairing: Bucky Barnes/reader Characters: Bucky Barnes Additional tags: Bucky needs a hug, recovering Bucky, mostly canon compliant (Infinity War and Endgame didn’t happen, Stark Tower still exists), angst, she/her pronouns, more tags/characters to be added with part 2, brief mention of Nazis, mental health will be prominent part of part 2

Note: Find this fic and others on A03 - click here. And follow this Tumblr! I post lists of Bucky/Reader fic writers and reblog all my favs. I’ve just started it, so would love the support! xo Rhi

Dedicated to: @browngirlmagic for the conversation. The next chapter is the Lush one!

A Toast to Whiskey Chapter 1 / 2

There were a lot of things in the dusty, old bar that made the man's jaw clench in annoyance, distaste, or anger. You were compiling a list of these things, doing your best to minimise their occurrences. There was one you couldn't avoid though, and it was almost amusing that it bothered him at all. Each time someone ordered a drink - beer, cocktail, shot, whatever - a clean glass was given. The man didn't like it. Was it not like that in his time?

If James Buchanan Barnes thought he'd gone unnoticed in the hole-in-the-wall bar you worked at, he was mistaken. Not entirely, to be fair; the baseball cap and quiet stopped the other patrons from even giving him a second glance. 'Patrons' might have been too civilised of a word to call them. They were old, sickly, local men that had been drinking the same beer from those same taps forever. Harmless, mostly. Unobservant, entirely. Not you though. The first day Bucky walked in and taken a barstool on the very corner, closest to the door, you knew exactly who he was.

Like a lot of people that came and went from the establishment, Bucky's seeking of anonymity was granted. You pretended to not recognise him. You were kind to him, a little more gentle than you were to others, but mostly just a good bartender. And in time, you grew accustomed to the charade. He came in a couple of afternoons a week, but never during the nights when it would be busy. Eventually, he even started to speak more than a couple words to you.

"New cap?" you greeted Bucky with a grin, putting the only drink he ever ordered down in front of him.

Bucky wrapped his right hand around the glass of whiskey. He glanced at you, smiled and shrugged.

"Speaking of new, can I ask you something?" you asked.

The expression on Bucky's face was guarded, but definitely one of concern. You realised you should have just asked, rather than let his mind spiral.

"What’s your problem with clean glasses?"

He looked surprised. Surprised was an experience Bucky wasn't particularly used to or fond of. He wouldn't hold it against you though.

"How do ya know I got a problem?" he asked back, genuinely curious.

Shrugging, you looked around casually. "Guess I notice a lot of things about people,"

"Right," he said slowly, knowingly. "I don't know… Just seems wasteful… Is it the law?"

"That we have to use clean glasses?" you asked with a laugh. "I don't know… probably not. I mean, it's more hygienic. Probably makes the drink taste cleaner or whatever. Board of Health might have a problem with us if we didn't… Not that I've seen one of them in here in years."

Bucky picked up his glass and finished the whiskey. "Fill her up," he quipped. He'd made a half-joke, and you appreciated the effort.

"Yes, sir. Lemme know if you, you know, what anything else," you told him, topping him up, knocking your knuckles on the bar top, and walking away.

…

Bucky Barnes certainly wasn't the most chatty person you'd met. It was better to ask questions if you wanted to pass time with conversations. Easy conversation was one of your special skills, being a bartender and all. However, it was incredibly difficult to do this when you were purposefully avoiding topics that would put Bucky in a position to have to, you know, admit his identity and all that. So, things stayed superficial.

No, Bucky didn't watch the game.

Yes, the weather's been insane.

No, he doesn't want any nut mix.

Okay, maybe yes to pretzels.

Yes, he can see your hair has changed colour.

Yes, he likes it.

For as long as it had taken to get to the point of superficial conversation, it didn't take any time at all to run out of things to say. As it turned out, neither you nor Bucky had lived, or were living, shallow enough lives to sustain it. There were questions you were begging to ask, and if he was honest with himself, Bucky was kinda just counting down until you finally spoke up.

…

"So, I got a question,"

"Mmm. You have a lot of questions," Bucky said, smirking then taking another sip of his whisky.

"You could ask me somethin' if you want a change of pace, pal."

It was a joke. Just banter. But a dark expression flashes across Bucky's face for only a split second. You didn't catch it.

"What's your question, Y/N?"

He knew your name?

Of course he knew your name. He was The Winter fucking Soldier. He probably knew everything about everyone that worked and frequented the bar. How had you not thought of that before? Suddenly, it seemed risky to ask what you had planned to.

Bucky watched you hesitate. He sighed and looked around at the empty room. It was a Monday afternoon and it was just before the regulars showed up to knock beer bottles together and catcall you across the bar. It was just you and him.

"Ask," he said softly, taking his cap off and setting it down on the barstool next to him. You watched Bucky run his hands through his hair, tucking some of it behind his ear.

"Why do you drink whiskey?"

Bucky laughed. Like, a proper heartfelt laugh. "What?" he said, nose still scrunched up in amusement.

"What?"

"Why do I drink whiskey?" he repeated.

"Yeah… I mean… It's disgusting… and, like, you… can't get drunk, right?"

There it was. You did it. Admitted you knew him. Which he figured out. So none of what was happening was really a big deal. But it sure as fuck felt like it.

"Right. I can’t- Well, I can, but it takes a lot,"

"Asgardian mead a lot?"

Bucky grinned and tipped his glass towards you. "How do you know about Asgardian mead?"

You snorted. "Everyone does. Everyone knows everything these days,"

"That's what we want you to think," he said, not skipping a beat.

It made you laugh. It was already better talking to him without false pretences. "So, whisky?"

"Ah… Guess it's that everything's different now… An' that's mostly good. But… You know."

No. No, you didn't know. How could you even begin to understand? "Yeah," you said, your voice far more quiet than you meant it to be.

"Whiskey's still whiskey,"

"It tastes the same?" you asked.

"Almost. Not exactly. Close enough,"

"Makes sense… But why here? S'not like this bar been here since the 40s or anything."

Bucky was visibly trying not to smile. Or make eye contact. "Ah… Not sure how to answer that without… offending ya,"

"Huh? ... Oh, I don't own the joint or anything,"

"You don't?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

"No? You think I did? Why?"

"You're…" but he shrugged, still guarded. "I don't know," he lied. "But, ah, I was just lookin' for somewhere…"

"Pretty much stuck in the 40s or thereabouts?"

He nodded, smiling. "But without the Nazis,"

"Mmm… I mean… Have you watched the news lately?" you very quickly said.

"I try to avoid it," he admitted solemnly.

As people started to wander in, the conversation waned. Bucky watched you serve cold beer and pour bags of crisps into bowls. He listened to the worst songs being picked on the jukebox and he sat truly shocked you weren't even at least the daughter of the owner. Despite what you may have thought, he hadn't bothered to investigate you at all and finding his assumptions to be wrong was unsettling.

See, Bucky was a little bit smitten with you. He thought you were smart and sassy and timelessly beautiful. You were the ultimate perk of randomly picking this as his hideaway from the world. But, he figured you were only here because it was a family business. Why was someone smart, sassy and beautiful working strange hours at a shitty bar?

It was hard to say which of you was more curious about the other.

…

Something about what Bucky said had stuck in your head. Whiskey, his drink of choice, was the closest thing to his own time he could find. You could do better than that though.

About a year into working at the bar, you were finally allowed to venture into the cellar to clean it up. There were boxes of shit from forever ago down there and you just wanted it sorted, gone, and the space put to better use. Most of what lived beneath the floor was trash, but every hour or so you'd find something cool. A few vintage beer signs. Empty bottles of collector edition Coke. That kind of stuff. But, there was one thing you had found that you now wanted to stumble across again.

Nobody could remember where it had got to.

It took two days of searching to find it.

The bottle of whiskey was shoved under a bunch of paperwork in the office's bottom drawer desk. Not exactly where you'd store something worth a lot of money, but hey - the barely-there owners of the bar were eccentric, to put it nicely. You didn't recognise the brewing company on the peeling label, but that wasn't the point. The date on the bottle quite clearly read 1940.

When Bucky took his usual spot that afternoon, you bounced over to him with a grin on your face. He looked up at you, keeping his cap.

"Aren't you gonna ask me why I'm so happy?" you said, elbows on the bar and head in your hands.

Bucky smiled a little. He seemed sad. Sadder than usual. Good timing.

"Why are you so happy?"

"'Cause I found something that's gonna make you real fuckin' happy. Check this out!"

You produced the bottle from where you had it stashed under the bar and handed it to Bucky.

Bucky's lips parted slightly and his eyes went all glossy. He read the label carefully, probably trying to place the brand you couldn't. He handled it so carefully, even more than you in your fear of dropping it.

"This is real," he finally said.

"Yeah. I found it in the basement ages ago and just remembered it. 1940, so I figure it's like, first or second batch after Prohibition, yeah?"

Bucky nods. "I guess…" he replied, smiling, remembering Prohibition. "And before all the distilleries had to stop again,"

"For what?" you asked.

"The war," he said so matter-of-factly that it hurt a little. He looked up then, saw your confusion. "Dunno if it was law or if they just did it, but most places stopped making drinking alcohol and started making stuff to help win the war. And ah, whiskey stopped being made because it took up too much crops. I don't know. Something like that."

Something like that. Like he hadn't lived history.

"I didn’t know that. That's…" Not 'cool.' "That makes sense… Anyway. Open it," you ordered, getting out two clean glasses.

Bucky put the bottle on the bar and looked at you seriously. "Y/N, that's gotta be worth… a lot… Can't open it for no reason,"

"Nobody here cares about it. And besides, it's not really no reason, is it?" He didn't move or say anything. "Bucky." He flinched at his name, glanced around to make sure nobody heard. They hadn't. "I think you kinda earned this one, yeah? Now do me the honours."

Why was everyone in Bucky's life so goddamn stubborn?

He sighed and opened the bottle silently. You nodded in encouragement, letting him pour.

"A toast," you posed, holding your glass up. Bucky mimicked your action. "A toast to…" Everything in your head sounded either very cliché or very sad.

"Whiskey," Bucky finished.

"Whiskey," you agreed.

Drinking at the same time, Bucky swallowed in two gulps while you struggled with a sip.

"Jesus fucking Christ it tastes like cat piss now and it did then," you whined, pouring the liquid left in your glass into Bucky's. He laughed at you.

After drinking that down quickly, Bucky reached across the bar and took your hand in his. "Thank you, Y/N. Really."

A toast to finding things that make us less homesick.

…

After the 1940 whiskey, Bucky came in more regularly. He stayed longer, despite the place filling with people. He even began to talk to the other regulars when they sat at the bar and argued with you about politics, the news, and kids these days. You watched him play devil's advocate, siding with the old men, sarcastically poking fun at you with a quick comment every now and then.

You weren't sure when it happened, but you realised Bucky had grown to be comfortable in the space. And there was something about that that made you ridiculously happy. Like, sunbeams bouncing around on the inside of you making you all hot and tingly and full of joy whenever he was there kind of happy. It was gross.

Bucky would walk in, sit, place his cap down and grin at you with his cute little teeth and sparkly blue eyes. It made your day without exception, and you started to notice more little things about him and how they made you feel. When he hooked his hand behind his ear it would make your stomach flip.

One time, when he was telling you a story about carnival rides and baby Steve throwing up, a loose strand of hair fell across his face and you immediately and unconsciously leant across the bar and folded it gently behind his ear for him. Bucky froze, and you went to apologise, but he spoke first. "Thanks," he said softly, with more meaning than the situation called for, then continued on with his story.

It was like that for just over a month. Then he stopped coming in. There was nothing in his final visit to indicate he wasn't coming back. Bucky just disappeared.

CLICK TO READ PART 2/2

[nothingunrealistic]

oof hey i hope i'm not bothering you, and i asked jury this already (and deffo got a good answer but i need all the info i can get because i am crushingly insecure)- do you have any tips on characterizing/writing the deh characters? i struggle with it immensely and I have no idea why, and you're one of my favorite writers for this fandom. so. no pressure to respond i was just curious!

sure! the only characters i write regularly/feel confident in writing are evan, jared, and alana, so those are the characters i’ll talk about the most, but i’ll try to say something for all of them. also this will feature a good number of quotes from writers’ notes (here) and interviews because those are the main sources i draw on for characterization after, you know, actual canon

evan

Smart, sincere, and cripplinglyself-conscious, Evan prefers to hover in the background, asupporting player in his own life, too afraid to step forward into thespotlight and risk ridicule or, what might be worse, no one noticinghim at all.

this description captures a lot of the things i think are key about evan, but one big thing it’s missing is that he’s kind of an asshole. he usually has good intentions, and he tries to be inoffensive and considerate and Nice, but he sucks at that because it’s just not how he naturally is. he’s bitter and angry about a lot of things - his lack of friends, jared (ostensibly) not caring about him or taking him seriously, heidi rarely being present, and perhaps most of all, his own perception of himself as “broken” and a burden, which he genuinely believes that heidi agrees with and that everyone else would if they knew what he was truly like. he’s frequently sarcastic and occasionally pedantic (see: “president” “co-president” and “it’s sula” “what did i say?” “sulu”). but these are things he doesn’t like about himself, which is why he tries to be either Nice or invisible, especially when he feels uncomfortable. the times when he’s most comfortable acting like himself are, in my opinion, when he’s just with jared, who in turn finds it most fun to spend time with evan when he’s not putting up a front.

major pet peeves in fic: being written as a ~delicate anxious bean uwu~ or anything along those lines; dialogue with stuttering that doesn’t resemble his actual speech patterns at all; making a big deal out of him using profanity; portraying his relationship with jared as evan just letting himself get pushed around until someone (usually connor) comes in to bravely show evan that He Doesn’t Deserve That

jared

Droll and sarcastic,Jared claims to be forced by his parents to hang out with familyfriend Evan, for whom he ostensibly has nothing but disdain.Jared covers his own obvious insecurities with a well-practicedbraggadocio and a know-it-all arrogance.

I think this is the playlist that Jared puts on in the morning on the first day of school to pump himself up for the day… Ultimately he’s terrified of going back to school, but he’s trying to psych himself up. … Every one of these songs is a JAM. No ballads here. And they’re all slightly sarcastic or tongue-in-cheek songs about unrequited love. Jared can relate to that. [x]

Jared Kleinman is too cool for the music of the times. He is proudly a walking 90’s movie… but he doesn’t mind sneaking a little of his parents Manischewitz and listening to a dusty Bette Midler record. [x]

(there are like a dozen interviews with will roland that i could cite here but that’s practically a post unto itself)

the best way i can sum up all the major points of jared’s characterization is that there’s always a reason for the things he says. he doesn’t make harsh remarks to be deliberately cruel or mean; he’s either pointing out an uncomfortable but important truth, or he’s aiming to make a joke and inadvertently crossing the line. when he does make jokes, it’s often another way of delivering the truth, an attempt to get people to laugh and thereby validate that he’s clever/funny/worthy, or an effort to deflect something that makes him uncomfortable or scared. redirection, derision, and showing off are some of his major defensive tactics; he doesn’t do self-deprecation out loud, but he is, as will has said, repressed and self-hating. he and evan are similarly asshole-ish, but where evan tries to hide it, jared tries to hide behind it.

he wants people to be impressed by him in general, but he really wants evan in particular to think well of him and be his friend and openly care about him - the problem is that jared can’t bring himself to openly care about evan, because that entails emotional honesty & vulnerability that he’s just not prepared to deal with. hence their interaction on the first day of school, and then jared agreeing to help evan more and more with his increasingly complex lie despite claiming not to care. (the key word in that first quote is “ostensibly.”) when he is actually is at ease (which is pretty rare, at least in canon), he’s a bit of a drama queen, which evan may pretend to be annoyed by but quietly enjoys.

major pet peeves in fic: being written as straight and/or homophobic and/or leaping to make jokes about how evan and connor are Clearly Doing It immediately after finding out that they’re becoming friends (as if he isn’t utterly convinced that evan is 100% straight); making excessive/forced references and jokes to modern pop culture/memes (everything he shouts out in any form of canon is at least ten years old and usually decades old, and that doesn’t happen often anyway); relentlessly treating evan like shit/being incredibly domineering in their friendship; constant bickering with connor; calling evan “hansen” all the time when he only ever addresses him as “evan” (or, like, “dude” or “bro” or “son”) and even only does THAT when he’s especially emotional or letting his guard down; just generally giving him dialogue that in no way resembles his actual, very distinctive speech patterns

(i have. a lot of thoughts and feelings about jared)

alana

Alana is an incredibly genuineperson. Everything she does comes from a place of deephonesty and tremendous feeling. All of the characters inthis musical put up masks of sorts. For Alana, it’s a façadeof cheerfulness. She is always ready with a smile, a note ofencouragement. This hides the loneliness underneath. 

often prone to melodrama, high school senior Alana has few friends but lacks the self-awareness to understand why; beneath her extroverted demeanor, Alana is in fact haunted by a terrible and abiding loneliness; tired of always being an outsider, Alana seizes the death of a classmate as an opportunity finally to find a sense of belonging. [x]

Study break! … Alana spend a lot of time in the books. This playlist allows her to either kick back, have a lip sync battle, or a jam session. … We have classic up beats like ‘Uptown Funk’ by Bruno Mars cause she loves to dance and be silly. She’s also a romantic. Girl reads Jane Austen, so a nice healthy batch of love songs to daydream to. She’s also a feminist! So naturally Beyoncé has the perfect perfect pump up jams for the feminist in us all.

alana has Big Feelings, and they drive all her actions. she wants to achieve great things and succeed in life, yes, but more importantly, she wants to help people and make the world a better place. when she commits to a course of action, it’s because she truly believes that it’s the right or most beneficial thing to do in the end, even if the means themselves are questionable. much like jared, she struggles with vulnerability and connection with other people, and often tries to form connections with other people by making herself seem more impressive, but unlike jared, she also tries to build up and support other people, rather than tearing them down. she’s also committed to supporting Truth in a general sense, and struggles when this comes into conflict with Doing The Right Thing. this is especially obvious after good for you, when she resigns herself to continuing the fundraiser even though she’s certain it’s based on a lie.

all of this makes alana seem incredibly serious, but that’s not the entire picture. she strives to be upbeat and optimistic, and even when she’s not trying, she loves to have fun! she likes to be silly and tell jokes and laugh at other people’s jokes and daydream about finding a great romance! she thought “fuck finn” was the height of comedy! she’s not a killjoy!

i also hold with kristolyn lloyd’s theory that alana was very close with her grandmother and struggled with feeling unable/not allowed to openly grieve her death, or to express any kind of loneliness or other strong negative emotion. however, i do not hold with kristolyn’s theory that alana had a crush on connor, because alana is a lesbian.

major pet peeves in fic: being written as pedantic and joyless; overly formal dialogue (she’s perfectly capable of using colloquialisms and slang) in which she is never sarcastic, ever (she absolutely can be when she’s frustrated) 

zoe

a sensitive, sophisticated high school junior; cool without realizing it, Zoe could care less about the status games and popularity rites of high school; funny and bright, she has grown up in the long shadow cast by her volatile older brother, Connor, tyrannized along with the rest of her family by his out-of-control behavior; few rooms are as familiar to her as the inside of a family therapist’s office; Zoe compensates for her brother’s darkness by striving to be warm, nice to everyone, the kind of person who goes out of her way to learn the names of the kids who sit by themselves at lunch; she feels a terrible ambivalence over her brother’s death, finding it difficult to forgive him for all he did, and at the same time forgive that part of herself that feels nothing but relief in the fact that he’s gone.

this sums up just about everything i could say, but i will add: the disembodied voice calling zoe a “stuck-up bitch” during ywbf reprise is NOT a voice you’re supposed to agree with.

major pet peeves: anything that states/suggest that zoe is a bitch; those connor/evan fix-it fics with background zoe/alana where the premise of zoe and alana’s relationship is “they’ve actually been best friends this whole time!!” even though this contradicts canon on multiple levels

connor

An angry, disaffectedloner, Connor has been a troubled kid for as long as anyone canremember, an enigma and a source of endless consternation to hislong-suffering parents and sister.

i honestly don’t have much to say about connor, because i don’t think about him very often, but i will say that:

- if your portrayal of him can be described as “edgy,” you’re probably doing something wrong. he’s just as awkward and anxious as evan, it just manifests very differently

- him addressing evan as “hansen” all the time is admittedly much more plausible than jared doing it, but still just as annoying

heidi

Overworkedand stretched too thin, Heidi loves her son fiercely, but fears theyhave begun to grow apart. She is prepared to do anything to repairthe damage.

heidi’s torn between trying to connect with evan and trying to provide a better life for him, because for her, achieving the latter currently requires spending too many hours away from home to really achieve the former. that’s why she’s so upset and demands to know what’s going on in evan’s life when he seems to be acting out of character and doing things she doesn’t expect him to do - she feels she’s being left out of the loop. much like alana, she strives for optimism, trying to find the bright side of any situation. and, as steven levenson pointed out in the annotated script (regarding the line about fabulous tips that evan’s stepmother may or may not have made from cocktail waitressing), she doesn’t have a fully developed sense of healthy boundaries, which is an interesting nuance that tends to get lost in fics that flatten her out into a generic Cool Mom. she’s trying to raise a teenager while not wanting to fully grow up herself.

cynthia

To Evan, she seems to be the perfect mother, nurturing, available,and willing to talk about anything. To her own children, it’s a bitmore complicated.

evan idealizes all the murphys, and cynthia is no exception. she tries her hardest to be a good and accessible mother, but she’s deeply dissatisfied with being just a mother. she works to support and empathize with connor, and to remember him positively after his death, but she frequently neglects and minimizes zoe and her problems in the process.  

larry

Though often tense and taciturn, Larry shows a different face tothe world, representing for Evan the dad he always wished for:strong, confident, and, more than anything, reliable, someone to becounted on.

is larry going to call his children slurs or disown them/kick them out of the house for being lgbt? no. is he going to research How To Interact With Your LGBT Child and drive connor and zoe to the local pride parade? also no. the once-popular (and possibly still popular?) characterization of him as a demon straight from the ninth circle of hell is just as inaccurate as evan’s perception of him as the World’s Greatest Dad.

i hope this helps! and thank you for asking - i really enjoyed answering this, and i’d be happy to expand on most of these points if you want.

[shamelesssoulkidvoid-blog]

LESSON #18 END AN ENDLESS RELATIONSHIP

You know you have to finish it and you know it a while ago.

You have already lost count of the number of times you have been about to pull the trigger and have backed up with excuses "is not the right time" "maybe I'm rushing" "my birthday is coming and I'm lazy to be single" (Yes, at times you're an idiot too).

The time, the famous time. Do you remember how at the age of 12 there was this kind of competition between friends who lasted longer in a relationship? (the winner did not exceed 2 months), now you would be a champion with all these heavy years that you carry under your arm as a title, as one of the many signs that this relationship has been important.

That time is also a burden.

How do you break what has lasted so long? How do you leave, without more, what you are building, taking care of so many minutes, weeks, months, years?

Shit! Yes, shit! Why do you feel that way? Why can not you be the person with the big smile again resting your head on his shoulder, feeling that it was forever? You felt it when they got that first kiss and they knew they wanted to give themselves a few thousand others, when they first took each other's hands and it was new and a little intimidating, when they talked about what life would be like together, crazy trips, possible names of children.

From the beginning you felt that this was a person with whom you could stay, and, when the routine began to make its own and it was not all that exciting or new, when the constant fights appeared, the complaints, the resentments, the real ones "I", the toxic dynamics, and worse, when they stopped arguing and gave way to this kind of shared resignation, of "I do not fuck you, you do not fuck me and all in peace", something in you felt the disappointment of That it was true that couples can not stay in love like the first day every day, that loving someone does not always have to be exciting or stay on the edge of the seat, which is apparently more like a quiet walk on a quiet road.

Whore that boring that sounds like that.

There's the problem then, you do not believe it. What's more, you've been trying to tell yourself that for a considerable time, or you're too stupid to finally believe it or very smart. Something in you feels that this is not love, the one that spoke of a successful tropipop of the last decade: love of the good. Something in you suspects that when you are with the right person, the road never ceases to be exciting, because if you are lying in bed watching Netflix or on a safari in Africa, your heart remains awake, happy, expectant and when you look at it in the eyes, you feel that adrenaline of someone who has a love that does not age, is renewed.

Yes, very easy to put it so nice, but where the hell is that love? Because you have to be a little rational too, adjust expectations, you can not walk leaving something good, stable, sincere, for the idea that there is something better. This is the game of the chairs and when the music is turned off, you want me to hold you sitting. It's more! Let's put ourselves in the case that, yes, you will end up and after a lot of fun without grace, you will find Prince Charming, Quentin Tarantino of your Uma Thurman. That would imply starting all over again.

First go through the attempts of perfection: shave once a week, tell him that you also love that music, pretend not to drool on the pillow or wake up with breath to drain. That is not even the difficult part, it's a bit funny, the complicated comes after: letting yourself be loved, letting it in, knowing your fears and insecurities, knowing that 3 days before the rule comes is worse than when it really comes to you , that the missionary bores you, that you do not know if you are working on what you should, that you hate your thighs, that there were others who hurt you and he is paying for the broken dishes.

You've already gone through that, you've already earned that medal, why would you throw it away and reset it, when someone who knows you better than anyone else is already at your side?

Because not only do you need someone who knows you, you need someone who understands you, who goes beyond all that information and gets to the essence of who you are, what you need, what makes you happy.

So it's about time, let it go. Do not see it as a failure, both won and lost as in any relationship where it is given and received. If I can guess, what scares you the most is not to be without it, it's being alone, it's going back out the door and being only you, with all your inner defects and voices that you can not hide behind anyone. And I tell you something, it's going to do you good, it's going to give you court.

Get out of there, put the end point to that story because when the pages are not endless, you have to force yourself to fill them with something more interesting.